Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!

I promise promise promise to update the blog in the next week! Quick summary: I was crazy busy with school and fun since October 20 -- about 18 presentations, one trip to Normandie, a week in London and a move into Paris! I'm so excited to post pictures of my new Swiss Family Robinson apartment in Le Marais. I hope that you've all been doing well and I'll write much more soon. I'll do my best to make it exciting because you have a lot to read.

xxx,
Allison

It's All Happening

Alright, it’s become fairly obvious that my blog is suffering due to time constraints. Two things happened today that reminded me that I should be enjoying this experience and sharing it with my nearest and dearest (you). First, Margy nagged me to death about posting. Hee hee. I’m teasing. Then, Anne reminded me that I am supposed to be at school during the week and enjoying culture when I’m not in class. After a couple of stressful weeks, I somewhat forgot that I should be making the most of this experience and sharing my adventures with you.

So let’s reeee-wind and get this posting party started. Settle in because you’ve got a lot to read. Oh, and I want to know which one of you has been reading this blog from Latin America.

BFC, 100 year-old Korean Wine and Party at Nond's Palace
Friday, September 21st

My friends Damian and Stephanie and I decided to celebrate completing our Financial Accounting mid-term with lunch at BFC (Best Fried Chicken) near school. Damian and I had been joking about BFC since day 1 of classes and finally curiosity got the best of both of us. Best Fried Chicken is a bold statement when someone like me comes across it. It might very well be the best fried chicken in Cergy, in France or in all of Europe as far as I know, but simply Best Fried Chicken? Doubtful.

BFC is also Gyro Sandwicherie, a fact that we discovered only when we got close enough to examine the situation. How can fried chicken and gyros share one space? I still don’t know, but apparently they can. I think many people would have walked away from BFC at this point, but not us. Actually, I’m not sure how many people even think to walk toward BFC at all. Fearless, we entered and ordered a big ole family meal that came with 800 french fries. I was nervous that instead of BFC it would be WFC (Worst Fried Chicken). However, BFC isn’t so bad. It’s no Mrs. Winners or even KFC, but BFC adds its own little spiciness that makes its fried chicken a Cergy delight. Don’t worry, I won’t make any of you go when you come visit. It’s not that good.

After waking up from my BFC coma, I met pretty much all of the Asian kids in my class at a Korean restaurant in Paris. Unfortunately, I missed dinner – most likely from oversleeping – but I did have a few minutes to sample two kinds of Korean wine, one famous for being aged 100 years, and learn some things about Korean dining culture. Some of you, and you’ll know who you are, will be delighted to learn that among good friends, putting your empty glass on your head is really a sign of needing a refill. Needless to say, Jung-Ick was a little surprised when I responded to his question, “Do you know what you do in Korea when you want someone to fill up your glass?” by putting my glass on top of my head. I was doing it as a joke, but it turns out I was actually right!

After dinner, we all headed to a party at Nond’s apartment right outside of Paris. Nond decided to throw a birthday party for Ginger, Vanessa and himself since they all had birthdays this week. Nond’s apartment, is actually Nond’s family’s apartment and it’s huge. I contemplated hiding out in one of the bedrooms. I think I could have lived there for three weeks before he noticed. Here are some pictures from the party:

Party at Nond's

And some from the weeks before:

Paris

Alumni Cocktails: A Story of Hope and Despair

Saturday, September 22nd

On Saturday, we had a networking cocktail party in Paris with the local alumni. No alumni showed up for quite a while, which was a little unnerving and a little annoying since most everybody was still tired from the night before. Finally, a few appeared. Unfortunately, the first two alums I spoke with had just graduated in July and still didn’t have jobs. Yikes! I don’t like being unemployed. No alums, then unemployed alums? I became even more tired. Fortunately, I then found employed alums with good jobs – a ray of hope for the year to come. Then, Jody’s wallet got stolen.

Heaven in a Macaroon and Graduation with Chantal Thomass

Monday, September 24th

On Monday, our class was “invited,” as in told it was mandatory, to the graduation ceremony for the Class of 2007. I was sort of in a mood that day and didn’t want to go. Then, because I didn’t want to go, I piddled around, ended up drying my dress with a hairdryer and making myself late for the train. Nice. In a scene reminiscent from my early days in New York, I attempted to buy a train ticket with coins (and small coins at that). Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that the machine did not accept 2 and 1 cent pieces so I was 5 cents short. A line had formed behind me. I had 1 minute to catch the train. It took 30 seconds for all of my coins to drop back out of the machine. What’s a girl to do but use her non-Paris ticket to get on the train and just worry about it later?

In France, you must use your getting-on ticket to get out of the station. Since my getting-on ticket wasn’t for Paris, I couldn’t technically get out of the station once I arrived in Paris, but that is a small detail. The machine should accept all coins. It’s the machine’s fault. I thought I would just crawl through the first turn-style and that I would then find a ticket machine for the metro. Knowing that someone would hold the little metro turn-style door open for me, I followed a man out of the RER station section – “Merci! Merci!’ as I crawled under the turn-style in my nice dress. Oh, so classy. Oddly enough, there was not a metro ticket machine to be found anywhere. I was forced to crawl under yet another turn-style. I did end up on the metro and ran into Gabby on the way out of the station. Luckily, the exit doors were broken and I didn’t have to do any more crawling.

We were required to arrive to the graduation ceremony 3 hours before it began. I’m still not entirely sure why. I tied the diplomas together with red ribbon and then we took a class picture in the garden of the fancy Cercle de L’Union Interalliée, where the fancy 2007 graduation ceremony took place, which is on the fancy Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré. After picture taking, we were allowed to go for about an hour. A group of us walked over to Ladurée, the most fantastic, dreamy, wonderful tea house in the world. I’m in love. I had rose-flavored tea, which was divine, and 3 of the most heavenly macaroons. The best best best was the caramel au beurre salé (salty butter caramel) macaroon. Contrary to BFC, I will be taking all visitors to Ladurée for caramel macaroons. Everyone should have one. It’s happiness in a macaroon.

After tea and cookies, we headed back to the graduation (my friend Diane took a quick 10 minutes to introduce me to the Roger Vivier store – my now second favorite place behind Ladurée), which was boring – too many speeches and not enough fun. Chantal Thomass was the highlight of the night for me though. Among other things, she makes very beautiful umbrellas and she is sublimely French with a straight black bob, dark glasses, and high high-heels. I introduced myself to her at the party afterwards, but I was too star struck to say much of anything. She said that she promised to come to class and talk for an hour. I’m looking forward to that.

The boredom of the ceremony had all but erased the macaroon high, and by the time the post-ceremony party had started, I was back into whatever mood I began the day with. À la ESSEC MBA Luxe pomp and circumstance, waiters offered us champagne from silver trays right as we came to the top of the stairs. Champagne never hurt anyone’s mood. And, then, I walked over to a big French window that looked out over the garden below and on to a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower all lit up. I am in France!

