tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76363297757912051382024-03-05T11:17:08.365-08:00A Cup of VichyssoiseJohannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-24146124798166282542012-04-28T06:33:00.000-07:002012-04-28T06:33:14.048-07:00Floating Around<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5NzFgHnu6n49pbSW1ogu4Xgark9t9jqtq_mqeh71ec7y7YoJdlbupn_2H6lR-F63pE6HjVqrz1v8jCO0lH0Erp6AQWFtXrEyrkSs8bgij1OoszL6aWndlc3HVrb6K0zuEm3H9wzWSnUk/s1600/100_7082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5NzFgHnu6n49pbSW1ogu4Xgark9t9jqtq_mqeh71ec7y7YoJdlbupn_2H6lR-F63pE6HjVqrz1v8jCO0lH0Erp6AQWFtXrEyrkSs8bgij1OoszL6aWndlc3HVrb6K0zuEm3H9wzWSnUk/s640/100_7082.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura is back in Vichy! She's been here for the past three weeks, greatly increasing my daily intake of chocolate.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shortly after Laura got back, I went to Montpellier with Cambray, in the south of France.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cambray in sunlight. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fountains in Montpellier reminded me of Italy, but the architecture was like Paris.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then I went to Moulins, a small town a half-hour north of me.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French alleys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was there with one of the English Teachers at the high school and another English assistant. Those huge boards were the menus. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6S7H8EgKRtG9BkETY1mWLeshslYO9sM-EHHrU6BPOoxHJj53eNF2UnMcnMySrdinrjppwQauu4bysghgQ-EmMWHoH_Teih0DJWT-AIT3gdZ-E8X83BOdfcNXU0cVI3CPPCKiEJApvdLb/s1600/100_7136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6S7H8EgKRtG9BkETY1mWLeshslYO9sM-EHHrU6BPOoxHJj53eNF2UnMcnMySrdinrjppwQauu4bysghgQ-EmMWHoH_Teih0DJWT-AIT3gdZ-E8X83BOdfcNXU0cVI3CPPCKiEJApvdLb/s640/100_7136.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There they are! We also went to the costume museum behind them.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day after Moulins I headed up to Paris to take a plane to London. After making it to my hostel around 10pm, I woke up three blocks from Kensington Palace.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy crowd for the changing of the guards, which apparently happens four times a week. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic London? Do I have the right to make that claim?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Thumbs Up</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proof that I was there.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Favorite Street.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNnaWViHmCGKwCc0uZmiqBT5Gx8DsupqOB2g_gBPqTVCaHtKX4BQgYIy9Ia2QNAB-tHx8hpfkNrwhno2ZOqyR08tr7pUJP7lye7LGT6N35sxH0y8mm1s9TKmjHAlvhRiY9Grlz7CgC21U/s1600/100_7239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNnaWViHmCGKwCc0uZmiqBT5Gx8DsupqOB2g_gBPqTVCaHtKX4BQgYIy9Ia2QNAB-tHx8hpfkNrwhno2ZOqyR08tr7pUJP7lye7LGT6N35sxH0y8mm1s9TKmjHAlvhRiY9Grlz7CgC21U/s640/100_7239.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQH82l5TumfOJNur2oiyk-V8cULFhNMBHSAPn-d_PNTpNQUPYWWnyFhHskDZlmLWYpQ60vbTVj2twJMEzEGgkfJipWJ8BzlgJp5hJrOnI0wOnUX3aOpW2PfC4GwJkaUlLCOwUIn-4vBw3/s1600/100_7240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQH82l5TumfOJNur2oiyk-V8cULFhNMBHSAPn-d_PNTpNQUPYWWnyFhHskDZlmLWYpQ60vbTVj2twJMEzEGgkfJipWJ8BzlgJp5hJrOnI0wOnUX3aOpW2PfC4GwJkaUlLCOwUIn-4vBw3/s640/100_7240.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9I0xjTSUYcoKYLis7WhzUetZicc8pl4_HQZc7p_lq68TBIhY-uohPnxkIoVmqQYRQIZRN2RB-jnbF2tBObwp6P85mwGpOjqbNZeIBxnwMySaiZWX0Sfj6RqXifyH8S2m69R__ed3yUtY/s1600/100_7253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9I0xjTSUYcoKYLis7WhzUetZicc8pl4_HQZc7p_lq68TBIhY-uohPnxkIoVmqQYRQIZRN2RB-jnbF2tBObwp6P85mwGpOjqbNZeIBxnwMySaiZWX0Sfj6RqXifyH8S2m69R__ed3yUtY/s640/100_7253.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those outdoor perch-bars were all over.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasCQwQxcqffI95qg-kYIDep0H454bFrpk2hY35HRSaeA2H7EG_OFKMzNkR-syS5b15u91pufWfrx9U7Ww60qjnwm2lUN0xHnnKi8COAkbMUZm-LnZk3pyyFLoq7OD82-g60buSYUiZN37/s1600/100_7261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasCQwQxcqffI95qg-kYIDep0H454bFrpk2hY35HRSaeA2H7EG_OFKMzNkR-syS5b15u91pufWfrx9U7Ww60qjnwm2lUN0xHnnKi8COAkbMUZm-LnZk3pyyFLoq7OD82-g60buSYUiZN37/s640/100_7261.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obligatory photo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIslLjbbhwjMt8JnQc2w91wI0cmEsPH2Elu2nRSR8uBcuOBV7ze0Bxoa7oMQfxhOLNNSOLRQPNkC8W0gNwHfR_a8001xSCj4Qs5LoeSkGsjIeBKSOFlCFQVB7qMHUhIhaYVqb-S7sV-oH-/s1600/100_7277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIslLjbbhwjMt8JnQc2w91wI0cmEsPH2Elu2nRSR8uBcuOBV7ze0Bxoa7oMQfxhOLNNSOLRQPNkC8W0gNwHfR_a8001xSCj4Qs5LoeSkGsjIeBKSOFlCFQVB7qMHUhIhaYVqb-S7sV-oH-/s640/100_7277.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bourrough Market, located beneath train tracks.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UEt7ioDrZIV0kXjmcCy7uJYwSMzouYQlhPTB57guJurc3llXNvn5B_J_XHLhhtJiWbynWn5nhYUvBW83aN6w9bCv-RsAo_Ir9fU9ZqzhZENOCUk-rOy-XLEZHRfMw9EKC1FKunwioxBW/s1600/100_7280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UEt7ioDrZIV0kXjmcCy7uJYwSMzouYQlhPTB57guJurc3llXNvn5B_J_XHLhhtJiWbynWn5nhYUvBW83aN6w9bCv-RsAo_Ir9fU9ZqzhZENOCUk-rOy-XLEZHRfMw9EKC1FKunwioxBW/s640/100_7280.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyERjtc9lIvhX28B8biHnq-OgqEG4vIb_qbxH6Ok55tQBytZCr-Q8vs2VIMMW3Qp6_ihWFJWnV91PE7iDWV3YT6_t6jamdLCwdO9wuv2xgASvAb912IXSqaxXo3BSJpBHbC4ZbNoRQlwLc/s1600/100_7293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyERjtc9lIvhX28B8biHnq-OgqEG4vIb_qbxH6Ok55tQBytZCr-Q8vs2VIMMW3Qp6_ihWFJWnV91PE7iDWV3YT6_t6jamdLCwdO9wuv2xgASvAb912IXSqaxXo3BSJpBHbC4ZbNoRQlwLc/s640/100_7293.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And my heart grew three sizes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpK6NYMJN3Tc1VZC0oYPRt5LsB1S83gNlxfb1VRSmeQNcE5CmZNqXAgVuCewMOUa-AiHGPBAxhrSCma2A1msZMmQovJ5t2gF_pQ25wDyS-E9Mxl-RbbjgBr7bADjWqgSGXaral4p4jRV25/s1600/100_7295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpK6NYMJN3Tc1VZC0oYPRt5LsB1S83gNlxfb1VRSmeQNcE5CmZNqXAgVuCewMOUa-AiHGPBAxhrSCma2A1msZMmQovJ5t2gF_pQ25wDyS-E9Mxl-RbbjgBr7bADjWqgSGXaral4p4jRV25/s640/100_7295.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For Liz, who loves tea-ware, and my family, who loves tea. Located in Portobello Market.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXFb8Nr9TkvfVU_2JKljnExdz9vqIHnyt2MbQxPVTrkYQMLEZ_1o09FysgXPoUswtllbfNM9Dp4ZUgxBnH2F0PJmYDgcb8TqqQX9rdBFVzPia2PNmQTDToSEgc09Dlj0WnCLWreo8C9k4/s1600/100_7299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXFb8Nr9TkvfVU_2JKljnExdz9vqIHnyt2MbQxPVTrkYQMLEZ_1o09FysgXPoUswtllbfNM9Dp4ZUgxBnH2F0PJmYDgcb8TqqQX9rdBFVzPia2PNmQTDToSEgc09Dlj0WnCLWreo8C9k4/s640/100_7299.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch at the Victoria and Albert Museum.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1eOYAYU6U5uzcHOjuz-sCgpf2kZqseaRF4Of7GnT4Ii3DHZSnD0f7MtLUhqv1e63QWzmFaBzd00C8BuQVS0yRghZAlMii5uS5F7zh9KfmQ0XjVPgPXrOZ345ervO77p3FsH7lWhEUqNf/s1600/100_7322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1eOYAYU6U5uzcHOjuz-sCgpf2kZqseaRF4Of7GnT4Ii3DHZSnD0f7MtLUhqv1e63QWzmFaBzd00C8BuQVS0yRghZAlMii5uS5F7zh9KfmQ0XjVPgPXrOZ345ervO77p3FsH7lWhEUqNf/s640/100_7322.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then I went to Edinburgh, Scotland. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsKmdBYmlJplyFrlBh64C0PQeSOTvH3YbM-dgt53EnLPeHUCyP7CEbLPCwkXij_lM95BOAqGLQPXJG3cM7Qa-rJhCT6QCvm37pYrJA8_yOph5NNkBTqJ3z26oQviwzEGbUM_HjlCUpJOrZ/s1600/100_7328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsKmdBYmlJplyFrlBh64C0PQeSOTvH3YbM-dgt53EnLPeHUCyP7CEbLPCwkXij_lM95BOAqGLQPXJG3cM7Qa-rJhCT6QCvm37pYrJA8_yOph5NNkBTqJ3z26oQviwzEGbUM_HjlCUpJOrZ/s640/100_7328.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the mix of old with new blew my young, American mind.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdOjhwTMiEdZdhzZjYMbe076w-wyUpIqBDLGNWF9arkb5aT5a_qmmkvoJaf4lIPtB7cyKL3N3YpaMqRsv7NDoBbteYTW8fOsKoB3LVOcRwIUusstNiPCjn7EQH3qZHJQYEfoGYmCto_mo/s1600/100_7342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdOjhwTMiEdZdhzZjYMbe076w-wyUpIqBDLGNWF9arkb5aT5a_qmmkvoJaf4lIPtB7cyKL3N3YpaMqRsv7NDoBbteYTW8fOsKoB3LVOcRwIUusstNiPCjn7EQH3qZHJQYEfoGYmCto_mo/s640/100_7342.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I arrived at my hostel at night and this dark alley was twinkling and historical.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_N-yrTGezOnkQbROnhPWOeVfF0J-sVrU9sdKJBWSO0c7hSp-YWW7ssvPaxgCRCMj5luuhm7_l9q3qkTf73Vr0cxAIkzOuo2U-40kQMVSlewiPnokxd43BRsJPh67W9nAIHJPC9QrmCbH/s1600/100_7344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_N-yrTGezOnkQbROnhPWOeVfF0J-sVrU9sdKJBWSO0c7hSp-YWW7ssvPaxgCRCMj5luuhm7_l9q3qkTf73Vr0cxAIkzOuo2U-40kQMVSlewiPnokxd43BRsJPh67W9nAIHJPC9QrmCbH/s640/100_7344.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happened upon this plaque and had a stroke.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxUuocOClhv8mcNQ08DhUHhkZnS9Qve0qlJoLTguizsSQt8d8KxgpzkY6qnB8_pp2HT6wCJaEUylIqOFmWDFOUgnbVxf124KQ2evc76kn3Bnnqfi5aL8BghC0H99vIH3jH-IkbeDrGLOA/s1600/100_7345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxUuocOClhv8mcNQ08DhUHhkZnS9Qve0qlJoLTguizsSQt8d8KxgpzkY6qnB8_pp2HT6wCJaEUylIqOFmWDFOUgnbVxf124KQ2evc76kn3Bnnqfi5aL8BghC0H99vIH3jH-IkbeDrGLOA/s640/100_7345.