Final Impressions

So I have one day and two nights left in Montpellier, and the month really has gone by absurdly fast. This city though has been a perfect introduction to Europe. Its city enough to offer everything I’ve wanted, but small enough for me to learn its streets of the old section (where I live) by spending one Sunday afternoon wandering around. Its certainly French with at least two outdoor cafes and patisseries wherever I am. But un-French because of the absence the cliché haughty attitude. With one exception at the ticket station, I haven’t found anyone to be purposefully rude or anti-American. A welcome surprise.

Its strange how things like walking past city’s Arc D’ Triomphe everyday on my way to school, sitting in a café with a guy playing the according 10 feet away, living in an apartment with walls dating to the 15th century, and seeing people walking around with baguettes can be foreign, mind-boggling, and romantic when I stop to think about them, but have become part of my day to day life.

So that being said, allow me to go through what my day-to-day life here consists of and/or things I haven’t gotten around to writing yet.

Get ready for Fun Fact overload.

One afternoon our group took a tour of the city, organized by our professor who thought it a good enough idea to have Colgate foot the bill. Unfortunately this was right after one of our classes so I don’t have my camera because I had forgotten the tour was that day, but maybe Ill steal some photos off of facebook. Anyways, we started the tour by going into the Arc that I pass everyday. I didn’t know that it even had a door, but even if I had I wouldn’t have been able to go inside cause the tour guide had a key for it. After climbing up quite a bit of stairs, we were on top of the Arc and had a fantastic view. The guide pointed out the court to our left and explained how the avenue right in front of/under us was way way younger than the rest of the city because they knocked the original buildings down (in the 1800s I think) and rebuilt it in the Parisian style of wide streets and this is why the architecture on the buildings was did not mach the rest of the city.

Oh and Montpellier is considered a ‘young’ city because its just a little under a thousand years old.

Then we went to the medical school, which either was the first one in Europe or the oldest in Europe. Nothing really too noteworthy. However, the school is attached to a cathedral and our guide pointed out the scars in the towers from the crusades.

Then we went to the Jewish baths. This was two underground rooms at the bottom of totally noteworthy stairs behind a door in an alleyway. The first room was for changing and the second was the bath, which was more like a pool. The guide said the water was very clean because it was rain water that gets filtered through rocks and sand.

Fun Fact: Jewish men only used the baths twice a year, for New Years and what the guide described as “Jewish Easter” I have no idea what holiday that could be. Maybe it’s a Jews for Jesus sorta deal. Ladies got to take baths on the same days, and also to purify themselves after menstruation.

I wondered though how clean the water really could be, cause there was no drain or anything at the bottom so all the dirt had no way of coming out of the water.

Centuries old menstruation leftovers anyone? Oh you’ll take seconds? Thought so.

So then we went to a couple houses that were very cool. Well we didn’t go into the houses, more stood in their courtyards and looked like fools to the people who lived there. Imagining a group of tourists rolling up on your lawn and taking pictures. Yea.

Fun Fact: The reason there are so many fountains all around the city is because back when people didn’t have running water, they would go to the fountain to get it. This is all very logical, but I just never made the connection.

There are also lots of homeless people in the city. The homeless people here are not the same as in the US. The majority of them are young, my age or a little bit older. Also, in the US a fair number of the homeless people have mental illnesses, not so here. Well, except for one black guy with no teeth who runs around moaning and humping air to the beat of the music being played in the plaza, but hes an exception. In class I asked why there are so many homeless (Sans Domicile Fixe or SDFs as they’re called here) as well as why most of them are so young.

All the other cities surrounding Montpellier have outlawed living on the streets. So they all come here. So many of them are young because they are not homeless as we consider it in the US. A large number of them are ‘anarchists’ and live on the street by choice. Basically hippies with a punk attitude. They reject they order of society as well as material things, go live on the streets, and like to cause trouble. Also, every single one of them has a dog.

Fun Fact: There is some antiquated law here where a person cannot be arrested for a petty crime if they have a dog, because the police will have to take care of the dog. (At least I think that’s the reason, im not 100% sure cause my teacher explained it in French, but the important part is having a dog equals no arrest unless your crime is serious)

So all the SDFs know this law and take full advantage of it. Also, for some reason, Montpellier is pro SDF and refuses to change any of their laws to become less homeless friendly. Including the one about the dogs.

Considering how horrible a five and a half hour French class has the potential to be, my class truly is great. This all can be chalked up to our Professor Denise. If I had to describe Denise in one way it would be ‘off her rocker’ but in a kooky crazy way, not a Tom Cruise scientology way. She lives by the ‘enthusiasm breeds enthusiasm mantra’, which Id say, for the most part, works. We get along well on a personal level, but out student teacher relationship has seen its strains. Most of this stems from my inability to get ANYTHING right when we play our little ‘guess the vocab word game.” I dunno what it is, I just can’t remember vocab for the life of me.

However, the vocab that I have been able to retain, is really really useful. I would say the majority of the words I know I have heard at least once out on the street, on tv, etc. This in no way means anyone will mistake me for a native speaker, but my French is way way better than it was before I got here. Most times I don’t even need to do the whole formulate the sentence in my head before I speak.

And that’s what is all about right?

