“Haiku Monday” was posted a full 365 days after my very first post as The Senior Senior. This bad boy blog is a year old today. Its good girl writer is much older.
The Flight of the Bumblebee Wednesday, Oct 24 2007
Life and Ramblings and love 3:26 am
It has been said that the bumblebee, aerodynamically speaking, cannot not possibly fly; the bumblebee knows nothing from aerodynamics, and flies anyway. I suspect that this is crap – that would mean that the laws of physics are that of Wile E. Coyote, and as long as we do not look down, gravity will not apply.
Whatever this little cliché (look ma, diacritics) may lack from a natural/physical sciences perspective, it probably does have some validity from a psychological one. I warn you, this is going to be a GSS-related post, so if you are sick and tired of me blogging about him, I guarantee you that you are not alone. I too have had it up to my eyeballs in GSS-related topics, but I can’t seem to quit them entirely. But to proceed: so he’s back, and I experienced the whole bump-a-dump-dump heart-rattling reaction (which has become increasingly inconvenient to me). I tried to open with a witty greeting, but pretty much sucked wind on that one. He responded half-heartedly, and I slunk off to my table. Fortunately, one of my regular students was there, and that gave me something to do instead of fretting about his lack of enthusiasm for seeing me.
This is where the aerodynamics of the bumblebee come in. Back in those halcyon days, when my crush was wedged in the back of my subconscious (along with what’s left of my knowledge of Polish, the ability to sight read and all knowledge related to trigonometry), I flirted like the wind. I had game. A-game, as a matter of fact. But like the bumblebee and Wile E. Coyote, the moment I had any significant conscious knowledge of what I was doing, I became my nerdy self again. Today, I flailed so badly, I could have sworn that I felt the strap of my head gear, and could hear the faint plucking of my rubber bands.
Just when I thinking about what a socially awkward doofus I, GSS comes over and sits next to me. We have a lovely conversation, and I’m feeling that all is right with the world. But then he switches tables (to work with a student), and all attempts by me to engage in a little mild flirting (only when appropriate) had me wishing that it was not a physical impossibility to kick my own ass. But I soldiered on, working with students (which is, after all, what they pay me for). Until it was time for me to go. You would think that someone of my level of perception would have told themselves to let it go and just slip out as discreetly as possible. But that would imply that I have the ability to control my flirting skill level, which I may have mentioned before, er…sucks. So I stood there, babbling, and I got the “hook,” albeit subtly and discreetly from him.
If you are not familiar with old movies, you may not be familiar with the hook. I don’t know if it really existed, but in movies depicting the vaudeville stage life, a tanking performer, after much booing from the crowd, would be removed from the stage via a giant wooden hook. And that, dear readers, is what I got this afternoon. It pains me to admit it, but there you have it.
And this is why I wish I had the ability to drop the whole thing, and pretend as if I never had a crush on the guy. I’m willing to give it the old college try. After all, this is too much work. Do you know how the Ex and I started going out? We met at a mutual friend’s party (KSP’s, to be exact), had a conversation. A few weeks later, he asked KSP for my number. Within the space of 2 weeks, he called me up, asked me out, and we went out on a real date. That’d be nice. This shit…I’m too old for it.
Looking for Mr. Sasquatch Wednesday, Oct 17 2007
College and Education and Life and Ramblings and language and love 4:23 am
Today, after I had changed my shirt two times (for very good reasons – shirt #1 still smelled slightly of basement from hanging to dry in the laundry room Sunday night, shirt #2 fit when I was 20 pounds heavier, and shirt #3 was “just right”), I went off to work. Sure, I go to work to earn the money necessary to keep body and soul together, I go to work because I enjoy helping students, and that one day, when I am a TA, this experience will have helped me. But yes, I also go to work for the opportunities for flirting with GSS. He is on the schedule, he is on the list, but lately he is not there. Alas, GSS was not working today. In fact, it occurred to me that he is a figment of my imagination. And it does follow: a good-looking, intelligent, well-educated man who seemed to be interested in me? Why not a rabbit that brings baskets of candy, or a fairy that brings spending money in exchange for lost teeth? At this point, it seems just as likely.
