Paradis

A New Meaning to "Bittersweet"

The title of this entry stems from several sources:  Firstly, the impending knowledge that even though I've just returned to Paris from a ten day "break," I will be only here for another four weeks before my life as a student abroad terminates.  Secondly, this "break," for Easter rather than spring, consisted of a trip to Nice, Venice and the Cinque Terre.  And what, you may ask, is bittersweet about this?  Last night, as Katie and I hid in our hotel in Pisa (I'll explain later, in detail) we tallied up the ATM withdraws and credit card purchases.  She almost passed out.  To be totally honest and as fair as I can be, we indulged only once in a 20 Euro gondola ride in Venice...all other money was fastidiously dedicated to lodging and food.  Thirdly, my love for bittersweet chocolate.  Just kidding :)

So the trip began after a very long and rough night of doing laundry, or attempting to do it, in my apartment.  I went downstairs to find a young man filling all of the washers with his clothes.  Perfect.  I asked, politely, if it was possible for him to spare one as I had two loads of laundry to do between 11pm and 6am before we left for a ten day period of time.  Mind you, I had been babysitting until this point, unable to move in on the laundry facilities earlier.  He told me no and that there were washers in the apartment next door.  I impolitely told him that he was an ass (in my head).  

This did, however, give me the pleasure of getting to converse with Laura, a Californian at her finest.  She let me in the building multiple times until 3am, when I was finally finished stalking my own clothes.  I was in her apartment for a time watching her leaf through a book she was to have read, scanning page by page in to her printer (which she packed up in Cali and flew with her to Paris) so that I might borrow the book for break.  Fabulous and much appreciated effort, though drastic and humorous nonetheless.  As we say, "just box it up."

So the next day we met Alex at the train, Gare de Lyon, whereupon we departed with a car-fill of sweating, greasy, loud French teenagers at the pleasant age of 14/15.  Such a wonderful time during one's life...They shouted, swore, made odd noises, and above all, engaged in disturbing mating rituals and patterns never before seen by many voyeurs sitting nearby.  The ride couldn't end soon enough as the ventilation was lacking and their body odor was starting to waft our way.  Ah, Nice...finally!

We checked in to our adorable hotel, Alex and his Easter bunnies, before heading to the beach and simply plopping ourselves onto the beach of rocks to burn for two hours.  I slept while Katie and Alex were absorbed in what seemed like a deep and meaningful conversation.  I awoke with some sign of being sun-kissed, while it seems Alex was the equivalent of "raped."  We hiked to the top of the waterfalls to view the Old Nice and new at their full glory and marveled at their beauty.  Of course, gelato ensued.

Let me just say, there are vendors with up to 96 flavors of gelato including cactus, lavender, basil, and more...I stuck with more traditional or dessert-y flavors, and enjoyed every bite.

To summarize relatively quickly for those of you who have made it this far (!!!), we relaxed.  We did enjoy an afternoon of roller-blading, or rather, Katie and I did.  Alex got to know the asphalt pretty well, but was quite good-spirited (the entire activity being his idea!).  Katie and I got some great laughs, a nice burn in our muscles, and the physical activity we had been missing and lacking for the past month.  We dined at a Moroccan/Persian restaurant, hoping only to find couscous, meanwhile discovering a pandora to never again be shut.  The owner and waiter was an Armenian man who had lived all over Europe, spoke seven languages, and had no other guests than us three to serve.  We dined and enjoyed.  He lectured us on the etiquette of being a traveler, a foreigner, and better yet, an apprentice of culture.  He offered us free cake, which we ate with alarming gluttony and when he returned with tea as its complement, was distraught to see that we had finished it and had crumbs on our lips.  We drank the tea anyway.  He showed us his hobby of calligraphy, Irish music (he knew my heritage right away and took pleasure in brining it up), as well as his celtic string instrument, which I unfortunately forgot the name of.

After three full days in Nice, we departed for Venice.  What a treat.  Late to arrive to Milan for our connection, and even later to arrive in a city that has no concept of maps and easy-to-find locations.  We arrived in Venice at 8pm and it was not until 10 that we were successfully installed in our hotel (only several hundred meters from the station) and went ravenously in search of dinner.  Delicious pasta, not expensive, but painfully small portions as pasta is only the first course.  We, on the other hand, could not afford two courses.  The next day we walked around Venice, admiring the handiwork of her craftsmen and glassmakers, the overpriced gondola ride, and hundreds of bridges and canals.  We spent the afternoon in Lido, an island across the base of the Grand Canal, at the beach.  Several people had told me that they hated Venice for its smell and pollution, but I thought it rather quaint and adorable, best at night after the hoards of tourists abandoned the main island for Mestre, a cheaper option for lodging (or so they thought).  

