Hier, nous sommes allés à Giverny, chez Claude Monet, où j'ai vu beaucoup, beaucoup de fleurs. (Et aussi des feuilles de nénuphar...quel mot ><) Voilà mes photos préférés que j'ai pris:
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Catching Up
sept 25th
Two hours before the train leaves, a space opens in the Theatre class, and I decide to drop History of Photography. A monumental decision made a little too late. Because the train to Nice leaves in two hours, and I don't have a ticket. But at least there's a chance now - no more feeling sorry for myself, the day's suddenly gotten better. I stuff clothes in my back pack, in the rush packing way more than I need - funny how that works - overcompensation I guess. Back pack stuffed to capacity, I only need a little beret to make me look more like a girl scout…well, maybe some cookies, too. So I head down the street to wait for Maria, who is somehow taking forever to tie her shoes (so she says), though I later learn she was writing a note to her host mom in lipstick (or something). In any case, I was antsy – I mean, potty dance antsy. BUT we finally get on the metro, and a good 45 minutes later we arrive at the Gare de Lyon. *phew* (almost).
Standing in an epic-ly long line to see if I can get a ticket to Nice. At to the front, I tell the nice man where I want to go. He says, “get out” (or something) and says that it’s full. I said PLS PLS PLSSSSSSS, batting my eyelids. He just looks at me. Hanging my head, I pick up my bursting-at-the-seams pink backpack and walk sadly away, being as dramatic as possible so the mean man might feel a burst of sympathy and call out behind me, “WAIT, we can put you in the luggage hold,” but none such luck. Maria says, “I mean, I don’t think he’s lying or anything, buuuuut let’s check the automatic ticket sellers just in case.” Not yet resigned to returning in defeat to my host family that already thinks I’m crazy, I agree to try the auto-seller.
Unfortunately, dumbo-boy in front of us thinks that re-inserting his credit card into the slot 34 times will make it work. I try to convey my impatience by complaining loudly to Maria - because this method has shown such good results in the past and is bound to work doubly well in a foreign country. Eventually, the idiot in front of us realizes the futility of his efforts and plods away, sucking his thumb and dragging his blanket (or something). I go through the necessary steps (buy tickets: train leaving presto: economy: leaving NOW). None such luck. The tickets are all sold out. Too bad ticket-man wasn’t lying. In frustration, I continuously click the forward and back arrows on the screen, mostly hoping to destroy it, but willing to accept the simple pleasure of beating up an inanimate object.
And then: QUEL MIRACLE!! An available ticket appears! Maybe I do have friends in the ticket booth! Turning around, I catch the ticket man’s eye, and, as if in slow motion, he winks at me, and all the disgruntled travelers standing in line turn one by one to face me, and for one moment of pure happiness, they all grasp hands and sing the holy note of divine success! Success, Success!! Chime the heavens!! COMPLETE AND UTTER WINNNNN!! (or something).
And then I try to buy it with my credit card. One word keeps blinking across the screen: FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. Resisting my urge to kick it, I try my other card. Same result. The train is leaving in ten minutes. TEN MINUTES! Maria, whose family is from Portugal, has another card that works in the EU. She suggests we try it. After a moment of hesitation, which went something like this: “No! Wait, but, no. No, I shouldn’t. Well, maybe…are you sure?” we try the card – it worked! Now, 7 minutes to get to the train. We run. Get to the train with five minutes to spare. Maria asks about my seat number, but I have decided that I will simply ask someone in Maria and Becky’s car to switch with me.
UNFORTUNATELY a VERY SLOW (dare I say retarded) man was clumsily trying to load his suitcase into the luggage rack. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, he kept glancing around apologetically. At this point, I realize that it would be inconceivable to ask someone to switch cars with me with only 2 minutes left before the train leaves. I glance at my ticket: car 18. CAR EIGHTEEN!? HOLY FFFFFFFFFF! It’s on the complete other side of the train. And it’s on the other half – which is not accessible from this half. FFFFFFFFFFFFFF. I stuttered something about getting to my seat to M & B and leap out of the train car, nearly colliding with a man dashing headlong to the other end of the train. I run alongside him. Meanwhile, the train whistle begins to blow. I kid you not – the whistle is blowing. And I nearly shit out my heart.
At the last second, the running man and I jump onto the first car on the second half of the train, breathing heavily, just as the train starts moving. I want to high-five him, but decide not to for three reasons: 1) I’m doubled over trying to breathe 2) I don’t think he’d be the kind of man to high-five a stranger, as he’s probably French and 3) the car standing area is crowded with people who’ve just gotten on and don’t want to risk missing the train by going to their seats (fancy that). One of them is a woman who is taking up at least half the available space. She looks a little bug-eyed and frantic, but I took a chance and gasped out a question about how to get to the next car. She gestures wildly, nearly hitting a bald man in the face, and keeps telling me to wait – I’m not quite getting it, so I keep rephrasing my question, but she pulls out her own ticket, points to the “Car 18” and says, “Attendez.”
