Is it possible to die of a chlorophyll overdose? Because I just ate a lot of green beans. I mean, a LOT. More green beans than any one person should physically be able to eat in one sitting. So if my skin mysteriously turns green tomorrow, like that guy who turned blue because of his medication, that will be why. But can you blame me? They were so delicious and fresh and... delicious!
Anyways, speaking of green things, spring is here! It was sixty degrees outside yesterday! I forced myself out of the apartment to go in search of a couple of plays I need for my essay, which of course were nowhere to be found. At least it got me out of the apartment, because I spent the rest of the day toiling away inside so I could justify going out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We went to this Irish place (there are probably a thousand pubs in Paris) in Saint Germain, and I didn't realize till I got inside that I had, in fact, been there before and that I had, unfortunately, puked there before. (I confirmed this when I went to the bathroom and ended up in the same famous stall I barely made it into before hurling on the blue-tiled floor.) It was just as crowded and hot, but not as smoky, as I remembered it. You will not be at all surprised to know that I had a Guinness, but you probably will be surprised to know that I a)finished it to the last drop and b)was the first one done! Seriously, it was an historic night. And on top of that, when we left to find another bar that actually had some vacant seats, I had yummy sangria, and I didn't get sick! I know, I'm still in disbelief.
So at this bar, I had a very classic Allison Superiority Complex Moment. There were five of us, and we were sitting in the corner next to a LOUD group of Americans - undergrads, of course, which we all spotted the minute we sat down. I guessed from the uniform hairstyles, fake tans, Blackberries and Lacoste shirts that they were from New Jersey, or at least some place on the East Coast, which they were (NJ and Philly). One of the guys asked me where we were all from, and that started a short conversation, but when it got to where we went to school, and one of the girls replied that she had a lot of friends in "our program," I had to specify that we were grad students, thus implying that we actually live here and aren't just "abroad" and really do speak the language and aren't just interested in going to bars and picking up scrawny, sketchy Frenchmen in glasses with horrible taste in music. I know, I know, don't be judgmental, Allison. You were there too once. Ok, but I was never loud and obnoxious in tiny bars where you get elbowed in the ass as you try to get back to your seat and can tell what religion some guy is just by brushing up against him as you find your way through the throng of drunkards sipping sangria. I never once uttered (read: yelled) the phrase "OH MY GOD I'M SO DRUNK!" or "Oh, everyone has Blackberries these days, even in France." For the record: I have seen maybe three non-American people with Blackberries or Blackberry-like objects in Paris.
Also, what is it with 35-year-old men hitting on 20-year-old co-eds? Gross. My friend and I were waiting by the jukebox while her boyfriend was in the bathroom, and this guy (please refer back to description of picking up guys in bars) came up to us, thinking he was being real smooth, and feigned ignorance as to how the jukebox worked. Please. A chimp with no eyes could figure that one out. My friend said something to him, to which he replied in English, so I thought I would be a bitch and keep talking in French, because - well, just read that whole last paragraph again. I really do hate being confused with junior year abroad kids who are just there to drink wine and get laid. Anyways, he thought I was French, which was pretty cool. And then he ignored me and kept hitting on my friend. When her boyfriend got back, he pretty much ditched us and went for the AUP kids (American University of Paris), and the only other thing he said to me was "You make line?" when I was waiting for the bathroom. Yes, motherfucker, on fait la queue. You can practice your English with kids that don't speak French. Jackass.
Tonight is our hopefully triumphant return to Pub Quiz. I haven't been for about a month, with my dad visiting and midterms and whatnot. I'm looking forward to forgetting about school for a while and hanging out with cool people, and maybe, just maybe, finishing another pint of Guinness. Or two. But let's not get too crazy there. I may just have to keep to my usual cider and call it a night.
Showing posts with label undergrads. Show all posts
Showing posts with label undergrads. Show all posts
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Catch Up
I wish I'd written earlier, because there were so many things I wanted to write about, but school's been consuming my life of late, and I just haven't had the time to clog the internet with my ridiculous ramblings. Until now. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?
Last Friday, I had to get up at an ungodly hour to get to the Gare Montparnasse for an early train to La Rochelle with the NYU kids. And yes, I say kids. I say kids because they are undergrads. My four years of college and dedication to the Master's program has earned me that right. Also, because most of them complained the whole time about how the cities we saw weren't "cool enough". Cool enough, my ass, undergrads! At Saintes, we saw a Roman arena, a 12th century abbey, a 1st century Roman arch, and took a cruise down the Charentes; at Rochefort, we had an amazing dinner (including wine on NYU's dime) and saw a replica-in-the-making of an 18th century ship; in La Rochelle, we got sunlight over a beautiful marina on the Atlantic ocean, we got a tour of an old eco-friendly city in a horse-drawn carriage, we got to listen to jazz by the old port, we got to explore! And most importantly, we got out of Paris! Now, I love Paris - don't get me wrong, but occasionally, it's really nice to get out of the metropolitan cage and into the open country, because, you know, there is more to France than just Paris. People here tend to forget that. I know I do. But apparently all that wasn't enough for the undergrads. At the hotel in Rochefort, from across the courtyard, we saw a group of them get dressed up in sheets and have a toga party. Oh yes, a toga party à la Animal House, complete with "toga! toga! toga!" chanting. Ah, kids.
