Aller au ciné

The price of going to the movies has always been a factor in why I hardly ever go to the movies. Plus, since moving to Paris and no longer being under 26 (the age when Europe no longer considers you jeune), the price I have to pay to go to the movies has exponentially increased, exponentially decreasing my frequency of attendance.

If I do go, however, it’s because I want to see something that is going to be freaking awesome on the big screen. I want explosions. I want magnificent scenery. I want larger than life everything.

Unfortunately in Paris, bigger prices do not equal bigger screens.

On our first trip to the movies, after paying an absurd amount of money for a ticket, the boyfriend and I headed down an endless amount of stairs, and just as I was beginning to suspect we were heading to the center of the earth, when finally we arrived at our salle (room).

The room itself was small. There must have been no more than 50 places, and as such, one would expect the screen to be smaller than say a 200-person room. However, the screen wasn’t even proportional to the room size. It was tiny.


The screen in question. I made sure to include that guy's head for scale.
Suspecting that the problem might have been the fact that we were seeing the movie a while after its release date, I gave Paris the benefit of the doubt and went to the movies again. And again, the screen was miniscule. So much for ever going to the movies!

However, luckily for those of you who wish to see your Hollywood blockbuster on an American sized screen, I do not give up so easily. After visiting several different theaters, I have finally found one that is up to snuff. 

The screen towered high above our heads and was wider than most Parisian buildings. It was even curved, giving the viewer the experience of really being in the movie. The actors were at least three times as big as me. This theater definitely met the criteria for larger than life. 

Check it out:
UGC Ciné Cité La Défense
Le Dôme - Centre commercial Les 4 Temps

La cantine

My internship has come with many perks. The company is paying for half of my monthly metro pass, there is a small gym with a trainer and group classes available for free (yes, even to us interns), and there are two in house lunch dining options available with very reasonable prices.

Up till now, I have avoided eating at French cantines(dining halls/canteens). My first experience was during my time as a teaching assistant. They didn’t have anything that accommodated vegetarians, and so I would just make myself a sandwich and eat in the teacher’s lounge.

Next up, as a student, the cantine still didn’t have many vegetarian choices, and since I didn’t want to pay €3,50 for a plate of fries and over cooked carrots, I brought leftovers from the previous night’s dinner that I would reheat in the student’s lounge.

But now, as an intern, I eat at the cantine. There are many more options for vegetarians at this cantine, and for that I’m greatful. Plus, they have understood that it is disagreeable to pay the price of a meat meal when you don’t take meat, and charge less for a vegetables-only plate.

All of this is a vast improvement from previous cantine experiences, and I am grateful for cheap eats, especially as everything is expensive in Paris.

That said, I just don’t understand why the French culinary greatness can’t extend to vegetables. It has been my experience that the French think they can just boil a vegetable until its soft, put absolutely no seasoning, herbs, or spices on it, and declare it done.

Normally I love broccoli, carrots, and cauliflower, but every time the cantine serves them they are just lukewarm mush.

After three months, I now know which plates I like and which plates I don’t, and more often than not, the dishes served fall into the don’t category. I’ve gotten pretty good at picking and choosing parts from different dishes to make up a worthwhile plate, but I still think side dishes should be just as important and flavorful as the main attraction.

That's why I put herbes de provence on my hauricots verts(green beans).

Looking Back: The First Year of My Masters

The first day of school, where we were made to act silly and then sit through orientation presentations all day long, feels like ages ago. The buildings were unfamiliar, and despite being oriented all day long I left feeling like I didn’t know how to do anything any better than I did when I woke up that morning.

A week after taking spring semester finals, I returned to campus in order to drop off my registration packet for next year. The school seemed so small. I knew all its nooks and crannies. And while I had to figure out much of it all on my own (or with help from my fellow students), I now knew how to print documents, use the wifi, and recharge my student card.


La fac (school).
Source: l'aubeserveur
School in France wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be. I was disappointed, pleasantly surprised, mega stressed, had a lot of fun with good people, and learned some stuff. Overall a good year.

I think a major factor in my disappointment stems from the differences between high context and low context cultures.

Low context cultures are cultures where communication is in explicit codes like words, and rules and expectations are explicitly explained such as in America and New Zealand.

High context cultures are when communication is in physical gestures instead of words, and relies heavily on context such as in Japan and Saudi Arabia (thanks intercultural communication class!).

