The Croix Rousse -

Its really a big hill! Lots of fun European steps – I’d like to chill here more often.

Doris and I spent some time singing and whining about what a yucky day it is today (it was totally raining like, all day) so we decided hey, museum! We decide upon the Contemporary art museum up by the parc. I totally hated this museum. It was all cliché pictures of downtrodden urban folk, and then the very best part was anime watercolors in graphic sexual scenarios with vulgar captions! I did like the giant room of thread with lots of mirrors, and I didn’t mind the giant anime skyscraper room where all the buildings had faces of anime girls. That was ok. The pee wee’s playhouse esque display that was mocking art’s descent into the banal was sorta cool, but like, duh. It was just old kitchy things all thrown into a room. Pee Wee did it way better. And the rest of the muse, I hated a lot. So Doris and I decide to go to a movie, since it was right next door, and still raining.

We saw scoop, it was a delicious morsel of Woody Allen (someone who, Emilie and I decided, is on the list of “People not allowed to Die”….b/c he’s just too cool). Scarlett Johannsen, I know the Woodster loves her and thinks she’s all sensual and stuff, but I really don’t see the wow factor. She’s pretty, and she seems to fit with the Allen dialogue stuff and is a good straight man for classic Woody neurosis, so ok. Hugh Jackman was smoldering, and I particularly liked how they had like, ghosts and mystery, and the Grim reaper and stuff incorporated in the whole film. It was funny, and it definitely awoke in me my life long dream of being a crime solving sleuth. So I was happy, when I saw that I’d left my hat in the theatre and was locked out, to have the opportunity to sleuth it out. I found it, and I was so proud.

Anyway, then Doris and I decided, since it was no longer raining, to just walk. And walk we did! We walked down the Rhone, and up the croix rousse. Check out these stairs, man. We walked around there, I made some notes about some places I’d like to return, and we eventually ended up at the original Martiniere, which is much more centrally located, and a building that inspired this lovely picture – whose background goes too far into the non-PC side of life (a much more fun side of life) for me to go into detail upon it.
Anyway, this walk inspired Doris and I to discover Lyon on the weekdays and to peace outta there on the weekends. May this blog soon become the guide to Europe it was meant to do. No longer will I feel bogged down by my lack of internet and uncentrally located place of residence! France is as centrally located as is necessary.
I’m excited for upcoming itineraries.

I have to cancel two classes tomorrow b/c I have to go to the French Official doctor to make sure I’m healthy enough to remain in this great country.

I now have to plan a lesson or two.

I leave you with a quote about the France from “What Makes the French so French - 50 Million Frenchmen Can’t Be Wrong” – maybe it will enlighten you as to the origins to my complaints/compliments… and maybe it will enlighten me! It looks like fun cultural studies/ethnography stuff that I really like:

“ Imagine a country where people work 35 hout weeks, take seven weeks of paid holiday a year, take an hour and a half for lunch, have the longest life expectancy in the world, and eat the richest food on the planet. A people who keep alive their local shopkeepers, who love nothing better than going to the public market on Sundays, and who finance the best health-care system in the world. A people whose companies are the least unionized and most productive among modern countries, and whose post-industrial consumer society ranks among the most prosperous in the world.

You are now in France.

Now imagine a country whose citizens have so little civic sense that it never crosses their mind to pick up after their dogs or to give to charity. Where people expect the State to do everything because they pay so much in taxes. Where service is rude. Where the State is among the most centralized and pervasive in the world, and where the civil-servant class amounts to no less than a quarter of the working population. Where citizens tolerate no form of initiative of self-rule, where unions are so pervasive that they virtually dictate the course of government and even run French ministries.

You are still in France.”

It would all seem so much more quaint if I were connected to the internet or had a land line and got to actually speak to my loved-ones more than once a month, though.

In other news, I still get really mad whenever I see BORAT posters. I just really hate him for that whole Throw the Jew in the Well business. It was just wrong on so many levels. I suppose those who like the sortof “omg I am so uncomfortable with these sad people” that produced such US hits like Napoleon Dynamite will really like it. I’m not hating, I’m just hating Borat. If you like him, laugh out loud and clear, but I really just don’t think he’s good for business.
PS everyone over here thinks Borat’s American, and that he’s like and American critiquing his own country. He’s English!

PPS I’m really tired of defending my country to everyone. I won’t tell people I’m Canadian, I will represent, but I really really really am tired of telling RANDOM PEOPLE that I meet on the street that yes, I have friends who vote Republican, and no I will not tell them that they are an asshole as you have requested, French-person-with-no-manners (b/c they’re my grandmother, and other such lovely and civic-minded people). I’m really at the point where I’ll just tell’em I’m a Republican and have them just deal with me being a good person nonetheless. Hey Republican friends, I represent for you. You are good people. Should I just refuse to talk politics? This book I’m reading talks about how France can’t be defined on any terms but it’s own – I think its safe to say that the same goes for the US of A, God bless it.

PPSS I’m going to try to wake up earlier from here on out so look for me on the I-net at around 11pm-12am and later your time, central time zoners.
PPPSS I think I’m going to go to Scotland for my birthday! !!!! yayyyy!

PSA – don’t drink more than one Carlsburg if you want to stay out more than an hour

Attention enterprising party people :
Carlsburg beer has 2+times the alcohol of normal beers, and if you try to be very legit and drink it like you’d drink normal beers, you will be sorry. I give you props for being hard core and considering doing such. You are truly legit to even think of it. But -- have one and you’re ahead of the game, sure. Have two, and it’s not going to be you having a Carlsburg, but rather it will be Carlsburg having you.