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Srsly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7idsKygueWPAqNCwc-Hmc-171r5-797Iy938plvhkj82xClpFVVvsbnvlVUwwC29_OLpTMsapDBpiaqNM5qVs_MPcoy-Xl6MkU5lpqmVe51tGDicdUxlL-uY5PfKpIU5GFTkqQT0p1std/s1600/100_7365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7idsKygueWPAqNCwc-Hmc-171r5-797Iy938plvhkj82xClpFVVvsbnvlVUwwC29_OLpTMsapDBpiaqNM5qVs_MPcoy-Xl6MkU5lpqmVe51tGDicdUxlL-uY5PfKpIU5GFTkqQT0p1std/s640/100_7365.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch at Harry's birthplace.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6nAETlUAYMl4t6UW9J2fUfSOQ5GicrqcpIqvWRp-5DcfUXC-6TrrsHR3HyayqGogfXiS2JKpb4I_epwgAiLHPuwy4foYtmp752fnRWjwd3wGTLDdXXdpAW_Te5kzjjFCEDOyYjuE35mC/s1600/100_7366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6nAETlUAYMl4t6UW9J2fUfSOQ5GicrqcpIqvWRp-5DcfUXC-6TrrsHR3HyayqGogfXiS2JKpb4I_epwgAiLHPuwy4foYtmp752fnRWjwd3wGTLDdXXdpAW_Te5kzjjFCEDOyYjuE35mC/s640/100_7366.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitting where JK sat, looking at what JK looked at.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCN4yWYCO2R-8qJsxO7sub3-hz7UD7Psdv2-k4fOP20CrsCpNzaXn4ZxgKfYtMbi12KyvsU5jdm1_0Jx19cvBvf2AzyBh48ughujEIq2lW7Dig2JJeQt7-J8Zh4iHnVKlEiYHFGSE0ULR/s1600/100_7368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCN4yWYCO2R-8qJsxO7sub3-hz7UD7Psdv2-k4fOP20CrsCpNzaXn4ZxgKfYtMbi12KyvsU5jdm1_0Jx19cvBvf2AzyBh48ughujEIq2lW7Dig2JJeQt7-J8Zh4iHnVKlEiYHFGSE0ULR/s640/100_7368.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I could have slept in this bathroom.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRFwYujNBsG3PJ8lpPyGhMMqkdBMlojW6Gn7LjT0JCOqTVzE1MDPF0XJ3ODEmPtmeOZwgxiwroxN81Bs7uEYmx97niCOkwuHyXMi0xikd9hh5-O82edUkhGdfKZGHfxGeEv-SLLQP0mYNa/s1600/100_7370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRFwYujNBsG3PJ8lpPyGhMMqkdBMlojW6Gn7LjT0JCOqTVzE1MDPF0XJ3ODEmPtmeOZwgxiwroxN81Bs7uEYmx97niCOkwuHyXMi0xikd9hh5-O82edUkhGdfKZGHfxGeEv-SLLQP0mYNa/s640/100_7370.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite message was "Thanks for giving me my favorite place in my mind!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGs-TTzIuyGjKqoMyKnLIJ5_vagcNihtLDrQd5RbwDQGu1hUhrU4HR-_gsoKnz1k__cYxKHgcgsinWyvoKz_8W_NuTL7Tpz3q8_duusU4AVuiEIYYrIFLWfs0JD5D7dT8SDcAi2OiHaE5/s1600/100_7378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGs-TTzIuyGjKqoMyKnLIJ5_vagcNihtLDrQd5RbwDQGu1hUhrU4HR-_gsoKnz1k__cYxKHgcgsinWyvoKz_8W_NuTL7Tpz3q8_duusU4AVuiEIYYrIFLWfs0JD5D7dT8SDcAi2OiHaE5/s640/100_7378.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the ceiling of Scotland's National Museum.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuC0ta6q0lD9YID4QPs5DmWQJQ150IC2Ud8HhxgOeqN3yrA6oARooVmUCkG4X8nsRs05tE-S-_IxQliVAPOnlDl9NwX712oyz_pHXMbjl44OGYDukcLt0VEfZel88Y3k0VG3ivs9JwyOQI/s1600/100_7395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuC0ta6q0lD9YID4QPs5DmWQJQ150IC2Ud8HhxgOeqN3yrA6oARooVmUCkG4X8nsRs05tE-S-_IxQliVAPOnlDl9NwX712oyz_pHXMbjl44OGYDukcLt0VEfZel88Y3k0VG3ivs9JwyOQI/s640/100_7395.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8zh8nEY1QSBrBPjNtUuIXftliO4mSxKYsbkH5jIRwlgtjgW-mQLFCAxWIw1YdVrY1g1JOceoBoAf646_6_J3D7yqJU4SXqE1RLbDLXSgpgLw8fmWmehGGfdvO20juCYLoowQu2tPe9Kx/s1600/100_7402.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8zh8nEY1QSBrBPjNtUuIXftliO4mSxKYsbkH5jIRwlgtjgW-mQLFCAxWIw1YdVrY1g1JOceoBoAf646_6_J3D7yqJU4SXqE1RLbDLXSgpgLw8fmWmehGGfdvO20juCYLoowQu2tPe9Kx/s640/100_7402.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In St. Andrews!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3MKRHvrbb4QUuH_aUUHX3fsbRCDVSa5dBLgRK8z_bebW5-WX92yyk5Y9G4MrTFGDfoYggbPN2jUc_xJ9DlHkO38yzHYumzJ80iB9uwjVjmLK7_mIGiQ49ygDr6iRTXxLgXqL8FSE2cLp/s1600/100_7406.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3MKRHvrbb4QUuH_aUUHX3fsbRCDVSa5dBLgRK8z_bebW5-WX92yyk5Y9G4MrTFGDfoYggbPN2jUc_xJ9DlHkO38yzHYumzJ80iB9uwjVjmLK7_mIGiQ49ygDr6iRTXxLgXqL8FSE2cLp/s640/100_7406.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At an A Cappella show at the University with my host, Sophie, and two other students.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU2C6MnwyVxbFsBGXCDvYe56Q98QnoGBcjeVkFTnGiWBAxU_ZL9piLt5jt5LwpADMD9nI1-TB0jIq-vgc4gaHi2_KyMa5POFO_PB570jxYV5MuONIWpvfl7d5uyBaQumeZRCVtSTlLz1le/s1600/100_7413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU2C6MnwyVxbFsBGXCDvYe56Q98QnoGBcjeVkFTnGiWBAxU_ZL9piLt5jt5LwpADMD9nI1-TB0jIq-vgc4gaHi2_KyMa5POFO_PB570jxYV5MuONIWpvfl7d5uyBaQumeZRCVtSTlLz1le/s640/100_7413.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the beach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1LsndGjBAEuTgpNc15X0k-iL4opJsu4JDpjvgCD1lows5L53fduuKQ-1XJr5C6mW67whZqLzF9RjKf8uyXDJuMYxLYu2Ran2nKUwovskUayZy8OBbvKr8uvB8Rde_IaQRD3X0S8u9fSR/s1600/100_7417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1LsndGjBAEuTgpNc15X0k-iL4opJsu4JDpjvgCD1lows5L53fduuKQ-1XJr5C6mW67whZqLzF9RjKf8uyXDJuMYxLYu2Ran2nKUwovskUayZy8OBbvKr8uvB8Rde_IaQRD3X0S8u9fSR/s640/100_7417.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of a cathedral in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykZ48T_apSs-yBefzkNG2VklXifMxBrLG15Z4FW5uYcGIxQY-ic6wfiVSaZC2xKi-vjsI2cBVaIufxEoHeZ7zEkZmT7k_zr2t7-XRv8Fe8-QfC8RpU4d14JddVWUEYLiPHdKXVQ-qlbYX/s1600/100_7418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykZ48T_apSs-yBefzkNG2VklXifMxBrLG15Z4FW5uYcGIxQY-ic6wfiVSaZC2xKi-vjsI2cBVaIufxEoHeZ7zEkZmT7k_zr2t7-XRv8Fe8-QfC8RpU4d14JddVWUEYLiPHdKXVQ-qlbYX/s640/100_7418.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the top of a tower.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOaSlDju0bZ-703_b5XM3I-JRHmnnTC8Huhn0mtmW5TnO9s8WC-4JY-97qF_8QhAsZn4imX24AiUMnOU-bY1JC0TQn41WJSLNBnK3weVMbRUHCEeywbeFdT7Wb9M8W2WoKxrmwPXea3EzL/s1600/100_7422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOaSlDju0bZ-703_b5XM3I-JRHmnnTC8Huhn0mtmW5TnO9s8WC-4JY-97qF_8QhAsZn4imX24AiUMnOU-bY1JC0TQn41WJSLNBnK3weVMbRUHCEeywbeFdT7Wb9M8W2WoKxrmwPXea3EzL/s640/100_7422.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Andrews, the town, cemetery, university buildings, and the green in the distance.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgA7VgRyB3pbptQFUZpc5_lnGLvc4LToQxxURLyfRwSUX6v1_O8xrlX3l68QVytqdodWNjvs6VxYYUOg31jiNeBhkrS8kwwKX1iyutnfL_Mds6x97XCMFGEYTPHxPG7EqwsWl9_0co2PcT/s1600/100_7423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgA7VgRyB3pbptQFUZpc5_lnGLvc4LToQxxURLyfRwSUX6v1_O8xrlX3l68QVytqdodWNjvs6VxYYUOg31jiNeBhkrS8kwwKX1iyutnfL_Mds6x97XCMFGEYTPHxPG7EqwsWl9_0co2PcT/s640/100_7423.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stopped in Paris after Scotland to see Sonam for a night.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7lst8MFvPaTk1x-LaFn8Qmpg1dfanYFW4hqjegfl2Lc7t7OdanA04LA-yqWkP3jAZgbnL7BfD2HMGaeVgBIobgE_bTV1I03sL7LWIPxzVsiLHb7Z6bkzbZqmpIlhy-GRJ0G3vohFImjo/s1600/100_7437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7lst8MFvPaTk1x-LaFn8Qmpg1dfanYFW4hqjegfl2Lc7t7OdanA04LA-yqWkP3jAZgbnL7BfD2HMGaeVgBIobgE_bTV1I03sL7LWIPxzVsiLHb7Z6bkzbZqmpIlhy-GRJ0G3vohFImjo/s640/100_7437.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Got some crepes in Montmartre.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnxK_cJ2Y5S5rEASkD5vkolVbDzpMl0SrNS_2pWASR2hXJG25RCme6K1JkRxYtbriOWijCK7jaZAWxF9f46lCP22ITsD_C3UzG4IHFVj_i7xKlaDMRsldccC9DS0DvxkN6rPQyVi-tbmh/s1600/100_7439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnxK_cJ2Y5S5rEASkD5vkolVbDzpMl0SrNS_2pWASR2hXJG25RCme6K1JkRxYtbriOWijCK7jaZAWxF9f46lCP22ITsD_C3UzG4IHFVj_i7xKlaDMRsldccC9DS0DvxkN6rPQyVi-tbmh/s640/100_7439.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then came home to eat pizza, watch Lion King 3D in french, and then watch a super sad film in Laura's bed.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFH-UIAiyGypSTpz-rFFSh-RNWK8cz64qCdTy3iW48Oz90EXABuy7noj7n3cXuVx3MH6kf40He6M4HQ1ts39xZkmYIbOD78vFBFeuRiklPgcF61a0caSV3PBs-itn-86WtG8xe8IqUAL81/s1600/100_7441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFH-UIAiyGypSTpz-rFFSh-RNWK8cz64qCdTy3iW48Oz90EXABuy7noj7n3cXuVx3MH6kf40He6M4HQ1ts39xZkmYIbOD78vFBFeuRiklPgcF61a0caSV3PBs-itn-86WtG8xe8IqUAL81/s640/100_7441.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYdYx3Wl073s00AIWLpPxyg1L2ylHqMCX01ScMcqS8ZL7CBKSYZjSH11ew2_FSFr_xfTrsQc66PXqHSYDH9ZloLUPPHJdNcWsGq_Vr72N6WBADECKmcnJAWQd2ioAMNqdDyb2hSu2Rzg6/s1600/100_7443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYdYx3Wl073s00AIWLpPxyg1L2ylHqMCX01ScMcqS8ZL7CBKSYZjSH11ew2_FSFr_xfTrsQc66PXqHSYDH9ZloLUPPHJdNcWsGq_Vr72N6WBADECKmcnJAWQd2ioAMNqdDyb2hSu2Rzg6/s640/100_7443.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my students! These guys loved the idea of living in England for a year, but most of them want to stay in this region when they get older.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBE-S8yXu6ITqA3vx5mz5Ii6YqaKV_7ThzzmIO3aMCVR4pPqPV58Dhwac_9eL77UcdCmQNeyyIosWJAYF-RT4rZH2-BiTyEUzNk2HAxllMjq2eWR5MEGivxNOlmLA7viqOOW-TPCbNhvy/s1600/100_7444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBE-S8yXu6ITqA3vx5mz5Ii6YqaKV_7ThzzmIO3aMCVR4pPqPV58Dhwac_9eL77UcdCmQNeyyIosWJAYF-RT4rZH2-BiTyEUzNk2HAxllMjq2eWR5MEGivxNOlmLA7viqOOW-TPCbNhvy/s640/100_7444.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This class loved black eyeliner and claiming that all the different Whiskeys taste like beer to upset the Catering teacher.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZxeMC4V0yf36YoMc2_I3i1GOeMVxQbYNYTcJV8lIWuShKUHJAJKMvqnJUeNsGmna4aVx5y6ICiXBDWn37RS2bJLzn8AtQixJwOAjpB1DHr-N9X-0x5aefBSP1jUevdRtgM596zEMz2xdM/s1600/100_7445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZxeMC4V0yf36YoMc2_I3i1GOeMVxQbYNYTcJV8lIWuShKUHJAJKMvqnJUeNsGmna4aVx5y6ICiXBDWn37RS2bJLzn8AtQixJwOAjpB1DHr-N9X-0x5aefBSP1jUevdRtgM596zEMz2xdM/s640/100_7445.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with three of my colleagues.