Barcelona!

Barcelona, Spain, is my new favorite European city. Not that I don't love Paris. But at a time when it's rainy and gray and everyone wears black in this city, who wouldn't trade a weekend for some sun, a beach, and a pitcher of Sangria?
Our two-and-a-half days spent in Barcelona were some of the best I've yet experienced in Europe. Our arrival at Gothic Point hostel was the first representation we got of this colorful city--walls all a-paint with bright greens and reds and yellows, funky art hanging from the ceilings, people from all over the world looking for a good time.


We were situated right in the heart of the city, in the Gothic quarter, so it was fitting that our first adventure was to the Cathedral of Barcelona, a beautiful Gothic-style church with a huge open courtyard in the middle that looked like a rainforest. We took an elevator to the roof of the Cathedral, which is under construction, where we got a beautiful view of the city and our first glimpse of Sagrada Familia, the impressively unique cathedral designed by the genius-architect Gaudi, which has been under construction since 1882 (and counting...).


The city itself is very walkable. Our walk to the Sagrada Familia brought us further to the outskirts of the downtown area in less than 25 minutes. This cathedral is so impressive it's intimidating--architecture like you've never seen, and all way before its time (refer to pictures). Gaudi had quite the imagination.

The people of Barcelona are awesome. For one thing, they speak Catalan. The sister of Spanish, Catalan is a beautiful language, and I never tire of hearing it. Except when I'm trying to order tapas with a non-English speaker, and my limited Spanish vocabulary consists of "si" and "queso." This proved to be a problem when, at a tapas restaurant on the wharf on Saturday night, I ended up ordering potatoes and..potatoes. mmm...

Bombas, actually, are superb potatoes. A fried ball of potato and meat mush layered with some special spicy sauce on top. Now that was delicious. What's also delicious is finding 1 euro dinners at the local Travel Bar. Especially when it's so spicy that I find it essential to buy a pitcher of Sangria to quench the thirst.

The shopping in Barcelona is fantastic. For one thing, you can find things that don't cost a million euros, like everything in Paris. On several streets downtown, there are hundreds of these tiny little colorful shops that sell all sorts of unique clothing and jewelry and the like. Hence, I found it absolutely necessary to buy a messenger bag that says "Vespa" on it. If I can't have the Vespa, at least I can have the bag. Right?

I have a list of some things that will forever be, for me, Barcelonian. It starts with Flamenco dancers and ends with classical guitar players in the street, palm trees everywhere, good-looking Spaniards, plazas, hanging laundry dripping off of tiny balconies on the skinny streets, 16-person jungle-like room hostels, leather boots, Cornesas local popular sausage-sandwich station, "this is L.A., 2,000 years ago"--(Kate, my friend from L.A.), chocolate & churros, pitch-black bus-rides to and from airports, free walking tours, the toaster lighting on fire at breakfast, the best showers of my life found in hostels, meeting a surfer at night on the Mediterranean who used to live in Rancho Santa Margarita, sand, sun and the guy playing saxophone in the paradise-like Park Guell created by Gaudi.

I am in love. With a city and a culture and a people. Barcelona is beautiful, and I'm going back.

Oops

I just accidentally clicked on the link to my bank account online instead of my blog, resulting in a quick panic of finding the "back" button a.s.a.p. before I had to face the depression that is my fading pocketbook...

Europe is expensive. Correction: Paris is expensive. Too expensive.

But I'm going to Barcelona this weekend. Although I am spending hundreds of euros to get there and to stay there, at least it's cheap there, right? It's amazing how logic can change when the bank account is involved...there's always this underlying urge to rationalize..."Oh, I can buy this one top, this one time. I don't have to pay off my flight to Italy until the end of the month. It doesn't matter that there's absolutely no income feeding into my account, and thus it won't matter when I pay off that flight. I'm going to be broke sooner of later."

