Tequila Ice Cream

Today was a very windy, rainy, cold day.

The smile came from a small lull in the cold english christmas. No snow (thank goodness) and alright temperatures.

We (my Granny and I) ran around Petworth park, me making a fool out of myself..

And Granny looking very dignified. I've heard it (dignity) is something that comes with age, although a small voice whispers that once an American... always an American.

I'm doomed to have oodles of enthusiasm for everything.

Like Margarita ice cream!!!

Made with Granny's permission, aren't I the rebel?

Some food and drink yours truly will import to Minnesota, for the enjoyment of all....

My french host mother's apple crumble: Divine...

Red fruit cup crumble: A baby crumble which takes a heartbeat to prepare and cook, and less than a minute to finish.

Non-fizzy, non-alcoholic cider with lemon, orange and spices.

Garlic fried potatoes with cheese and spices

AND, chocolate fondant cake, a specialty of my host sister.

This list is only five months in... What wondrous foods will await next?

British Vs. Amurican: TELLY AND MOVIES

Sorry for the absence yesterday, I was extraordinarily busy admiring the dishiest doll ever to grace british period drama television. 


Allow me to explain.


EXPLANATION:

Photo Credit BBC


I hope I've explained myself eloquently enough. A picture is worth a thousand and one words, and this picture (front and center right!) speaks one of the greatest volumes ever written.


"Great Expectations" is the new "Sex in the Impoverished British Countryside." And boy does it live up to my rather high expectations.


See, I'm not really one for television. I tend to veer towards reading newspapers and books (particularly in languages I don't understand... yay headaches!) Or as I once pompously declared, "I prefer to live in the real world." I got an ear full for that one (Katie, your mockery of me was deserved).


But it's true, I have a really hard time plugging into the experience machine of the small screen. Lost didn't get me for longer than half of the first season, Gossip Girl makes me snooze, Top Gear is only good once a month, and any other show (even ones featuring snarky prostitutes, badass recess school children, calligraphy painting cats or really weird Philadelphian gangs with the best one-liners) doesn't cut it for... longer than a week.


Sad day. Sort of...


This show is only three installments, over three consecutive nights, and even has a literary aspect to it. Puuuurfect.


Now onto The Real Topic of Tonight's Blog Post: a continuation of the differences in British and American culture, as seen by yours "unobservant" truly.


"Americans churns out so much trash every year, so many junk movies, like movies about singing squirrels, and talking animals and that stupid Star Wars." -Grandfather.


HOW DARE HE? Yes, there is a point to be made with the singing chipmunks, and most of the talking animals are banal (Save the dancing monkey rave scene in Madagascar... mindblowing, that was). BUT, he later confessed that he had never seen Star Wars. The old Star Wars are the coolest things since Light Sabers, and anyone who has a beef with them can have a chat with Carrie Fischer in her metallic slave girl costume.


Yet, I've noticed the superior quality of films in general which come from England. They are a captivating bunch on whole, and tend to be seeped in much more culture, meaning and wit. When the yankees wanna blow your cinematic mind, they blow some expensive stuff up and pay for it by a little product placement here, a little endorsement there.


I also get really offended by the unsubtle and flat out biased manner in which American films can barge through. We rarely address most issues in a thoughtful way, continuing with the tried and true cowboy figure who dashes through to save the day, get the exceptionally dim-witted girl and save the world. Every single time.


I don't know enough about british film to make a reasonable comparison. What I have seen however is a much keener interest in serious topics, a much more engaged audience (British documentary films are watched by a significant proportion of the population) and two (or even three!) dimensional characters.


However, I don't know if this is the "fault" of the movie industry, or what the populations actually want. Mfph. ANy thoughts?

British Vs. American: NATIONALISM

Here begins a series on my observed and (sometimes) stolen ideas on the differences in the British and American nations.

Today's theme is nationalism.

For example in the U.S., the war in Afghanistan is getting almost no coverage. When you turn on the television back home, do you hear much about it? Do we get much in terms of support for the troupes, other than the odd medal winner or dead/statistic/car bombing? Or most prevalently, homelessness amongst vets. When I was younger, I thought there was a huge problem with veterinarians finding jobs, because of all the cold callers for homeless "vets". Not enough sick cats and dogs.