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1tJ2AuHB_7xC93s_hQx5nMGxgtt1qUmMs_fnOVdhtgEw7GpH2mNC1EAmHkh2yftNUoPPYkd_T5Z5_8RqHjeeIDdHM9us-9ECb78DOh9Ap_aYJTcGxEiJdfGxIwKVHnudgP1Soc9Qy4wh/s1600/100_7447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1tJ2AuHB_7xC93s_hQx5nMGxgtt1qUmMs_fnOVdhtgEw7GpH2mNC1EAmHkh2yftNUoPPYkd_T5Z5_8RqHjeeIDdHM9us-9ECb78DOh9Ap_aYJTcGxEiJdfGxIwKVHnudgP1Soc9Qy4wh/s640/100_7447.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I spent a lot of time discussing McDonald's and sports with this class; they felt a lot of affection for both. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9edoJyXP2FjEo6wK0F9pK7-pfjZK_4E3J1Djux-elooCDyv960o4tc2itARBaijZgKZDvuwgZyzhdW9ypUqnzAr3cjdTUDpYwTPVG6mWTqeCudZSRewxWoEVfVSOrJAxD-WITm-x5ff0/s1600/100_7449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9edoJyXP2FjEo6wK0F9pK7-pfjZK_4E3J1Djux-elooCDyv960o4tc2itARBaijZgKZDvuwgZyzhdW9ypUqnzAr3cjdTUDpYwTPVG6mWTqeCudZSRewxWoEVfVSOrJAxD-WITm-x5ff0/s640/100_7449.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite chefs, whenever she didn't understand me she said "AH PUTAIN! M'AIDEZ!" (oh fuck! help me guys!" </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiv2dCFA8bZl9TMsX8qO_b0q6Eg5ltwASsUl6EcL-4KztYZLOjJRavl2-P74MorxABJkeWTJuvwlg0YzslnJ7pQwFXTovhBM556KFrPd9R6UboLUEZSE736KcbNiBwi0qEs8FfALgR3mL/s1600/100_7452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiv2dCFA8bZl9TMsX8qO_b0q6Eg5ltwASsUl6EcL-4KztYZLOjJRavl2-P74MorxABJkeWTJuvwlg0YzslnJ7pQwFXTovhBM556KFrPd9R6UboLUEZSE736KcbNiBwi0qEs8FfALgR3mL/s640/100_7452.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These ladies spoke good English and liked talking about life outside of school.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge87DAtRcFgy0CdAA3pTcl1FMss2QIaWoAnogF5JROHWxWt6S8voOIWc20mSUbmZz8WZ77kLy9ihDIebkvKYPwthLbXogeVX8kP2rd6KABIiZpB3zso9WZHlOPJUaaThjIcOH0LqwFqAQU/s1600/100_7453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge87DAtRcFgy0CdAA3pTcl1FMss2QIaWoAnogF5JROHWxWt6S8voOIWc20mSUbmZz8WZ77kLy9ihDIebkvKYPwthLbXogeVX8kP2rd6KABIiZpB3zso9WZHlOPJUaaThjIcOH0LqwFqAQU/s640/100_7453.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He had me take this photo three times because he wanted to look "very serious."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9bmpLq8INhA1Sg2PFzuZboT7_OiDkwZBraChTZ5jbljpkI2BsfSChYgZPM26Soz5zo6_pQQ5r8goT0PVCo0ZtC-7A13XMKBVR26OT0KhGVV3r5sTi23QLwImu3B9KrtxZ-IF26WxB0QU/s1600/100_7473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9bmpLq8INhA1Sg2PFzuZboT7_OiDkwZBraChTZ5jbljpkI2BsfSChYgZPM26Soz5zo6_pQQ5r8goT0PVCo0ZtC-7A13XMKBVR26OT0KhGVV3r5sTi23QLwImu3B9KrtxZ-IF26WxB0QU/s640/100_7473.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Chef teaching the flock.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my colleagues asking questions in English.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiX2EPsGO4jH0Um-mmAD-zkrLsV_Hc8n_MFLg16lsaNeha-qH2Q3AqMGGJaHyoclnINDQTr2tt4RL7jZzcOpYFonZPV8fpCwb4Nx8Or_-7gy7gEDCj8vWD8d5ccgyLmulZH1iSNyFlCjI/s1600/100_7477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiX2EPsGO4jH0Um-mmAD-zkrLsV_Hc8n_MFLg16lsaNeha-qH2Q3AqMGGJaHyoclnINDQTr2tt4RL7jZzcOpYFonZPV8fpCwb4Nx8Or_-7gy7gEDCj8vWD8d5ccgyLmulZH1iSNyFlCjI/s640/100_7477.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staff Lounge</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrp-lue7L4LyMRvndGR7RLIyyzm-kvo4-JOYWfrHUm0a-7yj_l7hg4sa36n9cCZ3tFmANsKqmHMLQ7BF4oy0MT-Jw_8VuS32HCi7A6_bf8DtAvPoCAgjtpEmZ8sOGDSc_ytxtLVdY2p9qQ/s1600/100_7482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrp-lue7L4LyMRvndGR7RLIyyzm-kvo4-JOYWfrHUm0a-7yj_l7hg4sa36n9cCZ3tFmANsKqmHMLQ7BF4oy0MT-Jw_8VuS32HCi7A6_bf8DtAvPoCAgjtpEmZ8sOGDSc_ytxtLVdY2p9qQ/s640/100_7482.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last day with my mailbox.</td></tr>
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<br />Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-17397308448788991602012-03-18T12:56:00.014-07:002012-03-23T03:06:09.917-07:00St. Patrick's Day or, Good Thing I'm Not Claustrophobic<span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">My St. Patrick's Day </span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">began at 10 pm, roughly twelve hours after all my friends. In the short hour I spent at the bar, w</span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">e scored potentially offensive "Irish" hats and made mustaches out of Guinness foam at bars, before ending up in a large apartment complex where everyone galloped up the stairs and onto elevators like we were late to our own party. This is clever of me to say because we actually did end up late to our own party. An hour late, actually. Where were we, you might ask? Oh, in the elevator.</span><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">I'll never know if the eight-person capacity elevator could have handled our fifteen-person mass because the two last guys to pile in jumped up and down as the elevator doors closed, young and spontaneous as they were feeling. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">After about 30-seconds of very little actual elevator movement, we all begin denying reality ("It's not stuck! We're fine!"). When I say we, I am talking about two Frenchies, one Indian, four Americans, one Romanian, five Mexicans, one Bahraini, and one Englishman. Then, the buttons stop responding and the Bahraini and Romanian girls turn into Beliebers who have just seen Justin Bieber himself, but in a bad way.</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> As we are packed like lady fingers in tiramisu, everyone gets hit by their thrashing about. Then, the two girls scream "OPEN THE DOORS" on repeat, pissing off everyone who was lucid, because obviously we're not keeping the doors closed for fun.</span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Two minutes in and the elevator lights turn off. Hysteria that had momentarily been sequestered to the two girls ensues en masse, and then a few people irritated by the bedlam decide to fight back with their own by yelling ("Oy! Shut the f*** up!"). We all feel each other up at this point as we try to reach our cell phones to create a strobelight-y ambience.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The Romanian girl lets everyone know that she is claustrophobic (duh, she just tried to stampede us) and then lets out blood-curdling screams. In fact, so much blood is curdled that it starts spurting out of her nose ("OH MY GOD MY NOSE IS LITERALLY BLEEDING, YOU GUYS"). Her equally sauced friend, an American, then takes off her own dress ("I AM GETTING NAKED I DON'T EVEN F***NG CARE") so that the Romanian can have a napkin for her bloody nose. From that point on, anytime the Romanian had a breakdown (read: every four seconds) the American would take the girl's face in her hands and say "I AM NAKED FOR YOU OKAY? HONEY LOOK AT ME, I'M F***ING NAKED RIGHT NOW." </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The Romanian fainted four times in total. The first time she fainted was the worst, because the American thought that meant she was dead ("SHE'S NOT BREATHING, OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW YOU GUYS") and no one believed her ("SHE JUST FAINTED, WE CAN'T OPEN THE DOORS") and she reacted in the way people do when they think they are saving someone's life by yelling: she yelled more.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The second and third times the Romanian fainted were less traumatic and more the new norm, which we adjusted to pretty smoothly. However, the fourth time she fainted was met with a lot of relief, because it was forty minutes into our Really Great Elevator Ride and she had begun her last rites ("LISTEN TO ME, I HAVE TO SAY THIS. LISTEN, LISTEN. THERE IS A BOY. IN ENGLAND..."), she also gave rites for her family members. So, she is doing these rites, which are kind of making everyone else wonder if they should be doing their last rites, and the English guy, who full context-based loathing, says he is going to knock her out with the beer glass he stole from the bar. He starts positioning himself to take a swipe at her, despite protests from those who have retained clarity, when she knocks herself out with screaming. Close call. </span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>The Bahrani student also had a hard time with the small space in which we were sardined. Similar to the Romanian, she lashed out at those around her but, after time, just needed to hold everyone's hands (we were all kind of holding hands anyway) and then get out of the "corner." In an elevator made for eight, everywhere is a corner, but fine we pretended we got her out of the corner. We were also covered in shards of glass, because someone tried to turn the light back on by punching the bulb.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>The only moments of silence were when someone (two Canadians) yelled down the elevator shaft to us. At first, these snippets of communication were helpful ("We've called the fire department. They're coming") but became naive ("Just sit down!") and unintentionally obtuse ("How many of there are you? Fifteen?? That sucks! Guys, they said there are fifteen of them in there!"). </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">About halfway through our Group Bonding Experience, one of the French guys started playing gangster rap from his cell phone to "calm everyone down." Despite rap's reputation for being soothing, it added to the mayhem. There was no moment during the entire fifty-five minutes that anyone was able to have a conversation, because the yelling was constant, though the yellers varied. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">While the two girls previously mentioned had the most extreme reactions, the general feel of the group was taught. Someone cleverly declared that we were all running out of air (there was a vent on the ceiling) and then people yelled at each other to stop yelling because it was "using all the air." This theory was buoyed by the rising heat in the elevator: our skin became increasingly sticky, and my hair was stuck to my forehead by the end. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Elevator situations happen on sitcoms, rom-coms, reality tv, and they're always funny and romantic. I am here to deliver the surprising news that tv lies. Excluding a moment that the only couple in the elevator had, we were not feeling frisky or witty. What the elevator did reveal, though, was the role each of us assume in moments of panic. There are, of course, the panic-stricken (the Bahraini and Romanian). There are also those who add to the maelstrom by trying to deplete it (the Frenchies), and those who become care-takers of the stressed (the American friend). There was a leader (the English guy), who became the official communicator between us and our friends yelling through the shaft, and a couple quiet ones, who just waited it out ("We were zen" - my Indian friend said afterward). </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I never thought we were going to die, because I once read a fourteen page article on elevators in the New Yorker and had learned that being inside an elevator is the safest place, but also because I knew I couldn't think it. There were already people convinced we were having our last moments of life ("I'M DYING IN A F***ING BOX ON F***ING ST PATRICK'S DAY") and when a certain number of individuals move in that direction, everyone else has to keep it together.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Someone asked me afterwards at what point I thought the experience was funny, and I want to say it was when the Romanian started to give her last rites, but that was mostly just surreal. It didn't become funny until the highly unamused firemen opened the door, we rushed out into the light, and me, one Indian and two Mexican girls ran outside and washed our sweaty faces off in the rain.</span></span></div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-10876688078313911052012-03-11T09:10:00.004-07:002012-03-14T09:42:01.109-07:00How Frenchies Can Tell You're American<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">A positive aspect of traveling is that it shows you how other people live. An equally valuable side-effect is that shows you how you live. You might have never noticed your notebook as being a sign of your country, but go to school in another nation and everyone wants to see your paper with holes in it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a culture that spreads itself over other countries without leaving much room for reciprocation, it is easy to forget that not everyone lives the way Americans do. With that in mind, I have compiled a list of things that Americans might not know are somewhat specific to our culture (at least, in reference to my experiences in France):</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">1. The words unique, special, original, and different have positive connotations. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> In French, these words are used to politely describe something or someone that is “weird.” If you were to see a girl in an outfit you didn’t like, you could describe her as “original” with no ambiguity as to your meaning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">2. Ketchup can be eaten on scrambled eggs, baked potatoes, and quiche.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Ketchup does not have a wide range of uses in France, they’re bigger fans of mayonnaise. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">3. If Americans want to cook something quickly, they microwave it (see: potatoes).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Microwaving is almost expressively used for reheating, never for cooking/baking. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">4. In the US, you eat pizza with your hands. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> You can only eat pizza with your hands if you’re among friends your age and they all agree it’s okay to do.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">5. Americans eat French fries with their hands, not tiny plastic forks provided by the establishment. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Yeah, tiny forks, incredible. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">6. Americans know (and often love) what a pb&j is. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> French people have heard of peanut butter, but the concept of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich breaks the barriers of their culinary imaginations. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">7. Americans have generally positive perceptions of other forms of English (Australian English, British English, Canadian English). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> French people love mocking Quebecois French and have expressed to me many times that it is a completely different language. Then again, I think this is the way the English view American English, so maybe we're on the wrong side of the fence. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">8. You probably do not know anyone who has been to Madagascar or Tunisia. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I have met many people who have vacationed in these countries, mostly because they are more accessible from this location than the US. </p><p class="MsoNormal">9. In the US, when someone says they were taught English, you assume it was American English.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They were probably taught British English. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">10. You know a lot of people who have been to Mexico. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The French think of a trip to Mexico as very fancy due to the distance. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">11. In the US, you are barefoot when you’re inside your house. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> When I am at home (in France), I always wear slippers. If I visit a friend, I take off my shoes and s/he gives me "guest slippers" to wear.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">12. You wear sweats outdoors. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> If you’re leaving the house (or even your bedroom) in France, you better look awake. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">13. You eat on the go. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I have a non-French friend who scarfs down toast in an alley before work because if Frenchies see her eating food while walking, she'll get the stink eye. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">14. In the US, you bring beverages into the classroom, whether you’re the student or the teacher. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> You can’t even bring water bottles into the classroom without breaking some serious norms (there is a working theory among some American ex-pats that the French are a dehydrated people). A couple of times I have brought tiny espressos to my 8am classes and been not-so-subtly instructed to finish my drink before entering the classroom (in other news, telling someone to chug a hot beverage is cruel). </p> <p class="MsoNormal">15. Americans have the option of taking coffee to go. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> First of all, coffee comes in the size and form of espresso. Secondly, it comes in tiny mugs only (major French cities excluded).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">16. In the US, you think of people who smoke as “smokers,” as in a particular group that is different from you or that you identify as being a part of. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> If one were to walk into a French party and say "hey, anyone smoke? Wanna go outside?" there would be no one left in-doors except some of the pregnant women.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">17. When eating a meal, if you are not cutting food then you do not need your knife.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> If you eat a meal in France, you’ll use the knife with your left hand to help guide your food onto your fork (this is applicable to most countries in Europe, it seems). If you do not use your knife in this fashion, you might be referred to as having "uncivilized" or "savage" eating habits. This may or may not be the catalyst for an existential crisis. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">18. Many Americans have over 500 friends on facebook. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Frenchies don’t have as many cyberpals. When they see my 700 friend count, they react by saying, "you're American."</p> <p class="MsoNormal">19. In the US, you understand lyrics to songs because they’re in your language. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Whenever I’m at a party and American songs play, a Frenchie makes the joke, “What’s it like to understand the songs?” Pretty similar to not understanding. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">20. When people from other countries ask you where you’re from, you say the state instead of the country, assuming that they know all the states.