This past weekend, I caught a bad cold on Wednesday night. Rachael came to visit on Wednesday night. And the Metro went on strike on Wednesday night. It was glorious. Thursday, we spent 9 hours walking around the beautiful city of Paris, which is great to see on foot, but probably better if you head's clear. A few more trips to the touristy stuff were necessary, like another visit to see the million-dollar plain canvases on display at the Pompidou museum of modern art and a stroll by the McDonald's on the Champs Elysees. Always necessities.

Friday night, it was my Swedish friend's birthday, so I stopped over for some drinks and some good old European sing-alongs to really bad American music on YouTube. Europeans are so unique. They love old American music, like "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Especially bad American music, like The Backstreet Boys. But honestly, who doesn't love to karaoke to "I Want it That Way" every once in a great while?

At least there was an Austrian there whom I could speak English with while the three Swedes spoke to each other about God knows what--something obviously hilarious and thus making me self-concious...

The thing that really gets me, though, is that even the worst of American media--like the unfortunately broadcasted television show "The OC"--makes its way over to Sweden, hooking innocent little Swedes in their love of American culture, and then they think that this is actually what Orange County is like and--"what?! you're from the OC?!"

yeah, I am. But it's Orange County.

I hate being in a sick slump. I think I saw too much of Paris this weekend. I miss barbecues and Mexican food and Santa Clara sunsets and actual warmth from the sun and real grass and open spaces.

C'est la vie, n'est-ce pas?

If the Shoe Fits...

I found a shoe in Paris that might actually fit me.

Too bad there's only one.

Thank You

I think I quite possibly have the best parents in the world.

Today I woke up exhausted, with a headache and a sore throat, the day before my friend comes to visit Paris and two days before the Metro strike. I got off at the wrong stop on the bus route, I have an essay and an article to write tonight, and I've been wearing down the same pair of shoes for the past two months because Parisians simply don't have feet as obnoxiously huge as mine. Oh, and if that's not enough, I'm an American trying to live in Paris.

Anyway, all of this bad luck was put to shame with the arrival of an enormous package from my parents. Forestalling the excitement of opening it, I rushed home after spending an hour speaking English with French high school students for my last class, feeling very proud of my gloriously obtrusive brown-paper package which drew a number of curious eyes on the Metro.

Tearing it open in the privacy of my own room, I started humming and dancing as I pulled out a card from my parents, stationary, pictures, a Paris guidebook, a book on Parisian cafes, four pairs of tights, and three precious pairs of heavenly comfortable, deliriously stylish, inexplicably fitting women's size 11 shoes. I love my life.

It was the pictures that really got to me, however. In my frenzy of packing, I hadn't thought to include photos of my family and home which I could put up in my new room, thousands of miles away from everything familiar. Sure, you can see photos on Facebook and such, but it's just not the same. To hold something in your hand, even if it's just an image of some other tangible thing, is truly a gift. I admit I'm embarrassed to write this, but I think to get the full effect I must admit that I was so happy to see these photos (former ostentatious posers of our family fridge), that I quite literally burst into tears.

My first tears since month 1. But tears of surprise, relief, and complete and utter thankfulness. Thanks Mom & Dad :)

The Ultimate Parisian Weekened

This weekend I actually stayed home in Paris. Because of this rather unusual opportunity, I decided to put my legs to work and cover as much of Paris and the surrounding area as my health would allow me.

Thursday after class, a light walk to the Marais turned into a serous outing, as I traversed most of the quarter on my own, relaxed for a bit at the oldest square in Paris where royalty used to roam (the Place de Vosges), hopped back on the Metro to go to the Louvre where I wandered around my favorite exhibit of Greek sculptures (free with my student card that says I'm an art history major, even though I'm an English major), and then lounged for a bit in the garden Tullieries, just me and Albert Camus's The Outsider (L'Etranger).

(*Photo: my favorite room at La Louvre)

I think I've found Le Marais to be one of the--if not THE--most interesting and fun quarters of Paris (and not just because of the rather large population of gays). Here, one can linger in some of the oldest (Medieval) streets of Paris, visit the Picasso Museum or Victor Hugo's house or the Pompidou Museum of modern art, get some yummy treats in the Jewish quarter, and find the coolest little shops and cafes. I can't wait to go back.