However, in Britain it appears to my fallible mind that the war in Afghanistan gets much more attention. There is much more publicity daily, about soldiers coming home, various brave deeds and progress being made. The number one hit this christmas is the military wives single. All the singers are wives of personnel currently serving in the middle east. The lyrics are excerpts of letters written home from their husbands. Needless to say, we're all weeping over it. It's very moving.

Perhaps wars aren't a very good example. After all, Americans are very noted for their incessant singing of the national anthem. And for those who haven't memorized the Star Spangled Banner, chanting U.S.A. is handy, and rolls off the tongue nicely. A common trait seems to be confidence that the U.S. is one of the greatest countries on earth, if not the greatest.

Britain does have their royal family, which inspired a media frenzy this spring. (My granny said in a flippant aside that it was because of Pippa Middleton's bottom). On the flip side, they are lacking a national holiday to celebrate independence from (their leaving tended to be the reason everyone celebrated).

However, returning to the war topic I will say that the support for soldiers the british press is remarkable. I'm a fairly staunch pacifist, and I also think it is important to stand by those who risk their lives serving their country. Americans, or the media, are a bit too concerned with frivolities, and could take a cue from Britain. The English are certainly being classier in this instance.

A Happy British Christmas

Twas a beautiful christmas, filled with aunts, grandparents, uncles, cousins and a skype call home. We're cuddled up watching "Downton Abbey," my angsty melodramatic british series I can't quite decide whether I like or not.

I've limited myself to two cups of tea. I've eaten roast potatoes and veggies to perfection, the weirdest ginger bread chocolate covered things ("I don't like the look of them things" -Auntie Gemma) and so many jellybeans I could die. Of happiness.

We played categories until I went cross-eyed, and I would've won both rounds but apparently a nun is NOT something you find in a garden. And my strategy of making up band names was thwarted, though I always claimed "it's an obscure american band." Who knows, there are so many hipster bands there's always a chance.

Highlight of the game was when for the letter G and "found in a teenager's bedroom" my aunt put "G-String." My cousin asked...

"Mummy, do most teenagers play guitar?"

The best ones do.

Last night's midnight mass was highlighted by the first attractive british gentleman I've seen so far (Mythbusters, you ought to dedicate an episode to that). And a lecteur who rolled EVERY SINGLE R in what will go down as the best Birrrth of Chrrrist rrreading everrrr. To top it all off, the organist was believed to be drunk, as he refused to hold a tempo the choir could follow.

Goodnight, I leave you with this amazing quote.

"90% of toys given this Christmas in England were made in China. Which makes the chinese in fact... elves."

God bless english stand up comedy.

Quite A Coincidence

My paternal grandmother went on her first date with her future first husband to the home of the man who would become her second husband.

My maternal grandmother was introduced to her first husband by the man she would later take to be her second husband.

Both sets of husbands were friends before they knew their respective wives.

Both my grandmothers married at age 18, and had their first children (my parents) at 19.

Unconfirmed: Both my grandfathers (biological) were 25 when they married my grandmothers.

Phillipa and Julianne both have eight letters.

Fun huh? The things you learn (or realize) when you get to know your grandparents.

Killing Cats

Grandparental enslavement continues, this time in another country.

So far my menial tasks include teaching my beloved grandpa how to use Skype, Facebook and upload photos using "that damned contraption." I'm also relegated to sorting old photos, which I am secretly excited for. It's hard, you know, to maintain the correct dilapidated attitude required of a slave. French grandparents should be overjoyed and shocked to know that thus far I've unpacked in an orderly fashioned, refrained from leaving my things everywhere, and cleaned all my dishes within ten minutes of using them.

Je suis une grande fille maintenant.

I've also been gifted some fuzzy "indoor shoesies" as the british call them. They look like dead cats, and if you aren't prepared for the sight of them in a darkened room, you may get extraordinarily frightened.

I haven't got a scooby doo.

British radio is hilarious. There is so much to learn.

For instance, apparently the people from Essex have a bit of the same reputation as Americans from New Jersey (must be an east coast thing). As in, a bit thick. We were treated to two celebrity stars having a debate over whether or not reindeer antlers were made out of wood.

British slang: Plank. Means an idiot.

Forgive me for not writing more, it's 1 am and we just finished watching Love Actually (hearing british accents surrounded by british people...gah!). Apparently Hugh Grant has a very "posh" accent.

I am cultivating a posh accent. So far, decent reviews, although I lapse into pure american when I'm not exclaiming in french over how I've burnt the potatoes.