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> They don't know all the states; it reinforces the stereotype that Americans think they’re the center of the world. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">21. In the US, when someone hands you bread for your meal, you put it on your plate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> In France, bread is eaten at every meal, and always placed directly on the table.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">22. When a song says “put your hands in the air,” Americans do it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The French don’t understand American lyrics, so they don’t respond to the commands. Also, French songs wouldn’t tell the listeners to put their hands in the air because it’s not a dance form in France. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">23. When you dance with someone else, you touch each other. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Inebriated individuals excluded, in France you’ll probably just do something similar to the jitterbug with your partner, unless salsa music is playing, in which case you'll get down. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">24. Americans hug.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Hugging in France is considered really personal, they prefer totally not intimate cheek kisses. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">25. When Americans enter a party, they only greet people they know. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> If you enter a French party, you go around and greet every person present with either a handshake or cheek kisses. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">26. If you're American, you probably do not know how to drive stick. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Almost everyone in Europe drives stick in the same way that almost everyone in the US drives automatic.</p><p class="MsoNormal">27. Americans don't know what endives are, or how to eat them.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>If you come to France, you'll find out.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <!--EndFragment-->Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-78197282406767527142012-01-14T09:31:00.000-08:002012-01-14T17:50:25.905-08:00ConversationsAfter a 3-week break from work, coming back has reminded me of the quirks of my job. I didn't realize how habituated I had become to word confusion, mispronunciations and generally broken conversations. Sometimes my students say things that are so grossly inaccurate that I have to imagine an alternate universe in which the entire state of Ohio will blow up if I laugh in order to slap myself serious. Honestly, there is nothing more disheartening (that's a lie) than constructing a phrase in a foreign language to the best of your ability and then a native speaker cutting you off mid-sentence to bend over in peels of laughter. So, since I spend all day holding myself back for the sake of English learners in France, I am using this post as a space to share how choppy, circular and endearing conversations with students can be.<div><br /></div><div>Me: What are you doing for Christmas?</div><div>Student: I hate.</div><div>Me: You don't like Christmas?</div><div>Student: No, I will hate. </div><div>Me: You will eat?</div><div>Student: Yes. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Hello Lucas and Jeremy. How are you guys?</div><div>Lucas: I am sixty years.</div><div>Jeremy: No, you are fine.</div><div>Lucas: I am not five.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me (in the culinary class): What are you doing?</div><div>Student: I cut off the heads of pigeons. </div><div>Me: You did that??</div><div>Student: Yes and even my stomach is hurting.</div><div>Me: From cutting off their heads?</div><div>Student: Sorry, I don't understand.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: How was your internship?</div><div>Student 1: Yes.</div><div>Me: It was good?</div><div>Student 1: Yes.</div><div>Me: Why?</div><div>Student 1: I like the staff is good and the job is funny.</div><div>Me: What about you?</div><div>Student 2: Yes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: How long?</div><div>Student: Half two hours.</div><div>Me: Two and a half hours?</div><div>Student: Ah, yes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: What are you doing for Christmas?</div><div>Student: Nothing, I don't can't went. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Was it hard?</div><div>Student: Yeah.</div><div>Me: Really, it was hard?</div><div>Student: No. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: What was your uniform for work?</div><div>Student: Brown weapons. </div><div>Me: Aprons?</div><div>Student: Yes, weapons.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Why did you go to the shopping center?</div><div>Student: For buy clotheses.</div><div>Me: To buy clothes?</div><div>Student: Yes, for to buy clotheses. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: What did you do this weekend?</div><div>Student: I slept and nothing.</div><div>Me: That's cool.</div><div>Student: Yes, it's peace and love.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Did you enjoy your internship?</div><div>Student: Yes? </div><div>Me: You enjoyed it?</div><div>Student: I don't know?</div><div>Me: Did you like your internship?</div><div>Student: Ah, si, ah, yes, yes. </div><div>Me: Why?</div><div>Student: Why?</div><div>Me: Yes, why?</div><div>Student: Yes?</div><div>Me: No, why?</div><div>Student: No?</div><div>Me: Why did you like it?</div><div>Student: Ah, yes, I like it, yes. </div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-26106847953518712282011-12-06T03:25:00.000-08:002011-12-06T04:21:35.074-08:00Holidays<div style="text-align: center;">I celebrated thanksgiving with a cornucopia of nationalities including Americans, Indians, Brits and French. I was not aware that there is an international fascination with this holiday, presumably because of the tv show Friends (at least four people recounted to me memories of Joey walking around with a turkey on his head as their connection to Thanksgiving). Below is a photo of Camille surveying her first Thanksgiving experience while Fenouilla, Irish, draws a bottle of wine and celebrates her second ever Thanksgiving. You may notice that there are turkeys on the board; the one under the "giving" is my handturkey. This is a skill that I did not know could be considered as such until I met the French. Now there are at least four frenchies who can whip out a handturkey with skill that counters the handturkey drawers of Ohio (if you want to blow a frenchperson's mind and have already tried out your handturkey, I suggest carving a pumpkin. People of all sophistication levels lose their shit).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuGY0YaRbaVXqrE7Wi5YZsv-POTTebxBdi_t27CMx5zLMJVm-u9OM6dB5-1B_hstNlDJyJqrTzU_cvDfX9uh5svS5mWDGfFcrLhYGlcJtb43J6q96sqj2mHc3lPxJTNvvvhatqPDYbI4z/s1600/2thx.jpg" style="text-align: left; " onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuGY0YaRbaVXqrE7Wi5YZsv-POTTebxBdi_t27CMx5zLMJVm-u9OM6dB5-1B_hstNlDJyJqrTzU_cvDfX9uh5svS5mWDGfFcrLhYGlcJtb43J6q96sqj2mHc3lPxJTNvvvhatqPDYbI4z/s800/2thx.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682975223729139186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 600px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Here is almost the entire Thanksgiving gang. We went around and each said what we were thankful for. Despite not hosting the event and only making one dish, everyone included me in their thanks because I am American and therefore intrinsically responsible for Thanksgiving. Halfway through the meal when the tryptophan started to kick in, Nupur (an Indian friend) mentioned to a Frenchperson that Thanksgiving is actually for her and Sonam (another Indian friend), since she had been told by a Frenchperson that "Indians started Thanksgiving." I did not join the conversation because I began choking on a green bean. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtgmqrK60-AuO8WWHmgPaU0479mIbrhb_PzNiCQDlnQi9Vy9LvPUUoengWc6deW5fjjFv1yczAp42RnmYEuT1JYgGAW_rtLX1WZ82CvRoGmJ78xL_0pWqGgJeImwGah0mdOAkgx7BfWlC/s1600/thankshun.jpg" style="text-align: left; " onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtgmqrK60-AuO8WWHmgPaU0479mIbrhb_PzNiCQDlnQi9Vy9LvPUUoengWc6deW5fjjFv1yczAp42RnmYEuT1JYgGAW_rtLX1WZ82CvRoGmJ78xL_0pWqGgJeImwGah0mdOAkgx7BfWlC/s800/thankshun.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682976508674591650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 600px; " /></a></div><div>(Thanksgiving took place in a classroom because we mostly have tiny European homes.)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>This past weekend, Cambray came from Limoges. We spent her visit drinking Christmas ale at a bar that reminds her of Minnesota (her home), watching Miss France with eighteen year old boys who put "chocolate cookie flavored sirop" in their beer, running to catch buses with the desperation of people who have felt the cold enter their bones, telling each other what to wear and then borrowing clothes instead, and drinking Hot Chocolate lined with Nutella. Below, Cambray is trying to break into the 12th century castle near my house. No luck.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2w0yt10fmFY3AJykt3yTbV6epthgwfqOsS4MhyphenhyphenxgC_MeqCuuIX194ldnc86-jUwomk26-c4ABJ5rVCiyd1qAeY0o-NgxkuvO7BPQAuZ5X3X7SuHgO-1Crv1xxTtZFuSGLxgxR4EW0Y2sf/s1600/camcastle.