So today is the day that I lumped GSS with Sasquatch (or Yeti, if you prefer), Champy and Nessie. He may exist, and there may have been sightings, but I don’t have enough evidence to make the call one way or another. And you know, my mythical crush did serve a purpose: he did push me, after a fashion, to stop brooding over my failed relationship with the Ex, and to start thinking about, if not actually love, the possibility of love (or at any rate, sex). And that’s no small feat. Just like Santa helps children understand the spirit of Christmas, so GSS helped me understand that I could move on, and that would be okay, too.
The old cliche (still no diacritics) is that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but after a certain point, the heart gets bored. And at this point, I’m getting the same return on my “investment” as I do from my celebrity crush, Clive Owen. And my celebrity crush requires a lot less effort on my part (“Ooh, he’s purty!”).
That said, if GSS starts showing up to work again, I reserve the right to resume my crush already in progress.
***
I am bound and determine to beat Phonology into submission: right now, it is the other way around. My midterm is next week, and if I have to reread my textbook 10 times to finally get a grip on this material, by God, I’ll reread my textbook 100 times, if I thought it would help (I hope it doesn’t take even 10 times – the book is not a “fun” read). It has now gone from a desire to do well in the class to a point of honor: dammit, I’m an intelligent woman, and I will understand this!
And here’s a picture of Mabel standing next to Whistler’s Mother… Wednesday, Aug 1 2007
(note: written on Sunday 7/29)
So I was in full-on museum mode today, though between the Tour de France and the Musée d’Orsay’s policy on credit cards, I wasted a bit of time. But, despite some disappointments, it was a good day, even if my feet were about to mutiny by the end.
Still sore from lugging my luggage through the Paris Métro system, I was still game to walk to the Musée d’Orsay – it’s about a half an hour walk, and I figured I’d see some sights on the way. I walked down Avenue Motte-Picquet, took yet another picture of the Eiffel Tower, then walked past the Ecole Militaire (alma mater of some guy called Napoleon) to les Invalides. Took some more pictures, but there seemed to be some sort of hubbub, with a bunch of police and pompiers (firefighters) zooming around the place. As I got to the Seine, it made sense, they were zooming around getting things ready for the cyclists (who were due back this evening). Tout était boulversé (everything was all out of whack), but I took some touristy photos, then headed off to the Musée d’Orsay; but first, I gave some Australian guy directions to Place de la Concorde. I find that hilarious, since I was able to give good directions, but after living in Grenoble for 6 weeks, I couldn’t give you directions to anything there.
I get to the Orsay, and there is a line, but it is moving at a good clip. My plan was to buy a Paris Museum Pass, and then hit the Louvre and Centre Pompidou. After waiting about twenty minutes to go through the security check, I wait in the line for the Museum Pass. I get to about second in line when I see, in English, French and Spanish, “Due to past issues, we no longer accept foreign credit cards.” What was I planning to use to pay for my museum pass? That’s right, a foreign credit card; well, it isn’t foreign to me. Nevertheless, I need to get out of line and plan my next move. I figure that even if I went to the ATM and pulled the money out, I would need to wait in line again, so I might as well go to the Louvre (which, by the way, happily accepted my “foreign” credit card). I knew there was no way to see all the Louvre, but I didn’t see many of the “biggies,” though I’m not on fire to see the Mona Lisa, since it’s the size of a senior class photo and all you can see are a bunch of tourists trying to take a picture of the Mona Lisa (which everyone has seen before anyway, just not “in person”). I started in the wrong wing, and while I don’t regret seeing the Islamic art, or the Medieval decorative arts, etc. Almost all the famous stuff is in the other wings, though I saw a boatload of Ruebens and Rembrandts, among other things. After three exhausting hours in the Louvre, I headed back over to the Orsay. The line had grown exponentially, and like the hottest nightclub in town, we had to wait to be let in. After nearly 40 minutes of waiting, I got in, and with my Paris Museum Pass, I sailed right in to the museum itself.
