Purgatory of Culture shock

It is not that I have forgotten anyone. It is not that I have forgotten how to write or that I even have this blog. It is that somewhere between the mess of culture shock, the city, IES students and music I have completely lost myself. My hermit independent state that came forth from the summer which I spent, for the most part, alone, dwindle back into the hopefulness and reliance of other people. People reaching me to conclusions I would have never once made, which, is neither good nor bad.

So today I go to reconnect myself, as I imagine everyone must do who immerses themselves in another cultures, however, I, of course run into of dilemma of who I am. Is it not who I am thinking is me right now? Who I thought I was two years ago? 

I am going out to remember a past me, one who perhaps has changed much since she has been here and will change even more in the months to come. I don't think she will be mourned, because change is inevitable and, after all, she plunged headfirst. Perhaps celebration is actually called for.

Paris Monuments Partie: II

I know I should have probably written this sooner way sooner. Each trip is on a different day and a bit spread apart.

Giverny- the place where Monet lived and where his inspiration for the water lily paintings came from. His house is surrounded by gardens that are really quite lovely.

Versaille- Simply stunning, way to beautiful for words,  gardens went on forever. The Hall of Mirrors were my favorite part. I even got to see the fountains go off. Its just a little ways outside of  Paris. I just wanted to live there.

Chantilly is actually really beautiful for a fortress. My day here consisted of way more pictures then is necessary of forestry ponds, swans, and gardens on the outside, and  picures of kings and queens, that once inhabited the castle. I wish I could tell you something I learned, but I kind of got lost somewhere at the beginning of the french tour when we talked about the fine silverware and then he rumbling of my stomach drowned out the better half of everything else that was said. My favorite part was the stain glass, which depicted the storyline of a lover of cupid and lunch. The castle also foster horses and a track for them to run. For the second part of our groups tour we watch a horse show, with different maneuvering skills and stunts.

The trip home was unforgettable. It never seem to fails me that no matter what I do or where I go bizarre things happen. I almost don't believe it myself. We return to the bus, in which I am completely exhausted after waking up at an unreasonable time in the morning. ( In which we were a half hour early and had to wait on the bus). Somewhere along the ride I knock out. I awoke, drool spilling down my arm, to gasps. I opened my eyes and was blinded by the naked stark white asses of 4 young teenage boys pressed against the window of the bus next to us. I promise you I have not seen asses that white since I was in high school in the suburbs. To make matters worse we were battling through traffic so each time we passed them or fell behind, our lane would move and we would pull along side them again and have a preview of another new mooning. At the time, it was the most action I have gotten in awhile.

Perfect way to end another perfect trip.

Things that do not exist in Paris that I need to exist in Paris:

1. The word "Awkward"

2. An IHOP

3. The word "Awesome"

4. Pepperoni

5. A Doggy Bag

6. The word "creep" or "creeper"

7. On the go cups

8. Practice rooms with no one in them. That are open. Constantly.

9. Water that does not dry out my skin and hair.

10.The word "Awkward"

Nuit Blanche

I have never gotten so little sleep before in my life.

... well not in Paris anyways. Though I certainly have not done so much dancing non-stop. 

Last night I celebrated Nuit Blanche. Which means "white night". Basically, the way it was explained to me, is that everything is open late like museum and exhibits and there is live music. It is a kind of celebration of the arts. We had heard from a Parisian that it was not any fun at all, however, all the advertisements beg to differ and we are American, we live in country of  advertising. We believe what is shown to us... So, we got all dressed up and we made our way to the museums. 

In heels. 

Which, I promise you I would later regret. We would all regret.  My roommate, company, and I made it through the Renoir Art exhibit (which was very interesting). We soon realized that this night was not as spectacular as we thought it was going to be.  However, when it came time to call it a night, I was completely reluctant to go home. So I hitched a free ticket from a little lady in our program one who was equally as ready as I to party all through the night. 

We got in VIP style and we danced. I mean we really danced. I danced for about 3 hours straight, no sitting whatsoever. To be quite honest I was slightly impressed by my stamina. I mean especially after all the pastry eating I had been doing. 