Next was the Cinque Terre, another three days of refuge in the Italian Riviera before heading back (today!) to Paris, where life seems all to real and fast.  Katie and I left Alex in Venice and embarked in a female adventure that was quite simply, wonderfully unbelievable.  It is where the French, Germans, and Italians reside during their vacations (as evidenced by the hundreds of Germans with their hiking poles that violently make you aware to mind your personal space).  We had hoped for time to sit on the beach, but the contrary weather of rain and clouds forced us to reevaluate and re-plan.  Not a problem.  We hiked most of the next day in a pathetic excuse for rain to the third village, Corniglia, whereupon we were forced back to Monterosso by train as the hiking path had been shut down due to land slides.  Well, certainly glad to avoid that risk...

Exhausted, we collapsed in our beds after hot showers for three hour naps before the most SCRUMPTIOUS and DELECTABLE dinner of all time.  While I enjoyed my dish, I am actually referring here to Katie's, which I got two nights later when we returned for our last dinner.  Freshly made, hand-carved ravioli bouquets drizzled in a creamy cheese sauce littered a black plate.  Upon cutting these pieces of holiness, the invigorating aroma of sweet pears crawls into your senses and almost causes temporary insanity.  You can bet your balls I will recommend this restaurant to anyone, now and forever, and I'd maybe even be willing to buy a flight just to accompany you there and sample it again.  The owner was spectacular company and joked around with us as well as neighboring tables.  

We finished the hike of the five towns, finishing Montorola and Riomaggiore the next day.  Of course, lots of reading and laying around occurred and I was pleased to have finished all of my homework goals way ahead of deadline.  I am actually quite reflecting on some of the literature I read and have had quite a mental provocation since reading some of Yunus' work.  

Don't think I forgot about Pisa (I know, Piza!).  This was simply a layover location for a cheap flight to Beavais that turned into a nightmare from Hell.  We arrived in the rain and as we left the train station, we had men pushing umbrellas into our arms in a desperate attempt to make a sale.  Little did they care that we had an umbrella out and were wearing virtually waterproof clothes.  We found the cheap and recommended hotel very close-by and settled in.  The only one thing to do in this town is to see the Leaning Tower.  On our twenty minute walk down uneven, puddle-laden streets, intoxicated with pollution and jobless men, Katie stopped me, saying, "Is that a dead animal?"  It couldn't be!  You might expect something like that in Morocco, perhaps even parts of the socio-economic losers of Europe, but surely it couldn't be...

Sure enough, a small black dog (could have been a puppy, didn't look that closely) was sprawled on the ground, mouth hanging open, surrounded by groups of young men (each group of a different ethnicity, of course).  Katie and I then decided, pick up the pace.  After arriving and enjoying the tower for a grand total of thirty seconds, we stopped at the tourist tents selling the most cheasy and horrible souvenirs.  Who in God's name would want a replica of the tower, the size of backpack, for over 20 Euros?  Well, if I had seen someone even approaching the stand to buy one, I would have kindly done them a favor and knocked them unconscious.  Better off that way.  The rest of the night we stayed in and read in fear of seeing more than we had bargained for...and to get away from the Hotel concierge who was fond of kissing, quite too close to the mouth.

Congratulations on finishing this entry!  Worthy of a prize (gelato or ravioli)...but sadly, I am lacking them to give away.  Talk soon, blog more, read less (per visit).

Stilts?

Marathon de la Vie

So today was the Paris Marathon, a bubbling crowd of about 40,000 people (of which only 30,000 complete the whole 26 mile course) who range from sleekly-fitted spandex fans to men wearing kakis and button up shirts.  Makes sense for one of the biggest races in Europe.  Katie and I departed from our lovely (and quite dirty) apartment around 8 only to arrive at the Palais Royal ten minutes after the gun shot started the herd and masses of seemingly identical runners.  Contestants included a man dressed as a baby,  a man on stilts, a man dressed as a prisoner, as well as many overweight, shirtless men that had little to no chance of finishing the run down to Bastille, let alone back up again towards the Etoile.

