Liebster Award

A while ago I was nominated for a Liebster Award by one of my new blogger friends, Dana from As Told By Dana. I've been a bit lazy and the questions she asked were a bit personal so it's taken me a while to get around to it. Nevertheless, I present to you, the Liebster Award!


1. Why did you start blogging?

I started blogging because I wanted to remember every moment where I felt “French.” When French people mistook me for one of them, or I partook in a part of their culture, I wanted to share it. I quickly caught on to the fact that I’ll never be completely French, and now my blog talks more about how weird the French can be (and why I love it).

2. If you could go anywhere in the world, right now, where would you go, and why?

Southern California to spend time with my family and my pets, with a trip to where ever my brother currently is as well. I love to travel and go on adventures, but I have a lot more opportunities to do that than I do to go home and spend quality time with my family. Plus, I could use some good Mexican food.

3. If you had the chance to travel back in time or into the future, which would you pick, and what would you want to see/find out?

I would like to time travel to the future, as Benjamin Franklin said, “The rapid progress true science now makes occasions my regretting sometimes that I was born so soon.” I would love to see the progress humanity has made, not only technologically but also socially.

4. Apple or PC?

Apple. I have a macbook and an iphone.

5. How did we meet?

Through blogland!

6. What is your guilty pleasure?

Right now, it’s Les Ch’tis à Hollywood! I love me some bad French télérealité.

7. At my funeral, I want this song played:

I have thought very little about my funeral. I love Fiona Apple and her album The Idler Wheel is my favorite music so maybe that?

8. What do you think of when you hear, “Wisconsin?”

I think of my cousins. My dad’s sister and her family live in Wisconsin, but it might as well be another country. There are definitely cultural differences between us Californians and them Wisconsinites.

9. What is your favorite season and why?

I think that depends on which country I’m living in! In California, that would definitely be summer. I love spending my days at the beach and nights around a bonfire. In France, it is way too hot and humid in the summer for it to be my favorite. Winter is definitely too cold. I think it rains too much in the Fall, which leaves me with Spring. Spring is probably my favorite season in France because it’s starting to get warm again but it’s not yet humid. Although after writing this I’m coming to realize I might not be all that into this whole season thing, seeing as in Southern California we go from extremely nice weather to a little bit less nice weather during “winter.”

10. I never, ever, want to do this again:

Ride a vomit smelling bus.

11. What do you like most about yourself?

My enthusiasm and excitement about life. I’m a huge geek, love to reread Harry Potter (and read in general), dress up at theme parties, and play games. Sometimes France tries to stifle this part of me, but I really wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it means being a little bit too loud sometimes.


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And so I pass this award as well as the questions Dana posed onto some of my much deserving blogger friends:

Bread is Pain

Kaley... y mas

My Blondering Life

Il Fait Beau

I used to disagree with any French person who ever told me “il fait beau” (it's a beautiful day). Especially in winter.

But despite saying, “mais non, il fait froid!” (but it's cold!) occasionally to my exbellemère, I would keep my mouth shut, as they all seemed pretty convinced about the excellence of their days.

It still irked me though. How could the French find so many days “beautiful?” A day needs to be pretty remarkable for it to get that accolade from me.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in Southern California where the weather is some of the best out there, but I seemed to need more from a beautiful day than the French.

I need sunshine and blue skies (although a cloud or two might be acceptable as long as they are the pretty fluffy white kind), a light breeze (but not windy), and a good temperature (hot but not too hot). I want that day to inspire me.


The beach in my hometown. How I miss beautiful, beach-worthy days.
The French seemed to find really ordinary days beautiful.

Then, after three years of hearing this expression, I finally got it. I’d been looking at it all wrong.

One shouldn't translate “il fait beau” into “it’s a beautiful day,” but instead into “the sun is out today.”

It’s as simple as that. To the French, the sun being out is equivalent to beauty. I think this has to do with the fact that the French use the word beautiful 3600 times more often than Americans do.