Not to slag the Louvre or anything, since I saw only a fraction of the art there, but the Musée d’Orsay kicks arty ass. You wanna see some Manets? Courbets? Van Goghs? Yep, they’ve got them. How about a Cezanne? Oui. Rodin? Sure, even though he has his own museum elsewhere, Auguste is kickin’ in old school. In the Impressionist gallery, I run into E, and we had a chuckle about running into each other in Paris. Another thing we chuckled about is this “trend” where people (by which I mean tourists) get their pictures taken in front of paintings. We both find this weird. “Here I am, standing next to Whistler’s Mother (which is at the Orsay).” Okay, but can’t you just tell us? We promise we’ll believe you.
After I did a good circuit of the Orsay, it was time to hit the Pompidou. Yes, it is a lot of museums to hit in one day, but my time is limited here. At this point, I could have walked, but I was in no condition to do so. So I found the nearest Métro station, and rode to the Centre Pompidou. By this point, I was starving, and needed to find a place to eat first. And a confession: I ate at McDonald’s. I know, but I needed something cheap, full of calories (it was already 5 pm, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast), and within eyesight. McDo fit all three requirements. Two things keep it from being too sad – I have been eating genuine French food for most of the summer (and now I have a book of recipes to make French food at home), and like the film fan I am, I ordered a “Royal with Cheese.”
Either because the Centre Pompidou is so big, or because modern art freaks a lot of people out, there were no lines to get in. Like the Orsay, the Pompidou kicks arty ass – though in an edgier way. After today, I have decided that Man Ray rocks. He is now on the list of my favorite artists – with Van Gogh and Rothko. I have others, but this isn’t the post for it. My theory about modern art is that it is easy to miss the artist’s passion behind it, because you spend a lot more time trying to suss out the significance of it. And then you see a piece that you just “get” and you stop worrying about trying to “understand” it. That comes and goes, like with anything. I used to find modern art “interesting” but not emotionally satisfying, but a few years ago, I had an epiphany at the Art Institute, and now I often prefer modern art. Earlier today, I saw this piece that blew me away. I have forgotten the artist’s name, which means I will have to look it up on line. It was this big bamboo airplane, with small fans behind it, and a whole bunch of stuff confiscated at the Sao Paulo Airport in 2004 – scissors, Swiss Army knives, corkscrews, etc – stuck into it. It was amazing. I am so in love with this sculpture. It is, for lack of a better word, neat.
After finishing at the Centre Pompidou, I decided to go back to the hotel, and not try to find a spot and wait for the cyclists. The weather stunk today, and since people were already waiting at 2 pm, I figured there wouldn’t be a spot for me, anyway. Maybe next year.
Tomorrow, if I am not too wiped out from today’s excursion, Notre Dame, Ste Chapelle and the Arc de Triomphe.
Some final thoughts from the Jardin de Ville Friday, Jul 27 2007
Uncategorized 8:29 pm
or…
Quand tout le monde devient de plus en plus crabby…*
There has been a trend this week, where everyone is a little short tempered. We were talking about it as we were waiting for class today. It is the last week of the program, and everyone is getting ready to hit the road. Some people are going straight home, and I’m sure they have mixed feelings about that. Maybe some of them have been homesick and are ready to go home, and others wish they could stay a little longer (though without classes). Those of us who are doing a little or a lot of traveling after Friday are likely chomping at the bit.
I know I am, and while I wish I could spend more time in France, I have run out of Excedrin, and that is a sign that I need to go home soon. Oh yeah, and I am running out of money at an alarming clip. Stupid weak dollar. Stupid “International Fees.” Both are killing me – I’ve probably paid more than 20 dollars to my bank in international fees, though not so much these days, as my credit card charges tiny fees compared to my bank. Still, I’ve spent nearly all my money, and have readjusted my budget in Paris to be more frugal – instead of three nights in a single with a shower and WC, three nights in a single with a hall shower and WC; instead of budget of 50 euros a day for food, I’m now down to 25 (less if I actually want to buy things). I can do it, I have the know-how. Still, there are things I won’t cut out – all the sights are still on the itinerary (I’m buying a carte musée to save money), and I’m still going to Versailles.