Graduation

Career Conundrums

Thursday, September 27th

Today I had my first meeting with the career counselor. This story isn’t really interesting. I told her I was interested in jewelry, watches and wine, but I’ve since changed my mind. I’ll have more to reveal after my second meeting in November.

A Trip to Les Puces in Paris, the Hobo, the Party and the Missed Train

Saturday, September 29th

Saturday, Jody, Stephanie and I went to Les Puces (The Fleas) right outside of the city limits. It was nice to walk around outside and discover another something in France. These were serious flea markets, though. Everyone had his or her own stall that they opened every weekend. One part of the market was really nice and fancy. The other was more like Chinatown on a Saturday afternoon. Neither part consisted of a bunch of junk strewn across tables like the old Chelsea flea markets. Therefore, I wasn’t inclined to buy anything since the fun of digging was taken away from me. We did, however, all stop for crepes (I had nutella, banana and coconut – yum):

Jody and I took the train home to change clothes and then we headed back into Paris to go to a party at Lacy’s friend’s sister’s friend’s house. So, Lacy, I met Caroline and she is really nice. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk, but I’m making it a point to meet up with her some weekend soon. Our schedules keep missing each other.

On the way to the fete, we stopped at an ATM to get some cash and a hobo proceeded to harass Jody for about two blocks. He smelled like cheese. Finally, we out-maneuvered the hobo at a red light and were free.

We arrived at the party a little confused by our encounter on the street, but we were immediately put at ease by Caroline and all of her nice friends. Sadly, we had gotten a late start so we didn’t have much time to mingle. I sacrificed Jody to a gay couple to talk to a nice boy, but then, as always, the train! Stupid train and its stupid schedule that never jives with mine! So Jody and I made a classic French exit, which consisted of a few frantic good-byes, before jumping into a taxi to race to the train station. But there is no racing for anything in Paris. We hadn’t been in the taxi for 5 minutes before we realized that we were never ever going to make the last train. Oh well, back to Cergy en taxi we went. We should have gone back to the party. At least we laughed about it the whole way home.

Sunday Ritual

Sunday, September 30th

On Sundays, I go with Meeta to get coffee and croissants at Show Gourmand. It’s not a replacement for Sundays at Georgia’s, but it is nice to have a Sunday coffee routine again. If we are extra industrious, we manage to do laundry too.

A Trip to the Other Side of the World

Monday, October 1st

Rabbit, rabbit. Today I had to go to the opposite side of Paris to visit the doctor in order to get my residency card. The exam consisted of an eye test in French and a chest x-ray. I’m afraid I might grow a second head now because the x-ray machine seemed a little old. Anyway, I was declared not to be a “danger to society” and was then told to bring my x-ray to whichever GP I chose to that if I ever got the flu . . . . Huh? As many times as I’ve had the flu, I never once had a doctor request a chest x-ray. Anyway, step 65 of getting residency card completed.

London Business School

Wednesday, October 3rd

Today I officially found out that I was selected to go to the London Business School for a week in December as part of an exchange program. Five of us are going and it’s a great group. It should be a lot of fun (and educational, of course) and I’m looking forward being in London for the first time in a long while.

Another Hines & La Nuit Blanche

Saturday, October 6th

Tonight I saw another friendly Hines face in the form of Chesley. I am averaging seeing one Hines a month, which is fantastic. Next month will be a double-Hines Thanksgiving in Nice!
I was especially glad to be out because it was La Nuit Blanche in Paris. I really had no idea what that meant, but Chesley and I found out when we walked from dinner through the Jardin de Tuleries. The gardens were packed with people and everywhere you looked were little flower pots filled with fire. There were tubes of fire in the middle of the gardens and the little boat pond was aflame too. Nearer the Champs-Elysées, two big sculptures of afire flower pots were already dwindling a bit while the Eiffel Tower gleamed on in the background. La Nuit Blanch était vraiment magnifique!

The Financial Accounting Exam

Tuesday, October 9th

This subject does not need much recounting. Because of the previous project (see above), I did not have enough time to study for this exam. I don’t think I did badly, but I definitely could have done better. The two of us who had been shouting at the third the night before ended up being two of the last to leave the exam because we got stuck on a couple of problems. Then, that third had the nerve to tell my other group member that she and I should have studied more for the exam and that we were wrong for working so hard on the company project. Hey, guy, we would have had plenty of time to study if we hadn’t been doing your work! Ahhhh!

La Cours du Francais: Elle est Foulle

Thursday, October 11th

Today we had our first French class. I think it will also be my last. The teacher is a little crazy and there is absolutely no structure to the class. Welcome to France. I understood everything because we were reviewing grammar I covered at Harpeth Hall, but I don’t think I would have followed it at all if I had never seen it before.

I’ll admit that I was behaving badly in class. We had had a full day of classes and I was tired and I didn’t want to be there. And the teacher made us watch a video. Yuck. It was about a man and his wife who come to the French boonies with their sulky daughter to open up a restaurant. When asked to describe the daughter, I said, “Elle est malheureuse (She is unhappy).” The teacher exclaimed that that was a bit of an exaggeration so she didn’t write it on the board. I maintain that the daughter was, indeed, malheureuse at moving away from Paris. I thought the whole point of the exercise was to use our personality explaining words anyway. Je suis malheureuse about this French class so I think I am going to find a conversation partner in Paris instead.

Installments

The rest will have to wait until later, hopefully just until tomorrow. Here is a list of stories to come:

Research at Sephora (Friday, October 12th)
The Communist Party (Saturday, October 13th)
A Bad Week, A Good Dinner, Tout Est Impossible and Les Reves en Francais (et Espagnol) (Monday October 15th – Friday, October 19th)
Adrian’s Birthday (Friday, October 19th)

Oh My Gosh!

It's been 13 days since I wrote. I'm still here! Don't leave me! I will get on writing tomorrow. You have a lot to catch up on. In the meantime, here are some pictures of my new friends (see I'm making some, Mom) and me.

Meeta and Me
















Wei Kung, Chris, Oscar, Jung-Ick, Marta, Fabio, Suen, Meeta and Tyler . . . and Me

And now blogger is being a pain so I'll have to wait until tonight to post more pictures.

xx,
A

Nobody Beats the Wiz!

Since I can’t possibly devote enough time to all my stories in one night, I’m submitting in installments.

Allison Attends the Most Excruciatingly Boring Gemmology Class Ever
Wednesday, September 19th

Seriously, it was horrible. Let’s not relive it in full: ugly “gemstones,” no instruction and lots of rolling of the eyes among classmates. The class is best summed up with this little story: the gemmology woman (I don’t think she deserves to be called an instructor, at least for our group) handed my friend from New York, Jody, her 8th box of terrible stone bits to examine for goodness-knows-what and all Jody could say under her breath was a despondent “really?” Moving on.