On the train back, a friend and I applied our French facepaint in anticipation of the semifinal rugby match between France and England. As soon as the train stopped, we RAN to the metro to get to a friend's place as fast as we could. We'd already missed the first half of the game, and apparently England was winning. We finally got there, munched on some pizza, and watched in extreme stress and trepidation that France would be defeated.... and they were. It was one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Rugby players - the manliest men you could possibly find in France - six foot monoliths that reach the weight capacity of a Paris elevator all on their own - CHABAL, for fuck's sake, the missing link, the Caveman, Attila, the Anaesthetist - all walking off the field in such disappointment. Dropping to their knees and sobbing. And Chabal was the worst. I wanted to hug him, if it weren't for my fear that he'd snap me in two or eat my head. (Because he eats babies, don't you know.) So tomorrow, they face Argentina, the team that beat them in the beginning (quel honte!), for third place. My opinion is that France is either not going to care because there's no way they'll win the cup, and they'll just end up giving it to Argentina, or that they'll be so bitter and angry about last week and losing to Argentina in the first place that they'll pummel the other team, and that someone will either be paralyzed or die. Or both. I don't know. All I'm saying is that I wouldn't be surprised if Chabal ran into someone and ripped off the top half of his body. Or bit off his nose. I mean, I'm just sayin'....
Nothing else of import happened this week, except that I got sick, I'm way behind in reading, and, oh yeah, all public transportation went on strike today. France, seriously. What the fuck is up with these damn grèves? It's like a national past time. Listen, if you're going to strike, strike. I appreciate the warning and all, but really, if you're going to go on strike, go on strike full stop. Don't say you're going to go on strike and then leave half of the trains running in the morning, and then trickle them down to none except line 14 - which is completely and totally useless to 90% of the Paris population, by the way - hence screwing over the rest of the city and suburbs. I waited 40 minutes for my metro today, after walking for 20, mostly uphill. Then I found out at the end of the day that that line wasn't working anymore, so I took a vélib home. [Basically you can rent a bike for super cheap if you're only using it for less than an hour.] Actually, that was a pretty great experience. So thank you, SNCF, for starting this stupid grève. You forced me to experience the pleasure of the vélib and riding around Paris at rush hour. No, really, I mean it. I'm not being sarcastic. It was pretty amazing, that ride home. It took a while - about 45 minutes, plus walking time, but it was a nice ride. Mostly downhill or flat, which was a plus. Except all of the bikes were taken because of the strike, so I had to wait with my friend for a while. I made her ride with me because, let's face it, riding a bike in Paris without a helmet is kind of a death wish. Or so you'd think. People were actually very considerate, except the taxis, which don't count anyways because they're always assholes. I only almost got hit once, and narrowly avoided a ten-bike catastrophe in front of the Place de la Concorde.
Sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is, walking around with my blinders on, so focused on getting wherever it is that I'm going. In the metro you don't get to see it. Even on the bus, there's something off about it. Yes, the bus is infinitely better than the metro, any day, but there's still something between you and the city. There's something keeping you from experiencing the city at its best. On a bike, on the quai, riding past the Louvre at sunset, you get it all. The rosy sky, the buildings reflecting the tangerine setting sun, the breeze blowing through the leaves, giving those ones that are hanging on just by one little thread of stem that extra push to fall ever so gracefully onto the street... Well, then they get run over by a scooter, it's true, but for that moment, while it's gently floating down to its inevitable demise, while you're coasting along by hundreds of years of history and culture, zoning out the honking of the taxis, taking in everything around you, you realize how lucky you are to be living here, to have the experience you're having. Not just in general - the whole year, the Parisian life, and all that - but that one moment when you stop worrying about being hit by an asshole in a Peugot and start appreciating where you are.