I only have one assignment left – my oral presentation on Thursday. I haven’t really worked on it; I’m saving that for Wednesday. But after that, I think I’m more or less done in all my classes.
It is weird to think about leaving. You get used to a place in a very short time, and I really feel like I’ve lived here, as opposed to just staying here. Sure, it is true that I haven’t explored the whole city, but I think you can say that about the city in which you have lived for 6 years, not just 6 weeks. Some of the others say it will be weird to go back, but they haven’t kicked around as much as I have; what will be weird for me is how easily it will be to slip into my old life, which has been waiting for me at home. Even the cat will forgive me for my treachery within a week.
Since I feel like it, I will finish this post with two lists: things about France I will miss, and things I will not.
Things I will miss about France:
French cheeses
Wine with dinner
Jaunting off to Provence
Jaunting off to the mountains
Public transportation that runs every 10 minutes
Crepes!
Galettes!
Mme W
Place de (insert place name here)
The fountains in Place de (insert place name here)
Patisseries
M. La Poste
Things I will not miss about France:
The crappy exchange rate
That almost everything is more expensive (6 Euro floss!)
Aggressive panhandlers (they make the ones in the US look like cream puffs)
The chronic smoking of the French
Piles of dog crap (picking up after your dog has not caught on here)
The cleanliness standards of public restrooms
Hey! The things I miss list is longer, so that must mean that I’m having a good time. Oh wait, I already said that I was.
Next post: hilarious signs I have seen.
*When everyone is getting crabbier
Il Fait Froid Tuesday, Jul 10 2007
Uncategorized 10:18 pm
Oh, So Tired…
Saturday was the trip to Avignon, which was great, but very, very tiring. We left at 7:00 am (correction: we needed to be there by 7:00 am, but we did not leave until 7:45) and got back at 1:00 am. So yes, a long day. We started off with a stop in Orange to see the Roman theatre, which is damn impressive, still standing and looking good for its 2000 years. Lunch at a café, then back on the bus to hit Avignon and the Palais des Papes, which was less elaborate than I thought, but really cool nevertheless. July is the month-long Avignon Theatre Festival, which spills into the streets. Sure, there are traditional plays, put on in traditional theaters; but there are street performers, guerilla theater events, and even the people involved in the more traditional productions pound the pavement, in costume, handing out flyers to advertise their shows.
After a few hours in Avignon, it was on to Pont du Gard, a Roman aqueduct and public beach. Those who brought their maillots de bain could go swimming, and those (like myself) who did not could wade, or hang out in the shade or hike. I have not appeared in public in a maillot de bain for a long time, though I did wish at the time that I did bring one, as it was damn hot. After our sojourn with nature, it was back on the bus, back to Avignon, to enjoy some of the theatre festival. We walked around a bit, but the crowds were insane, so we picked a spot and sat down. We chose well, because after 10 or 15 minutes, just when we were wondering if we were really going to sit there for another hour, a street performer set up right in front of where we were sitting. His was probably the best act we saw on the street. He performed for about 45 minutes, and his act had a definite Charlie Chaplin, Harpo Marx, silent clown influence. It turned out that he was Spanish, and didn’t speak a lot of French, but he made it work for him, with a melange of French, English, Spanish and a patois of his own creation. It was impressive, and if I hadn’t been cash-free at that point (mayhaps I purchased some petits cadeaux pour mes amis?), I would have made a contribution to the hat. I also saw something very cool, which I am not going to post as of yet. I want to recount the story, in person, to Puppy Mama, KS(-P) and Bad Influence, as they will appreciate greatly. Plus, I have visual aids.
But all the theatrical goings-on made me miss the gang back home. The Blitz is next weekend, and it is always a hoot and a holler. KS(-P) and I will not be writing as a team this year (sniff), and she’s already gone and found a new collaborator (sniff). However, don’t cry for me Blogosphere, because I am in France, and I suppose that’s cool too.