For a day to be beautiful it doesn’t need to be exceptional; it just needs some sunshine. The word doesn’t carry the same weight.

Once I accepted this fact, my conversations about the weather weren’t secretly putting me on edge.

Now when someone tells me “il fait beau,” I agree. Why yes, the sun is shinning today!

I no longer secretly resent the French for being able to find so many days beautiful. And after having lived in the northern gray climates for three years, I'm starting to understand why the French are so eager to applaud the sun.

La Braderie de Lille

My fellow Lillois told me that La Braderie de Lille is a giant flee market taking over the entire city. The first weekend in September people come from all over Europe to buy other people’s junk at really reasonable prices, and to sell their own unwanted items.


La Braderie as seen from my window.

Thinking that this would be a great opportunity to buy some small stuff that I didn’t really need but had been wanting for a while, I made a list and was looking forward to getting some really great deals.

I was disappointed. I wanted a cool, old book to turn into a jewelry box, but all the tables with old books were selling them for 15euros or more. I was also hoping to find somebody’s old regular mirror for cheap, but again there were only fancy antique mirrors being sold expensively.

The streets were not filled with other Lillois’ junk as promised.


Les Bradeurs (people who shop at La Braderie) on rue Nationale, with La Grand Place in the background.


Les Bradeurs and the Palais des Beaux Arts.

After extensive searching, I did manage to find booths set up by real Lillois selling things for next to nothing.

I bought a beautiful old book for 1.50euro. At another stand there were old books for .30 centimes, so I bought four. I also managed to buy a really cool German beer glass for 1.50euro. Despite not finding a mirror to my liking (read: inexpensive), I am quite happy with my purchases.

The good news is that there is more to the Braderie than other people’s junk so having the place over run with pricey, albeit cool, things didn’t destroy the spirit of it all.


I saw at least 6 different stands with this set of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

Beer is cheap and readily available from street venders and I might have drunk over 2 liters of beer throughout the day.

And while it wasn’t in Bergues when FBF and I paid the city made famous by Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis a visit, I have now enjoyed frites (fries) from Friterie Momo. The baraque à frites was at La Braderie in all its movie glory. I enjoyed a small frites, and FBF got a fricadelle. Both surpassed expectations.


Chez Momo!

During the Braderie most of the restaurants serve a regional specialty, moules-frites (muscles and fries). They participate in a concours (competition) to see who serves the most moules. While I don’t eat seafood, it was quite enjoyable to walk down the streets and see giant piles of mussels out on display. The restaurant with the biggest pile of moules wins.


A giant pile of moules.

There are also lots of different spectacles put on for free during La Braderie. While it was beautiful and sunny during the day, come night rain started falling like buckets and the events got cancelled.

It wasn’t a total waste, however, as when I was lurking inside the entryway to my apartment building waiting for the rain to stop, the parents of one of my fellow tenants invited me and all my friends into their daughter's place. We had a great time mingling and meeting the neighbors.

While La Braderie has lost some of it's authenticity as a place of one-man's-trash-is-another-man's-teasure, I enjoyed spending the day drinking beer and oogling some of the weirder things people were selling (like, would anyone pay good money for a glass coffee table with a stuffed crocodile as it's base?).

Disneyland Paris

If planning a visit to Disneyland Paris, one might expect it to be a similar experience to visiting the original Disneyland. And while there are lots of similarities between the parks, with a few changes in layout and ride styles, Disneyland Paris is a very different cultural experience from that which I am accustomed.


Château de la Belle au Bois Dormant in Disneyland Paris.

Growing up in Southern California, about a 40-minute drive from Disneyland, I have had an annual passport for more of my life than I haven’t had one, and I know the park comme ma poche (like the back of my hand). I have never needed a map.