But I’ve never been one for inaction, so instead I glance around at the other passengers – one is a tall, thin, very dark man holding a briefcase and wearing a pristinely pressed suit. He seems so calmly put together that I can’t imagine him being late for anything. I follow him up the stairs to the second level. Yes! A door! Pressing the red button to open the sliding door, I would have enjoyed the schwick sound it made as the airtight seal unlocked, if I weren’t still feeling the adrenalin. I hobble through the aisle ways, unsteady on my feet as the train picks up speed, probably knocking several people in the face with my stuffed-to-capacity backpack, and come across the “meal car.” Aka traveling bar. Make a mental note to come back to this, and keep going through the cars.
Finally, I make it – I’m in the last car, last seat, part of a foursome around a table. Three middle-aged men are sitting in the other three seats, and I try to ignore them. I decide that I need a drink, yes, a drink is ver, ver necessaire right now. Stowing my luggage away, I set off in search of the traveling bar.
But instead of a drink, I was enticed by the Toblerone. OH TOBLERONE!!! Mmmmmm. 2 euro. Yeah. It’s worth it. And I get a small cup of “l’eau plat” and go to sit on a stool at one of the bars facing a window. Everything streams by like in a dream, or like when you’re drunk, lying down to stare at the ceiling. I don’t know how much time is passing, but I’m trying to calm down from my ridiculous last few hours. A man sits down next to me, and then leaves. A woman does, too. And I’m just staring out the window. Finally, I’ve long since finished my chocolate and small cup of water, I get up and stagger back to my seat five cars away, trying to get used to the sway and shake of the train.
Finally, I make it back, double check my belongings, and sit down. Two of the men, clearly travel companions, have started playing cards, speaking it what sounds like a Marseillaise accent. The third man is wearing what looks like a pilot’s uniform and is staring off into the distance. I pull out some homework and settle down.
Eventually, one of the card players decides to go to sleep, and I have tired of my work, so I pull out my own deck of cards and start a game of portable solitaire. The third man gets up and strides off. The other card player is clearly trying to get to sleep – trying one position after another, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes closed. Finally, his curiosity - or boredom - gets the best of him, and he asks about my cards. I show them to him – casino cut, bought from a vending machine in Las Vegas, 50 cents. At this point, the other card player has woken up, and the two of them ask if I know how to play poker.
By the time the third man has returned, changed into a sweatshirt from his pilot’s uniform, we three are engaged in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em. The pilot looks from me to the two middle-aged card players. “Do you want to play?” asks one of the players, in French. “No, no, I don’t know how to play,” he responds good-naturedly. “We’ll teach you.” The first card-player left little room for argument, and the pilot joined in our game of Texas Hold ‘Em.
Finally, we tired of poker, and one of the card-players, blond, with tanned wrinkled skin, and a little bit of a beer belly, rolls up the sleeves of his button-down and asks me if I know any other games. Of course I do. I explain that I played cards all the time with my family when I was little and there was nothing else to do. So I pulled out my pocket dictionary and began explaining the game of “Spades” or, in French, “Piques.” During our first round of betting, I get paired with the skinny dark-haired card player, and the pilot is paired with the blond player. My partner bids 10, 11 between the two of us – so, we must win 11/13 tricks. I look at the pilot – his turn to bid – he asks a question, his head turned my way, but I can’t tell if he’s looking at me – wait, hold it, that is a cross-eyed pilot. Umm. I answer his question, write down the bids, and we begin the game.
Several hours later, the cross-eyed pilot has gotten off, and I am left with the two card-players. As they have been speaking to each other half in French, half in Italian, I ask where in Italy they come from. They glance across the table at each other, then the dark-haired one looks at me and says, “We live in Cannes, France, but we come from a small city on the Red Sea.” And that was that. It didn’t seem like a topic they wanted to discuss, so I didn’t ask why they’d left Italy. By the time we reach their stop, they had taught me Italian Rummy, and I shared a few more stories about playing cards with my siblings. They stand together, and gather up their Louis Vuitton luggage. The dark-haired player looks at me and asks, “What is your name?” I tell him, and he says, gesturing to the other man “This is Nicolas, and I am Stanly.” “Enchanté.” He then picks up his professional-grade playing cards and says, “I would like to give these to you.” I grin, completely taken off guard, “Oh! Thank you!” Then I pull out my Las Vegas casino cards, “do you want these, then?” “Why not?” Stanly says. He tucks them into his suitcase and they head to the front of the car, “Au Revoir.”
