The Adventure Begins: Paris, Part 1

These next few weeks are going to be mildly crazy--I'm traveling all about Europe with some study abroad friends.  These blog posts are just blurbs about what has been happening each day, and I make no promises as to the interesting-ness of their content, as I am generally exhausted when I write them.

Paris, Day 1

     I have made a new rule for traveling. Never, ever book a flight before 10am, because otherwise the entire first day will be hazed over by a sleepy fog.  For some reason, my travels in Italy had not hammered this lesson home, so we booked a flight for the terrifying hour of 9:30 (implying a wake-up alarm of 5:30). I woke up in a sleep-deprived stupor after a mere three hours of shut-eye, galumphed my way to a taxi with Megan and Megan, and somehow made it through security without falling over. It was a struggle.

We landed in Paris just as I was getting queasy from the turbulence.  The Beauvais airport is tiny, and prohibitively far away from Paris itself. Thankfully, the airport provided an overpriced bus service, and we made it into Paris proper.

        I was very, very surprised at my first impression. I don’t think I expected Paris to be so very large, or so very French. Dublin is a quite manageable size, as is Boston—the only two cities I am familiar with.  Apparently, though, Paris was not designed with “walking distance” in mind, because everything is spread out and travel time can be considerable.  It’s so French, too—it has such a different feel from Dublin, which is basically an American city with more beer.  But Paris is distinctively different, even moreso than Italy, where the larger cities felt like they were populated more by tourists than locals.

     After containing our astonishment at the mere size of the city, I apprehensively approached some French people for directions.  After all the stories and stereotypes, I had expected snooty French people who looked down on Americans and were unhelpful, rude, and had greasy hair, but I found quite the opposite. Everyone I talked to (and I asked at least five people for directions!) was unfailingly friendly and helpful; their graciousness was overwhelming.  (Also, nobody had unusually greasy hair.)

     It took about forty-five minutes to get from the bus stop to the hostel—like I said, Paris is big!—where we were met by a rather snarky guy who gave us our room key and gleefully informed us that our room was number 18…seven floors up.  It was pure misery, until a random guy walking up the stairs grabbed some of our bags for us. I was so impressed, because the stairs were really steep and awful, but he was so nice about it.  We also met our roommate, Lucas from Argentina.  We decided he looked trustworthy, probably because he was cute, and figured we could leave our stuff safely in the room with him.  Thankfully, it turned out that attractiveness level does indicate honesty, and none of our things were misplaced while we were gone.

     We sank into our beds, ready for a nap, but decided to visit Notre Dame instead.  All I could think of was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and the whole time I imagined a squat little man jumping around the rooftop and swinging from gargoyles.  The church itself was very pretty, but we were too late to climb to the belltowers, so we rescheduled that activity for tomorrow morning.

Notre Dame itself.

The interior of Notre Dame, viewed from behind the main corridor.

    We journeyed from Notre Dame to my favorite place in the world—Angelina.  This is literally the best hot chocolate shop on this planet. I am not joking.  The hot chocolate is outrageously expensive (8 euros, what?!?!) but completely worth it. I swear, it’s 70% pure dark chocolate and 30% heavy cream.  We entered the shop and the waiters promptly escorted us upstairs, away from all the rich-looking, nicely dressed customers to a more casual nook.  When the hot chocolate finally arrived, my mind melted. I’ve never tasted anything as thick, creamy, chocolatey, or heavenly. It’s even better than cheesecake. We took bites and our eyelashes involuntarily fluttered in delight. I’m sure we looked quite ridiculous, and the French ladies seated next to us certainly raised their eyebrows when we started scraping the hot chocolate pots, but we didn’t care.  It was heaven on earth, and we paid 8 whole euros for it.  We’ll scrape all we want.

The hot chocolate pot. Yum yum.

     We emerged from Angelina with tummies full and contented smiles plastered over our sleepy faces.  We wandered into the garden attached to the Louvre, and just walked around, admiring its elegance and mocking the modern art statues.  The sun was out, but rain started to sprinkle, and we saw a full rainbow arc over the Louvre

Modern art validates clumsiness.  (Disclaimer: I have no idea what this statue is actually about. It just looks like me when I fall down the stairs.

After such gorgeousness, we were completely exhausted, and schlumped back to our hostel and passed out. Well, almost—first I wrote this blog post. I’m sorry for its incoherency; I am extremely tired.   And now, to bed! Tomorrow shall be the Notre Dame towers, the Montmartre (famous arts district), and a yummy lunch. I am very excited.