The Cheeseburger That Was Not

After gemmology class, I stayed in Paris to go out to dinner with my friend Monika, who is Hungarian, but lives in, and I gather prefers, Switzerland. We did a good tour of Les Galeries Lafayette before walking to a pedestrian area of bars near her house in the 8ieme Arrondissement. We settled on a bar called Razowzki’s, which I remarked “sounded like a bar you’d find in Chicago.” After a glass of wine, we looked over the menu and I noted dishes called “Tribeca Salad,” “Nolita Salad” and “Brooklyn Bagel.” Interesting . . . I had landed in the only New York themed bar in the neighborhood.

As I’m sure you could all infer, since I am “cooking” for myself in a miniscule kitchenette, I’m in dire need of meat. Alors, I opted for the cheeseburger. Okay, the description went as follows:

Cheeseburger: bun, beef, salad, onions, cheddar cheese and mayonnaise

Good enough. Leçon appris earlier about the ham hamburger so I double-checked the beef situation. All good. Let’s do it. I’ll have the cheeseburger sans mayonnaise.

Now, when one says cheddar cheese, I believe you. I don’t assume that you reserve the right to put any sort of cheese you may have all willy-nilly on the hamburger. However, I can pretty much deal with any type of cheese that’s not of the blue variety. You know what I can’t deal with? Cheez Wiz! This is not cheese. This is a “cheese food product.” It clearly says so on the CAN it comes in. To simplify:

Cheez Wiz ≠ cheese

Or

≠

Write that down.

Ugh, my glorious cheeseburger dream was all double-thin-pattied, triple-bunned and cheez-wizzed out. Gross. And try as I might, I just couldn’t scrape off enough to escape the nightmare. Don’t get me wrong; I ate it. There was no way I was going to let this Wiz ruin my protein pursuit completely. The burger itself wasn’t that great, but what are you going to do? Katie and Sarah, all I could think of at the moment was Mato Mato Squiz.

I won’t even go into how Monika the vegetarian ordered a pastrami sandwich thinking it was the “brother sandwich” of minestrone soup. Um, not the first time she’s made that mistake either.

All in all, it was a funny dinner experience and it was nice to go out to a relaxed non-group dinner. I’m now going to be the American girl that asks at every restaurant “Is it real cheese or is it the Wiz?” I don’t care. I can’t face that stuff again.

For Shame!

I have been so remiss in my blogging! Big entry to come with pictures later this afternoon -- promise!

A

I lied. I didn't do it and there is too much to write to start now.

Here's a teaser of stories to come:

• Allison attends the most excruciatingly boring gemmology class ever
• The cheeseburger that was not
• 100 year-old Korean wine and party at Nond's palace
• Alumni cocktails: a story of hope and despair
• The story of the work group that did not work
• Heaven in a macaroon and the tea that was a rose
• The girl who didn't buy a train ticket
• Graduation with Chantal Thomass and the Eiffel Tower
• Tuesday, Wednesday?
• Career conundrums
• C'est vendredi! and my first graduate school grade
• Sleep, sleep and more sleep
• A trip to les puces in Paris
• The party and the missed train

Holy moly, that might take me a while. I'll do it tomorrow -- double promise. I'll also mail those postcards from Labor Day . . . what's wrong with me?! I have to go get my medical visit over with tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. in Paris. Yuck. I bet you five million dollars that a French version of Ointment Man sits down next to me -- or this guy: Girl, Sugar Pie, mwah, mwah.

Pourrais-j'avoir un petit café à emporter?

September 10 - 16

à emporter: to take away/to go
I learned this one after talking around it for about 5 minutes this morning during my coffee order. I now have my order down pat: un petit café crème à emporter, s.v.p.

sur place: to stay
This was also a part of my bakery language lesson.

écrémé: skim
Thank goodness this means what I thought it did. I only looked it up today and I was a little worried I had been downing whole milk for two weeks.

Pourrais-je?: May I?
I never realized how much I used this phrase until I didn't quite know how to say it correctly.

Everyday French Class

It's Saturday and I'm not afraid to let you know that I stayed in tonight with my new friend, Stanley the $6 bonsai tree. I was supposed to take part in round 2 of this weekend's Paris nightlife: the danceclub. After another really late Friday night out and a splitting afternoon headache -- due to my having had no water in about 48 hours and, I'll admit, the cup of Bartles & James-esque "wine" that I was half-forced to drink last night -- I decided to take a little time to pull myself together. Better to be fun every time you go out than to go out every time just to appear fun, right?

Big news today is that I got a cell phone! Yay. Looks like I'm going to have to learn to text message a little faster because buying minutes here is très cher. Although, the salesman didn't quite agree with me when I exclaimed that in the store. "C'est le prix (that's the price)," he said. I'm not sure what kind of argument c'est le prix is supposed to be. It may be the price, but it's still expensive. Anyway, I posted the number on the right so you'd have it in case you need it. Receiving calls is free so don't worry that you're putting me in the poor house minute by minute. I guess that won't exactly be so cheap for anyone of you either . . . so Skype's probably the best unless it's an emergency -- like someone is in the hospital or you can't decide which shoes to wear with your new dress.

Last night I went to a party in a real live Parisian apartment with real live Parisian people. I did a great job of practising my French in the beginning with an artist lady and a guy, who seems to have a complicated job because it took him about 3 minutes to explain it. Unfortunately, I didn't exactly understand what he was saying. Oops. I also think that the artist lady invited me to another party or concert soon. I'm going to have to follow up with the girl who threw the party to figure that one out. Maybe next weekend I will be wearing all black and philosophizing avec musicians and visionaries.

Today was filled with cell phone getting and a brief language lesson at Show Gourmand. I ordered my café au lait, which I've gathered is really called a café crème. I wanted it to go, and I tried to express that fact to the lady making the coffee. So I asked if I could have it "pour aller?" (my literal translation of "to go" -- thanks a lot google). From her look, I knew I wasn't even close. Then, a second lady says something to the first about language or lesson or, really, I have no idea. I then tried my own version of "paper cup." The first lady held up a napkin.

When they realized that I wasn't asking for a napkin, it prompted them to start guessing about my nationality. Vous êtes allemande (German), espagnole (Spanish)? Ah! No, "Je suis américaine." Now, where was I? I was totally thrown off course. Okay, let's try "I want to take it outside." "Oh, yes, you can take it outside." I looked to where she pointed and saw tables on the sidewalk behind me. Not quite there. "I want to take it outside and go away." I accompanied this statement with little walking fingers. "Oh, à emporter!" "Oui! À emporter!" At this exclamation, the two ladies looked very proud, as if they'd manage to drag me safely out of a terrible language swamp. Coffee went from porcelain to paper cup.

I've quickly come to realize how truly amazing communication, even on the most basic level, is. The French people have been so wonderful about teaching me how to parler. Rarely does anyone speak English to me and they are very patient in trying to understand what I'm attempting to say. And, each time I have a eureka! moment with someone, he or she seems genuinely pleased that I've learned to speak a little better.