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 800px; height: 600px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2w0yt10fmFY3AJykt3yTbV6epthgwfqOsS4MhyphenhyphenxgC_MeqCuuIX194ldnc86-jUwomk26-c4ABJ5rVCiyd1qAeY0o-NgxkuvO7BPQAuZ5X3X7SuHgO-1Crv1xxTtZFuSGLxgxR4EW0Y2sf/s800/camcastle.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682977012337297666" /></a><br />We also went to Clermont-Ferrand to visit Amanda. She took us to one of the Christmas Markets going on in C-F. Unlike the Christmas Market near my home, which looked like White Elephant gifts and Etsy knock-offs had been impregnated by neon wool, this Christmas Market was full of appropriate amounts of christmas cheer and vin chaud.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbMpmHIomyTz5Cyd-MskfLWK_2RCCCJJEWQW3G0fxwGXxix-Nn7whCcysw_ry5SWNhqOo2fRFEh8Sdte4Z7Ra8J8VmBBnmzmWYl_6Q3ft48zdUWb_fUTcB67M76WdTXRiaM7QajmC5cZ-/s1600/xmasnoel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 600px; height: 800px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbMpmHIomyTz5Cyd-MskfLWK_2RCCCJJEWQW3G0fxwGXxix-Nn7whCcysw_ry5SWNhqOo2fRFEh8Sdte4Z7Ra8J8VmBBnmzmWYl_6Q3ft48zdUWb_fUTcB67M76WdTXRiaM7QajmC5cZ-/s800/xmasnoel.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682976871098374098" /></a><div><div style="text-align: center;">And here are Cambray and Amanda buying the vin chaud (warm fruit infused red wine). </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjUXwu8RWYywYoYGKHCM0O9cZRMWgddaVHqmXXTzD4b9rWdrEDQjdwzxzU-aEo0HzlD8WEj2a7idaRrvgjm94tVVxIipJbUeVlWfdv1BmQt-LN-XeY-SBBMDhdkts27CRhwmj9vaaP7i3/s1600/xmasgainy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 800px; height: 604px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjUXwu8RWYywYoYGKHCM0O9cZRMWgddaVHqmXXTzD4b9rWdrEDQjdwzxzU-aEo0HzlD8WEj2a7idaRrvgjm94tVVxIipJbUeVlWfdv1BmQt-LN-XeY-SBBMDhdkts27CRhwmj9vaaP7i3/s800/xmasgainy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682976718698904114" /></a>And here we are feeling enchanted.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNj0nm8joncotRDZK-bynnYlT_ouWNeVa09tVHPbL9tiDmrRpd0GkeE5NrAe-P9eNT5IL91NcQnfoftO5LD_0X5P2yU5EpN4dQrshPKT6imJ8oWfR5ocp4IqMgBoSyX0GIh32XPs2Suzo/s1600/wheel.jpg" style="text-align: left; " onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNj0nm8joncotRDZK-bynnYlT_ouWNeVa09tVHPbL9tiDmrRpd0GkeE5NrAe-P9eNT5IL91NcQnfoftO5LD_0X5P2yU5EpN4dQrshPKT6imJ8oWfR5ocp4IqMgBoSyX0GIh32XPs2Suzo/s800/wheel.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682977216872343826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 600px; " /></a></div><div>This is one of the main squares in C-F, looking festive. I took this picture while eating roasted chestnuts for the first time. They taste grilled (and delicious) and look like small brains once unshelled.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After spending the day in Clermont, I came home alone and met up with Sonam and Nupur. Sonam invited us over for dinner where she taught me how to make an Indian dish (!!!) and now I am determined to stop being someone who eats the same dish for weeks at a time. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf9tFVqD3rdt1Yclu70uFqbQEmHFQ3oaDSgGSzAJyYrivlemHHCeHo00rQZXVhx_LlEW2yVK_c5I0bt-Z9ox0hxaC_3vm9CvqBGf4nh6L2fCfj7dIsOToclWQtGSfsGwuTEMJHTJF5lOX/s1600/dinner.jpg" style="text-align: left; " onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf9tFVqD3rdt1Yclu70uFqbQEmHFQ3oaDSgGSzAJyYrivlemHHCeHo00rQZXVhx_LlEW2yVK_c5I0bt-Z9ox0hxaC_3vm9CvqBGf4nh6L2fCfj7dIsOToclWQtGSfsGwuTEMJHTJF5lOX/s800/dinner.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682977382787308898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 600px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span>I told Sonam and Nupur that I would make them a "traditional" dish in return, thus screwing myself because I do not know any traditional dishes. I am considering making chili, but will probably end up doing burritos for them and then providing homemade guac and salsa (last week, my landlady had friends over for dinner and she handed out a small jar of salsa as a fancy garnish. After personal investigation, I found it to be a jar of slightly sweet ketchup masquerading as "salsa a la mexicaine.")</div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I probably will not update again until after Christmas, since Jake is coming to visit me and I am so distracted by happiness I could run into a wall. </div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-51373692781787877302011-11-17T05:33:00.000-08:002011-11-17T06:40:54.518-08:00Homelife<div style="text-align: center;">1. The Manor</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinyW_XXbMpOwLwfuCKBZrHM3CIU1q980MjigOlaHJsRCPUppZf18dILbD9hex6Vfr-9tUvvDaYp5-I-5YyUadzKg6rfFs9ahUwO4KLqbzTjOV2IScW2sMSMmcwSUW_EE0Nk37OU94iZeey/s1600/100_6135.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinyW_XXbMpOwLwfuCKBZrHM3CIU1q980MjigOlaHJsRCPUppZf18dILbD9hex6Vfr-9tUvvDaYp5-I-5YyUadzKg6rfFs9ahUwO4KLqbzTjOV2IScW2sMSMmcwSUW_EE0Nk37OU94iZeey/s800/100_6135.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675957955552635970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 600px; height: 800px; " /></a></div><div>Our home, yellow and covered in ivy with Yusuf (pronounced you- soof) modeling the gate. The house is four stories and has four water closets, five bathrooms, and three kitchens. We refer to it as the "manor" when Marianne is not around. It's probably the most spacious house in crowded parts of Western Europe, but alas veers on hoarder-esque. I mean, I'm not exactly known for organization and anti-bacterial soap and I have kind of grown accustomed to the clutter but still, sometimes I feel unclean when I look around the house. There are trinkets covering the surfaces and if you find something you can be sure there are at least nine more of it (past trinket collection discoveries: old shoes, empty perfume bottles, rugs that once had a pattern, singing animatronic stuffed plush ducks). That being said, I feel like Madeline sans Nun (which has been my favorite halloween costume to tell people I'm going to do and never do for years).</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Laura</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKRXWJ_Itwh6Qm5OU7Y3Kaza3zdGEKegYAI7DiQbJvo-OhDBRdDvByJIrVbYiqbc38h5pvCwAIW6OvUbGzkv7qGpRWnV3VvBKMNABcDbHYlVKJ71gifidNM-CpTlU3J1Z35A_vCAth_C8/s1600/roomielaura.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKRXWJ_Itwh6Qm5OU7Y3Kaza3zdGEKegYAI7DiQbJvo-OhDBRdDvByJIrVbYiqbc38h5pvCwAIW6OvUbGzkv7qGpRWnV3VvBKMNABcDbHYlVKJ71gifidNM-CpTlU3J1Z35A_vCAth_C8/s800/roomielaura.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675959678963067026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 600px; " /></a></div><div>Here is Laura, the newest colocataire. She is a "kine" which means nothing to you and that's fine. She's here studying to add "osteopathe" to her title of "kine", a two-year process. She comes home every night at 5:30 (18h30, ahem), asks me to lay on my stomach, and proceeds to crack and stretch my limbs with the ease of someone who is still learning how to do something. This is dinner table talk:</div><div>"Today we studied (insert body part here)" - Laura</div><div>"That's good!" - Me</div><div>"Yeah, I am so tired."</div><div>"Oh really, that's hard."<br />"Yes and those two pregnant girls had trouble."</div><div>"Really?"</div><div>"Yeah but you know, we're all comfortable now."</div><div>"That's cool."</div><div><br /></div><div>As you can see, my French vocabulary is vast and intimidating.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>Laura is great to live with because she offers me chocolate after every meal, is not easily swayed when she has already made a decision (allowing me to follow suit if, say, my ladylady is trying to make us eat pumpkin soup with mold on it), has read every Nicholas Sparks book, is currently keeping up with eight tv shows (she has a chart on a post-it, incredible), has a juicy relationship that I feel part of due to nightly updates, and is close with her Dad and sympathetic towards her Mom. She is from Strasbourg, by the way, so she speaks German in addition to French and eats a lot of saucisson. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. Yusuf</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5slkz3yhaC8nysiahOPY2AwRz6U_0swMsBvLEuAaS1E4PqciR1cDDgYvYYT2ASBjmqcfw0YkvjMACx80dudTNYbGrL1BHHjRBTLidKGNwAxUGaBfroPEsCMHmO5nC35lC3hT1CfufXRn1/s1600/hotel+de+ville.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5slkz3yhaC8nysiahOPY2AwRz6U_0swMsBvLEuAaS1E4PqciR1cDDgYvYYT2ASBjmqcfw0YkvjMACx80dudTNYbGrL1BHHjRBTLidKGNwAxUGaBfroPEsCMHmO5nC35lC3hT1CfufXRn1/s800/hotel+de+ville.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675963387386907906" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 668px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry about the terrible quality of this photo, it does not reflect the quality of our relationship. When I am being real with myself, I must acknowledge that Yus is the reason I have friends, the reason I know how to buy produce at the grocery story, and the reason I am not late paying rent every month. Unfortunately (or as the French say: <i>malheureusement</i>), he is also the reason I yell understated threats such as, "If you ask me that one more time I am never answering your questions again" and "I'm going to hurt you." </div><div><br /></div><div>Yusuf is 19, hails from Franche Comte (which, for the first week living here, I thought was him just saying "French Country" in English with a crazy French accent), gets a lot of pleasure out of planning daily events, loves Grey's Anatomy, speaks great English, and has a tendency to misuse cuss words. He also loves to say "Americans are the <i>gendarmes</i> of the world" and "You are not in America, you know" when I do harmlessly American things like eat couscous with a spoon and forget that I can't go shopping during lunch (everything is closed during lunch). </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a common conversation between us (it should be noted that he speaks to me in English usually and I speak to him in French. I will try to inject the awkward language we both use but that is mostly showcased in our accents):</div><div><br /></div><div>Yusuf walks into my room. </div><div>"Hello! You are tired?" Yusuf</div><div>"No?" Me</div><div>"You are sick?"