France is somewhat in between high and low. While they do use words, they leave enough unsaid to where I felt under-communicated with by my professors. My first shock came when nobody handed out a syllabus, and that sort of indirect communication continued on all year.

I had a really hard time being graded and judged negatively on things the professors never told us about. For example, not telling us it’s required to have page numbers on our presentation, or that we’re not allowed to use animations, and then marking us down for it.

This wouldn’t be so bad if there were some underlying rules for all of the school, but a lot of it came down to the personal preferences of the professors, and it was difficult for me to accept losing points for something nobody told me about in the first place.

But even with this cultural difference, I was able to learn new things, meet new people, improve my French, and pass all my classes with flying colors.

I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished so far, and despite it being a challenge, super stressful, and at times exceedingly frustrating, I’m really glad I decided to go back to school and go back to France.

I'd like to say that next semester I'll be better prepared for the lack of direct communication coming my way, but I'm not sure I was more accepting of it Spring semester as opposed to Fall.

Sometimes a girl just needs page margins and font size defined before writing a paper.

A lack of permanence.

While I have been off exploring, and making do with the clothes, shoes, and things I could fit into one checked bag plus carry on, all my other belongings, cherished and not so cherished, have been safely stored at my parents house, the place where I grew up, the place I have called home for the last fifteen years.

My parents have moved. They no longer call that place home. They’ve moved into a smaller house, which meant a review of the objects I had safely stored away in my closet.

Did I really need to save all my board games? Couldn’t we just dissemble all my star wars legos, and put the pieces in the big lego bin for easier storage? How many childhood stuffed animals are really necessary? Couldn’t I do without all the knickknacks?

While I’ve always enjoyed considering myself not all that materialistic, it was easier knowing in the back of my head that my things were there and they were waiting for me to stop wandering.

The move made me wish I had chosen a more “normal” life path; that I had found a job and was where I was going to be for the foreseeable future; that I could unburden my parents of my things and take them on myself.

I would love to decorate my studio in Troyes with my Harry Potter posters. I would love to be able to have my board games on hand for when I have guests.

Alas, such is not my fate. Seeing how this time next year I’ll be who knows where for my internship, I’m going to have to keep on being nomadic.

So to all the things I gave away, I wish you well. And to my parents, thank you for finding the room to keep most of them. One day, things, we'll be together again.

Université

I don’t know why I thought French universities would be similar to my university experience in California, but I unknowingly did.

I sort of felt that having already lived in France for 2.5 years straight and being part of the educational world (as my days as an English language assistant) combined with all the stories that exFBF told me about getting his masters and what school was like, that I was already pretty prepared for going to college in France.

This, however, was not the case.

The first surprise came on the very first day when not a single teacher passed out a syllabus, and instead dictated the important facts, deadlines, and grading policies. This was not a pleasant experience for my rusty French and me.

I had already heard exFBF complain about classes that lasted four hours, but I thought long classes were a rare exception, not the rule. Most of my classes are at least three hours long (with one class lasting four), and even though some of my teachers give us a ten-minute break in the middle, I have been poorly trained to pay attention to the same subject matter for such a long time. My brain starts to check out after two.

I know that some of the changes have to do with school size. My university back home had 20,000 students and an eight-story library with a room open 24/7. My new university has 2,500 students and a two-story library, which closes at 22h.


Top: UTT (my French school) Bottom: UCSB (my American school)
But even taking into account the difference in size of the student body, my new school seems under developed to provide for the student’s needs. There is never enough space in the library, and nowhere else on campus is open for students to work on group projects (which I seem to have at least one of in every class).

So far I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed with my coarse load and constantly being in a French language environment. One might say I'm experiencing pedagogical culture shock, if such a thing exists.

St. Valentin de Loin

Because we are separated by most of France, Spain, the Atlantic Ocean, and probably 44 or so American States, FBF and I sent each other Valentine's Day packages.

FBF was on top of it. He knew what he wanted to give me, packaged it, and took it to La Poste way before I even knew what I wanted to give him. He even sent me photographic evidence of the package being sent away, just to torture me.


Torture.

I finally got around to figuring everything out for him and sent it a little bit late. I was really worried about it getting there in time.

But guess what? My package got there a day early, and his has yet to arrive.

I blame La Poste (because they are evil) and everything being inefficient in France. He blames US customs.

Either way it's Valentine's Day and as if it wasn't already hard enough to be far away from each other, we don't even get to celebrate it in this small way.