Best line ever: "I haven't got a scooby doo."

I haven't a clue.

Extremely Close and Incredibly Tasty

Such a lovely day. From darkness (and bomb evacuations) to sunny days filled with friends from Minnesota (So so so lovely to see you), adventures on the underground, and the nicest auntie, uncle and cousins anyone could be blessed with.

In all honesty, it is a rare person who will buy me my favorite snack of mozzarella cheese, dark (dark dark) chocolate and a pink lady apple. And an economist magazine for some laughs (you thought it was a business magazine? Wrong. The humor is dry, but it is on every page in a euphemistic, cynical, arid way. Learning about the world was never this much fun).

To briefly explain the wondrousness of this snack.

Once upon a time, I was being spontaneous and listening to the calling of my soul (and wherever my deeply susceptible to advertising nature took me). Something deep in my stomach told me that I needed something savory, something bitter and something tart.

Don't ask. The best things on earth aren't things, they are facts. It is a fact that this is the best snack in the world. Incredibly tasty, je vous promets.

Was practicing my british accent. To blatantly and vicariously brag, it was pronounced nearly flawless. By real british people. I need some work, as I do well when reading texts, but not talking spontaneously. Still... it's a start.

ALSO: French is useful. Was wandering around Bloomsbury (if you don't know where this is in London, don't worry, I don't really either) with said Minnesooootan friend. We got stopped by a family who was lost and unfortunately didn't speak english. When they started speaking in french to each other, I introduced myself very excitedly as a fellow french speaker. I gave very complicated directions to the bank they were looking for, and was asked where in France I was from.

The sincerity of the question made my day.

Panic Attack!

Today was pure awful. I ate breakfast at 5:30 am, and didn't eat a single bite until 14 hours later. I am grumpy and evil when I haven't been fed. My train broke down twice, and was then searched when someone ran off without paying their ticket. What were they thinking, running away... on a train?

I was supposed to take tea with a music professor but ended but just giving him my christmas card and catching my bus five minutes later. In situations where I am late and under pressure (if I miss one flight, all my flights get canceled)... there are nicer, more intelligent people in the world.

Got denied by the machines in CDG, and so waited in a 45 minute line to check in. I was just first in line, and then a bunch of men with guns showed up and told us to evacuate. Someone had left their bag unattended, and so the resulting bomb threat meant we all had to lug our luggage to kingdom come. After an hour of waiting for them to sweep the area, I got to check in... only to be told I don't exist.

When I finally made my crying, nervous self understood, I got the problem sorted out. I was mildly hyperventilating, and thus pulled aside for questioning when I was going through security. So I had a panic attack, and was escourted to my gate, where they had stopped the plane for me. Being a melodramatic drama queen pays off.

Did I mention all the french baggage workers are on strike?

Current in residence with my british aunt and cousins, who fed me lasagna and are now reading me pick up lines that are so stupid. But so good.

Are you Jamaican?

Cause you're ja-makin-me crazy!

Are you from Tennessee?

Cause you're the only ten-I-see...

British Slang:


Lush- short for luscious.


Tarra (terr-ah)- Toodles


Chrimbo- Christmas.

Adieu!

Darling France, we've fooled around, but now I'm going London bound!

It's be so wonderful here. I've made some of the best friends of my life, found a new family in my host family, learned so much (a conservative estimate would put the ratio of real world learning to uni learning at 10:1) and still managed to read coherently my goodbye letter despite my host brother filming me.

See facebook for the dirty details. It'll be up any minute I'm sure, filled with obnoxious comments about my accent and coherency.

But hey, there was unanimous agreement that I'd made enormous progress ("Before, we were thought, she talks nonsense, but now we KNOW you talk nonsense.")

Midwestern liberal pacifist meets conservative catholic french family, and falls in love. Not in the rom com fashion, more a "Eat Pray Love" meets "Princess Diaries" in a much less sinister manner.

Encounter of the Year: Serge Koutchinsky, a professional (now retired) photographer, filmmaker and well travelled adventurer. He was at a neighborhood party yesterday and met my host mom, who then mentioned I was going to the same part of India, and so I got invited to tea.

Some photos (of which I take no credit, possession or authorization for, they are his sole property)

Absolutely incredible, and he specializes in the rituals of death around the world, particularly Mexico and India at the moment.