Paris, Day 2

     After climbing all 120 stairs to our hostel room, I am officially exhausted.  Completely, 100% tuckered out. Today was wonderful, but all I want to do is sleep.

     A few things first: 1. Paris people have still been nice! All, that is, except for the people who run our hostel. They are snarky, rude, and unhelpful. But it’s one of the cheaper hostels in Paris, so I suppose you get what you pay for. Also, the hostel itself is awful; the light in our bathroom doesn’t work at all, there is no elevator option for the 120 stairs, and the only place with internet is the slimy bar area downstairs.  The “Peace and Love Hostel” is very improperly named. 2. I feel weirdly guilty for not speaking French. Not because of the way people have treated me—everyone has been unfailingly gracious—but because I feel bad for forcing them to speak in a foreign tongue without even attempting French.  I’m coming here, invading their space, and then forcing them to concede; how is that fair? My blatant American-ness makes me so uncomfortable.

     The first thing we did today was visit the Conciergerie, the prison where Marie Antoinette and other famous political prisoners were held and executed. The lady at the desk was very nice, and gave us free entrance because of our EU student ID cards, even though technically only EU citizens got free access.  The security guard who took our tickets told me that my curly hair was beautiful, and that Megan and I were both gorgeous.  We were pretty happy, and I proceeded to walk around the prison flipping my hair like a sorority girl.

     The Conciergerie was surprisingly depressing; we saw the prisons where thousands of people were kept before being guillotined, and the courts where people saw their families for the last time, a recreation of Marie Antoinette’s cell, and the room where thousands were condemned during the French Revolution.

After that happy episode, we had the chance to throw ourselves off the roof of Notre Dame. Not really—the guides made sure that no one recreated any scenes from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and fenced in everyone like we were five years old.  The view from the belltower, though, was exquisitely beautiful, although the mean people at the ticket office made us pay 5 euros to climb the 400 or so stairs to get there.  It wasn’t as high up as the ones I climbed in Italy, but the amount of detail in this church is unbelievable.  Notre Dame was built in the 1300s, and I am astounded by how architecturally detailed it is. Flying buttresses, cool spire-y things, intricate carvings—it has everything.  My favorite part, though, was the gargoyles.  In the Hunchback of Notre Dame, you see all these weird-looking gargoyles, and you think, nah, that’s not in real life. Oh no, it definitely is.  Each gargoyle is weird in a unique way. Some were shaped like pelicans, others like animals, one was eating a dog, another was sticking out its tongue—walking around the belltower was fascinating.

Gargoyle chewing a dog.

Watching over the city.

     Our next stop was the first (and probably only) “fancy” Paris meal we would have.  Although it was moderately-to-low priced for a Paris restaurant, it was very expensive for our budgets, which is why it was an only-once venture. It was so worth it, though.  We arrived in the restaurant, I said “Bonjour” to the waiter, and apparently butchered the pronunciation so badly that he immediately asked if we wanted an English menu. Then Megan said “Merci,” and he asked her if she spoke French. Life is unfair.

     For the first dish, the appetizer-type things, Megan got a delicious butternut squash soup, and I got an interesting rabbit “turrine,” which I still don’t actually know what it is.  We then both got amazing roast duck breast with the cheesiest mashed potatoes I have ever seen.  The waiter brought them over in the pot for us to see, and when he scooped them up, they dripped back down in strings like cheese. They were heaven.   Dessert, however, was the crowning glory—mousse.  Oh, the chocolate mousse.  It was dense but light, the most wonderful confection I will ever eat.  They brought out an enormous bowl for both of us, and though we are both chocolate fiends, we could only finish half of it.  I will remember that mousse forever.

As much as I wanted to, though, I didn’t take food pictures in the restaurant.  It was far too classy for that, and I was already feeling underdressed and awkward in my sneakers.  Megan and I spoke almost in whispers so that the French people wouldn’t hear that we were Americans and judge us.  We also ate as properly as we could manage, and I very much regretted ignoring my father’s instructions about how to put your fork on your plate when you are finished, etc.  I am now determined to go to manners school so whenever I visit Paris again, I do not embarrass myself.