After a couple of hours in Avignon, we left for Grenoble. At 2 minutes before 1, we get off the bus. I walk over to the tram stop and the board indicates that I missed the last tram by 2 minutes. Disappointed, but not surprised, I start to walk off in the direction of chez moi with some others. It isn’t a long walk, but at 1:00 am, I would prefer to ride the tram. Then I hear the tram approaching. I holler an obscenity (in English) and haul ass back to the tram stop. Fortunately, I make it, and get to ride instead of walk. As dead-ass tired as I am when I get home, the disgusting film (which I know contains sweat and sunscreen, but I shudder to think what else) coating me is too much, and I take a shower. Then I sleep the sleep of the dead.
Then on to Chartreuse the next day.
The Chartreuse trip was only a half day, but to those of us still exhausted from Avignon, it was a long half day. The weather was kind of crappy for an outdoor excursion, but what can you do? We went up into the mountains, saw a church (very striking), saw a museum about the Chartreux monks (very interesting) and hiked up the mountain (very exhausting). I took many photos. Then came the part that most people were waiting for: the visit to the Chartreuse distillery, along with free degustation. The folks at the distillery showed a couple of short movies (one in 3-D!), which were freakin’ hilarious, a brief tour, and then the tasting. I knew that Chartreuse has a distinctive taste, and that a lot of the people in the group, who are used to drinks that don’t taste like drinks, weren’t going to like it. But I had no idea that they had all these fruity liqueurs, so those people were covered too. I’m a purist at heart, so I tried the Chartreuse Verte. If herbal tea packed a wallop, that’s what Chartreuse Verte tastes like. Of course, the tasting room is adjacent to the gift shop. I picked up some of the supercharged vert “Elixir” for my brother, and the tisane (herbal tea bags) made by the monks for myself. Since I will have to tote anything and everything I buy home with me, I assume I will wait until I am back in America before I buy my own Chartreuse (sure it will be more expensive, but since I have had the French experience, and I can remember how heavy my luggage was before I came to France, I figure the extra cost is worth it). And then, this winter, I will try a Green Chaud – Chartreuse and hot chocolate. Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, right?
But back to the “real world” (the French real world, at any rate) of classes and such.
As for today’s title – I stuck my arm out the window, as I do every day to check the weather (Who needs météo when you have arms?). Freaking cold. We’ve been complaining about the weather here lately, but no lie, I bet it didn’t even make it to 60 today (and I ain’t talkin’ Celsius). Oh, and there’s snow covering the Belladonne range of the Alps today, as I noticed with shock and horror from the bathroom window this morning. But hey, I have a view of the Alps from my bathroom window, so life can’t be all bad, can it?
But seriously, we were told that it gets really hot here, so I packed one hoodie and one pair of pants, which I have been wearing every damn day (except for Saturday) for the past week and a half, or so it seems. I hear by Bastille Day, however, things will be warm. Actually, I hear next week will be stifling, but I trust French meteorologists as much as I trust their American counterparts: that is to say, not at all.
Yesterday’s post today, and today’s while I’m at it Wednesday, Jul 4 2007
Uncategorized 7:41 pm
Tram B, where are you?
I am a lazy, lazy woman. I could have finished my analysis of a poem last night, but I decided not to. So I finished it this morning. Then I had to recopy it in better handwriting, and make sure that my grammatical errors were gone. I got to the second to the last page, and realized that I had to hotfoot it to class. On the tram, it takes about 20 minutes. I left at 10:05.
These days, in my internal franglais monologues (which have gotten more and more frequent), I have started using a new word, “frack.” It seems to be a relative of both “freakin’” and “fuck.” I suppose because I use both with some regularity at home, they are jarring when half my thoughts (or rather half my commentary) are in French. Why frack works in these situations, I don’t know. During my trip to Arles, when I was constantly getting lost, passing by the same monument 8,000 times (for which I apologize profoundly to Puppy Mama, whom I mocked for the same thing), frack became my constant companion.
I mention this, because frack was a big part of my thoughts today. For example, as I am hauling ass to the tram stop, generally unkempt, I see my one true love, M. La Poste, looking drop-dead gorgeous, as always.