The layout of the two parks is basically the same. You start off on Main Street, which leads you to Sleeping Beauty’s castle, beyond which lies Fantasyland. If you veer off to the right you find yourself in Discoveryland/Tomorrowland (Paris/Anaheim). On the left you can enter either Fronteirland or Adventureland.


Le plan (the map) of Disneyland Paris.

The first and most obvious difference between the parks is that there is no Toon Town in Disneyland Paris. The next one is that the Matterhorn is conspicuously absent. The last major landscape difference is that there is no Critter Country in Paris, either.

Then there are all the small differences that make each park unique, such as different tracks for Space Mountain, the placement of rides (for example, Star Tours is in the back of Discoveryland, but in the front of Tomorrowland), different restaurants, and of course different weather. Despite going in the middle of July, it rained during FBF and my visit. This explains why more of the lines are found under a roof in Paris.

The physical differences aren’t the only things distinguishing the two parks, however.

I was surprised by how much French was spoken. Instead of being in English and then Spanish, the announcements of how to behave properly before and after a ride start with French, are followed with English, and then continue in other languages I don’t speak.

Even the animatronics speak French! Imagine my surprise to find C3P0 speaking in French with R2D2 (who speaks in beeps, even in French).


C3PO talking in French to his buddy, R2D2 at Star Tours, Paris.

I realize it was silly to think that Disneyland Paris would be in English, but finding myself in a Disneyland remarkably similar to that which I came to know as a child, I kept forgetting I was in France.

But language wasn’t the only reminder that I was in France. Even if the buildings and attractions look similar, the people do not act the same.

When at Disneyland at home, I know which hours to avoid going to the restaurants if I don’t want to wait in lines, as most Americans eat meals around the same time. This is not possible at Disneyland Paris. People come from all over Europe and have such different cultural norms for when to eat that there are always people at the restaurants.

When meeting a character, instead of people forming a line based on who got there first, it's a mad dash to greet, take pictures with, and receive autographs from Disneyland Paris’s various inhabitants.

Although it happened less often in my experience, people even try to cut in the lines for attractions. An Italian family just up and walked past at least 7 people before deciding that was where they would be waiting for the ride.

Despite linguistic and cultural differences, I had a great time visiting Disneyland Paris. The most important thing stayed the same. It still felt like the Happiest Place on Earth.

La Bretagne: Prémières Impressions

My first impressions of Brittany:

Most people who are actually from Brittany are extremely tan. It makes me realize how much sun I’m missing out on living in Le Nord.

Galettes are delicious. Galettes with chevre chaud, miel, et salade (melted goat cheese, honey, and lettuce) are to die for.



Why do people buy caramel from anywhere else in the world? Caramel au beurre salé is so delicious that I have a crêpe with the stuff whenever possible.

The water is really cold, but a beautiful clear blue. There are giant rocks everywhere.



The tides really are impressionant (impressive).

I finally understand why people want to retire in France. These houses are so adorable; I want one.

Les Bébés Canards

Spring has definitely sprung, and unlike last year, the weather has been amazingly warm and pleasant.

I have finally dusted off my rainbow sandals and have worn them twice. They felt a little neglected by me as normally in California, they are year round shoes. Here they are definitely not.

On a pleasantly warm afternoon, while wearing my rainbow sandals bien sûr, FBF and I went for a stroll by the quai (a sort of man-made, cemented in lake type thing) by my house.

And what to my wandering eyes should appear but a M. et Mme. Canard, and their six baby ducklings ever so near.

Naturally I papperazzi-ed them, much to FBF's dismay.










Here's to more rainbow sandal wearing, baby duck filled, lazy spring afternoons!

Chaussures d'été

On Fridays I have the pleasure of being driven to school instead of having to take the train. It’s faster, which means I get to sleep in, and it’s also cheaper, saving me money. All in all I try to covoitureage (carpool) as often as I can.

Before getting ready for the day, I made FBF check the weather report, and as it said it wasn’t going to rain, I decided to give my boots a rest. I went for my new dark red converse that I bought especially for France. Knowing that it was going to be cold, I layered up on the socks.