Two hours before the train leaves, a space opens in the Theatre class, and I decide to drop History of Photography. A monumental decision made a little too late. Because the train to Nice leaves in two hours, and I don't have a ticket. But at least there's a chance now - no more feeling sorry for myself, the day's suddenly gotten better. I stuff clothes in my back pack, in the rush packing way more than I need - funny how that works - overcompensation I guess. Back pack stuffed to capacity, I only need a little beret to make me look more like a girl scout…well, maybe some cookies, too. So I head down the street to wait for Maria, who is somehow taking forever to tie her shoes (so she says), though I later learn she was writing a note to her host mom in lipstick (or something). In any case, I was antsy – I mean, potty dance antsy. BUT we finally get on the metro, and a good 45 minutes later we arrive at the Gare de Lyon. *phew* (almost).
Standing in an epic-ly long line to see if I can get a ticket to Nice. At to the front, I tell the nice man where I want to go. He says, “get out” (or something) and says that it’s full. I said PLS PLS PLSSSSSSS, batting my eyelids. He just looks at me. Hanging my head, I pick up my bursting-at-the-seams pink backpack and walk sadly away, being as dramatic as possible so the mean man might feel a burst of sympathy and call out behind me, “WAIT, we can put you in the luggage hold,” but none such luck. Maria says, “I mean, I don’t think he’s lying or anything, buuuuut let’s check the automatic ticket sellers just in case.” Not yet resigned to returning in defeat to my host family that already thinks I’m crazy, I agree to try the auto-seller.
Unfortunately, dumbo-boy in front of us thinks that re-inserting his credit card into the slot 34 times will make it work. I try to convey my impatience by complaining loudly to Maria - because this method has shown such good results in the past and is bound to work doubly well in a foreign country. Eventually, the idiot in front of us realizes the futility of his efforts and plods away, sucking his thumb and dragging his blanket (or something). I go through the necessary steps (buy tickets: train leaving presto: economy: leaving NOW). None such luck. The tickets are all sold out. Too bad ticket-man wasn’t lying. In frustration, I continuously click the forward and back arrows on the screen, mostly hoping to destroy it, but willing to accept the simple pleasure of beating up an inanimate object.
And then: QUEL MIRACLE!! An available ticket appears! Maybe I do have friends in the ticket booth! Turning around, I catch the ticket man’s eye, and, as if in slow motion, he winks at me, and all the disgruntled travelers standing in line turn one by one to face me, and for one moment of pure happiness, they all grasp hands and sing the holy note of divine success! Success, Success!! Chime the heavens!! COMPLETE AND UTTER WINNNNN!! (or something).
And then I try to buy it with my credit card. One word keeps blinking across the screen: FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. Resisting my urge to kick it, I try my other card. Same result. The train is leaving in ten minutes. TEN MINUTES! Maria, whose family is from Portugal, has another card that works in the EU. She suggests we try it. After a moment of hesitation, which went something like this: “No! Wait, but, no. No, I shouldn’t. Well, maybe…are you sure?” we try the card – it worked! Now, 7 minutes to get to the train. We run. Get to the train with five minutes to spare. Maria asks about my seat number, but I have decided that I will simply ask someone in Maria and Becky’s car to switch with me.
UNFORTUNATELY a VERY SLOW (dare I say retarded) man was clumsily trying to load his suitcase into the luggage rack. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, he kept glancing around apologetically. At this point, I realize that it would be inconceivable to ask someone to switch cars with me with only 2 minutes left before the train leaves. I glance at my ticket: car 18. CAR EIGHTEEN!? HOLY FFFFFFFFFF! It’s on the complete other side of the train. And it’s on the other half – which is not accessible from this half. FFFFFFFFFFFFFF. I stuttered something about getting to my seat to M & B and leap out of the train car, nearly colliding with a man dashing headlong to the other end of the train. I run alongside him. Meanwhile, the train whistle begins to blow. I kid you not – the whistle is blowing. And I nearly shit out my heart.
At the last second, the running man and I jump onto the first car on the second half of the train, breathing heavily, just as the train starts moving. I want to high-five him, but decide not to for three reasons: 1) I’m doubled over trying to breathe 2) I don’t think he’d be the kind of man to high-five a stranger, as he’s probably French and 3) the car standing area is crowded with people who’ve just gotten on and don’t want to risk missing the train by going to their seats (fancy that). One of them is a woman who is taking up at least half the available space. She looks a little bug-eyed and frantic, but I took a chance and gasped out a question about how to get to the next car. She gestures wildly, nearly hitting a bald man in the face, and keeps telling me to wait – I’m not quite getting it, so I keep rephrasing my question, but she pulls out her own ticket, points to the “Car 18” and says, “Attendez.”