Even people at the grocery store are helpful. For example, a man took it upon himself to explain to me that I didn't need to weigh a cucumber because cucumbers are sold by the piece. Thank goodness because there was not a picture of a cucumber anywhere on the scale, and I would have stood there for a long time trying to figure out what to do.

All of this helpfulness makes it easier to get along slowly but surely. I've dicovered that I have a million other cultural things to learn about my classmates as well. Swiss people get three kisses, while just about everyone else gets two. Greeks believe that if you drink the last of a botte of wine that you will have a good wedding. Asians don't usually appreciate you diving into personal questions after 5 minutes or, in some cases, ever. In China, it seems that chocolate pudding doesn't exist because my friend from Shanghai bought some thinking it was yogurt. When he discovered it wasn't, he put it on a salad assuming it was "salad sauce." The French take the word "hamburger" literally and sometimes make hamburgers out of ham. That was a rather unpleasant discovery. I also learned that I've been holding my chopsticks wrong for years and that in Japan you can hold your rice bowl off of the table, but in Korea people consider it rude.

In return, I've tried to be a good ambassador for the South. About half of the class understands "y'all" now and I've promised them fried food, chess pie, tea punch and mint juleps before the year is up. I've also fielded some English language etiquette questions, and I talk very slowly. Just my way of giving back.

Une Baguette, s.v.p.

I've decided to take a little break from $'s and #'s, but I don't have much to report. Today, believe it or not, was the first day I bought a baguette. I went to the bakery and said, "Une baguette, s'il vous plait," and I received a nice warm baguette. Warm! Honestly, after hundreds of Harris Teeter baguettes, I didn't really know that they could come all soft and warm. Not that I'm knocking Harris Teeter; it has it's own specialties.

Yesterday, some of us tried the Japanese restaurant in town. Bizarre, I know. We barely have enough here to live a normal life, but we've got sushi. Go figure. It was pretty good, but I was feeling a bit not so happy. I'd forgotten how hard it was to really move away from everything and start something new. It's easy to feel like everyone else is making friends and that you're on the outside. I think we're all feeling a like a haphazard best friends crew because each of us has gone from not even knowing the others existed to spending at least 8 hours of intense class together every day, all in just 2 weeks.

After class today, though, I think I'm getting over my short blue period. One of the girls in class is throwing a party tomorrow at her apartment in Paris, which should be fun. Rest assured that you will not be reading about how I spent another night in the City of Lights trying in vain to get home. Remember, leçon appris.

Okay, back to work!

Any Place Is Paradise Until There Are No Taxis

Finally a break! We got out of classes today at 4:15 and don’t have another until 1:00 tomorrow. Of course, that means class until 7:45, but it’s wine class so evening is as good a time as any I guess. I am over the exhaustion of last Thursday, but I decided to really delve into the pit of fatigue despair before sleeping it all away like a bad dream.

On Friday night, I met a group of classmates for dinner in Paris and then joined a few of them at a discothèque called Showcase, which is under the Pont Alexandre III. I should have known better, but I’m really trying my best to socialize, so a-clubbing we shall go! Despite the impressive location on the Seine, the club crowd was rather unimpressive in the way of fun. The drinks were even more unimpressive in the way of actual liquor, which would have helped me ignore the crowd’s general age of 23.

Anyway, I had a fun time talking to the people from school and the club itself was pretty cool. I really did feel like I was under the bridge, and you can see the Seine from huge openings in the side of the building. I think the club, however, thinks it’s way more awesome than it really is.

When I walked up to the bouncer (after waiting in line – and you know how much I hate that!), I said “Bonsoir!” I got a “bonsoir” back and then a “well, what the hell do you want?” look. Fortunately, my classmate Gabby stepped in and said that we were 6 people. I’m sorry, since when do we not ask questions when we’d like information? Are French night clubbers all telepathic?

We were then told to stand in a line. We were then scrutinized. A lady was called. She looked us up and down. “Are they okay in the face?” She said “oui,” but she wasn’t very convincing. Gabby said it was because our friend Nond’s friend, Pun, had “that pirate thing on his head,” but I thought Pun looked better than 75% of the guys in the club. Whatever. We were a good looking group.

Midnight’s approach prompted the “how are we going to get home?” discussion. This discussion is boring and never ends on a good note, unless you are with Ainsley and she comes up with brilliant plans like staying in nearby hotels. The last train back to Cergy leaves Paris at 12:45 a.m. The next train leaves at 5:35 a.m. Ergo, there is a 5-hour window of this trainless lassitude that requires you stay in Paris and would be wonderfully romantic on an exceptional first date, but is just problematic when you are out just for the sake of being out. But, I speak from experience. I was not so wise on Friday.

Train? No train? Train? Bus? No, not bus. Train? No, wait, taxi! Yes! The idea hatched from a New Yorker in the group, and I obviously thought it was the best option. In New York on any given night, apart from New Year’s Eve and very rainy, snowy or freezing nights, one simply has to step outside and lift an arm to hail a taxi. Lift arm. Taxi appears. Of course, it’s not always that easy. Sometimes the process requires waving, whistling, yelling, exhibiting some leg, yelling at other taxi hailers, fighting off perceived taxi stealers and everything short of (yet sometimes including) throwing yourself in front of the taxi.

My point is this: in New York there are taxis that you can hail at any time at any place. These taxis, once hailed, will take you home.

Although I have several extraordinary taxi-hailing memories that include images of my friend Liz leaping across icy streets in heels, me banging a metal bowl against a lamp post on the FDR and the like, I don’t think it ever took me more than 40 minutes to get a cab. Even in Greenwich Village on Saturday at 2:00 in the morning in the rain.

So, yes, we will take a taxi. Around 2:00 a.m., a group of us decided that we wanted to go home. Time to get the taxi! I was aware that Paris does not allow the free-for-all taxi hailing of which New York is so fond, but I also knew that taxi stands were prevalent on the Champs-Elysees. We walked to a taxi stand and waited. And we waited. And waited. In 35 minutes, I think we saw one taxi stop. There were millions of taxis. Taxis, taxis, everywhere, but not a one to stop! It appeared that every night owl and dog in Paris had hailed a taxi from some other magical “Stop Here!” taxi stand.

We walked to another stand. Then we hobbled to another. One of the, how shall I say, “less together” members of the group kept walking to and fro across the street. I swear, I thought I was going to be scraping her off of the Champs-Elysees before dawn. Around 3:45, we decided to call it quits, stop for pizza, and wait for the 5:35 train.

Not cool. This is not my scene. I’m not a “let’s watch the sunrise type of person.” No one looks good after midnight, much less after 5:00 a.m. And I, for one, am not so pleasant for lack of sleep leads to crankiness. Because of this fact, I made the smart decision to talk less and less as the early morning marched on.