The people in the club were considerably different dancers then what I was used to, and were not much for grinding. It was nice not to have worry about a guy just grabbing you and trying to make you dance with him. The French seem to dance more to themselves in a club atmosphere. If anyone tried to place their hand just a little bit lower then necessary, I grab it, and firmly placed it back where it needed to be, to which, they would look at me a bit shocked, laugh, and then continue dancing, not making it an issue. 

Sadly, though, the French that surround me, could not really dance and I mean they really could not dance. They made me look like the best dancer in the world and for those who have seen me try to get down in Atlanta (or any place for that matter) you know how hard it is to make me look good dancing.

The music was a Techno 90s/80s flashback, with Michael Jackson everywhere up in the mix, and old, old, school hip hop towards the early part of the morning. 

Yes, I was that American girl. The one who is dancing and singing every word to every song that came on just because I could, even ones I would never sing to at home. You know what though? It was a good time. I don't drink and I was having fun, so I can only imagine how much fun it must of been for everybody else in that tiny room to watch me flailing my arms and shaking my non existence butt all around.

I left at six in the morning, caught the Metro, and was escorted home by a man way to concerned for my safety. Little did I know he was soon to be my new French friend.

Don't worry I made a French friend, but no French kisses.

Paris Monuments Partie: I

So it has occurred to me, as I am sure it most have occurred to you, the readers, that I have yet to write about any of the famous sights. You must be wondering what in the world I am doing here, and still I have not seen any sights. Though the truth is I have seen so many. I am not exactly sure where to start. Though, I suppose, I should start by writing about some sights before this becomes another pointless accomplishment in my life... because what good is a blog abour Paris if I don't talk about any of the monuments and museums. 

Now within the first three weeks, I hit most of the major ones. The Eiffel Tower which is way bigger then I thought, but with my determined roommate I managed to fit me into a picture with the tip of my finger touching the tippy top. 

The Arc D' Triomphe was neat, however, it is at the center of the bussiest roundabout. Roundabouts, don't have any lanes so car just drive haphazardly around until they get to a road the  road they would like to get off on, in which, they cut everyone else to get across. It took us at least a half hour to find the underground tunnel that leads into the monument. 

I have visited the Louvre...well at least 1/8 of it. The thing is huge. It is nearly impossible to do it all in one day. It is mostly filled with classic works... which, is not my taste at all. I saw the Mona Lisa, though, her smile held no mystery for me... In fact I think it was just plain ordinary. Perhaps that was Leonardo da Vinci's point the whole time. 

I did fall in love with the Musee d' Orsay, which, is a museum full of impression art. It has the look of an old train station, because it was modeled after a train station. In fact, the central train station in New York was modeled after it, as I found it. Though art has never spoken to me the way music has. I must say I was truly touched by paintings such as Venus de Milo. I am definitely planning a returned visit.

Now, I promise you that every time I make eye contact with the Notre Dame I am having a love affair with it. I don't believe there is a time that you can not take pictures, night or day that Notre Dame will not be simply gorgeous. The stain glass is stunnning inside and out. The flying buttresses were really neat. (I am letting out a chuckle just typing this... because I was explaining how I needed more technical terms to use in my blog to describe monuments. I was offered the words "flying buttress" by a fellow IES student. I still am not completely sure what it means but I would hate for it to go waste.) 

What a gorgeous city.

Mistaken Identity

Let me start first by stating that being gawked at is a relatively new concept for me. However, since being in Atlanta I have grown accustom to men being total...well, to keep it clean, jerks. Not all men mind you, but a good enough majority to make me resent.  Often they stare at you from cars and "holler" and the begin whistling, hooting, staring, grabbing  etc... In attempt to, some would say get your attention. Though I believe it is just for the soul reason of pissing you off and ruining your day.

I am very dismayed to find that Paris, the supposed city of love, is not to much different for me it seems. I have been hit in the back of the head in an attempt to get my attention, asked to have sex with by a group of 14 year old  French boys and then had the Birthday sex song sang to me.  I have had a parks groundskeeper try to kiss me and make me his girlfriend, and I have been hit on by scaffolding men. All within the same week.

