A Little Piece of Fat with your Split-Peas Soup

Bordeaux, Conquered. Next stop: Paris.

A thought on language barriers:

"I just found out 'Grasse' means fat! I've been running around saying, 'I'm a little piece of fat!'"
- Grace "Grasse" Humphries

For some reason, speaking French has become increasingly difficult (probably because I am trying to converse at Parisian rate, much faster than anywhere else), and I'm finding that there is an exponential correlation between how poorly I speak French and how funny the translation becomes. But more on that later. I am sorry for the obscene amount of time since my last post (in Paris, one week is an obscene amount of time), but it was the best I could do after a terrible ordeal of breaking my computer charger, spending three hours in two apple stores over four days, and finally, finally having access to a computer for the first time since Sunday. There is much for me to blog about from my last days in Bordeaux, and my first in Paris. There will be few pictures in this entry, and they will have to wait until I'm able to buy a new camera, as I also broke my camera last Friday. Electronics have not been my strong suit these past couple of days. So, bear with me. I'll try to keep things light and interesting.

The last bit of time spent in Bordeaux turned out to be full of sunshine, and full of time well-spent. On Friday, Hannah and I made our way down to Le Lac (literally, it's named "The Lake") and swam and dove in the perfect clear water before drying off by jogging in the nearby forest, finding a sunny spot of grass, doing some yoga, and sprawling out for some leisurely reading. Had my camera not died, it would have been the perfect afternoon, but I was granted one final picture to capture the beautiful weather and wonderful site. It was a welcome break from the old money and architecture that constantly surrounded us in Bordeaux. We were thrown back into that world the next day though, on our last full day before heading to Paris. The program took us to Saint-Émillion, another wine capital in South-Western France, but also home of a

medieval church fashioned out of one single, giant rock - essentially, it was carved out of a cliff face and tunnels into the earth. It really was quite interesting to see such ancient history, but it was at this point that I realized I've had quite enough of tourism and guided lectures - I much preferred getting to wander the vineyards and take in some mental pictures of some really beautiful things. I know, really I do, that there is value in understanding what it is I'm looking at and where it comes from. And I enjoy getting some basic information on my own time, based on what exactly I want to know. I guess I just really prefer to imagine why things were the way they were, and what people were doing thousands of years ago. But, this is why I'm a Drama major, and not a History major.

After heading home from our final group excursion, it really began to hit us all that we were about to start the journey we all came here for. Bordeaux was really nice. Really, really nice. But when you feel like you know a place after two weeks, maybe it's time to find some place a little bigger. After a long and tiring battle with my giant suitcase, giant backpack, and two carry-on items, it was into the tiny French car and on to the airport. A quick and sincere good-bye with my host mother left me glad that I had made the trip out to Bordeaux, but also incredibly excited for what would come next. Just an hour and a half later, our flight landed at Paris-Orly, where we were sorted by arrondissement and shuffled into various mini-vans to be taken to our new homes for the next four months. I hadn't had much anxiety leading up to this point, but seeing Paris for the first time in a van quickly approaching an unkown destination was too much for my weak little heart to handle. When we pulled up in front of my apartment building, I was in all-out panic mode. I struggled while punching in codes, trying to push open the door with my suitcase but not being quite able to navigate it through, punching in more codes, and finally getting to ring the doorbell at door 193. Opening the door was Ghislain, who grabbed my suitcase and showed me that waiting just inside was my other host father, Samir, and their one-year-old daughter Abigail (shout out to my dear friend Abby Jones) who was recently adopted from Haiti, and their nearly two-year-old son Nathaniel, whose surrogate mother is from India. Already I knew I was in the perfect place.

I have to take a break from my Parisian timeline and write more about my host family, because they are truly worth mentioning. I knew that my host family experience could make or break my entire semester abroad, because my main reason for choosing a program with a home-stay was to be regularly conversing in French and not have to worry about living on my own in a foreign country. It was so, so good to see that the view of France that I had gotten from Bordeaux - very conservative, slightly cold, upper class - was not the only one that exists. Far from it. My wonderful, wordly family takes me on walks to their favorite parks, they live in a down-to-earth, quaint residential appartment and are entirely middle class. They've done everything to welcome me, and it has reassured me that Paris is not some sort of mecca for high-fashion billionaires. It's varied, it's flawed, it's big and it's small, it's everything all at once. Ghislain and Samir also love to cook, are constantly making their own bread, sauces, hummus, and picking vegetables and fruits out of their garden. We eat vegetarian, because Ghislain is incredibly concerned with issues of animal (and human) rights, and thinks French people are crazy because they smoke all the time. They're constantly helping me with my French, like the time I accidentally said "Je suis fini" instead of "J'ai fini", meaning "I'm dead" rather than "I'm done". Whoops. But everything with them is lighthearted, and they love to try and improve

their English by translating things back and forth. Tonight, when Ghislain told me he had made Soupe des poids-cassés, he asked me the translation in English. I told him it was "Split-Pea Soup", to which Samir responded "Yes! Split-Pea Soup!". Ghislain, though, said "No, no. It's

Split-PEAS Soup. It's a plural!" And continued to repeat "Split-peas soup" over and over again. I didn't have the heart to tell him... And speaking of being lost in translation, I definitely don't speak Baby French. While I absolutely adore the two kids I'm living with, one doesn't speak yet, and the other speaks in terms that are incomprehensible to my barely-able-to-pick-up-adult-French ear. So far, I have been able to determine that "Bo-Bo" means "I have pain", "Ago" means "Again", and "No-No" means "My uncle". The rest is babble. But I probably sound just as incoherent to him, so it's a fair trade. The point is, I absolutely look forward to coming home at the end of every day. They've invited me to use the informal pronoun 'tu' rather than the more formal 'vous', which literally almost made me shed a tear or two, and I regularly watch TV with them after dinner (France beat Bosnia in the European Cup 2-0 on Tuesday, Allez!). I'm so lucky to be spending my time in Paris with some really incredible people.

Alright. I thought I'd be able to fit in all of my adventures in Paris so far, but I think it's too much. Part Two of Introduction to Parisian thoughts will come shortly.