Here's to hoping we'll be reunited for next year's St. Valentine.


FBF and I at La Rochelle.
Je t'aime mon amour!

Omar M’a Tuer

I took advantage of La Fête du Cinéma in order to practice my French oral comprehension. Seeing as movie tickets were only 3euros, I picked the only French movie that was out that didn’t look like a really bad comedy.

Besides the description provided by UGC lille,

“1991. Omar Raddad est emprisonné pour le meurtre de Madame Marchal qui l'employait comme jardinier. Trois ans plus tard, un écrivain convaincu de son innocence décide de mener sa propre enquête. Les destins croisés de deux hommes que tout oppose."

I knew nothing about the Omar Raddad Affair, which was a very big deal in the 90s in France.

Long story short, a rich French woman was found murdered, locked in her pitch black basement. On the walls “Omar M’a Tuer” and “Omar M’a T" were written in her blood.

The police believed she had written this on the walls herself with her dying strength (in the absolute dark without making any mistakes..) and so they went to arrest Omar Raddad, her gardener, who is Moroccan. Despite the only evidence to implicate him being what is written on the walls, he is found guilty and is sentenced to 18 years in prison.

Three years later, Jacques Verges, a French writer, believing Omar to be innocent decides to investigate the crime himself. He then writes a book entitled Omar M’a Tuer: Histoire d’un crime. In his book, he basically shows how the judicial system screwed over Omar and brings to light new suspects.

In the end, then President Jacques Chirac reduces Omar’s sentence. In 1998, he is let out of jail after six and a half years spent in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. In 2001 they did DNA testing, and although they found two distinct sets of male DNA at the scene of the crime, Omar was not a match.

[Disclaimer: Although my French is pretty good, there were definitely some scenes I did not understand. If I got anything wrong do not hesitate to correct me, thanks!]


The Movie Trailer. It was a good movie and I recommend seeing it!

This movie made me terrified of the French judicial system.

I know America has probably sent its fair share of innocent people to jail for crimes they didn’t commit, but Omar was treated thusly for one simple reason: He is not French. He is Moroccan. He is a foreigner.

I think the hardest scene for me to watch was when they interrogate him after arresting him.

Despite saying several times that he does not speak French, they continue to yell at and harass him in French, accusing him of murdering his boss. After having photos of the murder shoved under his nose, he starts to understand what’s going on, but is unable to express himself in French.

Sometimes I forget my French words when I’m nervous because I’m meeting someone new. I can’t imagine how stressful it would be to try and communicate in French while the police are yelling at me in super speedy French while shoving pictures of murdered people under my nose. Plus, based on the movie's portrayal of him, I speak way better French than Omar.

It made me cringe to watch him treated that way. I spent most of the film cringing, actually.

The law has since changed. Now it is required that anyone being detained by the police get read their rights in a language they understand.

One thing that I find very interesting is that my French friends do not understand my fear. They all make the joke that since I’m not Arabic, I wont have these same types of problems.

While I realize there is a lot of racism towards Arabic people in France, there is also racism towards foreigners in general. A fellow American expat blogger living in Lille, Traveling Amber, has been dealing with racism towards American foreigners for a while now.

I am realistic and know that it is unlikely that I will be framed for murder, and put in jail with little to no evidence against me, but this film really opened my eyes to the differences between how I could expect to be treated by the American justice system as an American citizen, and how I could expect to be treated in France as a foreigner.

On the bright side, the movie was really well done; intriguing, thought provoking, and full of great characters. It was definitely worth those 3euros.

What do you think about the Omar Raddad Affair? Do you find it shocking at all? Is the French judicial system something to be afraid of? I'd love to hear how you feel about it.

Séance à Minuit

I just finished rereading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in order to prepare for the midnight showing of the last film.


The thing about being an expat is that you miss out on a lot of things back home. While you do get to experience things you would never have experienced otherwise, sometimes missing out hurts.

I am homesick for midnight showings of Harry Potter movies with my friends. I am homesick for everybody dressing up and getting in line in the morning in order to play Harry Potter themed games all day while listening to all the soundtracks.

I love these books, and I love the experience of watching them turned into movies at midnight with all my friends who are equally excited about it (even if I'm not always happy with the actual film itself).