Pizza came and went and our little troop wandered back out into the streets. Finally, by some miracle, the New Yorker (or the other New Yorker, since I can now count myself as at least New Yorkie), found a taxi hot spot and hailed one down. By this time, 4:55, I had declared Paris “every man for himself” land so I Frogger-ed it across the street and jumped in . . . to blaring Elvis. Seriously, I entered a tiny mobile Las Vegas. At 5:00 in the morning. It took “Suspicious Eyes,” “You’re the Devil in Disguise,” “A Little Less Conversation,” a few other hits I don’t remember and a Shakira song to get us home. I’m still singing “Whenever, Wherever” in my head.

Having flown into bed at about 5:35, I was fairly worthless until Sunday. Since France closes on Sunday, I had to amuse myself with about 6 hours of Financial Accounting homework. After one class, I realized that Ainsley gave me the best business school advice yet when she told me to stay on top of the reading and do the homework. I think I might be a little numbers nerd at heart because I actually like the class. Oh, how I could have managed lemonade stands, LifeSavers, Inc., and Dixie Darlings with such financial wizardry, if only I had taken this class earlier! Come the mid-term next week, however, I might not be so happy about it.

I also started gemmology classes, which I was really excited about on Monday morning. Not so much anymore. We’ve had two classes and I’m still not entirely sure what a) the purpose of the class is and b) what information I am supposed to retain. I don’t take kindly to people who discount emeralds as “crap” and praise moonstone, so perhaps the first teacher just turned me off a bit. I think you are allowed to like any type of stone no matter what. Our teacher today was better, but she talked mostly about the diamond industry – flashback to 47th Street. For some reason, a lot of people in the class had very specific questions about insuring gemstones. Yawn. The teacher is also an expert on antique jewelry so I think Thursday’s lesson will be more interesting. Regardless, I’m thinking about asking her to talk to me about the jewelry trade industry in Paris because I don’t know much about it.

Other than attending class, I have agreed to help plan our January field trip to NYC. Dorrian’s here we come! Just kidding, but I really hope I didn’t need to clarify that I was joking. My French/Luxembourgish friend is teaching me more French in exchange for Southern dialect tidbits. So far, I have given her “y’all,” “conniption fit,” and “cattywhompus.” Actually, I am slowly converting the entire class into y’all-users. Whenever I say “y’all,” no one understands what I am saying. Rather than omit such a phenomenal word from my vocabulary, I decided to enlighten my international class. Feel free to send me other Southern words when they come to you. I don’t want to run out before I become fluent in French.

Thinking about New York, yesterday was the first day I really and truly missed it since June. Maybe it was a reminder of today, but I wanted nothing more than to be in the city running around and doing all of the things I used to do. So if you are in New York today, tell it that you love it (even if you don’t feel like it) because one day you might be gone and you’ll regret not appreciating all of the everyday wonderfulness it offers – like taxis.

Ridicule Versatile-ness

September 3 - 9

ridicule: ridiculous
It is ridicule that the school failed to mention that it locks all of the doors at 6:00 p.m. and neglected to explain to any of us how to get out (thank goodness for the cleaning lady).

versatile: fickle
My visa card is very versatile, for sometimes it works at the bank and Auchan and sometimes it doesn't.

mal interprêter: to misinterpret
This would be the reason for my ending up with a cheese-only, and not a ham and cheese sandwich today at lunch.

Je Suis Épuisée (I Am Exhausted)

Believe it or not, I already don't have much time to write. I just got home from school (it's going on 9:00 p.m.). I have to "cook" dinner in the next 10 minutes to prevent myself from falling asleep before eating. "Cooking" tonight will entail spreading peanut butter and jelly on bread.

Classes are going well. The days have been long -- 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. or later. So far they have been very interesting lectures and I've already learned a lot about the industry. Tonight I was working with 2 others on a Rolex project. It seems that I am the only girl in the class who has an interest in watches. Oh well, more watch studies for me!

Other than that I have been sleeping because I'm just not used to having to pay attention for so many hours in a row after relaxing all summer. It's also sort of exhausting making new friends and trying to speak French whenever possible.

Everyone in my class still seems very nice. I have tried to get to know as many people as possible and I was happy to be in a work group tonight with two guys I hadn't talked to very much. This weekend I am going with a group of girls to the Paris equivalent of Woodbury Commons. I'm sure I will have something to report when I return. Apparently, they have very strict rules in France about discount stores -- when they can sell things, minimum discounts and such.

Well, time to be the PB&J gourmand. Until next time ponder this question: why do French vending machines offer peanut M&Ms, while plain M&Ms are no where to be found?

"Ah, you mean you can't very well take less."

As the March Hare said, you really can't take less than nothing. After ten days research, I have concluded that you can also not take less of a serving of French coffee, which is practically nothing itself.

I thought that France was the country of café. Right? When we see artsy black and white photographs of Paris, one out of three depicts a couple philosophizing over café au laits. Steam rising out of porcelain cups, the coffee almost always steals the show.

"Where is this coffee?" I ask. It is not in my shop downstairs. It is not in the school cafeteria. It is not really in Show Gourmand, and it could not possibly be in the automatic coffee machines that sit silently around campus.

In fact, the "coffee" I have received here is unlike any coffee I know. I'm beginning to doubt it even is coffee. It comes in little round packets that resemble tea bags. It goes into cups one eighth the size of a small New York coffee. Ergo, as I am sure you can infer, it comes in servings that are one eighth the size of New York servings.

"Silly girl, it must be espresso!" you exclaim. I thought of that. And it's not. This substance masquarading as coffee provides no relief from the grogginess of morning. It offers no espresso jolt. It tastes like syrup without sugar (if you can even imagine) and it rarely, if ever, comes with the option of milk.

Honestly, I wonder why anyone would drink it. France's neighbor, Italy, has mastered the coffee art. Why did they not share? And if they tried to share, why did France refuse the gift? Is it a question of national pride?

I've titled this column "Ravens and Writing Desks" after the Mad Hatter's riddle. For like his question and others without answers, the puzzles French culture presents are sometimes bewildering. Why is a raven like a writing desk? Why do the French insist on giving me bad coffee? The answer to both remains the same: I don't know.

Just because I don't know, however, doesn't mean that I didn't solve the problem. I'm in business school. I focus on identifying and solving problems. So, I pinpointed the problem: lack of acceptable coffee. Then I bought a coffee maker and some Lavazza coffee. It, too, comes in little teacoffee bags, but it's got to be better than the alien darkness that pervades the area.

Hopefully, I have ended this mad coffee party. No more miniture cups. No more pretending that I can handle this un-coffee. Tomorrow morning will be different. I hope. I've never really made coffee before.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

Ainsley arrived on Saturday morning and brought even more adventure to Cergy Le Haut. That morning, we explored the pâtisserie, Show Gourmand, which I think I shall adopt as my French Georgia's. Even though it's without Caesar and Danny, the ladies who work there are very nice and the coffee is fine. Don't get me wrong; nothing at Show Gourmand will compare to a Caesar cappuccino on a crisp Fall morning, but I think it'll do for now.