(*Photo: The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles)

Friday proved to be rather adventurous, as I tagged along with one of the Center's classes on their field trip to Versailles, the palace of past French kings and Austrian princesses, where a few of us rented bikes for an hour to explore the beautiful gardens and back forests during the one gorgeous sunny hour of the day (the chateau itself is a bit too gaudy for me...). The trip was well worth the free entrance (student card again), though there's no way you'd get me to tour every one of the 2,000 rooms in the place.

(*Photo: one fountain at the gardens of Versailles)

Friday night I spent two hours walking through a steady mist looking for probably the best bar in all of Paris, classily sporting its name of La Perle (it's worth the time it takes to find it). At La Perle, the locals go to see and be seen--"it's where the beautiful people go," I have heard. And I'd have to say, it's true. Moreso than that, however, it's the lively atmosphere, with hundreds of people spilling outside into the streets, that truly makes this bar a pearl.

Saturday afternoon revealed a 45 minute train trip with a friend to Giverny, the home and gardens of the impressionist artist Claude Monet. An extreme difference from the loud and dirty streets of Paris, the fresh air and beautiful gardens of this minute town made quite the rejuvenating day trip. A mushroom-ham-cream crepe and brief nap later, I got my second wind and prepared myself for the ridiculousness that was England vs. France in the semifinals for rugby.

Thinking that it would be a good idea to try to catch the game at the Eiffel Tower where a huge screen had been set up was probably the most Parisian thing I've done, because everyone else in Paris had the same idea. A crowd of 80,000 strong made it absolutely impossible to find my friends, so I lost myself in the crowd, who was constantly screaming "Allez les Blues!" (Go Blues!), and tried to understand the obsession that is half soccer and half football. France lost, but spirits were still high as about half of Paris (including me) headed to the Latin quarter for a night of comraderie amongst the blue, white, and red.

Today I Metroed over to the Hotel de Ville, where about a hundred people were basking in the unusual sun (still sporting white arms beneath long black sleeves) on a square of astroturf. It was kind of like lounging outside at Santa Clara on a sunny day, only the grass was plastic, the buildings were hundreds of years older, and the people were fully-clothed. :)

Overall all, it was a very satisfactorily French weekend. Though my knee is shot from all the walking and it's 8 p.m. on Sunday and I have yet to start any homework, I can't complain. I'm off to enjoy yet another delicious many-course meal with my French family (my tummy is happy just thinking about it). :D

Shoulders, Raining Bodies, and White Canvases

The other day I asked a girl for a shoulder instead of a spoon. Not on purpose, of course. I really needed a spoon to eat my couscous, and in my desperation, I somehow mistook "cuiller" for "epoule." That's when you find out that sign language is really the best universal language.

And then last night, after walking home in the pouring rain, I tried to reiterate a French phrase I had just learned to my host mom, that means "it's raining cats and dogs." So, I said, "Il pleut des cordes." Which is correct. Only, with my fabulous pronunciation, my host thought that I had said, "Il pleut des corps," which would translate to, "it's raining bodies," or worse yet, "it's raining corpses."
It was raining hard, but not that hard...

Today I spontaneously decided to join my friend at the Pompidou Museum of modern art after class. I really need to do a lot more of these spontaneous trips around Paris, because they always end up well. This city is full of surprises. Even though I had been to the Pompidou a year and a half before, I somehow managed to forget the beautiful view that one can see from the top, and what an interesting experience it is to see all these weird white canvases and metal blankets and such strewn across the museum.

My favorite part about this specific trip was that at one display, where there were several stories written in French, I could actually read them and figure out what was going on. Sure, a few words here and there might as well be Greek, but just to get the gist of something previously so foreign feels like an accomplishment. Finally, after six-and-a-half weeks in Paris, I can honestly say that my French has improved. About time.