Frack, I look like crap. I think to myself. Still, M. La Poste had a sexy smile and a “Bonjour” for me. Which is good, because I needed that for a good portion of the day.
I just miss the Tram B. Frack. However, I think to myself they run every 5 minutes this time of day. No big deal.
The announcement comes over the loudspeaker, “Due to technical difficulties, Tram A and Tram B are running behind schedule. Thank you for your patience, and we apologize for any inconvenience.
Frack.
I see 2 Tram As pass by.
Frack.
I see 2 Tram Bs going the other direction pass by.
Frack.
It is now 10:30. Class starts at 10:30.
Frack.
Finally, Tram B, the one I need stops. I get on, and 20 minutes later, I run into class.
“Desolée. Il y a un problème avec les Tram Bs aujourd’hui.”
Apparently, I was not the only one who was late à cause de Tram B.
I make it through the lecture/discussion on Chateaubriand, and it is time to turn in our papers. I tack on the motley, unrevised final page to my clean, neat 4 previous pages. It is on to the Hall, to find out our results.
While waiting, I think about how much a want a panini from one of the sandwich places nearby. Do I have enough time? I don’t know. I hesitate too long, and then I don’t have time. Frack.
Then they post the results. I didn’t expect to be in the highest level or anything. But I am in the lowest level of those in our group. Sure, I am not alone. But it is a blow to my confidence. Because I know it is all on my speaking. Because I rock at writing (well, not rock, but I am better at writing in French), and with the exception of my arch-nemesis, the subjunctive, I am well-versed in grammar as well. While it isn’t like I suck (since everyone is in the intermediate level, and no one is in the advanced level), I have been struck with an existential crisis. How am I supposed to be accepted into a decent graduate program, if I’m only at the intermediate level for speaking? How am I supposed to get a TA position? How could I possibly be qualified? And then I start to think, “Has my French really improved since I’ve gotten here?” and, “How much improvement can I expect to make in 6 weeks?” And so on. You know, frack.
Don’t get me wrong, the class isn’t “Bonjour, Monsieur.” And we really aren’t going to work on grammar that much, because at our level, we really just need speaking and listening practice, according to the professor. But still. Frack.
The suspect is a white female in her thirties, and boy does she look peeved! Friday, Mar 16 2007
Uncategorized 5:12 am
(See? Even Mata Hari took a bad picture now and then)
I had my passport photos taken today. The last time I had it done, I was in college and the school had provided a photographer for the students who were going on a semester abroad program. My pictures were some of the best ever taken of me. Times have changed.
I went to the corner store (a chain that sells everything from prescription medication to cigarettes). First, the photo clerk took my picture. Then I was called back to have my picture retaken by the assistant manager. The whole thing seemed to be a training exercise. I get my pictures, pay for them and take them home. Then I looked at them. First of all, I am well aware that I am not the most photogenic of folks. I’m attractive enough for daily life, but once you capture my image, my how I change. So I’m not expecting something by Annie Liebowitz or anything. But, to my mind, the picture looks a little like a mug shot. I look mean and hard. And my eyes look tiny, although my head looks like one of those giant balloons from the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. And it is out of focus (imagine how frightening it would look if it were in focus). And I think to myself. I can’t believe I paid eight dollars for this. I am a skilled photographer, and I could have done a much better job, but the US government seems to be so fussy about these things. So I will take my blurry mug shot to the Post Office tomorrow, and after 6 to 8 weeks, I will be able to terrorize customs officials all over the globe with this picture. The French, with their artistic sensibilities, ought to love it.
Waiting Room Tuesday, Mar 13 2007
Uncategorized 6:56 am
Today, I’ve had the sensation I’ve been waiting. And I have. Waiting for spring break, waiting for the summer (and traveling to France), waiting for graduate school, waiting for my heart to heal….I’m sick of waiting, and I need to feel like I’m doing something. I just wish I knew what to do.
Under the weather Monday, Mar 5 2007
Uncategorized 1:46 am
Yesterday, I felt miserable. Damn cold. Today, I feel even worse. I estimate that I’ve gotten about 5 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours. I’d sleep more, but I feel too uncomfortable. Stupid germs.