You will not know how you got so tipsy on 2 beers and you will be very angry. Just bear this in mind, and consume Carlsburg in moderation. I care about you, I don’t want you to have to learn the hard way about Carlsburg and the possible implications Carlsburg abuse could have on your social life.

Thanks where thanks is due

It’s around that time where we all give thanks for that with which we are blessed, and I wanted to get in on the action. I got to thinking about those I left behind, and felt the need to express my thanks for a certain something that’s been there for me since high school, and that doesn't usually get the thank you when we make the rounds on the T-Day table.

Dear white vintage pumps,

I remember the day we met at the vintage haberdashery – I was so young. I was really excited to find vintage shoes in my size, and in such a versatile color at that! I wore you to friendship dance Junior year, but that was really only the beginning. You go with everything, and the fact that we always receive such glowing compliments when we are together only further strengthens my belief that we were truly meant to be together. With you, I can truly be myself. What we have is real.

I left you in St. Louis so that you would not be over-used and destroyed by European cobblestones. You are too precious to me, and your composition too delicate, to accompany me on such a dangerous sojourn. I could not live with myself if you were to come to harm on the rough streets of the Old World – but I wanted you to know that I still love you though I am far away, and plan on spending many more well-dressed days and nights with you.
Don’t forget me while I am gone.

Yours always,
Lori

Friday night wine parties and Hunting

Holly’s friends had a Friday night wine party, and we really brought it – literally and figuratively:

- I played baguette ball to honor STL’s world series play

- teaching doris (that's her on the right, there) all the words to Penn's excellent drinking song "drink a highball" and she taught me something in austrian
- making my shoes cuss (b/c they’re broken – the sole is detached, so I can make them talk, and I taught myself a lot of French cuss words…combine these two facts, and its comedy magic)
- weird jammers playing like, the Charleston (the guitar dude was plumber) and other such hits from the 1920s
- telling daria to only speak to me in Italian
- 3 bottles of wine somehow
- meeting the crass girl and Hensley at Flemmings (ugh Long Island)
- trying to get a taxi, being too aggressive, losing taxi to un-gallant French boys --- FYI in america, we walk in the middle of the street and no one gives a shit except us if we get hit by a car

Saturday: hangover
went to Macdo (they have beer on tap), had crepes and tea at Savannah in Vieux Lyon

( I had the Davy Crocket, it was good -- its ham, cheese, and eggs, yes!)

As we were headed to the bus, I crossed the street, almost got run over by a motorcyclist, and met some French dudes who asked me if I hunted (or so I thought, I really had NO IDEA what they said, but I’m almost certain they were speaking to me), and I mentioned Louisiana (I was wearing my Marc Broussard Tshirt, heyo!), my name, Lorie the pop star, my age, and that I am older than Lorie, and I had her name first, but his accent was like, incomprehensible, but he was cuteness and sophisticated worthiness…nice shoes, too. The only way to tell if it’s a creeper or not, I have to look at the shoes.

Boys are different everywhere, have you noticed this? OMG!

US guys would not stand up to my shoe test, but I can see behind the eyes of US boys better – frenchies its like, hm. One can never play hard to get with enough zeal in FR, considering what a commitment it can be to give anyone your number. It’s practically asking for a week-long of stalking if you give out the number....but not always...my number is in the phones of some lovely French, don’t get me wrong! But its all quite fun, b/c you really can try out those coy ice princess type moves here. I digress.

Anyway, the boys didn’t get our number, but they did say they’d see us later, and who knows if you take that literally in France. I told them, I don't hunt, but bye!

Gotta love weird awkward moments where no one’s creepy or mean -- its like falling down on the ski slope as long as you don’t get hurt or lose a ski – its just so free and funny, I love it!

Being lost in translation is sortof hilarious.

Somebody cut the red tape!

My encounter at the Prefecture -- the French equivalent of the DMV -- was actually pleasant, well planned out, and the lady that helped me actually laughed and was cheerful enough so as to not make me feel bad for being alive. I did accidentally happen upon where I think you have to go if you're an immigrant and you want papers, or something, and it wasn't too pleasant, and it was like, outside...and it seemed sortof DMV-torture-esque. Still, I give my experience, thanks to the French Dept. of Education, two American thumbs up !

Not so excited that I have to wait until the 22nd of December to get my Carte de Sejour, but hey, life’s a give and take.

La Commedia Italiana

Silvia, our Guinness-loving Italian, keeps it real when her new roommate Missouri Michael asks her if b/c she is Italian, is she therefore Communist???

“Yes Michael, I will make you red pasta, and I only drink red wine.”

She's a funny lady.

Some other points:
French guy took off his clothes in Johnny Walsh’s – the French way apparently, is to remove your clothes at any moment where it would seem gratuitous…at least that’s what Emma’s undressing soccer player friend said when she asked him why he was changing for soccer practice in front of her…. “it’s the French way!”
?

Mexican food in lyon – is that Swiss cheese on my burrito?

STL thought of the moment : How cool would a Shuttle system be for St. Louis?

Holly got eaten by a spider, we went to the Pharmacist, and she is now ok.
There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly – I guess she’ll die.

French people doing things I don’t understand moment:
They will not stop making out
- Especially weird when they come up for air, this one the girl starts singing “I’m your Venus” relatively loudly. Hmm?
- there's this one girl who rides my bus occasionally and she wears a rat. A LIVE one. Now, I'm all for people being able to express themselves through fashion, even if they choose bizzare ways. To those who overly judge the popped collar and the "legging" I say - hey, leave the people alone, maybe it works for them. Rats, however, I cannot condone, b/c really live rats are the one trend that I would be in danger of wearing AS WELL were such a fashion victim to pass me by and the rat to jump on me. When people with leggings walk by me, there is not chance that in that moment (though at other moments I have chosen the legging, with no shame) I too will instantaneously be sporting the legging. With rats, there is a chance.