Despite the extra sock layer, my feet were still cold. And since Vincent, the teacher who picks me up, was dressed very warmly, the heat wasn’t on very high in the car.

Although it wasn’t supposed to rain in Lille, it was definitely raining in Lievin, were my lycée is. There was also snow on the ground. After commenting about how pretty the snow made the countryside along the drive to school, Vincent noticed my shoes.

“Tu n’a pas froid aux pieds avec ces chaussures?” (Your feet aren’t cold with those shoes?)

“Euh… oui, un peu,” (Uuh.. yeah, a little) I confessed.

After turning up the heat and focusing it on our feet, Vincent said, “Tu n’as pas des chaussures plus chaudes que ça? Les chaussures comme ça sont pour l’éte.” (You don’t have warmer shoes than those? Shoes like that are for the summer).

In order to stop myself from laughing, I began explaining about my boots. I couldn’t help but thinking that in California the only summer shoes are sandals and flip flops, and anything you have to tie is just all together too much trouble.


My "summer time" shoes.

Arc-en-ciel

It has been cold, rainy and all around miserable since my arrival in le nord. To make matters worse, I packed the entirely wrong set of sweatshirts. It seems somehow, even after living here for 9 months last year, California got the better of my cold weather judgment.

I brought along a teeny tiny black hoodie thinking that black would be a good color to have in France. What I should have realized is that a teeny tiny 5-year-old sweatshirt that is worn to the bone is definitely the opposite of warm. Warmth, rather than color, should have been my top concern, as regardless of how often the French wear black, I would probably freeze to death if I sported mine. It is so thin that if you hold it up to your eyes, you can see through it. Needless to say, it doesn’t even help me stay warm inside the house.

But it’s not all bad news as far as the weather is concerned. The other day, while it was raining chez FBF, I looked out the window to see that a bit of sun had peeked out through the clouds. Upon a more thorough view, I discovered that there was an arc-en-ciel (rainbow). And not just one rainbow, but two rainbows! A DOUBLE RAINBOW! It was pretty magical.


Why it's not so bad living in constant rain.

Été

Something very strange happened today. For starters, it was extraordinarily hot at the beach. This was a welcome change from the gray, overcast skies I was welcomed home with, but nevertheless it was not comfortable. It was sweaty.

Then around 7 o clock, a rainbow appeared in the sky. And not just any appearance of a patch of colors in the sky, but a full-on rainbow. It had the complete arch and all seven colors. There were two pots of gold out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered.

After dinner, my parents and I took Buster for a walk. About five minutes into it, my dad every so elegantly inquired, “is it raining or did a bird just poop on my head?”

It was raining. I had spotted numerous wet splotches on the asphalt, and I could smell the rain. Then I, too, felt a drop.

I have never experienced warm, summer rain in Southern California. This was a first for me in this location. However, I had already experienced hot summer rain this été. It storms in Lille over the summer, and while I personally didn’t experience any orage (thunderstorms), just rain, I did observed one from afar. On our last skype date, FBF had his computer webcam facing the window, and I saw éclair (lightening) light up the sky.

I’m starting to miss France, and although I prefer Southern California weather to that of the Nord, it was nice being able to pretend I was back in France, even if it was only for a moment.

That said, I would appreciate it if the weather would cooperate with my preconceived notions of being home for the summer in Southern California.

Chez Moi

I have been back in sunny California for a week, and have been greeted with overcast and foggy weather. In leaving Lille, I was hoping to enjoy nice, sunny, beach filled days. Alas, the weather is finally nice in the North, and I am 6,000 miles away, stuck with grey skies.

So far I have enjoyed being back home. I missed it here, even if I can’t seem to get any of that sunshine California is known for.

I drove for the first time in 8 months four days after my arrival. It felt weird to finally be behind the wheel again, but it also felt completely natural. I think it’s like riding a bike. Once you learn how to do it, you never forget. I only stalled out once!