Now, I have heard and have had discussions about this with French and Americans alike. Verdict: men in france, or perhaps just in Paris, find foreign women way more easy to talk to and tend to want to date them because they are not as mean as their french counterparts. I don't think this makes us easy... however, (and I am trying not to pass the blame on anything specific, because the image of women  in America is a bit complex, and is definitely a philosophical discussion for another day) I do beileve the TV images of women especially women such as video vixen in hip-hop,  have given a good part of the world this impression that we are "loose" crazy one night standers.

Though, with all this taken into account I still could not understand why I was such a "hit" here. I am really quite plain, a bit cooky, but really I am just as silly as the next American girl. Then I was offered a little insight to my problem.

I was walking back from my music school, and had just turned on to the main street. A man walked out of the hotel, saw me, and his eyes got huge, wide, as if he was terrified. He then proceeded to point at me, screaming, "CORRINE, CORRINE!"

I looked at him, terrified, and sped past him. This for me was my last straw. My mind was on a rampage, WHAT the F***, I thought. What in the hell is wrong with these people. What in the world is corrine...corrine? Is that even french? I have never heard that before in my life what french word....

I stopped. It hit me. Corrine...Corrine Bailey Rae.

He had mistook me for the famous British artist Corrine Bailey Rae. I had mistaken his being star struck for terror and insults. I can't tell you how big of a smile that put on my face. Still a bit ashamed at how quick I was to judge all of the french men on the street as just trying to be insulting. Some, as it appears, are just in wonderment of an American look-a-like of a British superstar.

When partying in Paris...

So I am sure there has not been any realization that the posts are way out of order and incredibly delayed. So I move forward by going back. 

A couple nights ago, a group of us decided to go out. For me it was to celebrate getting into the music school, with only a 24 hour notice that I would have even have an audition, as well as, making it through a brain melting two weeks of orientation. (Spelman isn't the only one...) So we dressed up and went out for a night on the town. The street off of Saint Michel is a very lively, narrow and swarming with French and American men and women whooting, talking, and dancing . 

My night began normal enough, we attempted to dance salsa, which, is something I can't believe I have not tried to do before because I absolutely love it. The men, were nice, eager to dance and eager to teach us the steps. The music was fun. I was shaking and moving... I felt like I had a butt...almost anyways. Though it wasn't long before my group wished to look elsewhere for fun and excitement.

Things always tend to get a bit ridiculous just after meeting some new men. These two were from Harvard, coasting around the country for some fun before they were forced to get a job. They were both nice and sweet and soon became a part of our little entourage. Not wanting to return to far from where we had already been, we settled for a lounge that used one word we knew: sexy.  Bras were laced all through the lights and dangling from the ceiling. No sooner had we sat down then did a glass break at the bar and millions of tiny plastics swords (you know the one that they put fruits on for drinks) flew down the back of my shirt and all over the floor. Then some "helpful hands" came to the rescue to help remove some of the plastic swords.

I am not even going to try to explain what happen next. How my bra was somehow, unhooked, pulled off of me, and held over my head for the whole club to see, before being placed on one of the near naked, most assumedly gay, non-deodorant wearing, sweaty, french, bartenders. There is no way to even explain my look of astonishment when my only black bra, two sizes to small was hoisted in the air, and my new harvard acquaintes laughed, pointed, and said

" Isn't that your bra...."

"um...well...yes..."

Don't worry though my consulation prize was my jus de pomme (apple juice) with a sparkler, that I thought was going to catch my hair on fire. Total cost 8 E  (12 dollars). My bra being sported by a man strictly in underwear and given back to me in his teeth. priceless.

With all the excitement that we could possibly take we said our goodbyes and left.

Now, no trip out in a new place can be complete without the adventures "How do we get back?"

The metro had stop running. Paris has a night train, though right now the name escapes me. Anyways, they are buses that pick up the late-nighters, and drive all over the city so that people aren't stranded. You just have to find the right stop...and not attract people that are right out of the movie Taken, who only speak to you in english, and try to ride home with you to see,"where you sleep"....

We left at 1:30 am, I stumbled into my room at 4 something in the morning. Which will now explain why in the previous blog, I am just a bit late for my cooking lunch.

Just in case anyone was wondering, my bra was not harmed in this incident and I am proudly wearing it as I write... after it had a trip through the washer machine.