Katie and I had a tough time getting up this morning as we were out last night until the dark hours of night closed the RER and Metro and forced us to walk home with the incredible aid of Amaresh and Zach (Amaresh is an Eagle Scout, so we generally listen to him, but we still get sick pleasure from giving him much attitude and sarcasm).   Fortunately for Zach, he beat Amaresh in direction-winning due to his enthusiasm for jogging.  We were heading home late from a Latin/Jazz bar (odd combination, I am aware) and then an attempted-hooka-smoking situation.  We were not served our hooka, just required to order 5 Euro drinks whereupon we got to sit and wait in a room full of French people who were staring at us (as we were the only white people in the bar, and Katie and I were pretty much the only females).  So, after finding out that they were refusing to serve us, we peaced out without paying and I had to tell Katie that, "Yes everything is ok, and no, we won't get shot."  In the end, we were not shot.

We spent a foggy Friday at Giverny, wandering around Monet's gardens and his house, which was quaint and cute.  I am quite jealous of his kitchen and windows.  The gardens were not at all what I expected, much smaller and situated in a neighborhood-like setting rather than an isolated countryside.  We then dined at a small restaurant just across from Giverny where we enjoyed freezing and shivering for a whole hour and a half.  Yes, we sat outside and selflessly gave the heated tables to the kind, thoughtful girls in our program.  We ate salad (mine was sad because I didn't finish it, according to Zach), chicken with potatoes (not very good) and our dessert was watered-down cafe with a slightly unimpressive tart.  Oh well, free lunch.  Then off to Rouen where we were surprised with another spectacular adventure!  A free tour of the town by local French students.  You think they would know their shit, right?  ABSOLUTELY NOT, they read off of computer pages and had to ask each other for verification every now and then.  I just wanted to say, "Ask the paper, it probably won't lie."  A drunk man stumbled over our group, fell down in the road with his cracked cigarette, got up and barely staggered away.  I really was ready to go home when the time arrived and I am glad I will get my 10 Euro deposit back Monday.

Katie and I are currently becoming depressed when we think about how much time has already passed and how soon we will have to return back to the States.  I do now understand this "downward" part of the psychological curve but I fully believe that it is due to the impending knowledge of forced departure, and not as IES so firmly attested, from being upset that we don't fit it.  We fit in though I noticed that I get looks from other Americans on the days when I wear a sweatshirt and sneakers, like I am dressing up as the Devil and running through Notre Dame hitting children with live animals.  Paris, as you can tell, has a great ambiance.

But it really does and my bitter testimony does not convey my real relationship with this city.  We've made a list trying to compile all of her elements that we have not yet seen/visited/experienced so that in our next few weeks here, we can at least finish strong.  I say this only because we have 6 weeks left, and some of this time will be spent in Italy, the French Riviera, the Basque country, and hopefully, Amsterdam.  Spring break is this Friday and I can't believe it's already here.  I've been making plans for my Mom and I, for the last ten days of travel before the dreaded US -of-A (and I admit it depresses me to see the bills stacking up), so I have been distracted from the speed of time.  On the contrary (and bright side) though, we will be staying in a castle in Dublin.  Unfortunately we will also be renting a car, so we might die before ever getting a chance to enjoy our faux-royalty treat to ourselves.

I have also been horribly lazy and not written in about three weeks (again).  Maybe longer, I actually was so lazy to not even check, so I just guessed.  I have since my last entry, ventured to the French Alps, to a small town called Annecy.  It is strewn with parochial canals (that are home to some very sweet, and beautiful swans) that take the water from the lake around the charming medieval town.  The most important thing to note about Annecy is this:  best cheese fondue ever.  Quite simply, EVER.  The Alps are a boat ride across the river away, hikes and bikes and boats, nature and forests, (NICE!!!) people and culture...But the culminating event always involves food, so it was only a matter of time before cheese fondue took the cake.  We ordered our fondue and thinking to ourselves, "Let's die from heart-attacks tonight," we ordered salads to accompany our shared treat.  We received our hot plate with fondue, a basket of bread worthy for the Notre Dame congregation, two extra large salads, a BASKET of POTATOES, and a pichet of wine.  [Note: Potatoes and bread were NOT asked for, just given to us].  And in France, it is just not the same when you unbutton your pants and yawn after a meal.  We actually had to maintain some air of civility, though French couples around us were looking at us with hideous expressions of disgust and worry.  We, proudly, did NOT finish and left quite a bit so as to appear native and to have some sense of self-control.  Though, I must say, best meal in awhile!