I would give anything to be able to go home and see it with my friends at midnight. I really feel like I’m missing out on something bigger than just a movie opening. I’m missing out on an essential experience for my generation, and one that the French don’t seem to give a rat’s ass about.

The only people I know who are around my age and are going to see it at midnight are doing so in the company of younger brothers and sisters, as if it is unacceptable to enjoy this experience at our age.

I hate how old the French make me feel on a regular basis. Why have they already given up on their jeunesse at 23 years old?

I feel so apart from everybody here.

I’m not sure there’s an equivalent experience that I’ve had thus far while living over here to make up for the fact that I’m going to be missing this.

Le Bus

When people ask me what I like so much about France, aside from the bread and the cheese, the public transportation system is definitely something I talk about.

I have lived in France three times now, and I’ve never felt the need to own a car. There are metros, busses, trams and trains galore. You can get pretty much anywhere using public transit.

Most of the time, I am quite content using transports en commun.



The other day, however, I had an experience that almost made me give up public transit forever (alas I am not rich enough to own a car in France!).

After work, I got the same bus I always do to head towards the train station, but something was not right.

This bus smelled like vomit.

This bus had water all over the floor.

This bus smelled. like. vomit.

Putting two and two together, clearly somebody had vomited on this very bus, and the public transportation gods thought they could just hose the bus down and everything would be ok!

IT. WAS. NOT. OKAY.

I was seated by a window, and although it was open to the max, the smell of puke infiltrated my nostrils with no sense of compassion.

I thought I, too, was going to throw up.

Somehow or another, I managed to survive trapped inside the barf bus and not blow chunks.

I had never been so grateful to arrive at my destination and breathe fresh air.

Laissez-moi danser!

One thing I don’t like about French house parties is that nothing happens at them. After giving everyone la bise (cheek kisses), all there is to do is find a seat, sit in it, and talk. All night.

I miss going to house parties where there is an activity. Back home, I would often have board game nights and Wii parties with my friends. Here, it’s all talk and no action.


Cranium. The best game ever.

Now that I speak French reasonably well, I am able to partake in said conversations, but when I first moved here and spoke very little French, it was miserable. I was miserable.

All I wanted to do was dance!

I loved going to dance parties back in the States. If I ended up at a party at someone's house that wasn't a dance party (and there was no cranium), I would turn it into a dance party.

It turns out, however, that I am not the only girl in France who just wants to bouger mes fesses (shake my butt). Dalida was a very famous French pop artist in the 70s.

I just discovered her song, laissez-moi danser, and it pretty much sums up my feelings on this issue.



Let me dance!
Oh, let me!
Let me dance and sing in liberty all summer
Let me dance!
oh, let me!
Let me follow my dreams

Mon Epouse Violente (Partie 2)

Check out Partie 1 here.

So after France’s nice gesture at the laundromat on Wednesday, I was feeling pretty good. I now had clean towels and clean socks. Work went smoothly on Thursday. I was naively enjoying France’s change of character.

Then Friday after school, the bus I needed to take to get to the train station on time showed up four minutes early, even though it never ever does. I walked out of the lycée at the same time I always do, only to see the bus take off down the street without me. I was devastated. I always stand out in the bitter cold for five minutes waiting for the bus, just to avoid this very problem. Now I would most likely not make the train home.

I still had an itty bitty slimmer of hope however, as the next scheduled bus gave me a three minute window to run as fast as I possibly could from the bus stop to the train station. If I could pull off this feet of physical fitness, which was more than likely impossible as I'm not a sprinter/marathoner/exerciser of any kind, this arrangement was still less than ideal, as I would have to buy my ticket on the train, meaning I would be paying double.

But this Bus came five minutes late, shattering any dreams of making it home on time. I was going to be stuck at the train station for two hours, at lunchtime, without any food. I hated France and her evil plans to ruin my life! Why did she always have to try to get me down?

Of course if the first bus were early, the second one would be late. Why couldn’t they both have come early and given me a chance of catching my train?

Somehow, France changed the space-time continuum, and that 5-minutes-late-bus dropped me off by the train station two minutes earlier than its normal arrival time. I had five minutes to run as fast as I could to catch my train. I ran for it.

I made it! With about 30 seconds to spare.

I sought out the conductor, ready to pay for my super expensive ticket (but totally worth it if it meant I got home at a reasonable lunch hour), when he said to me, “Euhh la machine n’a plus de batterie donc asseiez-vous,” (umm actually the machine is out of batteries so just take a seat). That’s right! A free trip home!