Last Friday, I had to get up at an ungodly hour to get to the Gare Montparnasse for an early train to La Rochelle with the NYU kids. And yes, I say kids. I say kids because they are undergrads. My four years of college and dedication to the Master's program has earned me that right. Also, because most of them complained the whole time about how the cities we saw weren't "cool enough". Cool enough, my ass, undergrads! At Saintes, we saw a Roman arena, a 12th century abbey, a 1st century Roman arch, and took a cruise down the Charentes; at Rochefort, we had an amazing dinner (including wine on NYU's dime) and saw a replica-in-the-making of an 18th century ship; in La Rochelle, we got sunlight over a beautiful marina on the Atlantic ocean, we got a tour of an old eco-friendly city in a horse-drawn carriage, we got to listen to jazz by the old port, we got to explore! And most importantly, we got out of Paris! Now, I love Paris - don't get me wrong, but occasionally, it's really nice to get out of the metropolitan cage and into the open country, because, you know, there is more to France than just Paris. People here tend to forget that. I know I do. But apparently all that wasn't enough for the undergrads. At the hotel in Rochefort, from across the courtyard, we saw a group of them get dressed up in sheets and have a toga party. Oh yes, a toga party à la Animal House, complete with "toga! toga! toga!" chanting. Ah, kids.
On the train back, a friend and I applied our French facepaint in anticipation of the semifinal rugby match between France and England. As soon as the train stopped, we RAN to the metro to get to a friend's place as fast as we could. We'd already missed the first half of the game, and apparently England was winning. We finally got there, munched on some pizza, and watched in extreme stress and trepidation that France would be defeated.... and they were. It was one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Rugby players - the manliest men you could possibly find in France - six foot monoliths that reach the weight capacity of a Paris elevator all on their own - CHABAL, for fuck's sake, the missing link, the Caveman, Attila, the Anaesthetist - all walking off the field in such disappointment. Dropping to their knees and sobbing. And Chabal was the worst. I wanted to hug him, if it weren't for my fear that he'd snap me in two or eat my head. (Because he eats babies, don't you know.) So tomorrow, they face Argentina, the team that beat them in the beginning (quel honte!), for third place. My opinion is that France is either not going to care because there's no way they'll win the cup, and they'll just end up giving it to Argentina, or that they'll be so bitter and angry about last week and losing to Argentina in the first place that they'll pummel the other team, and that someone will either be paralyzed or die. Or both. I don't know. All I'm saying is that I wouldn't be surprised if Chabal ran into someone and ripped off the top half of his body. Or bit off his nose. I mean, I'm just sayin'....
Nothing else of import happened this week, except that I got sick, I'm way behind in reading, and, oh yeah, all public transportation went on strike today. France, seriously. What the fuck is up with these damn grèves? It's like a national past time. Listen, if you're going to strike, strike. I appreciate the warning and all, but really, if you're going to go on strike, go on strike full stop. Don't say you're going to go on strike and then leave half of the trains running in the morning, and then trickle them down to none except line 14 - which is completely and totally useless to 90% of the Paris population, by the way - hence screwing over the rest of the city and suburbs. I waited 40 minutes for my metro today, after walking for 20, mostly uphill. Then I found out at the end of the day that that line wasn't working anymore, so I took a vélib home. [Basically you can rent a bike for super cheap if you're only using it for less than an hour.] Actually, that was a pretty great experience. So thank you, SNCF, for starting this stupid grève. You forced me to experience the pleasure of the vélib and riding around Paris at rush hour. No, really, I mean it. I'm not being sarcastic. It was pretty amazing, that ride home. It took a while - about 45 minutes, plus walking time, but it was a nice ride. Mostly downhill or flat, which was a plus. Except all of the bikes were taken because of the strike, so I had to wait with my friend for a while. I made her ride with me because, let's face it, riding a bike in Paris without a helmet is kind of a death wish. Or so you'd think. People were actually very considerate, except the taxis, which don't count anyways because they're always assholes. I only almost got hit once, and narrowly avoided a ten-bike catastrophe in front of the Place de la Concorde.
Sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is, walking around with my blinders on, so focused on getting wherever it is that I'm going. In the metro you don't get to see it. Even on the bus, there's something off about it. Yes, the bus is infinitely better than the metro, any day, but there's still something between you and the city. There's something keeping you from experiencing the city at its best. On a bike, on the quai, riding past the Louvre at sunset, you get it all. The rosy sky, the buildings reflecting the tangerine setting sun, the breeze blowing through the leaves, giving those ones that are hanging on just by one little thread of stem that extra push to fall ever so gracefully onto the street... Well, then they get run over by a scooter, it's true, but for that moment, while it's gently floating down to its inevitable demise, while you're coasting along by hundreds of years of history and culture, zoning out the honking of the taxis, taking in everything around you, you realize how lucky you are to be living here, to have the experience you're having. Not just in general - the whole year, the Parisian life, and all that - but that one moment when you stop worrying about being hit by an asshole in a Peugot and start appreciating where you are.
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