     We then wandered around the Opera House, which was undergoing construction and therefore only of middling impressiveness, and headed to Montmartre/ Sancre-Couer, the famous touristy arts district on a hill that overlooks Paris.  We had aimed to watch the sunset from the hill, but we had brought Dublin weather with us—the sky was completely covered in gray rainy clouds.  So instead we wandered around the area and looked at mini bedazzled models of the Eiffel Tower.  We also found a chocolate shop that had unbelievable sculptures made entirely of chocolate.

Sacre-Couer!

This. Face.

We climbed alllll the way to the top.

The view from the top.

Pretty Megan!

Chocolate ship sculpture. I am still amazed.

Megan and I were completely full from our mousse adventures, and so thankfully did not get any chocolate despite being sorely tempted. We headed back to the hostel, met Breanna, and crashed.  Tomorrow is another early morning—Versailles all day, woohoo! Better get some rest before then. Night night!

Slope Day, Trinity Style: Trinity Ball

 
     It seems that the scholastic tradition of partying it up on the last day of classes is not limited to Cornell. Trinity puts on a similar event, with a veneer of classiness that Cornell lacks. Cornell's response to the end of classes is to bribe a big-name artist to the cornfields of New York, set up him at the bottom of a big hill, and let him sing to a very large crowd of very inebriated college students.  Somehow, though, the Cornell administration wildly misjudges the character of its student body and always gets a very gangster rapper to perform at our very white, very nerdy Ivy League school for Slope Day.
     While I usually find it difficult to appreciate rap to begin with, it becomes exceedingly more offensive once you realize that the exorbitantly-priced entertainer is actually lip-syncing the concert. The whole time. You're not even really singing--you're just mumbling unintelligibly, gesturing inappropriately toward your crotch, and getting drunk sorority to dance around you. My tuition pays for the hundreds of thousands of dollars you require, and you can't even rap properly for us?
     Needless to say, this has been a sore point in a campus where the only people who listen to rap live in fraternity houses and will be too drunk to remember anything that happens on the infamous Slope Day.  So far, Nelly and Taio Cruz have proved disappointments, and this year's Kendrick Lamar isn't looking any better.
      Trinity, however, has provided a much more elegant solution. Instead of washed-up rappers whose only talent is profanity, they booked big-name artists who can actually sing and play instruments (imagine that!).  The event is black tie, giving it a veneer of class that the blackout-drunk Slope Day totally lacks.
     Trinity Ball is the biggest party of the year, and is held on the last day of classes.  The College is completely shut down, and stages are thrown up in every square for the different performers and DJs--this year's headliners were Imagine Dragons and Ellie Goulding. Ticket sales happen waaaaaay in advance; I bought my (very expensive) ticket back in February. It's so popular that they sell 4,000 tickets in the first ten minutes. A total of 6,000 people end up at Trinity Ball every year, making it the largest private party in Europe.
      The few weeks before the ball are the biggest boon for stores--practically every store catered to females advertises its fancy dresses as "Trinity Ball material," and promises free manicures and bikini waxes to go along with your purchase.  I was extremely lucky and found my dress for five euros at a thrift store, but such bargains were few and far between. It did make me feel better about purchasing such an exorbitantly-priced ticket, though!

We're so classy!

.....and Janet photobombs

     Now, you can only enter the ball from 10pm-midnight, so generally people hang out beforehand. We all ate dinner at a yummy restaurant with mean waiters who criticized my choice of pizza (4 cheese pizza is not "so American," thank you very much) and wouldn't let us split the bill ("it is, ze imposible" said our Italian waiter). Then we went home and coated our faces with makeup until we deemed ourselves passable, squirmed into our dresses, put on uncomfortable shoes, and voila! Ready for the all-night ball.
     Despite all of the sage advice from veteran Ball-goers, I decided that I could definitely last the night in heels no problem. It didn't matter that I am the most ungraceful clod who ever walked the earth, and high heels multiply this effect--no. I could do it, and I would look awesome.
      I had walked only five minutes to a pre-Ball party before I regretted this decision with my whole being.  My feet were in serious pain, but I looked beautiful, so it didn't matter, right?
     Wrong. So so wrong. There is nothing attractive about a girl who hobbles down the street like her toes have fallen off.  Thankfully, I got my friend to bring my flats for me, but that hour in heels was pure misery.

Pre-Trinity-Ball craziness.