Therefore, I do not support the wearing of rats as accessories.

Some more Points of Interest (POIs for the uninitiated)

I feel like teaching my kids strange movie monologues from Waiting for Guffmann (Saving silverman’d be next). I’ll let you know how it goes. I guess its sortof like how my parents dressed me up like a detective when I was a baby. Make it funny/fun or its sortof torture.

La Stage : our lovely introductory meeting.
It sucked, and the former assistant they chose to speak to us about her experiences was a girl from the most chic school in Lyon.
She was like, well if your kids misbehave, just tell them to stop. Yeah, ok. What a vapid-tastic answer.
Completely unhelpful, and useless meeting.
There wasn’t even free coffee and donughts at the beginning. It’s the little things you miss about the USA. We’re like, you cannot call an early meeting of any official capacity and NOT have free coffee and doughnuts (dunkin doughnuts, anyone?). Its just unheard of. I was offended (and uncaffinated).


The Bellecour city guide festival! It was called the Lancement du Petit Paume --- how does this translate? They had this giant festival in the largest square in Europe to hand out free copies of the cool Petit Paume city guide…it doesn’t have shopping, but it has a lot, and the Lyonais listen. Still, I visited Petit Paume’s website, and they don’t have a blog!?! 52nd city anyone? Though their festival is the shit, their website is sortof shit. Pardon my French! Ha. Bummer, though. Someone needs some silicon valley help.

On the subject of them not listing shopping - are there 2nd hand shops in this country? Must I be satisfied with my batman rollerskates as my sole 2nd hand purchase? I still try to believe that Lyon, like St. Louis, requires of its pioneering visitors a little effort, snooping and research before it can be fully judged as a sortof lame city without any 2nd hand stores and only 2 legit Wifi cafes. I wait before I decide the verdict.
Case not closed.

I think I'm going to go to paris this weekend.

Madrid – a return to coherence,

and to authenticity!



*note the similarity between me and that bottle dude on the upper right .. hey-o!*


and to discount food and drink consumption!

(and eventually to Lyon!)


I manage to grouch the hostel breakfast fascist into giving us 2 croissants though we were 3 minutes late to breakfast. Take that! I have lived in France, I can grouch my way to what I want with the best of em. I used to nice my way…but I have learned that when in Rome…give the facists enough attitude that they’ll give you a frickin’ croissant! (that reminds me, there’s a student in my class who’s last name is Croissant. Someday he’s gointg to be Mr. Croissant! Can we just think about that?)

Then we go to Placa Del Sol, the main placa in Madrid. Madrid is, by the way, not on a grid system, so its really anyone’s best guess how to get one place to the other. We pretty much stuck to our neighborhood, and a lovely neighborhood it was! And we didn’t do so bad getting’ around, having somewhat navigated the streets of Old City in philly. We tried to go to Placa Real, the big old palace in Madrid…also known as Placa Real(ly Boring and really expensive to go inside), so we took some pictures outside and then wandered to elusive Chatas, a bar recommended by Claudia, but it was closed. So we get little toasty things somewhere else. I specifically asked for tap water, but I actually thought I saw a sea monkey in it. Whatever! Emilie really liked “salomorejo” that was on one of our toasts.

We then wandered to Placa Santa Ana, which I believe is where Hemmingway used to chill. We had beer, and I ate some olives (and they were SO GOOD). We sat next to some guys that Emilie decided were from the Netherlands, or they were Flemish. Emilie’s better at those kooky northern European Nordic languages. I was like,.. ?

Next up was fun with the Hapsburgs at the Prado. Emilie’s history teacher in high school was apt enough to point out that all the Hapsburgs were sortof pasty inbred mutant lookin’ people(come to think about it, did my history teacher mention this? I feel like he would’ve), and there were Hapsburgs to spare at the Prado – and the Hapbsburgs did not disappoint. Also saw the painting that Picasso re-did a million times called, something I forgot. There was a baby Hapsburg prominently featured! In a weird and rather unimpressive twist of fate we saw an old frat guy we both knew from Penn. It was unimpressive b/c he was not and is not awesome, so we were like, hey, fancy meeting you, yeah, peace out creeper. Anyone else we would’ve been like, hey, come jump on our magic carpet ride!

When we left the Prado it was rainin’, but that was ok, b/c bad guys don’t like rain! And we took Huertas back and we found the famed Sanabresa restaurant on the Via Del l’amor di dio or something - recommended by Claudia. We went home, had a beer, I wore the same thing and went to Sanabresa for a meal for 2 including a bottle of house wine for all of 19 euros (I tipped like, 3 euros, too – b/c at 17 euros for 2, I can afford to be a baller!)

Here’s what we had (all of which was delicious, btw):
Lori:
Paella Valencia (there were little baby crabs in it! ?)
Veal and French fries
Tarte helado (ice cream tarte, hey-o!)
Em.
Fried aubergines (eggplants)
Garlic chicken with French fries
Flan with cool little thick sweet whipped cream scoops on either side

We talked, we took our time, we drank our wine, it was just pretty much totally lovely.

We leave and we wander. We take a left. We take another left. We’re probably on huertas. It’s raining. My instincts told me to go to this little place in the middle of a somewhat deserted street, next to a Spanish tailor (I think) storefront.