My mom and I were getting in my brother’s Camri, which does not have automatic locks. As the driver, I unlocked my door and then leaned over to unlock hers. After settling in her seat, my mom said to me, “I love how compact this car! It’s so small you can just reach over and unlock all the doors!”

I started laughing. Although I knew by American standards my brother’s car is indeed small, having four doors would qualify it as large by French standards. We were leaving a Costco, and I quickly took inventory of the other cars in the parking lot. I realized that I had not seen so many SUVs, or quatre quatre as the French say, since I’d been in France.

I haven’t experienced reverse culture shock yet, but everything does seem a lot bigger to me now.

In Bruges

Despite being told repeatedly by Colin Farrell that Bruges is a shitty place to be while watching In Bruges, I felt like I should pay the Belgian town a visit. Since I arrived in the Nord, everyone here has told me that Bruges is the Venice of the North. Because Belgium is a hop, skip, and a jump away, FBF and I decided to take the 45 minute drive and enjoy one of Europe's best preserved medieval towns.

Yet again I enjoyed better weather while traveling to somewhere further north than I usually experience in Lille. Why is it always so grey and rainy in the Nord-Pas-De-Calais?


Interesting medieval Belgian architecture and blue sky!

Upon arrival, we found the tourist information center and picked ourselves up a map. The use-it.be free map had this to say in it's 5 minutes of history section,
"2009: The movie 'In Bruges' wins an award for best scenario. Quote: 'If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me. But I didn't, so it doesn't.' So just like in 1892, somebody calls Bruges a shithole, which attracts only more tourists."


The bell tower from the movie.

Not only were we in a beautiful city, but we were in Belgium! This quickly translated into the fact that delicious, cheap Belgian beer needed to be drunk stat! We found a bar with practically every single Belgian beer immaginable, called 'T Brugs Beertje.

We walked in and I was immediately intimidated. There was the barkeep, an old couple, and a middle-aged man in the bar.

They were all speaking Flemish.

Half of Belgium speaks Flemish, and the other half speaks French. On the drive up to Bruges, FBF scared me out of speaking French, as the Flemish speaking part of Belgium apparently hates the French speaking side. I said,"hello," and quickly retreated to the second room in the bar.

Both rooms were covered from head to toe in beer advertisements, and the bar had a million different types of glasses on display to go with its million different beers. Before sitting down, I decided to be courageous, and we took a seat at a table in the room with all the Flemish speakers.

When the bartender came over to take our order, I stuck with English, but FBF ordered in French. I think we confused the man a little bit, but luckily he got our orders right. I ordered a Barbar, which was delicious. It had a touch of honey in it.


Such Belgian-y goodness!

According to our handydandy use-it.be map/travel guide, I knew that in Bruges one days not say "santé!" for cheers like the rest of Belgium, but instead "up je mulle!" This translates into "on your face!"

Not having any clue how to pronounce "up je mulle" in Flemish, I asked the bartender if he could pronounce it for us. He read the word I was pointing at, laughed, and said it out loud. He then said, "Don't go around saying that, though! It's what you say between good friends, but if you say it to a stranger it's really offensive. I said it to a guy once in a bar, and he punched me in the face."

La Piscine – Splish Splash!

It was a rare 75 degrees Fahrenheit last weekend in Lille. FBF and I went to one of his friend’s houses with a pool. It was glorious.

One common reaction people had when I told people I was going to be living in France was, “France? You know the women don’t shave their armpits over there? And they all smell.”

Taking public transit all year long to work and back, I definitely encountered a smelly Frenchmen or two. However, I’ve also encountered horrible B.O. back on my home turf. It seems to me that the French not only invented soap and perfume, but they also know how to use both.

The hairy armpit stereotype, on the other hand, was harder to investigate. The weather being cold, rainy, damp, and altogether unpleasant most of the time, women were not walking about in tank tops.