Anyways, I'm getting up at 5am to go catch a train to catch a bus to catch flight to go see my british family!!

Which is code for, good night and adieu. So long and farewell.

Making Out On Public Benches

In many preschools there is at least one bilingual kid, who constantly mixes up their languages and ends up confusing everyone except people who are trilingual... whatever two languages and then preschooler.

Like this poor mocked child, I keep melanging my vocabulaire. And not even in ways that make sense, like simple substitutions or using a phrase which expresses something english or french doesn't.  I start to talk in fractured sentences, misplaced adjectives and verbs galore, in a really weird french/english/american accent.

And then I know it is time for a nap. Which I took, for 13 hours. Whilst an alarm was set for 8 am this morning, and I dutifully put myself to bed at 11 (round of applause please), clearly something was amiss in my sleep cycle. I not only slept through my alarm, but slept until 12:30.

I must be growing again. My face was all swollen from sleeping for SO LONG, and instead of being concerned, kind supportive host siblings, I got made fun of all lunch for my puffed up eyes.

Life Lesson: Do everything perfectly in front of french people, because they are brutally honest when you don't look your best.

Speaking of brutally honest (or blatantly wonderful), I've been listening/obsessed for the last week to a famous french singer called "Georges Brassens."

Putain de toi is essentially the old(er) french version of Cee Lo Green's "F**k You." You hear drunk people singing this on the tram at n'importe quel heure.

And then "Les Amoureux des Bancs Publics." I originally mis-thought that it was about the public banks... but actually it's about public benches. It got confusing, this mis-thinking, because it talks about the people who make out on the public benches and shame everyone else. Very catchy refrain.

News, Porn and The Euro Crisis

Here in the midst of the euro crisis, frankly I remain as unaware as I care to do so about the apparent catastrophes waiting to break over everyone's unwashed heads (jokes jokes, french people do take baths... yearly).

However, in order to practice my reading comprehension skills and gain new vocabulary (typically english words that have been poached) I like to read a variety of newspapers and online media sites. Le Monde and their magazine are consistent favorites, and when I'm in residence chez Grandparents, Figaro magazine. It's rather trashy, in my opinion, as there are plenty of half naked, suggestive, deplorably unsexy ads around the repetitive articles. Cosmopolitan in france is the same as Cosmo in the U.S., only full nudity is a must.

The innocent midwesterner is consistently shocked.

Another habit I indulge in is spending an embarrassing amount of time reading the NYTimes and the Economist. I occasionally cheat on them with the Washington Post, or the Star Tribune, but in general I remain faithful on the daily. The Opinionator conversation between Gail Collins and David Brooks makes my day. So much snark and sass and random tangents. Or Nicholas Kristoff Columns, which I obsess over.

Lately however, the book reviews in the economist are my jam.

Part of my love for The Economist stems from their pompous yet profoundly clever rants, such as one article from November which raged against "vile Americanisms." BBC news is also great for this, especially the "50 of your most noted examples"

My favorite would have to be number 13. So much unnecessary self-hate.


14. I caught myself saying "shopping cart" instead of shopping trolley today and was thoroughly disgusted with myself. I've never lived nor been to the US either. Graham Nicholson, Glasgow


You stay proud of that fact Mr. Nicholson. Thoroughly disgusting.

Another french magazine I dare not even attempt is called "Le Canard Enchainé." The Chained Duck. Filled with heavy ephemisms and complicated jokes and obscure frenchie trifles, there is no way in hell I would get even the basic humor. Apparently some people find it appealing... bully for you.

On the more "obvious humor" side we have Le Monte newspaper, a joke newspaper which is a play on "Le Monde" had the headline today of, "Stimulation Economique? Dans ton cul!"

Which is "Economic stimulation? In your ass!" Delightfully accompanied by a nakey pic of Francois Hollande, the socialist candidate (PS=partie socialiste= Party Sexy) and Nicolas Sarkozy in post-coital cuddling mode.

If only the french schooling system permitted them to argue with their teachers, maybe they'd be less inclined to act out later on with such distasteful and immoral headlines. All the neocons back home have good reason to be suspicious of a country with a taste for such things. Disgraceful. We ought to overreact before it gets to be an actual problem we need to meddle in.

We get daily updates on the "euro crisis" generally in the form of clever german phrases and the wedding planned by Merkozy (or Sarkel as Mr. Le President and the Madame Chancellor prefer in public). Their partnership is somewhat lauded over here, although I wonder whether it will go the way of most celebrity marriages...