Tonight ended on a good note. After a delicious dinner with the host fam of some sort of sausage (their explanation of its ingredients were unfortunately lost on me), and a lively discussion about my upcoming trip to Barcelona, I decided to take a shower. So, (naturally) I asked Madeleine and Ambroise if they needed anything from the bathroom before I did so. Anne (my host mom) happened to be in the room while I was asking, and (I'm pretty sure I understood this) she responded by telling me how "aimable" (kind) I am and how nice it is to have me staying at their house. :D All smiles, I couldn't be more pleased.

Feasting on Dijon

This past weekend, during our study abroad program's weekend trip to the quaint and tiny town of Dijon, France, I ate.

On the six hour bus drive there (Parisian traffic can hold its own next to L.A.), I ate two slices of whole grain bread and drank half a plastic cup full of burnt vanilla liquid sugar-I mean coffee-from one of those 1-euro vending machines at a truck stop. This was dieting compared to what was to come.

When we finally made it to Dijon for dinner at 10:30 p.m., I ate a fresh green salad with 6 thick slices of mozzarella cheese and 5 slices of blood-red tomatoes and too much bread (with the best Dijon mustard), piles of au gratin potatoes, the biggest and reddest (French style) hunk of beef I've ever seen, some veggies, and a bowl of creme brulee 6 inches in diameter. At some point between the end of that day and the beginning of the next (around midnight), I stumbled into our tiny hotel, the pressure of too much food in my stomach disallowing the normal progression of thoughts...and I passed out.

Next day. Breakfast: coffee, orange juice, pain au chocolate, baguette, confiture (jam), applesauce. Lunch: more bread, more salad, saucy duck, glorious potato cake thing, and the most mouthwatering rasberry and gingerbread sorbet with chantilly (whipped cream) and fluffy gingerbread cubes on top. Dinner: red wine, creamy escargot pot pie type delicious thing appetizer, heaps of au gratin potatoes, red wine, rabbit, bread, red wine, most delicious nutella chocolate eclair, red wine, red wine. (Somewhere in there we visited a museum, had a tour of the Beauty & the Beast-type city, which one can traverse in under 20 minutes, and shopped at the local H&M which makes up the entire dowtown, outside of which the entire population of the tiny town stands around staring at each other at 5 p.m.)

Breakfast next morning was welcomed with open mouths (more croissants and the like); whether that was due to the ridiculous Frenchified excitement in the streets the night before (the French unexpectedly beat New Zealand at rugby and one would've thought Jesus came back), or the consistent stretching of the stomach over the weekend, I'll probably never know. After a frightfully dull tour of a medieval hospice in the even tinier (if possible) town of Beaune, Lunch consisted of 10 too-garlicy escargots complete with shell and snail-torture extractors, bread, rice, black-current basted pork, 3 of the best cheeses of my life, and a trenche of pear tart.

Our supervisors displayed their best intelligence yet when deciding to take us wine-tasting right before the 5 hour bus ride back to Paris, during which 99 percent of us students dozed in the peace and quiet that only drinking 8 different types of wine can bring. (My preference? Beaune-Grèves for red wine, __ for the white).



The food fiending (new word) didn't end there. A return trip to the truck stop proved successful with bouts of Pringles, Snickers, cookies, suckers and yogurt. mmm...(I reel at the thought of it now).

Only now do I understand the absurdity that was me not being hungry at home on Sunday night for dinner...

*Check out more photos of Dijon at: http://picasaweb.google.com/maggiemagee1/DijonFrance?authkey=BnUP-5qYJBo

Museums, the Seine, & Pea Soup

I think I figured out why the French like museums so much. At museums, the French can stare just as much as they want. On the Metro, in the street, anywhere else, staring is rude. But the paintings and sculptures can take it. They can take the thousands of undressing eyes staring at them from all angles, during all opening hours. And if they can't take it, they're put behind glass for protection, like a one-sided pair of sunglasses. So, the French go to museums. So they can calm their craving for a good stare.