I took Ainsley on a tour of town and was disappointed to discover that what I thought was the Garage du Pain is actually La Grange à Pain. Wait, I just looked this up and it seems to translate as "Barn to Bread" or "Barn of Bread." Disappointment has vanished. I think we can all agree that Bread Barn is even better than Bread Garage.

After a quick nap, we decided to explore the outskirts of town. We opted for a faraway green space that, on the map, appeared to be a park in Cergy St. Christophe. We walked for about 30 minutes and came upon said "park." Now, perhaps this is what the architects envisioned this park to be:


But really, it's a horrible place that looks more like this in the harsh daylight:

Apparently, the park was built in 1975 and was supposed to channel the grandeur of Paris and serve as a replica of the historic axis of Paris, the Louvre and the Grande Arche. I had to translate that explanation so take it with a grain of salt.

The park, L'Axe Majeur, does overlook the Oise river and onto Paris, but yikes, what a vast space of grodiness! That's right, I'm using the word "grody" here. The area of town that surrounds the park is dirty and run down and the park itself is empty and has no green, except for some sort of communal farming project. Seriously, I felt like I was walking through the aftermath of some fallen communist regime. If we had stayed for 5 more minutes, we probably would have seen tanks rolling through with soldiers handing out stale bread and Hershey bars.

After vowing to never visit this place again, Ains and I decided to head back home using a different route because why ever would you want to actually know where you are going? An hour later and we're in a tiny village called Vauréal with no hope of ever getting out.

Of the transportation situation in Vauréal, Wikipedia writes, "Vauréal is served by no station of the Paris Métro, RER, or suburban rail network. The closest station to Vauréal is Cergy - Le Haut station on Paris RER line A and on the Transilien Paris - Saint-Lazare suburban rail line." A quick look at the bus schedule also told us that no busses would be serving Vauréal until September 9th. I guess the one bus driver was on holiday?

Luckily, Ainsley had the good sense to ask two different people for directions. Unfortunately, they both agreed that walking back to Cergy Le Haut was the only option. Directions went something like this:

La-bas, c'est un rond-point. Allez à gauche et montrez. Puis, y'a un autre rond-point et allez à droite.
Over there is a roundabout. Go left and climb. Then there is another roundabout and go right.

Each time the word "rond-point" was spoken it was accompanied by a swirling of the finger so that it seemed that Ainsley and I were going to have to enter some human pinball machine.

Just as we reached the first rond-point, which also happened to be the place at which we took our wrong turn and walked past the HUGE MAP, a taxi emerged from the hilltop. I was so tired. I thought it might be a mirage. It was all I could do to say feebly, "Ains, taxi." Fortunately, Ains spring into action and flagged him down. Saved by the taxi! It was still a 15-minute drive back home. Au revoir, Vauréal.

Quick showers and a sip of Coke Light Sango (yuck) and we were off to Paris's Butte aux Cailles quarter for dinner at Les Ouiseaux de Passage. Once in the city, we caught a taxi and I tried to give the address, "Rue Barrault et Passage Barrault" It was useless, however, because by this time I had completely lost my voice due to the cold.

Ainsley stepped in and said quite clearly, "Rue Barrault." Still, no look of recognition on the taxi driver's face. "Barrault!" I wrote it down and showed it to him. "Oh, Rue Barrault! It's Barrault, pas Barrault." Really, this is what I heard, and the dirver was adamant about the whole thing. I'm thinking to myself, "I'm just . . . not . . . getting it. How is what the driver said any different than what Ainsley said?"

Regardless, we got to 7 Rue Barrault to find Les Oiseaux de Passage closed. Oops. Oh well, so we wandered up the cobblestoned street and happened upon a fantastic Italian restaurant called Les Cailloux. There, Ainsley had the most brilliant idea. "Let's not catch the 12:00 train," she offered, "Let's just spend the night in Paris at that hotel we passed! What do you have in your bag?" Between the two of us, we had enough make-up and toiletries to make ourselves look halfway decent the next day.

So after a wonderful dinner, we booked a chambre at the 2-star TimHotel. I guess roof and walls gets you at least one star. Still, it was just magnifique for what we needed. We checked the room to make sure it was acceptable and headed back out for some cocktails at La Folie En Tête bar. Not five minutes later, we had made 3 new French friends and were having a grand time.

This morning, we awoke and went out to explore Paris for a bit. We had a long long breakfast and then walked around a few neighborhoods. After a visit to the Fragonard Perfume Museum, which appeared to be the only thing open on Sunday, we headed back to Cergy Le Haut for a rest.

Oh, I'm tired just reading this! Must get dinner and get to bed so I'll be rested for the first day of classes tomorrow. Bonne nuit!

Ainsley’s Visit

Bon Gré Mal Gré at the Rond-point

August 25 - September 2

inderdit(e): forbidden
Thank goodness I looked this up because practically everything is interdit here.

bon gré mal gré: willy nilly
I couldn't go too long without knowing that one. I think it literally translates as good taste bad taste or to a liking not to a liking.

J'ai mal à la gorge: my throat hurts
Merci Mlle. Pharmacienne. She was very good about making the universal signs for sinus pain and sneezing as well. Even "achoo" sounds better in French.

un rond-point: roundabout

Toot! Toot! All Aboard the Orientation Express!

Today we had orientation and, oh my goodness, do I think I'm going to love this! Our class is made up of 38 people -- 23 girls and 15 boys. Everyone seems really nice and friendly, and I feel like I've already made some friends. We all went around and introduced ourselves and I think the following is a complete list of all of the countries represented: France, Greece, Switzerland, Germany, Hungary, Spain, Luxembourg, Venezuela, Brazil, Israel, Lebanon, United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Mexico, Korea, Japan, Taiwan and China. And that's only for 38 people (many of whom have dual and triple citizenship)!

My introduction was the first of only two to get a round of applause. I'm still not entirely sure what prompted such a display. Was it the fact that I was the only one to hold up and clearly present my paper name card to every student in the class, even the ones behind me (something I felt was necessary when dealing with a room full of multicultural names)? Perhaps it was my mention of my sisters and brother back at home. Or the love of running and horseback riding? It could have been my following "I most recently worked at a law firm hiring lawyers" with "yikes." We may never know. The other person to get applauded was the 51-year-old student, who certainly deserves a hand.

After the morning session, we had lunch in the nice cantine on campus. When I heard them pop open the champagne, I realized that I had indeed made a wise scholastic choice. Three hours of computer training followed. Yawn. However, I do feel all ready to go now.

After school, I came back to Cergy Le Haut with some new friends and then coerced one of them to go to the pharmacy with me for moral support. Yes, that's right, I'm already sick! Ugh! I think the 40 degree temperature drop, the plane and stress have taken toll. It's the same old stupid thing I always get when the seasons change so it should be gone soon.