We shall see. Until then, your shocked and subdued correspondent signs off, to go find some puddles to jump in. Live the dream.

Chat Botté

A big return to the living and happy has taken place today. This morning was impossibly difficult to get out of bed, filled with bad attitudes, negative destructive thoughts and general apathy.

But then I wrote down 50 things I am grateful for. The world is much more face-able when you realize you are approaching it from a place of strength.

Thus, what did I accomplish today?

-I changed my train ticket so I'm leaving at 6:30 am instead of comfortably in the afternoon. Better safe and five hours early!

-Helped my friend take out the trash, and in return was given many (naturally) orange colored foods, like clementines (or mandarine/tangerines... anyone know what the difference is?), carrots, oranges, orange juice and crackers.

-Handed out clementines to all the homeless/beggars I saw on the street.

-Cooked ALL afternoon, drinking some lovely wine and making patatas bravas with salami and cheese. So wonderful.

It hailed in Nantes today, thrilling one of my colombian friends. Yuck. Perhaps it is an enduring negative attitude, but I've got zero tolerance for cold weather and christmas music. Hopefully this changes fast and soon, elsewise I may be throttled by the british nation (known as the "Capital of Christmas.")

A french song which has nothing to do with christmas (but is hilarious).

If you don't speak spanish or french (I couldn't find english subtitles) the first verse goes...

I work summer and winter in the "Puss in Boots" (a store apparently) selling reptile skin boots, it's my destiny I suppose as I've worked there 15 years, but it doesn't always smell like roses.

It goes on to detail how he falls in love with a girl who sells snake skin boots, and because they can't be together (logically) he dreams of the day he can leave.

France is an infinitely preferable country when it comes to escaping the constant christmas songs. There are very few, and they are confined to the very religious or shamelessly commercial (who get laughed at and called "american").

New Homes

I'm feeling a little funny, slightly down. My thoughts, still ensconced in the staggering (I could only think of the french word to describe this, "bouleversant" and had to use my dictionary to remember the english word) experience of living in another country, culture and language, are rather scattered.

Forgive me if this is a little more somber than my usual heretically optimistic view of the world.

It's a little peculiar to me that this down period has struck so late in my stay. It has nothing to do with exams, which went well, or friends, who are still there, caring and wonderful. The past weekend was spent in the arms of my beloved grandparents, and we passed three days very peacefully conducting a verbal sass war.

It would be a little stereotypical to admit that "I'm feeling sad about leaving." I'll be back in March, yes, and without a doubt I'll go see my best friends from Nantes (and around the world) sometime in the next eighty years. My host family has taken up a permanent corner in my heart, as has Nantes, and while it will be difficult to say goodbye, facebook, email, skype and airplanes will keep those who are meant to be close together.

Another side would place this on par with a stage of growing up. The one where you have left the world of your childhood (mentally, physically, emotionally) and made a new one. The two planets orbit each other, and you can still see the old you faintly and send postcards every once in a while. But you can't go back. Not in the sense of being forbidden, or having an external barrier which prevents you from entering the doors of your "home."

But now you're grown up, and the same sense of home is past, not really present. Time to make new homes.

Movie Madness

"A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet."

So said Orson Welles, one of the crowning jewels (and jewel makers) in American film history.

Whilst we in American are known for our origination of pop culture, film has become a global medium. Bollywood makes more movies than Hollywood, China is the biggest film market in the world, and the French go bananas for films.

It is interesting however, to note again the prevalence of American films in France, and the sad lack of french films in america. Our loss. Not to say that we can't find them if we try, but it is a specialty market. American films tend to BE the market, largely at least.

Cinema was invented in France, and is a large part of the culture, despite being glossed over by big american vehicles. I read an article in a french magazine of forgotten title which discussed the recent uptick in "socially concerned films" and a growing french independent film circle. Whilst the latter has always been around, this year marked several films which tackled enormous issues, like adoptive children, social ostracism and the lives of juvenile police protectors (I mention the last one here, "Polisse").

So I invite you to take a peek at four of my new favorite french films I've seen while here.

They are talking about making "Les Intouchables" into an American remake. Currently HUGELY popular in francophone countries, it is the heart warming, sassy and true story of a senegalese immigrant from the slums who befriends a quadraplegic billionaire.