Turns out this place is awesome, and by far my favorite place of the whole trip pretty much. Its sortof a bull fighting theme, but its not intentionally themed, just looks like the owners like bullfighting, and cool barfronts….unassuming, but cool. Oh I was so loving it! I made Emilie, who was anxious about her outsider status only briefly, order us up some beers. We ended up drinking a couple more sangrias (that they made up in front of us – wine, whiskey, orange juice and some fruity fruits…intense, man) and we soaked up the ambiance. I spotted some Zara-clad lady just kickin’ it with some impromptu flamenco and I knew I had found a good bar.

Though it was mostly a stand around and chill bar, there were dudes busting some virile flamenco moves in between sangrias, and drunker guys just sitting at the bar broodingly clapping to what I imagine was a flamenco rhythm (I KNOW the music was flamenco, but thats about it), though I have yet to understand how that time signature works. Who cares!?

I perfected what I like to call the “Spanish I-have-a-boyfriend face” and only had to use it a couple times and always to good result. Emilie ended up making friends with the two bartenders who loved her, just as I’d promised her when she was worried about our outsider status...what’s not to love about a blonde sweedey sweede who speaks Spanish and her not Spanish (nor Spanish speaking, but I did have a cool hat) friend just inconscpicuously chillin’ all incognito-like? There is no choice but to love that. The drinks were so CHEAP.
It was just really cool.

We wandered away before the place closed, and found the hostel, where Emilie had creepy dreams about the creepers in Goya’s painting of people renouncing Jesus. That painting, and others at the Prado, were fodder for some creepy nightmares, so it was bound to happen.

Ok, so its Friday and we were going to be leaving on a plane for Geneva in the mid afternoon so we wandered to Pull and Bear (like a Spanish urban outfitters) an other places.

Some highlights from English phrases on Spanish shirts include, “Life is short – Live it – Love it – Make it Worth,” “ Retro Explotion” and “Hair New Sound Imagine.” You gotta love that. After this linguistic adventure through the back doors of fashion, we tried to go to Chatas, only to find that it was closed AGAIN. When do Spanish people frickin’ eat lunch? It’s a mystery, it really is.

So instead we went to Taverna de Tirso Demolina…it was a challenge, but it was open, and after some debate amongst our hangry selves (hungry+angry=hangry) --- and after the waitress continuing to speak to me in super speedy Spanish even after Emilie was like, she does not speak Spanish, nada (in Spanish), and I was like, saying god knows what in Fritalian -- we decided on some seriously delicious dishes - ground chorizo peccadillo in some delicious spicy oil something, some fries with an egg on them, and some way good mushrooms in a delish salty oil sauce. Mmm. Hearty, and really the first excellent hangover food I’ve had since arriving on this, the fine continent of my ancestors.

We get back to the hostel, and head for the plane. It took some doing to get to the right gate, but we got there, and we were on the plane! I had tomato juice! Instead of taking 22 hours on a bus/train – it took us 2 hours to get to Geneva, and then only about 1 more hour from Geneva straight to Lyon.

One more night out in Lyon found us drinking extremely alcoholic beers and watching Texas play Baylor in football, meeting some crazy swiss germans, Emilie being adorably but completely wasted at Flemming’s – a place I love b/c the beer is SO COLD, its like wow, Emilie rallying after having consumed 1,000 glasses of water and after having sung some songs of the 80s classics and of the obscure Swedish band persuasion, meeting Hensley and Caroline – best friend friends ever, went to some party where we drank some more wine and danced around vintage Lori-Emilie style, went to French people sing-along/jamming and rock-out time at “Atmosphere” and then bonding with Caroline b/c she was really excited I was sortof southern (! – I love caro, she’s super cool) at “Le Bec de Jazz” – some sortof jazz club where they play Ray Charles and other ray charles-esque artists…where was Otis, I ask?, telling 2 french guys to stop talking shit IN FRENCH (arête de dire tes conneries – so gratifying, even if not altogether grammatically sound)…they got the point/were shocked (one was like, she just said that ?!?) into shutting up about how George Bush this and Iraq that…seriously make it stop, Em had some french DJ named Clement – who felt the need to tell her that he respected women for some reason -- fall in love with her, and somehow Em and I disappeared out the door, wandered into a cab with relative ease (that never happens), made it home safe and we sang a song Emilie wrote about Carlos and Emilie passed out on my floor with her cell phone in her hand.

A night well spent!
What a vacation.

Halloween and the morning after aftermath

Emilie and I chose to return to our ancestral roots – she was a Viking, and I was a Founding Father (more specifically Thomas Jefferson, though I do not believe I am related to him, but I have American revolutionary war connections, so hey, what’s up now?).





We met some girls from Fairfield county who knew Leigh and Lauren (my mom’s best friend from high school’s daughters who also reside in Fairfield county) and they also knew some of Emilie’s friends since they were all from the Conn.
The Fairfield Ladies were dressed as smurfs.

We went out with the oregoonies briefly with their slutty canadiennes and Australians this time around (who were in truly slutty costumes. I think they were dressed as sluts? Nurses? I was like, yeah, not gonna dress up like a slut on a street where I had, a couple nights before, seen actual prostitutes). We tried to get silent brazilian Barbara to wear Halloween sunglasses, but the concept of Halloween was lost on her. She looked like Viola from the incredibles. Emilie meowed in the street on her hands and knees once b/c she said, “mine.” She faced her sentence like a trooper, duh, and I think the oregoonies were quite taken aback and puzzled by her abundance of A game, once again. It was boring, and we weren’t going to bars and Emilie and I got so angry that we decided to
purchase a bottle of Jack and just split it. Which we did.