     Finally, I made it past the ticketing and pat-downs and entered Trinity. It was so cool. I don't really have pictures since it was dark, but the entire front square was lit up with multicolored lights and projecters, and thousands of people milled around the squares, heading to the different stages to dance or listen to music.  And the music was surprisingly good--these bands could actually sing!  There were shows booked through the night; while the last act ended at 4:30am, the campus officially closed at 6am, but people actually left at 7am. I wimped out and only made it through 4:15ish, but I was pretty proud of myself for staying awake that long.
      Although many, many people were drunk, it at least felt classy with all the men in their tuxes and all the ladies in their elegant attire.  Some poor souls wore sky-high heels but unfortunately did not bring flats, but Trinity came to the rescue and sold flats throughout the night (the best business idea).  I wandered from tent to tent with some friends, listened to fantastic music, and danced the night away. It was freezing cold, though, much colder than usual, so most people were jammed inside tents trying to mass huddle instead of braving the Arctic conditions.  This meant that most of the tents were at full capacity, and security guards would block you from entering, so you were never quite sure once you left a tent if you could get back in.
      The only downside was, per usual, the restroom situation. Despite the dozens of buildings with restrooms surrounding us, we had to use very glamorous port-a-potties.  When I say "we," I mean the ladies.  The men generally used the fence right next door as their own private bathroom. I swear there was more pee on the ground than in the port-a-potties.
       Despite the dreadful bathrooms, the largest private party in Europe proved to be an incredible success. It was great craic, and I am so glad I went.

Curly-haired maidens unite! You have nothing to lose but the Little-Orphan-Annie stereotypes.

Current update: Megan (my very good friend from high school) is here! She escaped to Galway while I finished up papers last week, but she returned on Saturday to join me for some Dublin adventures.  Additionally, she will accompany us on our three-week Europe trip.  Speaking of which, we are leaving Tuesday for this trip, and I could not be more excited. We're visiting Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich, and Prague before exams begin.  I swear my suitcase holds more weight in camera batteries than clothes. (This is actually completely false. Anybody who knows me knows that I always, always overpack.)

Three Month Reflections

     I've been in Ireland for almost three months, and in that time I have completed a record number of Life Lessons.  A few of these are recorded below, in no particular order.

1.Guinness can taste good sometimes. In Beef and Guinness stew and in no other context.

2. It is impossible for me to drink a glass of water without spilling some of it on my shirt.

3. Watching your personality change is weird and kind of scary, but it's not always bad. Since being here, I've watched my whole self tone down, and my conflict-resolution skills have skyrocketed. I'm the one that gets along with pretty much everyone, and that is a new thing for me, but I like it a lot! Changing isn't a bad thing--it just means I'm growing up.

4. Blogging is a surprisingly effective procrastination technique.

5. Sometimes, there is nothing you can do to help. You can only comfort.

6. The Lindy Hop is not impossible to dance.  I used to be dreadfully afraid that someone would ask me to dance at swing dances, and would try to dance the Lindy Hop with me, and I would fall and disgrace my family name. This fear was very rational, as it stemmed from some particularly traumatic experiences. However, a three-hour practice session did the trick, and now I am very competent!

7. Experiences are more important than grades.

8. There is nothing you can do to make a mean person nice, or force an unreasonable person to see reason. 

9. I am so, so glad I am an engineer. This semester has been a nice break from the incessant problem sets, but I have never been so ready to return to the world of math-based classes. While I don't mind a few papers, this overload of writing assignments has withered the math side of my brain.  I never want to write another paper again.

10. Art can be interesting.  Believe it or not, this is a new insight for me.

11. Both mud-stained and colored-Holi-powder-stained clothes require at least three cycles in the wash before they're clean.

12. If someone talks to you repeatedly in class, this does not necessarily mean they want to be your friend.  My lack of Irish friends is more than a bit galling now--after three months, you'd figure I would have made some Irish besties by now. However, Irish friends have proven to be more elusive than a unicorn. I can now talk to two people outside of class without it being awkward.

13. I have visited a country without a McDonald's. My life now has meaning. Thank you, Vatican City!

14. The weather in Ireland is really, really terrible. I asked  my Irish friends when it would finally be warm enough to go outside without a coat. One of them said you can sometimes swap your winter coat for a rain coat in June. The other said that during the first two weeks of June, if it's sunny all day, for two or three hours in the afternoon I could go outside without a coat.