Polisse is the other end of the emotional spectrum. Made by Maïwenn, an actress and director who knows a thing or two about child abuse herself, it chronicles the day to day life of juvenile protection and enforcement officers. Not for the weak of mind, this film attempted to make no rhyme or reason of the violence against minors, nor helps us to come away with a moral. Such a departure from the manufactured ends of Hollywood, and all the better for it.

A classic from 1966, I watched this in my cinema class. Rather whimsical, and full of random things that make you go "wow, it was so creative for them to think of doing that, it gives it so much more meaning." Spoiler: Most of the creative things (like switching between black and white for the indoor shots, and color for outdoors) were done to save money. Won a helluva lot of awards, and remains a classic of the "Nouveau Vague."

It's a child's movie. I like it for the music.

Gargantua Thattaway!

Being blissfully done with exams and tests and (although I never had any) homework is actually rather sad. I have to actively seek out various learning opportunities, which tend to consist of magazines, various late night conversations about how to best imitate a german accent and watching french gangster films.

Enter "Les Tontons Flingueurs." Essentially the "Blue Brothers" but french, without the excellent soul/jazz/wicked cool music, and with the addition of ironic french wit. Watched it with the grandparents, who were transported back to the days of their youth where people actually wore such outlandish garb.

And because I was feeling in the uploading mood, a photo from the summer in front of what turned out to be not my department. But I'm smiling anyways.

And Gargantua thattaway. Yes, I did go thattaway.

The topic of personal meditation today is doing favors/nice things/demonstrating generosity. I read in the NYTimes that couples who are rated highly on the one to generous scale (arbitrary scales are the way of future) have much happier marriages/partnerships.

This makes sense after all. The base expectation in a relationship is to give what you get (so give what you can). However, after meeting these expectations, going above this demonstrates that you're devoted not only for the relationship, but your partner's happiness.

There are healthy relationships in which the "I scratch your back, you scratch mine" doesn't always apply. For instance, with my kitty cat it's "I scratch your back, you purr and take a nap." But we still love each other, particularly when I remember to feed her on time.

Favorite moment of today: Grunkle calling the doctor in charge of his radiation treatment "the nuclear quack."

The grandparents were telling me about how long ago, when the world of flirting and dating was much more complicated (think debutantes, getting approved by the Queen, chaperones etc etc), there existed a "Mother Book." Which consisted of a long list of eligible gentlemen, and various comments about their personalities and peculiarities. This was along the lines of "can't dance" "bad breath" or "tediously pompous." The most popular type with the young débutantes was USIT or "Unsafe In Taxis."

Have been coughing and wheezing like a choo choo train. Given the morbid state of my cold, my granny took it upon herself to find some ideal tissues.

It's a perpetual issue

to find ideal tissues.

Opportunity to win a naughty postcard.

Hola.

Today I bought a Spanish Bescherelle (one of those amazing verb conjugators/the greatest thing since online flight booking) and a novel. In spanish. Maybe this is wishful thinking, but I figure that if I can struggle through the novella (Eva Luna by Isabel Allende), I'll have gotten a fairly competent grasp of spanish grammar rules. I did sign myself up in Spain for a class two levels  above my current "capable of asking for butter, beer and whether the song playing is cumbia or salsa."

Thursday's child has far to go.

But can you blame me for trying?

And anyways, for you naysayers and head shakers, remember the German proverb. "One learns grammar from language, and not language from grammar." Ja.

Today I passed my uni oral exam (apparently I had good organization and relevant examples, but used various anglicisms like the verb "expresser." Which ought to be "exprimer." The topic was whether sports players are paid too much, and so I used my football crazy brothers as examples.). I slept in, counted how many words I've written on my blog and emails (140,000-150,000 since August 4th), and listened to the french radio for four hours.

I have a theory that they interviewed a chicken on the radio. The reasoning behind this is as follows:

In place of a very croaky, unintelligible old french lady, they (the DJ/Interviewers) decided people would understand a chicken better. They would've done better with a crow.

Ten points (and a naughty postcard) to the person who can name this rap song. Lyrics translated into french by me, sorry if it is dreadful. The "no internet" rule of "Project Profane" kills me.

J'ai une injonction
contre la fille de diable
et je le garde au bas
de ce jameson et de l'eau
et quand on arrive là
tu peux t'asseoir et regarder
derrière ton mascara et tes cheveux épais.