</div><div>"No?"</div><div>"...Okay. You want to eat in ten minutes?"</div><div>"It's 6:30!" (The people of Vichy eat at 8, okay)</div><div>"I am hungry!" - Yusuf</div><div>"Ok, we can go downstairs to eat at seven if you want." - Me</div><div>"You ask your friends to come tonight?"</div><div>"I don't know, maybe."</div><div>"Johannah! Fucking business!"</div><div>....</div><div>"Johannah, I invite my friends, you invite your friends."</div><div>"Yusuf I said maybe!"</div><div>"Call them."</div><div>"I don't know."</div><div>"Call them!"</div><div>"How do you say 'nagging' in French?"</div><div>"What? I don't know this word. Johannah! Call them!"</div><div>"If you ask me again, I will never do it."</div><div>"Fuck yourself! You know, in class today we did only crosswords." He then comes and sits on my bed and tells me a lot of stories about class in which I reply:</div><div>"That's annoying, how boring."</div><div>"Okay, dine at 7. Chao."</div><div><br /></div><div>An American reading this might be jostled by the expletives, but pay no mind. He doesn't really understand the connotations and the first week in which he said "fucking business" I laughed so hard every time I have erased any possibility in his mind that this phrase could be offensive or just weird and nonsensical. </div><div><br /></div><div>These conversations both make it seem like I am spoken at and never offer up my own experiences, NOT SO. I chose conversations that I think of as "classic Yusuf" and "classic Laura." Classic me is, well, I don't really know but anyone reading this probably does. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dinners lately have just been me, Laura and Yusuf because Marianne has been busy and/or out of town. Yusuf speaks some German, though not as well as he speaks English, so one night we had Yusuf tell Laura things in German, Laura would tell them to me in English (she's rusty but really good I think), and then I would repeat it back to Yusuf in French. This was mostly hilarious and not super productive and the moments when we all laughed made me think of a camera gently pulling back from a dinner scene in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants in which all the girls look shiny and happy.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I would give you a little clip about Marianne but I have just scratched the surface of her personhood, pretty sure. I think this about a lot of people and usually discover that still waters run normal depth, but with Marianne I'm betting my bottom dollar that there's a lot going on. </div><div><br /></div><div>Proof: She's been to tons of countries (none of which sound lame), her husband died of cancer when he was 30 and when she told me the story I was having a harder time keeping it together than she was, she shares a dog with her best friend, her son and his wife and her two granddaughters lived in Japan for two years, and most depth-indicating: she started a university 25 years ago in Vichy and still runs it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am sorry that I also do not have a picture of Marianne. Maybe next time. Speaking of next time, maybe it will be sooner than later since I'm on a facebook hiatus and the internet means nothing to me now. </div><div>Missing you, loved ones! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-57950579877807592922011-10-27T08:21:00.000-07:002011-10-27T08:31:01.717-07:00People<div style="text-align: center;">German best friend (standing) of my landlady (not pictured) serving us tea at her country home. She used to own a tea shop and this tea is from her tea garden. The town has 200 inhabitants and is turning into an artist colony to avoid extinction. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_q5wFP_qpZy2PEdwXey32e8J7bwbXXMPKk0hn8osniHbkFc7h-pCSVb-dgsrF-EA4mrjf5gBViVoEIg5xx0JI1DtEoeBThSxlN4qHv4G9VvdME_CsWte_lZX7-H-iPXC7tK47hOKp0Le/s1600/100_6062.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 800px; height: 600px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_q5wFP_qpZy2PEdwXey32e8J7bwbXXMPKk0hn8osniHbkFc7h-pCSVb-dgsrF-EA4mrjf5gBViVoEIg5xx0JI1DtEoeBThSxlN4qHv4G9VvdME_CsWte_lZX7-H-iPXC7tK47hOKp0Le/s800/100_6062.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668192714055427954" /></a><br />Cambray, with whom I lived in Paris and traveled to Normany, Mont Saint Michel, Slovakia, Austria and Italy, is now an assistant in Limoges. A morning spent looking at old awkward travel photos inspired an afternoon of new awkward travel documentation, this time in Limoges:<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUNpqw1yuw4hf5QKOTPC4NA4NyldnL85PAFUqD0W3zN1Zo37cGPflsbWnFJWBbWWMlVvus1jdRzO7Vfvun3U6Ueu6aRxyTfeofwPkuNdpiihayAdwxCJylRWFCgjkS1FxA51cVv-3Joxw/s1600/100_6085.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUNpqw1yuw4hf5QKOTPC4NA4NyldnL85PAFUqD0W3zN1Zo37cGPflsbWnFJWBbWWMlVvus1jdRzO7Vfvun3U6Ueu6aRxyTfeofwPkuNdpiihayAdwxCJylRWFCgjkS1FxA51cVv-3Joxw/s800/100_6085.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668193478398974914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 600px; height: 800px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-91700313889285559772011-10-27T05:04:00.000-07:002011-10-27T08:21:17.492-07:00Paths<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Walk home to Vichy after working in Cusset; this is the bridge over the train station.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBxlcesgjXmxmNdZIUo5YvBIIDB6kzOZQALasMkgie4esi01k3XmqYOYbsqb920so3xBzDpGlUrKBNngV5K4Q7Dov_AiQpqodYMqH05B_aEApPUn_nqdQf7ne2gZUDfXgGfgg3Zz6im5c/s1600/100_6064.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 800px; height: 600px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBxlcesgjXmxmNdZIUo5YvBIIDB6kzOZQALasMkgie4esi01k3XmqYOYbsqb920so3xBzDpGlUrKBNngV5K4Q7Dov_AiQpqodYMqH05B_aEApPUn_nqdQf7ne2gZUDfXgGfgg3Zz6im5c/s800/100_6064.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668141899274913010" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Where I run every day along the river, across the street from my home.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIyooARG_bCabg5i6eSGtKFxJ0ElLqFk3T1pGSx36K61Spy_0-WbKY_PdodEISQvdn_Z9BPkfhA2l-J4mYriXWuOA4eyAlgoJqFd9EPaZvao-FUSpC4PYpnY2_gIJcMJ_WuDDeyJTWP1E/s800/100_6120.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668142715666920146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 800px; height: 600px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-66658640583909863372011-10-17T10:12:00.000-07:002011-10-20T01:26:44.143-07:00Your Name HereStill lacking a cord for photo uploadation, so I'm just going to continue to say that photos are coming.<div><br /></div><div>HOWEVER, today I taught students! alone! in a room! twice! </div><div>First, I had 5emes (12 -13 year olds). Then, I had 4emes (13 - 14 year olds). They're split up as 14 students to each group, 50 minutes for each class.</div><div><br /></div><div>My first move as teacher (inspired by the aid of Morgan Miles, happy birthday!) was to have them all choose English sounding names so that I would not have to reveal to them that my french accent is inferior to their french accents, thus losing my credibility as a language teacher. I wrote names on the board and let them choose from the list or make up their own. </div><div><br /></div><div>I decided to super cleverly not split the list of names into boy/girl categories, thereby radically shaking up gender norms, unbeknownst to them. BUT ALAS, globalization ruins all the fun and these youngsters already knew which names were for boys or girls. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I say globalization ruins all the fun, I only sort of mean that because I still had another half of fun tacked on to this activity: me getting to choose the names for the list. I made it full of names of my loved ones, as an homage to all of you. Now, not every name got chosen, no offense, but out of the names that did, here are the ones that will interest you:</div><div><br /></div><div>5emes</div><div>Julie, Liz, Caitrin, Melanie</div><div><br /></div><div>Some of the more imaginative but ill-informed students chose the following:</div><div>Donald, Bob (as in Marley), Tony (as in Parker)</div><div><br /></div><div>4emes</div><div>Jake was the soul name chosen from the board.</div><div><br /></div><div>This class had repeats from the 5emes, as well as celebrity-inspired picks:</div><div>Tony, Bob Marley (except he chose the full name, not just "Bob", and also happens to be the most talkative student in class so every twenty seconds I am forced to say "Yes, Bob Marley?" and then have to pause so the peels of laughter can subside), Selena (as in Gomez. This decision didn't last long because a girl who chose to be "Jazmyn" kept throwing pens at "Selena" and saying 'No! I hate her! I love Justin Bieber!' so the student formerly known as Selena was cajoled into the grossly unattractive "Jenna").