Anyway, you can't buy any type of medication without talking to a pharmacist so into the drug store I went, armed with limited medical French. Luckily, the pharmacist was very nice and "I would like something . . . well, you can hear the problem," got me exactly what I needed. She gave me some throat drops and a dissolvable powder that tastes like drugged lemonade (not so bad). Again, tout à fait en français!

I was particulary psyched to read that paracetamal was one of the main ingrediants. Now we can start importing it from Scotland and France, although I have to ask for it and they might not want to give me 50 boxes at a time. Paul, keep stocking up.

Day 1 accomplished. Adventures to follow. Bon weekend! I don't know what is in this stuff, but I've got to go lie down now.

Tout à Fait En Français!

I’ve been doing okay with the French. It’s still nerve-wracking to speak it. So far, it’s very similar to my learning to drive a stick-shift this summer. Most of the time, it’s the only means of getting to where you want to go so you’d better jump in and do it. I started out by speaking slowly only to have the other person stall out on me and answer in English. A few days later and I’m heading in the right direction, but as my little brother said of my driving this summer, “it’s a little jerky.”

Today, however, a sort of breakthrough occurred! For Eliot, Jamie and Anne (my computer geniuses), you’ll be so happy to hear that I had to call the school help desk. I didn’t want to call the help desk, but after an hour of trying to no avail to find the wireless internet, I finally broke down. I dialed the number. He answered in French. I told him in French that I was new and couldn’t access the Internet. French: “What’s the problem exactly?” Eek! Another question! “My computer doesn’t recognize the Wifi.” “Oh, you need a cable. There isn’t wireless in the residence halls. Get a cable and call us back if you have any problems. Bonne journée.” Merci! Problem solved all in French! Off I went to Auchan.

Auchan is magnifique. Thus far, I have found everything I need there. I was feeling a little more emboldened by my computer help line success so I decided to get help with locating the peanut butter in the grocery store section, which is humongous! “Je cherches le beurre de cacahuètes.” This got me led to the actual peanuts, but after another minute of deciphering, the grocery store lady took me to the Skippy. Weee! Tout à fait en français!

“Oh, C’est Chouette, Le Guignol!"

Today I went to Paris. It’s so fun being able to write that. I went to Paris this afternoon just to walk around. I started off with a few of my map cards that have little walks on them. I started at the Arc de Triumphe and walked down the Champs-Elysées until I got distracted by little parks and streets. Eventually, I ended up in the Jardin des Tuileries, where I had fun watching the little children poke at toy boats with sticks in the boat pond. In New York, we also had a boat pond, where there were toy boats with motors and remote controls. Until yesterday, I would have said that children would have infinitely more fun with motorized boats, but it seems that I would have been wrong. Children appear to have just as much fun waiting for the wind to push a wooden boat close to a pond’s edge just so they can jab at it with a pole and send it back toward the other side of the pool.

Beth (comma) you will be happy to know that I also saw the home of le guignol! Mais oui, le vrai guignol! He was not performing. I bet he is saving that for when you come to visit.

Having written this, I realize it reads as if I am having absolutely no directional issues, which might be surprising to some of you who have traveled with me before. Here’s the deal – Cergy Le Haut is the last stop on the train so I really can’t go wrong in getting on any train in town because it will most certainly be heading toward Cergy-Préfecture and Paris. The rest has just been luck. I’ve been sticking with my NYC-developed plan: read sign to the best of abilities; get on train; cross fingers; work out the rest later. It seems to be going alright so far.

Last night I followed the advice of three Francophiles and watched French tv . . . in an attempt to improve my French. Right. I’m sure I subconsciously picked up on some things. Things I definitely picked up: The Simpsons are just a little bit off in French – Marge is real scary and Homer doesn’t sound nearly as dumb (Krusty Le Clown – pronounced “kloon” – however, is pretty spot on), European commercials are still as disturbingly confusing as they were when I lived in Edinburgh, and French soap operas look like they could be just as wonderful as Latin American telenovelas. The last presents a good case for learning French as quickly as possible.

I finished my television adventure with two movies: Coyote Ugly (translated Coyote Girls) and Blue Crush. Since I hadn’t seen the first, I think I missed some important plot developments which might have explained more clearly why LeAnn Rimes was singing on the bar at the end of the movie. Blue Crush is just as good in French as it is in English, which probably means all of the dialogue is horrible. I still like it. Fortunately, the word for pipeline in French is essentially the same (pronounced "peepline") so I might be able to whip that out in a conversation and look sort of extreme sport knowledgeable for a second.

To School

My residence hall is located in a village called Cergy Le Haut. I have a room on the 4th floor in a part of the building that from the outside resembles a slightly futuristic sardine can. I haven’t wandered around much, but we have a little shop in the lobby, a workout room, a tennis court, a games room and two laundry rooms.

I have a little studio that has a main room with bed, a big desk, a big window, some shelves, a little dining table, a closet and a tv (I was shocked by this because I don’t recall seeing any standard-issue tv’s when I visited colleges). I have a little kitchen – Lori, think 97th Street revisited – and a nice bathroom. Phew. I know you are all relieved about the bathroom since just about everyone knew that was my one hang-up about dorm-life.

From my room, I have a view of the train and town, which is mostly made up of similar looking cream apartment buildings. Apparently, the train is very quiet. I know it runs because trains come and go, but I haven’t heard it once. Somewhere there is a clock that I hear chime on the hour, but I haven’t seen a church or a chiming clock in town yet. Cergy Le Haut is small, but it has all of the necessary things. It has about 5 hairdressers and 7 banks (these two places seem to be the most prevalent in any town here), a bakery for all of the baguettes, a movie theater, a grocery store, a flower & gift store and a place called the “Garage du Pain” or “Bread Garage.” I’m guessing it’s similar to the Gourmet Garage. Let’s hope.

I spent most of Saturday unpacking and made one trip to Franprix, my new grocery store. Franprix is very Franfun. There are lots of new things to eat. Everything is in nice little packages with pictures of cute little food items or cartoon animals. Shopping is so cheery. I did want to buy the happy porcupine kitchen sponges, but they were too expensive. I did settle on the Okay! paper towels with a picture of an elephant.

I didn’t set my alarm for Sunday morning and ended up sleeping until 4 in the afternoon (so much for getting over jetlag quickly). By the time I should have been going to bed, I had only been up 7 hours. Needless to say, that didn’t work out very well.

This morning, I went to Cergy-Préfecture to sign my room insurance form and visit school. The building where my program is was just renovated and is very nice. I met the two administrators from my program and they could not have been more welcoming. One treated me to coffee and gave me a tour of campus. After a couple of days wandering about on my own, it was a relief to see my new home-base.