I huffed and puffed a “merci” in his direction, and plopped myself down in the first available seat I could find in awe of my good fortune.

But by the time my forty minute train ride was up, I realized that France’s gentillesse (niceness) was just more flowers to make up for her brutal treatment of me in the first place.

I'd say I need to find a new spouse, but I can't let France win!

Mon Epouse Violente (Partie 1)

I used to feel like France was rather passive aggressively trying to get me to leave. Yes, she invited me to come and stay with her, but she never made any promises of being nice to me. Almost as if she’s the mother of a boyfriend who doesn’t think you’re quite good enough for her son, who doesn’t say anything outright, but makes her displeasure known through other means.

France was being ever so passive aggressive when I went to la laverie (the laundromat). I had two loads to do, but of course the place was crowded and there was only one machine open. I decided to start with my sheets and towels. Finally, a second machine opened up. I put my clothes inside, and then I went to the jeton (coin) dispenser. The machine, which is supposed to accept 5, 10, and 20 euro bills, refused to accept any of mine. I got change from one of my fellow laundromat users, but when I tried to use the washing machine, it ate my coin. I then tried to push the coin by using my dyer coin, but the machine ate that coin, too.

Now this was horrible for a variety of reasons. I didn’t have time to wait for everybody else’s laundry to be done, I didn't have any change to buy new coins for the dryer, and since my dirty clothes were staying dirty, I had nowhere to put my clean sheets once they were done.

I was hearing France’s message loud and clear. She was letting the laundromat speak for her. “I’m going to make life super difficult for you if you hang around! You'll never have clean socks!”


Day two at the laundromat, everything was different. It wasn’t crowded. The coin machine worked perfectly. The washing machine took my coin without a second thought. I didn’t have to wait for a dryer.

After one ten minute blast of hot air, my clothes were still not dry, so I headed over to the coin machine to pay for some more dryer time. But instead of having to pay .90centimes for ten minutes, I got it for free, because an incredibly cute French guy asked me, “c’est pour le seche-linge? Parce que j’ai un jeton de plus” (is it for the dryer? Because I have an extra coin).

“Oh, oui, mais je n’ai pas la bonne monnaie,” (oh, well yes it is but I don’t have the right change) I replied, showing him my two fifty cent euro coins.

“Oh. Non. C’est bon. Prends-le,” (Oh, no. Don’t worry about it, just take it) he replied.

“How incredibly nice!” I thought, and began to feel much better about the laundromat as an establishment. It was as if this one cute guy’s nice gesture was able to change my opinion about France’s previous devious behavior.

I had forgotten all about the original trip the laundromat and was thinking about how much I love living here when I realized who France had become. She went from the passive aggressive, sabotaging mother-in-law to an abusive spouse, who the very next day brings me flowers and tells me how much she loves me.

Les Ennuis Des Femmes (Women's Troubles)

When I studied abroad in Paris for Fall ’07, I was warned that in France the tampons do not have applicators. Being afraid of sticking an uncomfortably dry tampon up my vagina with no aid of a nice plastic casing, I brought along my own 4-month supply of American tampons.

Then the inevitable happened. I don’t know if Shark Week came early, or I just forgot to put tampons in my bag, but suddenly I was caught in a situation I was not prepared for. I was out with some friends when I realized I needed a tampon, and STAT.

We took a detour to the nearest MonoPrix (a grocery store) and found the appropriate rayon (aisle). This was my first time in this rayon in France, and to my surprise I found tampons with applicators! I bought the tiniest box of generic MonoPrix brand tampons available, and while they were far from ideal, I made an important discovery: Tampons with applicators existed in France!

When I moved out here in Fall ’09, I decided to leave my trusty American tampons at home and use that valuable suitcase space for shoes instead. If applicator tampons existed in generic brands, clearly the France-doesn’t-have-applicators rumor was a lie, and I’d be able to find usable tampons in Lille.

I now regret this decision. Back in the states, I use Playtex Gentle Glide tampons. They fit me perfectly! The applicator is plastic and it goes in smooth. The size is the perfect size for my vagina. Everything is wonderful in tamponland.

Unfortunately, this brand does not exist in France, and so far none of the French brands have been up to snuff. They are either too big, or I have trouble with the applicator. I still use these French brands, but am I totally comfortable down there? No sir. That “time of the month” is uncomfortable enough as it is even with the perfect tampon! Oh Playtex Gentle Glide, how I miss thee!