</div><div><br /></div><div>After all the names were chosen, we made a list of questions on the board that they were supposed to ask each other interview-style. They would then present their partners to the class. The 5emes suggested questions in which everyone had the same answer (age, birthplace, nationality), so that by the third presentation I was daydreaming about watching paint dry.</div><div><br /></div><div>The 4emes, however, used their questions to draw conflict lines in the classroom. This began when Jazmyn, previously mentioned for her ability to express emotion, asked that a question for the interviews be: "Do you love Justin Bieber?" In order to win her affection and rile up the class I dotted the i's with hearts. </div><div>Bob Marley, whose coiffure must have inspired Bieber's, said, "Write the answer is: No, I hate him." And then did a little hair-flip. </div><div>Jenna added, "Write the answer is: Yes, I love him." </div><div>These answers were both written on the board; I believe in the people. </div><div>Bob Marley, not satisfied with supplying hate as an option for the previous question, asked that the next question be: "Would you be happy if Justin Bieber died?" Let it be known that it took a solid three minutes to piece together that question, during which time he pooled the collective English knowledge of all the Bieber-haters in the class.</div><div>Jazmyn began foaming at the mouth so I turned the moment into a lesson about the concept of a hypothetical, like the conflict-killer I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>The rest of each class passed without incident, except for a moment when a student asked me for the definition of "fondle" and I had a mini ethical query in which I was caught between wanting to lie and say it was something with non sexual connotations or to take the opportunity to promote sex-positive classroom behavior. Luckily, I checked her paper before responding and discovered that she meant "fondly", merci Dieu.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-42999095155525371372011-10-06T04:29:00.000-07:002011-10-08T01:47:13.546-07:00Viching<div>Due to a lack of photos, I will share anecdotes from Vichy! I promise to have photos in the future, I've been takin pix. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>My first week in Vichy, I spent 75% of my time alone in cafes. It was awesome. Four days into my cafe-squatting, while being slowly killed by second-hand smoke, a smoker on my right started talking to me. Our conversation felt a little bit like watching the outline of a large rodent pass through a snake's stomach: uncomfortable. He asked me what I was writing, and would I write something about him? why not? and would I be here tomorrow? and finally, would I ride his motorcycle with him?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This question left me momentarily overwhelmed by my inner Lizzie McGuire who dreams of riding a motorcycle with a rando' in Europe. When I begrudgingly responded "Non" he asked why, and I told him that he was a stranger. What I actually (unwittingly, mind you) said was "because you are a foreigner." A kind <span class="Apple-style-span">of ironic thing for an American in France to say to a Frenchie. However, he was of North African origins and clearly (understandably) thought I was making some You Are Not a True Frenchman claim. </span><span class="Apple-style-span">First week in France </span><span class="Apple-style-span">and I mistakenly declared myself a xenophobe. On the upside, this comment killed our conversation and his creepin'. On the downside, that cafe has the best free chocolates in town and now I will never return because he is a regular. Or, as the french say, he is <span class="Apple-style-span"><i>fid<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">è</span>le</i>.</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>In other anecdotes, I have begun my job as an English Teaching Assistant at a lycee and a college. The lycee is comprised of 900 students between the ages of 15 and 21 (although I believe there are a couple who are older than that). The college has students as young as 9 and as old as 16. </div><div><br /></div><div>I began my stint (of 8 months) at the lycee on Tuesday, and met five of the nine classes I will be working in. Each classroom asked me questions about myself in English (British English, which I'm quickly realizing I don't understand, merde). Most students asked where I am from, how old I am, what are my "studies", but one clever 17 year old asked me, "What is it you think of Bin Laden dead?" I gracefully responded by starting three sentences and finishing none, opting to avoid an answer by asking him what he thought. He said "it was a good choice for the world." This comment reveals something I have been hearing a lot: what America does has a global impact. I know I know, how original to discuss globalization on a blog about international living. So, I will leave that thought there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Later in the Meeting Everyone at Work day, each student presented themselves to me (when I meet someone in French, the person introducing me says "I present to you Johannah", it feels very important). A 19 year old said he was from Cantal and the next classmate was from Dijon. For lunch, I had packed a Cantal cheese and Dijon mustard sandwich! I was immediately moved to do what all Americans do when they're excited: smile, gesticulate and anticipate affirmation. However, this is not French, so I mentioned the sandwich like I didn't even enjoy it and moved on with the questioning. I will blend into this nation.</div><div><br /></div><div>A recurring moment in my teaching career (heh heh) that has garnered a barely perceptible reaction from the students is saying I'm from Ohio. I have actually taken to saying I'm from California; my passport says I was born in California so it has spread around that I'm Californian... sort of true, but also not... but I'm letting that little seed grow because the teachers think it is more exciting for the students/me/them. Also, saying I'm from California never fails to get one of the students to yell "cah-LI-fohna guhl!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to end here because I'm busy watching "Secret Stories", allegedly Big Brother of France but even less respectable. In this episode, the three women have danced in front of large mirrors while adjusting their faces (there are cameras behind the mirrors, ergo some high quality angles) and the men are seeing how many tires they can put around themselves. There may even be a plot before the episode ends. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636329775791205138.post-9292301325190104942011-09-26T08:19:00.000-07:002011-09-26T08:44:16.176-07:00J'habite a Vichy!I just moved into the biggest room I have ever called home. It is also the most drab (yellow walls, green carpet... wool curtains?). But that is no matter because it's huge (!!!), not just in size of space but also in size of bed and size of windows. And here I was, expecting everything in France to be small per the stereotype.<div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, I lost my camera cable so I can't upload pictures. Not that I have taken any on my camera, but maybe I would have if I had a cable. Here are a couple from my high quality photobooth cam to prove that I actually ended up in the place I've been talking about for 6+ months. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsDZyad-ERh4UkoT6pk29shPB9jTJvygN2knoaxrEtexJ2Ky2McwTAtxVO4Ys2esdaT2j4uHWypjYUVv7KqhREcwvtaAdowXv6qBYaaqGiFYJzuRF8hlcuX8y2lYQgVxWw6xraLvYCw8CI/s1600/Photo+on+2011-09-26+at+11.14+%25232.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsDZyad-ERh4UkoT6pk29shPB9jTJvygN2knoaxrEtexJ2Ky2McwTAtxVO4Ys2esdaT2j4uHWypjYUVv7KqhREcwvtaAdowXv6qBYaaqGiFYJzuRF8hlcuX8y2lYQgVxWw6xraLvYCw8CI/s400/Photo+on+2011-09-26+at+11.14+%25232.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656690195131992898" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>My bed, desk, closet and one of my chairs (currently holding all my winter wear) being modeled by my super chic french housemate*.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fkENaDasWEAzdQJgCihCE2uPITl8wJptK3DD9X6n5C43ZUO_egnk7E-JlA9fTRZnRItg6JwCZeJ-lLkGg3zOmbhawN0Qt1UANbpUnwMt8H2_W-2LKKrfyF6o26SCMgyxHrjV6nINMOqo/s1600/Photo+on+2011-09-26+at+11.14+%25235.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fkENaDasWEAzdQJgCihCE2uPITl8wJptK3DD9X6n5C43ZUO_egnk7E-JlA9fTRZnRItg6JwCZeJ-lLkGg3zOmbhawN0Qt1UANbpUnwMt8H2_W-2LKKrfyF6o26SCMgyxHrjV6nINMOqo/s400/Photo+on+2011-09-26+at+11.14+%25235.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656690915946451906" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>And there are my windows. Yesssss. The desk is also being modeled... for stylistic purposes. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you're reading this, give me ideas on how to make my room brighter/lighter plz. I have already taken a couple measures, such as pulling back the curtains as far as they would go (genius, I know) and also tying back a tea-colored wall hanging that covered a white door (seen in both photos behind the desk). The hanging is being held back by a computer cord, so maybe this innovation isn't an upgrade. I am considering buying a rug in a "happy" color, as well. Ok, begin brainstorming! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*in all seriousness, I do have a french housemate. He is a 19 year old from the East of France who will henceforth be referred to as my "coloc", a french term for housemate. </div>Johannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01356160033190899674noreply@blogger.com6