A Holi Easter

    For anyone who regularly reads this blog, I apologize for the infrequency of my updates.  I've had seven essays and one problem set due during the last three weeks of class, so my life has been insanely busy as I try to balance getting all my work done with having fun too.  Aside from the disgusting amount of essays I've written recently, I thought I would give a semi-interesting update on what has been going on.

    Wednesday was Holi, the Indian Festival of Color.  This festival essentially entails lots of people throwing colored powder at each other.  I've seen the festival every year at Cornell, but have never gone, so I thought I would take the opportunity to go while at Trinity.  The aftermath of the festival is very visible--loads of people who look like very sick Martians walk around campus as though this was a normal occurrence. On Wednesday, I was one of those people.
     On Holi, people wear their oldest clothes, because you can be guaranteed they will be destroyed from all the colored powder. Not wanting to trash any of my nice clothes, I decided to go in an old T-shirt and jeans. The only problem was that it was a shocking number of degrees below freezing. But hey, I thought, I'm practically an adult now. I can totally handle it. So I stood shivering in line for twenty minutes until they finally let us in, handed us bags of pink powder, and told us to wait.
     Of course, nobody really waited; instead we used the powder to give each other war paint. My application was not entirely successful.

   We counted down until we could throw all the powder, and then the madness began.

   
     Then I got trampled. While I usually exaggerate for the sake of humor, in this instance I am telling the complete truth--I was trampled.  Indian music started playing, and everyone started to dance. Somehow I got shoved and fell down (this is my pride speaking. Technically, I just fell over.) and people started stepping on me and crushing me. It was surprisingly frightening; I just curled up into a ball until someone noticed that the exceptionally soft cobblestones they were dancing on was actually a girl.
     After I was rescued, it also started to snow, which seems cool but was actually agonizingly cold.  The crazy Dublin weather did not put a dent in our spirits, though, and we danced and threw colored powder like nobody's business.

Before.

After. The mud stain on my shirt is the product of the trampling incident.

Dancing to Bollywood music.

More dancing!

    Yesterday was also an important day. Sunday, March 31st, 2013 marks the day that Lauren officially transitioned into adulthood. It was the day I cooked my first roasting meat by myself. Now, for someone who cooks far too often, it sounds strange to say that I've never really cooked meat, but it's true. Aside from fried chicken and the occasional meat in soups, my dad has always cooked the pot roasts, turkeys, hams, and every other "big" meat for holidays. Now, however, I can officially join the ranks of adults worldwide after I cooked the ham for Easter.
     My study abroad program had decided to do a potluck for Easter, and I foolishly agreed to do the meat. The second after I volunteered, I realized that despite my cooking experience, I actually had no idea how to cook that by myself.  So I frantically emailed my dad, asked him every sort of question on how to make roast beef, and filled my Google history with queries like "how to cook beef" and "what spices to rub on roast beef." Then I went to the grocery store and got ham instead, because I had waited too late and they were out of beefs.  This led to another furious hour of googling "how to cook uncooked ham" and other such questions. Usually, the ham we get in the US is precooked, or at least partially cooked, but this baby was completely raw. If even my father had never done it before, how on earth was I going to cook this ham and still have it be palatable?
     Thankfully, Google turned out to be the best resource in the world, and the ham was fantastic. Amazing. Better than any precooked ham I've never had.  I am so glad the grocery store was out of roast beef, because that yummy ham has gotten me admission in the secret club of adults. I can now walk down the street and think, "Yes, yes I can cook a large roast of meat by myself. I know you're impressed and probably envious. You should be." (Disclaimer: I am not actually that arrogant.)
       Unfortunately, I forgot to properly document this great endeavor, so I only have slightly blurry pictures of a piece of ham on someone's plate. The memory is enough for me (along with all the leftovers!).

My triumph.

     The potluck was amazing. We had so much food--ham, biscuits, scalloped potatoes, sheperd's pie, green bean casserole, mac & cheese, pasta salad, quiche, bruschetta, Caesar salad, cheesecake, chocolate cake, apple pie, and cookie dough that never quite made it to the oven. It was incredibly yummy, and when we all finished eating we lay there like bloated slugs. I never wanted to move again.

Waiting for the ham to finish.

Coloring after the feast.Yes, we do have a coloring book and crayons, and no, we are not ashamed.

Naptime!

Cradling my food baby.

*Note: Holi pictures 2-6 were stolen from the University Times.