It was actually super cool to go to Annecy on a Saturday morning, because the Friday before, we went outside of Paris to visit Fontainbleau and Vaux-le-Vicomte (two castles that if you care to look up, are somewhat historically significant to France).  We then went out to a club called Duplex with Chioma, Shawna, Laura, and some other girls where we spent a cheap 11 Euros per drink on Lady's Night.  We also got to a watch some pretty "good" dancing.  I was just really happy because all of this lead to us going to bed at three in the morning, us getting up around 7, me feeling like I was going to die, me forgetting my 12-25 card, me getting fined by the stupid SNCF man, and then me throwing up in the train.  It was a great start.  I did however get a three hour nap the next day.  

This week we plan to have some picnic action at the Luxembourg gardens and on the lawn at the Eiffel Tower.  Tomorrow morning might be our first official picnic.  This Friday we leave for Nice, then Monday for Venice.  Next Wednesday I will be in the Cinque Terre hiking from one small town to another for five days...then back to Paris. 

Hopefully I will be able to keep up better than I have as I now officially suck at blogging and it's difficult to recount stories weeks, au lieu de jours, after something has happened.

Bisous!

Pourquoi tu "flick off" le Tour Eiffel?

Am I on the upward or downward "mental" curve?

When studying abroad, you are briefed before the semester as to the psychological conditions that you will experience.  Apparently you start with a momentary "infatuation" and become intoxicated with an international high.  Then, suddenly, you become aware of how different you are compared to these odd people and start the downward decline, entering a trough of depression and anxiety, questioning who you are and if  you fit in.  Then, after realizing that this is not so serious and that you can assimilate into other cultures while simultaneously retaining some nuances of individuality, you start your recovery back to a stable state of happiness and self-peace.  Where am I?

Ok, whatever.  I've been pretty fine this whole semester and I think I'll get through the rest without any severe mood problems.  It seems to me that I have been completely unmotivated the past several weeks and therefore have not blogged since February.  Shame on me, but whatever.  I had guests and midterms and (I know, excuses...).  

I was so excited to see Lisa and Kelly as I've been impatiently waiting for two months, thinking that time is passing so slowly meanwhile their Spring break snuck up on me and slapped me right across the face.  WAKE UP!  It's halfway time and I'm just realizing how fast time is moving.  I spent several hours finding Lisa at the airport, which was an hour RER ride from Porte d'Orleans including the entertainment of several accordion players, self-proclaimed singers with microphones attached to their portable speakers, and other interesting (and sometimes smelly) people.  I enjoyed a card from the Cat House and treats sent from my sister.  Lisa and I started with a tour of Ile-de-la-Cite and the Latin Quarter.  We ate out at Le Petit Pont across from Notre Dame where we enjoyed the flowing harmonies of an impromptu pianist with our beef and veal.  

Centre Pompidou, Louvre, Musee d'Orsay, stairs, walking, metro rides, more stairs...occasionaly Waffines...I kept them both pretty busy and their feet (all four, I'm sure) wanted to murder me.  Especially Kelly's.  We had cheap cocktails at the infamous Auto Passion, more well known as creeper-central, though we unfortunately missed the strip shows.  Tant pis!

After my friends spent their week here, Katie's sister came to visit for one week.  What a difference between those two women...though I place 100% of the blame of my new 24 addiction on Kelly.  Thank you...but really, thank you.  Obviously now we know Kim is a slut and Jack should rule the world.  Instead he'll probably just become a fugitive again...when will people learn that he's just Jack Bauer...can't get any better.  I did complete half a season while babysitting into the dark hours of the morning (I am referring to the grey haze between "night and day" that one experiences around 4am while still watching a 5 year-old outside of Paris proper).  Wonderful, less than 6 Euros per hour for compensation...Just what I had in mind for a Saturday night.  I especially enjoyed the walk home, alone, in the deserted streets that I've had special encounters in before.  I do carry mace though (as the guards at the American Memorial can attest), plus I have Corie across the ocean to take care of any issues (where was she when the Eiffel Tower was closed and Lisa needed a boost?).  I'm still so sorry about this Lisa!