We wandered in an out of the hostel, talked to some smurfs, met a guy named Kenny who talked in Spanish like he was some sort of Mexican caricature. We told him that, and he may’ve been a little taken aback/confused by our frankness.

The night ended with us being rounded up and herded back into the hostel – after some wandering, and some exchanging of laughs and some Dane Cook jokes with a boy smurf on the street – by one of what we think was an employee of the hostel who was dressed like a pimp.

We found the Oregoonies – who we’d lost – at the hostel, and em and me discussed irish topics with the irish dude (who looked sortof like the KG from tenacious D, but wasn’t as funny/cool/skilled at the acoustic guitar, I would imagine, and was a redneck for Halloween….no points from me….especially not when he asked if I had any southern in me, to which I responded yes, to which he responded anyway, “well how’d you like some southern IN you tonight?!?” ugh. I think I told him not to talk to any Southern Lady like that, and I sortof killed our friendship with my poor reception of he poor taste in jokes. But then he went around yelling in some bastardized southern accent all about how he liked to bomb iraq or some crap. Oh Europe, where are you getting this crap?). Anyway, Irish got all the dates wrong (even I knew that…I can imagine Emilie was like, hello I’m a history major) and I told him that I thought the Irish Civil war had to be a lot like the American one. I think I had a bit of a drawl at this point in the evening, as sometimes happens. We ran in to some French dude in the hall who would have no part of our revelry. I got angry b/c the Oregoonies were monopolizing Emilie in their hostel room doing god knows what (it ends up they were just passed out)…so after talking to the Fairfield Smurfettes in the bathroom, Lori and Em pass the heck out, our bloodstreams most likely 50% whiskey at this point.

The next day’s breakfast was easy enough, and I should’ve known it was too good to be true. We made it to the bus station with little difficulty…

off to Madrid we went!

On the bus ride to Madrid, I’ll just say we met some creepy canadiennes who creeped the crap out of us, and I will also mention that my stomach got VERY ANGRY from all the mountain movement motion sickness and air pressure changes and omg it was terrible, not to discount the fact that there was whiskey somewhere in there, too – though I had no way of seeing any of that coming, unfortunately. It was one of the longer 7 hours of my life, and probably made the 7 hours last a little longer for those on the bus with me.

I tried to think of Don Quixote fighting windmills (would you believe me if I told you I almost put down treadmills instead of windmills?) whenever I felt like any dream was an impossible dream.

It really was a crazy landscape. Very Arizona. Spain, what a concept!

In the meantime, Emilie, the Sancho to my Don Quixote (or maybe it was the other way around) went on an enviously day-long chorizo binge.

After some feeling like we were going to die in many senses (b/c of the creepy canadiennes and their belief that they were being followed by creepy catalunian thieves, and b/c I, stripped of many electrolytes, was like, peace out coherence), we, thanks to Emilie’s metro skillz, made it to the hostel which used to be a cool villa. There we met Joanne the cool polish Californian who had been wandering Europe for 4 months alone, and we wandered together all about until we found a really cool restaurant where we ate some chorizo and a lot of grilled meat (chicken and kabobs, wow). It was almost like BBQ and it was also almost like heaven.

MEAT paradise. Wow. The restaurant’s subtitle was something like, “eat with no restrictions.” OK!

We wandered around the somewhat deserted streets of where it was sortof really scary, and then went back to the hostel where Romanians tried to talk to us but they could speak no language except Romanian (problem…it was also a problem that they were not cute), and I was like, leave me alone I am sick. Then we met some other girls who liked to tell us all about how they’d been attacked by crazy men in Europe and so had all their friends, but how they were ok now and now they just know they must try to be safer and take more cabs. WTF. What were they doing before to get such attacks? See the creepiness?

We had a late night on the hostel internet, and were generally angry b/c of our long bus ride so it was definitely time to pass the heck out in our Spanish villa hostel.

Sagrada Famiglia - you are the bomb

Ok, no hangover Tuesday!

We went to see the Sagrada Famiglia, and it was just so frickin’ beautiful.




I was like, emotional looking at it. I mean, I am a lover of beauty, I am -- but very rarely does beauty make me sorta get all teary eyed. Maybe it was the religious, aspect and that it wasn’t done. It just seemed like what cathedrals are supposed to be – they make you feel so small, but connected to all the other small people. They also make you feel awesome because you are there. All the hangovers of Barcelona were worth seeing the Sagrada Famiglia. The church is so PRETTY! And cool!

And it sortof had a sense of humor, too. Gotta love high art that laughs with you.

There’s a little puzzle on the back that the sculptor just put there b/c he thought people’d like to see it and try to figure it out. There were workers still working on it. It must be the coolest thing ever for artists in this age to be able to work on a cathedral. I think it is wonderful that it is being built. It’s really just being built just because. How great is that! We spent some time there – I wish someone would write/find me a super detailed book about this place, as I would just love to know all about the architecture b/c it was just soooo cool. I got nothin’ but love for the sagrada famiglia.



Maybe I do wanna be a chicken!

You can't spell Barcelona without....

Later that evening, we were to experience the spectrum of charm to creeptasticness that makes up the rainbow of culture that is the Barca, for better or for worse. (dare I say you cannot spell Barcelona without BAR?)

Before heading home, we went to the Mayor’s square, where I’d read that people dance in the streets in some sort of Catalan dance. I was right! There were all these old people in white shoes dancing in a circle doing some sort of tappy toe tappy toe step step step jump and be awesome dance.