This little pool outing was just the opportunity to really discover the truth about French armpits!

As it turned out, none of the girls had hairy armpits, but they weren’t the only ones with shaved underarms.

Before the pool adventure, I made fun of FBF for having shaved his armpits. Naturally, I called him a petite fille (little girl), and explained that in America men don’t shave their pits.

So once pool side, FBF took it upon himself to defend his masculinity. He asked the guys if they shaved their armpits. One by one, they flashed each other their underarms and compared the last time they shaved. Not a single one of them had a significant amount of hair under there.

What I want to know is, if both sexes shave their pits in France, why do Americans think no one does? Maybe the French became self-conscious and are now overcompensating?

Suède

Last week I went on a four-day trip to Stockholm, Sweden with another assistant. I fell in love with the city. Seeing how Stockholm is much further north than Lille, one would think that it would be colder and have worse weather. We arrived to find the opposite.


Blue skies and cool ships were abundant.

This is Gamla Stan, the oldest part of Stockholm (note the sunshine and blue sky).

Not only was the weather in Stockholm better than back in France, but being in Stockholm also reminded me of things in France I thought were weird before, but am now accustomed to.

One thing that I noticed at the beginning, but forgot as time went on, is the fact that French people don’t dress colorfully. They pretty much only wear black, brown, grey, navy blue, white, and every other dark, dull color imaginable.

When I went to the movies with a French girl back in November, she said to me, “you’re always wearing bright colors!” Back home in California, I never thought twice about my colorful wardrobe. Here, in France, I stick out when I’m wearing things no one would think twice about in California, such as my bright purple t-shirt.

Although I haven’t bought many new clothes since moving to France, the color choices of my new outfits are subdued. The winter sweaters I bought are dark green and brown. My new boots are grey.

So imagine my surprise to be walking around a lovely, sunny city and seeing people dressed in every color found on the rainbow! I can’t remember the last time I saw someone wearing brightly colored jeans.

I decide to embrace the Swedes’ and my love for color. I bought a vintage, bright orange jacket.


I’ve worn it in France about three times now. Each time, one French person or another says, “wow! That’s a flashy jacket!”

You’re damn right it’s a flashy jacket.

Now, if only I could have brought the sunshine back with me as well. It's raining again in little old Lille.

Printemps

One of the reasons I put Lille, France as my top preference on my teaching application form was to experience “real” seasons. Having lived in Southern California for most of my life, my winters consisted of it being only slightly colder than my summers.

It has been six months, and I am sick of it being cold. J’en ai marre of grey, cloudy, cold days.

The week before my spring break trip to Malaga, Spain, I was on my tiny balcony with FBF and I remarked upon the newly grown green leaves on my ivy-covered wall.

“Bah, oui,” he replied, “c’est le printemps.” (Well, yeah, it is spring.)

“Ça n'est pas printemps!” I declaired, “Il fait trop froid pour être printemps!” (This isn’t spring! It’s too cold to be spring!)

Being stuck in the beginnings of the coldest spring of my life, I was looking forward to Spain. It was going to be warm there. I was going to be on the beach. It would be a much needed relief from the gloomy cold weather I’d been suffering from in little old Lille.

Although Spain was warm and beautiful, I now regret this decision. Lille feels even colder now than before I left. The temperature has stayed the same, in the 50s (Fahrenheit), but I think the temperory taste of warm Spanish weather reminded me of California, and now my body is refusing to readjust to the cold.

To make matters worse, neither of my radiators are producing heat. I’m pretty sure my landlords have turned the heat off. Because, you know, “it’s spring.”

It’s 56 degrees Fahrenheit today. I think it might actually be colder in my apartment. I’m wearing my 20 degrees below mummy bag while I sit at my desk typing this.

Oh warm weather and beach filled sunsets, how I miss thee.



The Mariott's Marbella Beach Resort where I stayed


The sun setting over the Mediterranean Sea