Next was the conquering of Auchan, a store which is a step up from a Wal-mart, but not quite a SuperTarget. I got beaucoup de necessary items for my room and took them home. Next I braved the town Tabac for a phone card and then proceeded to spend 15 minutes in the phone booth trying to figure out how to call home. Of course, I have a phone in my room, but I have no idea how to use it for external calls. Actually, I don’t even know my number.

Le Voyage: A Tale of a Girl & 250 Pounds of Luggage

The trip went well. The JetBlue people really are as fun as they portray themselves to be on the commercials. They are so fun that if you are nice to them, they will let you spend 10 minutes at the counter redistributing the weight of your 250 lbs of stuff between your 3 bags. Then, if you ask “Can the extra bag be free today?” they will say no, but then not charge you for 25 of the 50 lbs that you were over. It was a good start.

Luckily, I had a 5-hour layover at JFK. It took me just about that long to get myself from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1 and check-in. A nice dad, who was dropping his daughter for her freshman year at NYU, helped me load my suitcase friends onto my $3 “Smartcart,” which actually turned out to be smarter than I. After deciding that the right wheel just didn’t work, I started dragging the little Smarty-pants-cart from its front through the 8-mile long taxi line. Again, the nice dad decided to step in and solve the problem by figuring out that you needed to lift the handle to turn the brake off. If the Smartcart was so smart, it would tell you more clearly how it worked.

Throughout Terminal 1, skycaps kept popping up at just the right time so I was never stranded with my 250-lb baby. The flight over was good and I managed to badger the counter people into giving me an aisle seat. Air France was lovely and they don’t bother you very much. The food seemed better than most, but I was too nervous to eat anything except the bread and chocolate pudding.

We were delayed 2 hours on leaving New York so I was a little worried about getting the keys to my dorm room. The school told me in no uncertain terms that I must arrive before noon to get my keys. When I landed, I quickly realized that there was no way I would be in Cergy by noon. However, since things had been working out all along the trip, I thought, “Just maybe this is the country where things just work out.” After New York, this concept seemed very foreign, but I think it might be true for France.

I landed and trotted out of the airport with my 250 lbs in tow. Since I had completely neglected to confirm a meeting place with the taxi, I decided I’d have to wander for a while. Then, right there at the exit to the terminal what did I spot immediately, but an ESSEC sign. My taxi mother, Marie-Hélène! I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a stranger in my whole life. After another nice man from out of the blue helped me load the bag monsters into the taxi, I was on my way. Marie-Hélène told me an heroic story, which I will title, “The Getting of the Keys.” It goes as such:

At first, she tried to send her husband to retrieve the keys from the school before noon. Yay, Marie-Hélène got my keys! Then, she told me of how the school people refused to hand the keys over and also refused to stay a minute past noon. Boo, I don’t have keys. Then, there was something about a phone call to the school. Yay? And how they tried to find me accommodations for the weekend. Hmmmm. But there seemed to be nothing. Uh-oh. Finally, Marie- Hélène concluded. Basically, she forced the school to give her the keys because, as she said, “The lady is coming. What are you going to do for her? Are you just going to leave her stranded?” I guess the school decided it would be easier to risk giving up the keys without my 50E and signed insurance waiver than to fight with Marie-Hélène about how I would have to sleep on the street for two nights. Yay! I have keys!

After stopping by her house to retrieve the trouble-making keys, Marie-Hélène dropped me off at my new home. Just as we arrived, a boy was walking out of the building, and he was fortunate enough to be forced to help me corral my 250 lbs of, by this time, devil baggage into the elevator and up to my room. I would have been too shy to ask for help in French. Fortunately, Marie-Hélène had no problem with it.

Et voilà! I was left alone to deal with the unpacking.

Bonjour, Paris!

Bienvenue! For those of you who I haven’t updated (shame on me for not being in touch!), I decided to go to back to school last October and now I'm off to France to get an MBA in International Luxury Goods Brand Management at ESSEC (École Supérieure des Sciences Économiques et Commerciales). Here I have created a little web site to stay in touch with everyone. It seems a bit bizarre to be writing so much about myself and what I’m doing so I hope you’ll comment and email me often to tell me what you’re doing too.

Getting accepted to school and then getting “accepted” by the French government was hard enough. Obtaining a visa required two unsuccessful visits to the New York French Consulate and a drive down to Atlanta. Apparently, I didn’t register with the secret web site correctly. Conversations went something like this:

You need to have the email confirmation.
What email confirmation?
From Campus France. Did you Register?
Yes.
Did you pay?
Yes? No. Huh? What are you talking about?
You have to pay the money and get the email with the stamp on it.
Okay.
After running to Kinko’s and back. So this is all I have.
That? No, that’s no good.
Then how do I get what you need?
I don’t know.

The second trip back to the consulate wasn’t much different. You see, the thing I didn’t have from the web site that wasn’t clear was the only thing on the list of the 50 necessary things that the consulate actually needed to accept my file. Confusing? Quite. Finally, I went to the Atlanta consulate with the email confirmation in hand and walked out with a visa, which really only gives me permission to complete more paperwork to get a residency card.

To prepare for school, I enrolled in a French class at the Alliance Francaise. I liked to tell people about it because I liked to say “Alliance Francaise” as much as possible. One day when I was telling my friend Farrell about my Alliance Francaise-ness, she said, “You know, you should really just rent a bunch of movies.” To that I replied, “But of course! At the Alliance Francaise, they have a library and I rent two Alliance Francaise movies a week from the Alliance Francaise library. Unfortunately, they are in French and I can only understand about 10% of what’s being said. Thank goodness for subtitles.”

As I sat there being all proud about my Alliance Francaise French movies, Farrell looked at me and said, “No. I meant you should rent movies in English set in Paris.” Brilliant. I started with Funny Face and, I’ll admit, didn’t get much farther because Funny Face was enough for me. Judging from the movies I rented, American movies set in Paris really are much better than, well, French movies set anywhere. My French movies always left me feeling a little despondent without really knowing why. Am I supposed to be happy at the end of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg? Everything was so colorful and there were umbrellas and they sang the whole time. So why do I want to curl up in a ball on cry? Other “films” like Un Deux Trois Soliel just made me think that filmmakers are evil people.

From my diligent film research, I’ve concluded that my life in France will either be beautiful and poetic or destructive, confusing and ending with me dead in a gutter. Since the latter is unacceptable, I’m going to use Audrey and Fred’s musical (hence the title picture) as inspiration to make my life here the former. So I expect that things here will be lovely and harmonious with a few cute miscommunications and strategic conflicts thrown in. Soon I will be singing and dancing around Paris in emerald green and white dresses and no one will even notice because everyone sings and is pleasant and happy all of the time in France.

Of course, I know it won’t be as simple as all that, but I’m still going to hope that one day I, too, will stand romantically on the train platform with my petit chien, both of us surrounded by mysterious smoke. Maybe I’ll be heading down to my place on the Riviera. Most likely, I’ll be heading to work.