Although a lot of me has adapted and become more French as time passes, my vagina remains stubbornly American.

Les Spring Breaks

The French have weird preconceived notions about les États-Unis. I’m okay with this. I’m okay with answering bizarre questions about my home country.

What I’m not okay with is after taking the time to explain to them my personal experience of being an American citizen; I am told that I am wrong.

French people constantly claim to know America better than I do! As if visiting New York City for 5 days is the same as living in the country for 22 years. As if watching the random news reports about the USA on French télé is the same as being raised in the culture. As if seeing the MTV show Spring Break in Cancun gives you a 100% accurate tale of what college students do over spring break.

Case in point: The weekend after New Years, La Maman hosted a family Christmas lunch at her house with FBF’s aunt and uncle, their daughter and her boyfriend, FBF’s sister and her boyfriend plus his two children, and FBF and moi.

La cousine and son copin (the cousin and her bf) were talking about taking a trip to Mexico with la Soeur and son copin this spring, when la cousine turned to me and asked, “C’est quand les vacances de printemps dans les états-unis? Le Spring Break?” (When is spring vacation in the US? Your “Spring Break?”)

“Oh, euhhh.. ça depend où on va à l’école,” (Oh, well that depends on where you go to school) I truthfully replied.

The boyfriend responded, “Non, mais LE Spring Break, où tous les Californiens vont au Mexique.” (No! THE Spring Break. The one where every Californian goes to Mexico.)

I repeated, “Ça depend ce dont l’école on va. Il y a pleusieurs ‘Spring Breaks.’” (It depends on what school you go to. There are multiple “Spring Breaks.”)

“Non” he insisted, “quand tous les gens à l’université vont à Cancun pour faire la grosse fête. C’est ça le Spring Break. Il y a une semaine et tout le monde y vas.” (No, when all the college students go to Cancun just to party. That’s Spring Break. It’s one week where everybody just drinks and parties.)

And so for a third time, I insisted that in the USA, Spring Break is not just one week the whole nation has off. It depends on where you go to school. It depends on if the school is on a semester system, like UC Berkeley or most private universities, or a quarter system like the other University of California schools. But even going to a UC school doesn’t guarantee you the same week off. My best friend went to the University of California at Santa Cruz, and I went to the University of California at Santa Barbara, and even we had different Spring Breaks.

And as for everyone going to Cancun, Mexico for Spring Break, what a bunch of bullshit! I’ve never once been there, and nobody I knew in college went there for Spring Break. The few people I know who actually went to Mexico stayed on the West Coast of Mexico in order to keep costs down.

But here he was, the arrogant Frenchman dining on my right. For no matter how many times I explained that we don’t all have the same school breaks, it never sunk in. It was as if my 16 years of experience in Spring Breaks meant less than an old MTV show.

How is it possible with a real life American in front of them, the French still insist on their slanted version of les États-Unis? Why is it impossible for them to reevaluate their views on America after talking with a real life American citizen?

They don’t know the US better than me! They can never know the US better than me, just like I can never know French culture better than they do! But for some reason the French aren’t willing to accept this reality. They seem to think that they’ll be able to enlighten me about my own culture! I’m the American, god damn it!

It took all my good graces and self-control not to lunge at this otherwise nice French guy with my diner knife.

Joyeux Halloween!

Halloween has not quite caught on in France. They tried to bring Halloween to this lovely country a few years back, but the French didn’t really like it. How little children don’t like going door-to-door and getting free candy is beyond me, but then again, I’m not French.

Despite the fact that practically nobody celebrates Halloween in France, I was determined to be American and celebrate it anyway. I packed my spider web earrings and spider web tights. Even if it wasn’t much, I could at least be in theme.


My Halloween earings.
For a while, it seemed that France was willing to accept me in my Americanness and help me along with my Halloween celebrations. When talking about Halloween with FBF’s mom, she told me that normally kids stop at the house and demand candy. Then, one of my French friends decided to throw a Halloween party. While it was a Halloween party that required the partygoers to dress up in scary costumes, I was still going to have an opportunity to wear my Halloween themed articles of clothing!

But it turns out that France had other plans for me. Not a single costumed or otherwise child stopped by the house yesterday. We handed out zero pieces of candy.

And as for the party, I have bronchitis. I spent Halloween in bed.

You win again, France! You win again.