If you ever get the chance to travel to Paris, take my advice, and after a day of doing the tourist thing, grab a bottle of red wine from the local Monoprix and a friend from a local hotel room where you're staying (whoever you brought with you) and head to cobblestones of the Seine. Sure, the Nile is cool and the Amazon is famously long, but the Seine has character. Looking at the wavy reflection of the city of lights in the oil-black water, you'll understand why the impressionists made Paris their headquarters. Just don't forget a package of St. Michel coconut crackers to cut that lingering hunger that persists throughout the night. And try to go for a cobblestone or cement block seat over a wet dock. Though swinging your legs over the edge is cool, it's not worth the bugbites you might find later.

If there's one thing I love about Paris (really), it's the diversity you can find among people here. I know, it's ironic coming from an American, but maybe I just notice it more because I'm one of the diverse crowd, here. The thing about Europe, there are so many countries so close together, that it's impossible not to encounter several of them in a big city like Paris. On any given night at a cafe or a bar (especially on student nights), you can meet Germans, Americans, Italians, even the occasional French person. And you learn something new every time you encounter one of them. Let me give you an example. By the end of Tuesday night, I had learned that Americans do tend to live up to their stigma of being louder than Europeans, Italians really do talk with their hands, and Swedes eat pancakes for dinner on Thursdays (after an appetizer of pea soup and mustard). How cool is that?

Amsterdam: night buses, hippies, & waffles

So I made it back in one piece from Amsterdam. The trip there was interesting: I woke up at 3 am to take the 4:10 am night bus from Gare Montparnasse to Charles de Gaulle airport for the first flight out of Paris to Amsterdam at 6:50 am. The bus-conversation with the South American grad student studying in Madrid with a one-night layover in Paris was congenial.
When we finally get to the Amsterdam, we have to take a train to the metro, the metro to the end, and then wait for the shuttle (aka 70s van) from Lucky Lake Hostel to pick us up and take us 15 minutes to the hippie trailer park that is supposed to be a hostel. The hostel, which is the cheapest-and the farthest from downtown, apparently-on hostelworld.com, has individual caravans (which sounds cool on the website), paper maché aligators and hippos hanging around the hammocks on the grass, and lots of open space with no lake in sight where one can do anything but experience dowtown Amsterdam.


After nearly 11 hours of travel, we finally get the beanie-wearing, scraggly-beard sporting, blue-eyed hippie to take us back to the metro station in the diesel van which was once filled with regular and thus had to be emptied by aforementioned hippie, using only his mouth and a bucket.
Once we finally do get into the city, however, the wait has been worth it. The city itself reminds me a bit of San Francisco, with its lanky and lean, squished-together brick buildings. Fall leaves drip from the wet trees among the thousands of rusting green, yellow, and blue bikes propped on corners, thrown among shrubs, and otherwise lining the streets. The intricate system of canals is disorienting, but it makes a boat tour well worth our euros, as does the Van Gogh Museum and the Heinken Experience, a specialty museum with complimentary beer samples.

Amsterdam is quaint. The people are friendly and helpful, and they actually hold conversations on the Metro. It is lively at all times of the day, and there is always a museum to be found to peruse. I was not the only blonde within 500 feet. The local Febo distributes the fastest fast-food I have yet seen: cheesburgers and fried eggroll-like meat-concotions in little windows you pay to open like a newspaper stand (and their fries are incredible). You do not really need a ticket to ride the Metro, as the admins are pretty lax, which helps when you have left yours in the back pocket of your other jeans, a 2-euro, 15-min shuttle ride away at the lake of the lucky.

Overall, the weekend was a success, despite the minor location setbacks, and I would definitely go back for another visit to the city where liverwurst sandwiches are a traditional treat (and only 2.20 euro) and Canadian expatriats-turned hippies toast packaged-waffles for you in a tent for breakfast. :)


*Check out my Amsterdam photos at: http://picasaweb.google.com/maggiemagee1/Amsterdam?authkey=OfuvF6ki_Ws&pli=1