Vocab Word

Wonderful word learned at dinner.

Vacherie: Quelque chose méchante. A mean/rude/hurtful action.

It has nothing to do with cows, despite the fact that the base word is "vache."

Hold On To Your Teenage Daughter

Thought long and not very hard about writing yesterday, but concluded that "j'ai la flemme."

Which means essentially "I can't be bothered." Except the cool part is that "la flemme" is the french noun for "apathy." It means laziness, disinterest and general "I can't bring myself to lift a finger."

-Peux-tu faire quelque chose aujourd'hui?
-Non, j'ai la flemme.

Just saw the first mosquito ever in France. Reminds me of home...

I've started a new game with myself, and it is beautiful. Tentatively titled "Project Profane."

Project Profane
1) Choose a rap song.
2) That is in english.
3) Translate it using only a dictionary. Internet use forbidden.
4) Show it to your host siblings, explaining that this is what Kanye West and T.I. are really singing. Not to mention Lil Wayne.

Mesdames et Messieurs,
Maquereaux et Joueurs
Demi-cul rappeurs
et les vrai locuteurs de rimes
C'est le Carter
Donc tenir à votre fille adolescente.

Unclear whether my new vocabulary will ever come in handy, unless I become besties with french rappers. There are worst things that could happen.

Yesterday I went to not one but TWO french films. Originally the plan was to go see "Les Intouchables" but after that finished at the early hour of 10:30, the executive decision was made to go for round two. "Le Chat Potté" (Puss in Boots) was dubbed, so any appeal of Antonio Banderas' voice was eliminated. Rhum Express (Dunno what the American name is) had already started and it was deemed that I was too young to see "Les Lyonnais" (viewing forbidden for -12 due to violence).

Thanks guys.

So we went to a film called "Les Adoptés", which was very moving and well filmed except for two small scenes which wrecked the whole thing, turning it into a cheesy, stinking foul mess. No exaggeration present. Why did they need to put a talking photograph in the film? Or a scene in which they throw their dead sister's ashes into the mountains and she magically appears in white flowy garments romping around? Why?

But other than that, it was great. I almost cried, but then the director ruined it for me.

Cardigan Police

The rest of my stay with the grandparents wasn't too uneventful, except that I was forced to wear a cardigan and given money to go buy warm socks. Which match.

Which is a lovely segue into the seven deadly sins of the French Grandparents.

They go as follows...

1) Thou shalt not be damp, neither in terms of wet or personality. (Dampness)

2) Thou should never be hungry, as it is an unnatural state which comes from the devil and not eating slowly enough. (Hunger)

3) Thou shalt repress grumpiness and diva-like behavior at all costs. (Grumpiness)

4) Thou shalt not be bored. Bored people be-ith boring. (Boredom)

5) Thou shalt not be inactive, elsewise one will die an early death. (Inactivity)

6) Tired people shall be sent to bed. (Fatigue)

7) Thou shalt not be serious. An incomplete sentence is one without a joke.

Such is life amongst the cardigan police.

Today was my last day of my first semester of university courses. Nowhere but up (and exams) to go!

Make Like Rabbits

I recently had a friend do some research on Nantes, and wikipedia gave some pretty interesting statistics.

"I looked up Nantes' population. Wikipedia says that it was 500,000ish in 2007 and 800,000ish in 2008. Did everyone do it like rabbits in oh-seven or should I assume some mistake somewhere?"

Unclear. But actually the website says it was roughly 280,000 in 2007, and 820,000 in 2008. INSANE population growth in a year.

Whatever could have happened? The counting methods they use probably changed. That is, of course, the boring theory.

Is this the wrong context to mention that Nantes is an awesome place to live?

Am currently chez Grandparents again, and today we celebrated the St. Nicolas with some wonderful friends and their friends. I sat next to a man who plied me with conspiracy theories about the Jesuits running the world (Maltese order has a plot to create a system of fear in the United States, thereby controlling the world) and how while Russia, China, India and Brazil are all becoming forces in the world, France will remain the most powerful country because they have the true believers who are spiritually powerful and thus will always rule. Despite the fact that France is a "pays laíc" (separation of church and state, but properly, not like our "are we aren't we" hemming in the States).