This Friday I will be heading off to Fontainbleu and Vaux-le-Vicomte, two castles outside of Paris.  I will write more (hopefully before I forget) on these excursions after they happen.  As for this entry, I'll keep it short for those readers who get sick and tired of my rantings after the first paragraph.  Wait...you won't have made it this far...Tant pis~!

PS- Let's not even get started on Versailles...I could definitely live in the Chateau, the get away, the get away from the get away, or the Hamlet...that would not be an issue.  Kelly and I are considering writing our proposition for a show, The Sun King, to rival The Tudors.  We will succeed.

Is there really a "tapisserie" in Bayeux?

Although you probably have forgotten who I am or what the hell I'm doing in Paris by now, I've decided to reintroduce myself with a recapitulation of my last few weeks, complete with biting sarcasm and juicy details.  It has been three weeks since my last blog, so I apologize if my short term memory loss affects the quality of my story-telling though I will try my hardest to recall what has been going on.  Donc:

We'll start with the week following our return to Paris, from London, which involved hours of recovery for our poor, swollen feet (and I literally mean, quite swollen).  Katie and I took two days to ourselves, and class of course, to ignore the city bustle and stay  in.  Wednesday we journeyed to the Cluny Museum, a hidden morsel next to Sorbonne that houses art and tapestries from the Middle Ages.  We were to visit the museum with the intent of discovering the differences between Occidental art and Islamic Art, though we were disappointed to find only several pieces originating in Cordou.  We did, however, enojoy the Lady and the Unicorn (which apparently has many sexual connotations and comes from an unknown origin).  Up close, one can observe stitching patterns that modern technology cannot duplicate and wallow in the wonder of the Dark Age's women who sewed this masterpiece.  The next night, we decided to go out after a three hour dinner (or so) with Laura and Chiama.  

The Auto Passion it was.  The only bar in Paris that is designed for "bikers", or their version of bikers...We sat at the bar, as it is cheapest to do so (you pay more if the waitress has to make the effort to come to YOUR table), and were officially the only women in the bar that were unchaperoned by men.  Sitting and sipping our beer (clarification:  my beer, her cider), we glanced to our left where an older man was trying to play matchmaker and get us to talk to this young gentleman, who apparently spoke English.  The young man looked like a deer caught in headlights, and we were just as repulsed by the idea that we shook our heads and said, "No thanks."  When I left for the restroom, the old man badgered Katie to talk to this poor man until the bartender had to step in and tell him to "Mind the ladies;" Actually he said to leave us alone, that quote would be more expected in a city like London.  Just as I returned, a group of older men (like, my father's age) offered to buy us drinks and we politely refused arguing that we were on our way out.  But as we put our coats on, we were offered drinks from the guys on our left at the bar, who were much younger and less creepy.  What was going on?  We couldn't get a free drink for five weeks...we've been paying ridiculous sums of money to enjoy one or two drinks in a bar, and now in one night, we're getting mauled from every angle?  Free.99...How could we resist?  Enjoying beer with two brewers from Barritz, we talked to the younger gentlemen until they took their leave, whereupon the older men reappeared and offered us champagne.  We decided to accept and be kind, smiling and crossing our legs at our ankles to maintain a sincere look at lady-esque behavior.  Of course politics came up (the infamous question of, "Did you vote?  For Obama?"), and I always, when drinking, take this as an invitation to open my mouth and not shut up for about a half hour.  I apologize to those who are ever around me when and if this happens.  After the bill of 189 Euros came and one of the men paid, we were ready to take our leave back to the Marechal.  Unfortunately, fate would not have it that we ever get the chance to enjoy a smooth escape.  I was offered a free show in New York from a man with "a lot of money," to which my answer was a laugh and a tug on the arm from Katie.  We walked very quickly to get home, finally unchaperoned.

Friday we returned  to IES to watch Casque d'Or for our film courses, a wonderful French film made in 1952 by Becker, which includes a very surprising ending.  I won't give it away, but I hope that this compels you just a little...Afterwards, we got ready for a dinner at Chez Papa with Amaresh and his friend from London, James.  Dinner was incredibly scrumptious and authentic, including a bottle of red wine, brioche with egg, cheese, and vegetables with a salad that included spices, potatos, ham, and a lite oil seasoning.  I am definitely taking my friends there when they come to visit.  Quite tight, space-wise, but that is one of the reasons for which it is authentically French.  We then visited one of my newer favorite bars, the Cluny Bar in the Quartier Latin, which included live music composed of one acoustic guitar and one electric...two Frenchmen (not bad, not bad), and a plethora of music tastes that suited my tastes and needs.  I do say, I prefer the natural sounds and eclectic talent to the incessant beats of techno that move the chair you're actually sitting on every time the bass hits.  Thanks for the introduction to the bar Amaresh.