The dance was forbidden in the Franco years, and you could just tell that these older people were rocking their feet off to this dainty little dance, repping their Catalunianness. The music was super cool (there was a full band in the square as well, and I gave’em a Euro…represent international civic-mindedness!) and I was happy to see some young people doing the dance as well. Things like that I just hope go on forever. If I were a Catalunian family, I’d be like, ok family, time to go dance in the square! It’s rep your heritage through vernacular dance time! And the children would rejoice, as they had grown to associate dancing with love. And I would even make my 13 year old son do it, b/c one must learn to represent one’s people through the art of dance at a young, even pubescent age!

Anyway, it was just so charming. I loved the sassy jumping old ladies. I seriously loved them. I could just feel how proud they were to be sassily jumping and tappy toe-ing! Dancing!

Made me wish that people did the St. Louis Shag in the street.
They probably used to.

Vow to myself to have authentic street dancing children? Made.

Anyway, after some napping, we went out to an excellent tapas restaurant called Taller de Tapas, where we got free champagne, the best tapas ever, felt very fancy, and had a wonderful waiter who used to live in Santa Fe (he recommends a visit…duly noted!) and who spoke English with the inflection of a game show host. How cool is that.

One bottle of wine later we went to Jamboree, the hip hop club just below our hostel. We met Colin, our favorite ginger kid, just trekkin’ his way around, as well as Kofi the American businessman who works in London, and his friend from Chicago. I celebrated as much as possible the victory of the Cardinals (or was I just dancing so that they might be infused with my good will as they were on their way to victory? I don’t know, at some point, I’d drunkenly discovered that the Cardinals had won) with every Nelly song that played…there were 2, and the dj even played Kanye for me…though most people had left for the other room by then. Met some Irish Bartender and he invited me and Emilie for a “party” (his friend and some Mexican girls and me and Emilie…interesting definition of party) and after making it through the mean streets – yeah there were prostitutes on Las Ramblas…that was a first -- we made it to the “party” and he told us all about how Sunday Bloody Sunday should be Ireland’s national anthem. Yeah, ok.

I think I made Emilie pledge that she would never pronounce Missouri the wrong way (no I don’t mean miz-ur-uh, and of course not miz-ur-ee…I mean Miss-ooohuur-aaauh and Miss-oooohurrr-eee. Sacrilege!) , and we of course had to defend our country against European public opinion that Americans are all of the breeding that produces the “stars” of the hit TV series, COPS or Prison Break, Desperate Housewives, and every Michael Moore movie known to movie screens. Don’t get me started on Borat. All my French students think Sascha Baron Cohen is American. French newspapers think he is a british comedian in the vein of Monty Python.

I think Borat is partly funny, and mostly very very impolite.

Returning to barca, in short, I said I wanted to leave the party so naturally there was passing out on the couches at the party for the night, and then we wander the morning/afternoon streets of barca back to our hostel so we can get ready to go to the beach. I’m a little hungover/angry, but we go to the sea, and I totally fell asleep on the Barcelona Mediterranean shore, as well as got a bit of a tan, despite my anger/hangovertasticness. Emilie went swimming b/c of some sort of “always swim” pledge she made with herself – but she’s Swedish, and her Viking blood, and lack of anger (unlike myself) helped her to enjoy the frigid Mediterranean waters….though it was quite hot outside at the end of October in Spain. Upon my return to the hostel, I pass out and Emilie meets our Oregon friends, who really had the potential to be awesome, but actually were not all that fun, but they were good to throw around.

Ok, we had crappy paella, but got to make our own awesome tomato bread by rubbing pink garlic (best garlic ever, seriously it is AWESOME) and tomatoes on a piece of toast. We discussed many things including how, geez, Barcelona was kicking the crap out of us. Seemed like every time we were like, no, tonight we will be calm and get in at a sensible but still late enough hour as to not be too Puritanical, we ended up just like, not coming home at all and walk-of-shaming through the afternoon streets of Barca. So before we set out for the beer drinking room of the hostel we decided to go for some reverse psychology and pledged to each other that we would attempt to become impregnated by the end of that evening.

We made it back to the hostel for some drinking games the likes of Beer goggles, one frog, Hoe Down (with the Billy Ray) and other such, if you say “mine” you have to do 5 star jumps (Jump up and say, “I’m a STAR!”) and the repeat game where if someone repeats what you say, you get to flick them in the head…all with the Oregoonies and some dutch girls and slutty Canadiennes. Emilie got to flick the one cool Oregoonie in the head b/c he repeated “I’m not an ambiturner.” I have a feeling the boys were not ready for 2 girls who could giggle and bring their A game to drinking time and actually compete. Everyone kept on being like, hey, she’s smart, she went to UPenn…she was a HisSTORY major, hahah. Ok? Anyway, Emilie lost some bet, or must have, b/c she had to spoon with the irish dude later on. I was chaperoning, no worries. We actually went to sleep (not passed out) that night, so that was nice.

Take that Barca! Score -- reverse psychology :1 Barca: 3-5

MUSE in Spain, but not in spanish -- and aftermath

Before heading to MUSE, I used my shoe radar to find Emilie some green fake nike tennis shoes, we went home, changed and got a super gourmet kebab and some delicious sangria, and sipped on our Fanta-vodka cocktails until we arrived at the MUSE concert…where outside of the line the ground was LITERALLY covered with about a foot of trash – empty bottles, full bottles, plastic, glass, what-have-you.
These Europeans sure know how to litter.