This would've been hilarious and fun and all, but when he started talking about how the CIA was funded by their drug trade (Biggest in the world! It's how the CIA has any money at all! It's all a plot!) I got a little frustrated. Getting lectured on conspiracy theories (It's no theory, it's fact!) pisses me off. Sure they do all sorts of things like waterboarding and mistakenly shooting down missionary planes and having secret programs. But orchestrating whole wars and trafficking 95% of drugs in the world (did you get those stats from the CIA factbook sir?) leaves me skeptical.

Other notable guests at the party included a handlebar moustached egocentric poet (we were treated to nine of his extensive poems, and fifty million of his extensive heroic exploits) and a warbly voiced woman who recounted the weirdest story. Twas about a bunny rabbit who gets lost in the woods, and to find her way back home she has sex with a squirrel, a porcupine and another bunny rabbit in exchange for directions.

The morals of bunny rabbits appear to be questionable. Maybe she didn't say please.

Grandparent quotes:

Granny: Why can't you lay the fire properly?

Grunkle: Why'd you break my teapot?

Granny: She doesn't look like the sugar plum fairy at all!

Grunkle: She does too. She's round and red and knee high to a grasshopper.

(Granny is in mid-lecture about something involving chores, cleaning and fire laying)

Grunkle: Touch of the verbals ay?

Habitudes

So I’ve picked up some habits in my exactly four month today stay in France. I was telling my father about some of them, and whilst he suggested that I divide them into “good” habits and “bad” habits, I maintain they are all excellent.

In my opinion, anyways.

Habit #1: I walk everywhere. I walk to school at least once a week (45 minutes if I stride like a giraffe and stop for no man, woman or child). There are daily strolls in the garden, to various bars and cafés with friends or just curious meanderings which have a bad habit of turning into frustrated goosechases.

Habit #2: Onomatopoeias galore. One of the things that is so much fun about learning a language in a native country is you pick up all the “filler” words and sounds. I shudder to think about the visitors of the States United picking up “um” “like” “yeah” and “errrr.”

My favorite french sounds. And my best idea as to what they mean.

“Tuk tuk tuk”- when counting something or doing a series of something, like putting dishes in the dishwasher.

“Shlack”- Use when you make a chopping gesture with your hand.

“Bah”- Doubles as “um” and “well”, an expression of confusion accompanied by the stereotypical expression of bewilderment, which is adorable. Can be inserted into just about any sentence.

Habit #3- So much bread. It wouldn’t be unheard of to read this headline in France. “After a week of bread absentia, half the country succumbs to starvation, the other half not far behind.”

Habit #4- Hot drinks in bowls. Coffee and hot chocolate in particular. To combat the lack of mugs in my life, and my klutzy self, I use mugs for just about everything else. OJ is better in mugs.

Lady Gaga and Gaga Parents

So much to share.

Went to a parent informational conference tonight at a catholic school (all girls) on the "world of the young." Was treated with a truly fascinating take on Lady GaGa's music videos (one sees practically none of the latent christian and satanic imagery pulsing through every scene).

Overall, I was very impressed by the priest's presentation of the subject. The same problems of sexualization, macabre cults, demonization of religion and disillusioned youth crop up in France as well as the U.S.

Funny note also... The parents (at least the parents I know) are exactly the same here in France as back in the 'Sota. Two questions I giggled at (silently, don't worry, I've learned an iota of social tact).

1) What would be a complete list of songs or artists that you think are inappropriate or damaging for our children? (My answer: Just stick to music without words.)

2) Do you think about the advent of the media in the context of parents, that is to say do you think parents will ever come to have the same understanding and usage of facebook, twitter, blogs and various other things on the internet, such that we can keep up with our children? (He said this in one breath.)

I have no idea how to combat this over-concern (I was a goody two shoes, no idea how to deal with badasses) nor how to completely ameliorate the brainwashing of the next generation (yeee pod people). I realized at the age of 15 that I would be an adult who judged teenagers, though nowadays there awakens a halfhearted effort to empathize. But seriously, why are you leaving the house wearing that?

So it goes. (R.I.P. Kurt Vonnegut).

Odd repetitive encounter: So I get hungry right around 9:30, about an hour after dinner and 1-9 hours before bedtime (to understate... beddibyes varies). And EVERY SINGLE TIME I go for a snack, my host brother gets back from rugby or some other activity. I swear it looks like all I do is eat. There's some weird magnetic thing going that whenever I'm eating someone comes to judge me. In a nice way.