But I’ve never been one for inaction, so instead I glance around at the other passengers – one is a tall, thin, very dark man holding a briefcase and wearing a pristinely pressed suit. He seems so calmly put together that I can’t imagine him being late for anything. I follow him up the stairs to the second level. Yes! A door! Pressing the red button to open the sliding door, I would have enjoyed the schwick sound it made as the airtight seal unlocked, if I weren’t still feeling the adrenalin. I hobble through the aisle ways, unsteady on my feet as the train picks up speed, probably knocking several people in the face with my stuffed-to-capacity backpack, and come across the “meal car.” Aka traveling bar. Make a mental note to come back to this, and keep going through the cars.
Finally, I make it – I’m in the last car, last seat, part of a foursome around a table. Three middle-aged men are sitting in the other three seats, and I try to ignore them. I decide that I need a drink, yes, a drink is ver, ver necessaire right now. Stowing my luggage away, I set off in search of the traveling bar.
But instead of a drink, I was enticed by the Toblerone. OH TOBLERONE!!! Mmmmmm. 2 euro. Yeah. It’s worth it. And I get a small cup of “l’eau plat” and go to sit on a stool at one of the bars facing a window. Everything streams by like in a dream, or like when you’re drunk, lying down to stare at the ceiling. I don’t know how much time is passing, but I’m trying to calm down from my ridiculous last few hours. A man sits down next to me, and then leaves. A woman does, too. And I’m just staring out the window. Finally, I’ve long since finished my chocolate and small cup of water, I get up and stagger back to my seat five cars away, trying to get used to the sway and shake of the train.
Finally, I make it back, double check my belongings, and sit down. Two of the men, clearly travel companions, have started playing cards, speaking it what sounds like a Marseillaise accent. The third man is wearing what looks like a pilot’s uniform and is staring off into the distance. I pull out some homework and settle down.
Eventually, one of the card players decides to go to sleep, and I have tired of my work, so I pull out my own deck of cards and start a game of portable solitaire. The third man gets up and strides off. The other card player is clearly trying to get to sleep – trying one position after another, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes closed. Finally, his curiosity - or boredom - gets the best of him, and he asks about my cards. I show them to him – casino cut, bought from a vending machine in Las Vegas, 50 cents. At this point, the other card player has woken up, and the two of them ask if I know how to play poker.
By the time the third man has returned, changed into a sweatshirt from his pilot’s uniform, we three are engaged in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em. The pilot looks from me to the two middle-aged card players. “Do you want to play?” asks one of the players, in French. “No, no, I don’t know how to play,” he responds good-naturedly. “We’ll teach you.” The first card-player left little room for argument, and the pilot joined in our game of Texas Hold ‘Em.
Finally, we tired of poker, and one of the card-players, blond, with tanned wrinkled skin, and a little bit of a beer belly, rolls up the sleeves of his button-down and asks me if I know any other games. Of course I do. I explain that I played cards all the time with my family when I was little and there was nothing else to do. So I pulled out my pocket dictionary and began explaining the game of “Spades” or, in French, “Piques.” During our first round of betting, I get paired with the skinny dark-haired card player, and the pilot is paired with the blond player. My partner bids 10, 11 between the two of us – so, we must win 11/13 tricks. I look at the pilot – his turn to bid – he asks a question, his head turned my way, but I can’t tell if he’s looking at me – wait, hold it, that is a cross-eyed pilot. Umm. I answer his question, write down the bids, and we begin the game.
Several hours later, the cross-eyed pilot has gotten off, and I am left with the two card-players. As they have been speaking to each other half in French, half in Italian, I ask where in Italy they come from. They glance across the table at each other, then the dark-haired one looks at me and says, “We live in Cannes, France, but we come from a small city on the Red Sea.” And that was that. It didn’t seem like a topic they wanted to discuss, so I didn’t ask why they’d left Italy. By the time we reach their stop, they had taught me Italian Rummy, and I shared a few more stories about playing cards with my siblings. They stand together, and gather up their Louis Vuitton luggage. The dark-haired player looks at me and asks, “What is your name?” I tell him, and he says, gesturing to the other man “This is Nicolas, and I am Stanly.” “Enchanté.” He then picks up his professional-grade playing cards and says, “I would like to give these to you.” I grin, completely taken off guard, “Oh! Thank you!” Then I pull out my Las Vegas casino cards, “do you want these, then?” “Why not?” Stanly says. He tucks them into his suitcase and they head to the front of the car, “Au Revoir.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