Muse was lovely. That guy sure can play the piano. Emilie and I safely rocked our faces off to his lovely lead vocals. I mentioned that he must eat a lot of Power Bars to have so much energy on stage, and yet he must burn it all off – for his is oh so thin! Emilie mentioned he may just be on speed. I will consider this possibility.

I even spoke Spanish at the concert “dos!” to the beer lady right before the band went on. It was at this concert that emilie met her mechanical engineer, one Carlos Casanovas (yes that was his name) – and I will take credit for finding her such a lovely dance partner and escort for the evening, as I told her he was cute when she couldn’t see him. We met Carlos’ sister, Anne, a totally cool Spanish girl, (who he had lost at the concert, which was why he was standing near us) and after dropping her off at a birthday party we went to some crazy multi level dance club that only played like, Franz Ferdinand b-sides, and bands that I would classify as Junior Varsity The Strokes and the like. It was sortof awesome. There were movie screens. There were dudes dancing on blocks. I was like, where is Kanye once again, but I guess the European people aren’t so rhythmically picky.

We drove back, I passed out in the hostel, and Emilie and Carlos took a little Spanish stroll where he told her she “wouldn’t need a hotel” next time she comes to Barcelona, and other such Spanish-english gems like, “I’m so haeeeppy I lost my seee-stir.” All of which Emilie did an excellent job of imitating...I may not remember Carlos sounding like Speedy Gonzales, but I did not go on a Spanish love stroll with him so I cannot pretend to know.

I woke up the next morn to Emilie talking to a couple of juniors from the Alma Mater who she recognized from their Wharton shirts. They’d seen my Penn flip flops, but in true Penn fashion, they chose not to investigate. As Emilie and I are U of P girls (I like call UPenn U of P, b/c its more old-school and the title represents what I (and grandpas who wear plaid newsboy caps, I would imagine) would like to think/remember about dear old Pennsylvania), we stick our necks out for our comanches, be they young, old, not really all that cool, or super awesome. Benjie Frank would be so proud – U of P has taken the globe over indeed. In a nice, community serving way – at least on my part. I’d like to start a Junto when I get back in America and move back to STL or Memphis or NOLA...charleston is too tame. I would like to give stl a shot for a bit and take this Testimo thing to fun places. Hell, who knows.
I digress!

I am very dumb to have forgotten that T’estimo is a catalan word, and I have since found out that my boss’ husband’s family owns a cheese business in Barca! I could’ve been feasting on cheese. Sigh! I did get to see some sights he recommended. Excellent guidance, Xavier.

So right, Sun day Emilie was sortof hangover dead and everything was making her angry, but that did not stop us from wandering around EVERYWHERE until we’d walked off her hangover and had and ice cream (its really good and plentiful in the Barca!) and had found a super authentic bar place where I had seafood stuffed Avocados (magical avocados, I love them) and Emilie had Barcelona sausage that may or may not have been slightly raw. But it was pretty much awesome, and there were people in all their Catalunyan glory, eating strange looking salads, anchovies and of course olives. We tried to be authentic, but the waiter (who didn’t ever usher us to leave, not even 4 hours into some sort of conversation about something – Emilie and I always manage to have something to say to each other) gave us an English menu, so we couldn’t order the mysterious Catalan menu. Maybe it was for the better. It was authentic, so I was happy. There was even a crazy vagrant lady across the street wearing leg-warmers for shoes who would buzz like a bee at passers by. Excellent. We somehow managed to wander to the mayor’s square that we somehow always managed to happen upon at least 2 times a day

Next up, Gaudi park. Emilie got a fanta, and she was happy, though slightly dead.

It was a pretty cool park – one rooftop nearby said something like, “if its tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?” I was like, hey, not cool. I just ate a stuffed artichoke very peacefully at an authentic bar. Don’t hate the tourists. It furthered the creepy vibes of spain in general.
But whatever!

Bus to Barcelona

Spain. The Extended Version.

We arrived there by bus… all 11 hours of it. It was a lovely ride, with a fair share of creepy people, and cute kids making rhymes in French. Emilie and I caught up, drew pictures, played blind pig, and I tried not to laugh too loudly so as not to draw attention from the creepers whose presences you can just FEEL when you’re in Spain. Which is a shame, b/c it’s a pretty cool country, and in retrospect I think I had my creeper radar on too high a setting, being such a savvy lady as I am. But you can never be too careful.

Anyway.
We got into Barcelona at the bus station, Emilie used her mad Spanish skillz to hail a cab, and we hopped in. Our cabbie proceeded to – out of goodwill, I’m certain – scare the living daylights out of us with is tales of delinquents who loiter near our hostel, located just off of Las Ramblas, one I would later not hesitate to call one of the more seedy streets I’ve EVER visited. But it ended up we were scared for nothing, as it was just like, party people and probably the occasional creeper, but Emilie and I had bought hats at H&M in order to give us a true don’t-mess-with-me edge.
We get into our 20-person room, I pass out on a mattress on the floor and Emilie is kept awake by sounds of drunken revelry within the room, as well as by a young gent outside who took it upon himself apparently to serenade the entire square with an acappella version of “(ooo wooo woo) I Wanna be Like You” from the classic Disney Cartoon musical (one that I could never watch too much b/c I thought the end was too sad) THE JUNGLE BOOK.

Maybe I do wanna walk like you, talk like you do.

In brief, we woke up the next day, got an ice cream (top notch in the Barca) and proceeded to get lost in the winding labyrinthine streets of Barcelona’s Barrio Gotika trying to find the Picasso museum. It was very Auberge Espagnole (that movie did a good job of capturing the Barca vibe…walking around I was like, yes – I feel it. Not the same for like, when I visited Boston and tried to be in my own version of Good Will Hunting…though don’t get me wrong, good will hunting is an excellent movie). We eventually met some baby art students outside the Picasso Museum, and we proceeded to spend about an hour or two longer than them inside this Picasso museum. We are art students of life!