Saturday we had a quiet day just outside of Paris proper, with Marie.  We caught up on The Office and stand-up comedy.  The rest of the weekend passed without much to note about (same old, same old).  

The following week I taught my first yoga class for IES, where I was paid 3 Euros per person to teach a one hour class, hot and over-crowded, but I cannot even explain how happy I was to finally do this.  It felt great and I slept wonderfully that night.  We also bought our train tickets to Normany this day, so my mood was good and prospects were looking quite nice.

Later in the week, Katie and I took a morning trip to the Musee d'Orsay, where we utilized our student IDs that attest that we are "Histoire d'Art" students and that means, free.99.  We toured with our date, Rick (have you heard about him yet?), who showed us the impressionist works of Monet, Degas, Cezanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, Seurat, and my favorite, Van Gogh (pronounced Van Gog in France).  We will definitely be returning here, so expect more comments.  The ballroom is hidden, lovely, and looks over the Seine.  Perhaps it would make a good location for a wedding reception in a million years (or when Hell freezes over).

Friday, Katie, Amaresh, and I departed at the crack of dawn for Normandy, a trip that I have been long awaiting.  We took a train from St.Lazare to Bayeux, a small town where we would spend one day commuting to the D-Day beaches before heading to Mont St. Michel.  In the town, we dropped our bags off at the bed and breakfast, Le Petit Matin.  It is owned by Pascal and Antoinne, the cutest of men who keep the place homey and adorable.  Our "Rose" room even had teddy bears and bedtime stories.  Walking to the bus for our excursion to Omaha beach was quite entertaining as the town seems to have some kind of fascination with this tapestry.  They have sign upon sign pointing to each other to guide you to the center of all life and creation (for these people, at least), called the Bayeux Tapisserie.  This is a tapestry that was created to tell the story of Guillaume le Conquerant to the illiterate French people who lived nearby.  It runs about 100 yards and is composed of roughly 65 scenes depicting William's invasion of England and his coronation as their king.  Well, I guess it's nice to see about once, without a school of French students learning English in front of you (answering questions in a packet about the tapestry that is LITERALLY right next door to them), but we had no such luck.  What should have taken about 20 minutes turned into an hour and twenty minutes of starring at stitches and a 1000 year old linen.  

After a turbulent bus ride to the American Memorial Museum at Omaha Beach, we toured the museum and walked through the American cemetery (which is home to over 9300 white-washed grave stones) along the side of the beach.  The weather fit the mood, somber, cool, windy, and just enough sun to make it beautiful.  It was weird, you know, to see this place that is so remote today, so calm, that displays an ambiance of tranquility, but to know that over 90,000 soldiers gave their lives for the idea of freedom not only 65 years ago.  It gives you chills to know that these men left home, unaware of what they were to encounter and to give back a country they didn't know and to a people they didn't know (and who would come later to criticize Americans for our excessive adoration of liberty).  Funny how things change.  The people in Normandy, though, remember and are friendly, extremely so, and called our soldiers "their liberators," which made me smile.  The beach was gorgeously blank, just a small beach with small tides ebbing against an endless skyline.  We walked back to the bus to return to Bayeux.  This bus ride was even more fun than the first one, with speed bumps and sharp turns taken at record speeds.  Needless to say, I was feeling unwell upon our return so we returned to Pascal's for a little R & R, but for me, a good time to lay and read.  That night we dined at l'Assiette Normande, where we indulged in traditional specialties of Normandy and arguably, the best cidre in the country. 

That night, we went out to a small pub where I was to experience my first Calvados.  Like cider, but beaucoup times more alcoholic, we received little glasses that smelled quite potent.  One sip and a small fire in my stomach started to burn (I would not be cold on the walk home tonight, I thought).  It was a good thing to try, but I will probably not order this again as they serve it warm and if I am to drink any liquor straight, I will be taking it on the rocks (which generally goes against customs here in France).  We ran into some guys we had met on our way to the beaches, American studying in Barcelona, only to bar hop (mind you, this involves one hop up the one street with the two main bars in town and all 50 people who go out on Saturday) to Pub Fiction.  As we walked in, there were tables with swings as chairs (I wanted to sit at one SO badly, but they were taken) and drinks named after famous movies.  Since this was the first bar that had pitchers, we ignored the cheap cocktails and like Americans, had massive quantities of beer.  Though we thought we could escape without paying for one of the pitchers, we were caught mid-hustle and forced to pay.  Oh well, nice try anyway.

The next day we got up for the most delightful breakfast and conversation with the men of the hour, Pascal and Antoinne.  Coffee, croissants, jams unlimited, and fresh yogurt, we talked about Obama (briefly, but we had to), Mont St. Michel, and our previous day of travel.  Afterwards, we departed for the other part of the trip that I had been long awaiting:  Mont St. Michel.

Located just off the coast of France, connected by a temporary causeway, we rode up to the small town (with only about 30 permanent residents and 400 temporary Asian tourists).  Now we finally understood why Antoinne walled this Chinatown and told us to skip right to the top.  I mean, I definitely wanted to buy the Jamaican souvenirs, Barbie toys, and Pirates of the Caribbean skulls.  To my disappointment (this is some of my well-tuned, biting sarcasm), we walked up steep staircase after another to the top of the "hill" (is that what I am supposed to call this incredible mound of dirt that has been turned into a artistic piece of history?) to find the Abbey.  Again, those damn "Histoire d'Art" cards came in handy and we got in for free to tour an Abbey that defies explanation.  It is built on the top of the island and cascades down the sides of the hill, making the inside of the church quite uniquely laid out.  My favorite part was the west terrace where we could see the English Channel, flowing water with individual rivers and shallows filled with quicksand.  We conversed over how we thought that quicksand would be a rough way to go (as in death, if you couldn't guess).  After the Abbey, we dined at a small restaurant overlooking the water and enjoyed crepes just next to the part of France that invented them.  We also tried their specialty cheeses, Pont l'Eveque and Camembert.  We then walked to the bottom and along the causeway so we could get a good view and about 50 pictures of the island in all its glory.  Another beautiful day and a trip totally worth the hassle of difficult transport.  

Last night, we hosted one of the guys from Barcelona (Tony) who has an earlier flight back from Paris to Spain than his traveling companions.  We decided to go back to this Auto Passion bar, where Katie and I had already had an "interesting" night out only to step it up with an even more interesting night.  I've found the translation (one "semi-official" translation) for the word creeper: pot de colle.  They are everywhere, so I figured it was time for me to know what to call them.  We sat near the DJ at the only table large enough for the four of us, with me facing the bar.  How lucky!  There was a man starring me down, conversing with me through the air (not the right person to flirt with me through the air, that role has already been taken by someone ELSE!), who decided to tell my male friends that I was a "fille charmante" and they should take care of me tonight.  Amaresh told him to fuck off.  We also were SO lucky as to have front row seats to a strip show.  Katie was the closest, so she definitely won big time.  A slinky blonde who probably weighed about 80 pounds and whose face looked like it was painted on, strolled around dancing for men in none other than her bra looking contraption and a sheer black skirt (that of course was showing her ass cheeks as she moved) and "hid" her black thong.  Then the chair was placed next to our table and a lucky man (who willingly volunteered!) was seated down for "his" dance.  She sat on his lap and moved up and down in a disturbing recreation of sex, put his head between her legs, and even put her hands down his pants...we laughed and avoided eye contact.  Soon though, she was talking to us and my eyes opened so wide as to indicate how surprised I was that she was conversing with us while her ass what in this guys face (and my creeper at the bar was smiling the whole time and trying to get my attention...no way buddy, I am avoiding you too).  We backed up to give her more room.  Soon though, she stood up this pathetic man and surprise! started to undress him.  We didn't know both of the them were working for money like this.  His shirt was off and his pants around his ankles...she turned his back to the crowd and pulled his underwear into a wedgy, then smeared lotion on his buttocks.  Soon her excuse for a skirt came off, then the top (to expose quite fake breasts), and there were more legs in the air, bad dance attempts, and at the finale, she took a peak down his briefs, gave him a small pout, and shook her head questioningly as if to say, "where is it?"  He just threw his hands up, palms towards the ceiling, and probably muttered, "buf!"  Just when you think things are going to be relatively normal for one day or even one night...BAM, you get slapped right in the face with blonde strippers and creepers.

What a city, what a city...