I only sortof understand how Picasso went from Point A to Point B, but I get cubism now for the most part, and it’s cool! Emilie and I liked his bajillion versions of some painting from the Prado (one that we SAW in person later….we also saw an old slutty frat boy from our U of P days in the same museum – on a weekend sojurn from some fancy NY-See-how-important-I-am finance job to visit his lady on her semester abroad in Madrid … how ‘bout them apples!?).

Emilie opened my eyes to one particular red dude that Pablo had painted, and we thought we were pretty funny the rest of the trip when we were trying to recreate live in person how Picasso painted him. Live Cubism! Example 1:


Example 2:




So yeah, Picasso was a little bit of a slut (his prostitute pictures were like, who Master P, you are a perv), but he was a funny guy. Some of his sketches – particularly of dogs – were just funny. Him an his friends had a real fun thing going at the 3 Cats Café, where they’d all hang outs and think of new and pervy ways to be funny and talented. V. excusable, even encouragable! Girls didn’t seem to be invited though to his fun cafe time – ‘cept as girlfriends – so like, no fun.

Enough about Senor P.

Spain - where even dudes like flamenco

subtitle: The rain in Spain stays mainly in Madrid.





I congratulate myself for sneaking around in Html land so that I was able to find out how to post photos from Flickr! There has to be an easier way, but the way I figured out ain't so hard. Gotta brush up the blogging skillz!
I'm on feedburner, too - and no I don't really know what that is yet, but hey. Soon I will.

ANYWAY: At last, the time has come for me to regale you with stories of my time in Spain! Spain:
Barcelona - party-crazed tourists
Madrid - flamenco dancing Spanish dudes sipping sangria in between passionate claps

Guess which one I liked more?

But its not important.
Ok, more to come...

So much dairy, and so much time

In the time its taking me to upload my photos and pledge to write to you about the great country of spain, I've been eating a lot of cheese lately, and I'm drinking so much milk you'd think I was in my "prevent osteoperosis" phase that I went through when I was 13.

In some/most villages in france, cows outnumber people (goats must count in there, too...lots of goat milk stuff here), and the water here is weird (look at my pictures, I my hair has french-water-induced weirdness) - so milk is where it is at.

America votes - Nov. 7th.

*this post is from November 6th (blogger is being weird), and I'm happy that my cries of "tout va changer" were not in vain!*

I am sorry that I am not around for the ridiculous non-presidential elections that are going on. I am not sorry, however, that my sister is totally clued in. I hope those who need to are keeping it classy enough so as to bring to light those that are in no way keeping it classy (much less keeping it unsacreligious), and that everyone goes out to vote tomorrow and that you all continue to use youre machetes to cut through red tape and the like.

And so the blog will turn to more european discussions, as there is much to recount!

Some things worth noting:

Though I've fallen behind the running commentary of Europe and Europeans through the eyes of Lori, in addition to promising to not fall behind no mo', I thought I'd put some snippets of what I've noted en lieu of an actual post.

Promises that an actual post is coming soon.

• Berrachon – best chocolate in france in the 6eme... this is really just for me to note.
• Yes, I called the Royale to ask what kind of whiskey was in a Senator. Yes I was in France, but no I didn’t mention it. No, I am not ashamed. No, I have not found Powers Whiskey in Lyon (Jameson is not the same!). I thought the lovely Roayle employee said "palace" so maybe I CAN find Powers whiskey. This whole whiskey love affair makes me feel like a tweed-wearin' irish literature professor who walks with a cane. I can dig that.
  I tried to make a wireless network through concrete walls of my 60's era school building and across a courtyard with a wireless router and some detarmination. Apparently I sorta broke the computer for a day, and many french teachers were mad. Though they did not know I did it b/c it was night! And now the computer is fixed, though I have no wireless still. Sorry I broke your computer, french people, but my American comanches invented it (with a swede, i think), so I was only doing my patriotic duty by fighing for my rights by sneaking around at night, Boston Tea Party Style. Internet is v. important, ps, and everynight when I must leave it I die a little.
• I have gone on a "Notebook" binge. Its the only movie I brought to France, and I think I've watched the director's commentary so many times I secretly think me and Nick Cassavettes are friends. It feels like it!
• European websites are struggling. By struggling, I mean they are bad. Very bad. Completely unnavigatable. Maybe not all of them, but the important ones (trains) are.
• Cool flea markets in Lyon : I mistakenly thought they were called "Villes de Grenouilles" - which means "Frog Cities" ( I mean, crazier names have happened)...but they're actually called "Vide Greniers" which means something like, Empty the Attic! I'm glad someone emptied their attic, b/c check out what I got for 10 euros:

Batman Rollerskates!

• merde, sadly, Raconte-moi La Terre, my wifi hotspot of choice tonight (out of like 5 in the whole friggin' city...what gives) is closing, so I'll check back later with ya. Flip side!
  

In other news, the Rebeccas are going to see Marc Broussard tonight! Wow.
I remember when I first saw him, a year ago yesterday. Sigh.
I remember emailing my friends to tell them that my life had been changed for the better by sweet soul music. Lives are usually changed by little else. Since then my life has been pretty exciting and changed, come to think of it -- trials and tribulations included!
May they take many a video, and possible get a signed forearm out of it!

In case you are puzzled, that's Mr. Broussard's signature on the right, and Chuck Berry's on the left.