Cats and Dogs

Monique does not live with anyone else, but does have a dog and a cat named Polka and Papronell respectively. The only way I can describe these two is they are much the same as Odie and Garfield. As in the dog and cat from the appropriately named comic strip, Garfield. Odie, the slobbering fool juxtaposed to Garfield the calm, cool, and collected one.

Polka
Polka is 105 in dog years and is a white lap dog. Age has, unfortunately, not calmed her. I swear there is something in her food bowl. I have seen caffeine addicts who are less jumpy. The only time this dog has done something that old animals/people are supposed to is when she peed herself while we were all eating dinner the other night. One minute the tile floor was high and dry and the next, I hear Mo Mo yelling to her friend on the phone how she had to go cause Polka had just “Faire du pee pee.”

As soon as this happened I LOST it. I don’t know why, I’ve had dogs all my life and know that dogs do these things so ive seen plenty of puppy piddle. But I think it had more to do with seeing a little French woman running around like her pants were on fire yelling phrases in which I knew none of the words, but knew exactly what she meant. Oh and then when I offered to help by putting my napkin over the spill to help soak it up, this caused a yell that was more alarming than the one she made while hastily hanging up on her friend. Guhh as I write this, over a week later, it still get me laughing. It really is the little things.

Polka’s age in human years is 15 and although her owner loves her dearly, the thing looks like she has not been washed since Bush's first term. Also, if this dog has taught me one thing, it is why my parents always flipped whenever I fed our dog scraps from the table. This dog begs harder than any homeless person I have ever met. Begging consists of her jumping on her back two legs like they are made of springs and whining. I found this cute for about half way through our first dinner, and now after more than two weeks of it, I would not mind sticking her on the pyramid we saw at the torture museum.

This flaw in behavior is not Big Mo’s fault. She explained to us one dinner that she had yearlong home stay and when the guy got here, he hated dogs. However, he slowly warmed up to Polka and in order to show his love, fed her scraps whenever Monique wasn’t looking.

I hate that man.

Papronell

Papronell is the lesser-loved child. Kinda like the kid daddy never loved as much as the other children cause he wasn’t sure if it was really his child or the postman’s. Mark recently discovered that this is because Papronell is not Monique's cat, but she belongs to her daughter who can’t take care of her right now for some reason or another.

I however, really have gotten to like this cat. This have never happened before because I am a) usually allergic to most cats and b) most cats have the personality of a soggy pancake. Papronell does not fall into either of these categories. She will hop onto the couch and curl up in my lap whenever watching tv. I like her even more though because she puts Polka in her place. Monique tries to keep the two separated because if they get too close, Papernell has been known to get her claws out.

Papernell usually sleeps most of the day now that Monique has bought the cat her own bed. She had to do this cause she bought Polka a brand new bed, but Papronell wanted to use it. Since Polka is scared of Papronell, she couldn’t use her own bad. Monique then would chase the cat out of the bed because it wasn’t hers and Polka is too scared of the cat to stand up for herself. Mo’ played this game for about two days before getting tired of it and breaking down and getting a bed for each one of her animals.

Carcassone

Saturday morning/ afternoon, we went to Carcasson which made for a perfect day trip. Carcasson is a 12th century walled-in medieval town, with a castle. We took a tour of the castle, complete with overpriced audio guides. Refusing to accept that the price of the stupid thing you hold up to your ear so you can walk around and look like an idiot should cost as much as the tour itself, I decided we should split the cost of the audio guides. So I bumped the volume all the way up so more than one person could hear, and was able to look like less of a tourist as well as save some bones.
Fun Fact: Castle invaders did not have boiling oil poured on them, this is a myth. Oil was too expensive to waste so they just had rocks thrown at them instead.




















After the castle, we went to a cathedral. After not immediately being stuck by lighting from the hand of God himself when I crossed the threshold as I half expected to occur, I wandered around. It was your basic Cathedral, high ceilings, stain glass windows, lots of Jesus, etc. Except for I did find what I can only describe as the virgin Mary in a cage. I don’t know why they had her caged up, but found this HILARIOUS. It looked like she was in a prison. Did she commit a crime? Were they worried she was going to escape? Did she know not to drop the soap? I had so many questions and no answers.






Then we got lunch and went to a torture museum. It was a bit cheesy and sorta a tourist trap, but did have a fair amount of torture devices. It had some basic torture machines- electric chairs, pull you apart machines, guillotines, chairs with beds of nails and some not so basic ones. The highlight of the not so basic ones would have to be what I like to call ‘the pain pyramid.’ The way that one worked was a lady who had been accused of being a witch was put on top of a pyramid, with said pyramid resting in her love box. Then she would have weights added to her legs, pulling her lower on the pyramid and ill leave you to figure out the rest.



Also, none of the mannequins in the torture museum looked like they were being tortured or even having a bad time. Instead they came off as sexy. I think that whoever found the mannequins bought them at a department store going out of business sale.Its hard to believe someone is burning at the stake when they are in full make up and giving you the come hither look when you expect them to look like they were chilling with the rats in prison before they arrived to their torture and should be screaming their faces off.












The little town within the walls looked just like Disney world. Well, actually I guess Disney world looks like the town cause it was built 700 years later but whatever. This coupled with my ‘ it’s a small world after all’ experience the night before has taught me that the Disney Immagineers really get their things right. Anyways, most of the stores were closed because it is the off-season. However, the cookie and candy store was open. This wasn’t just regular oreos and chocolate chips cookies, being France these were artisan. I went in twice for the free cookie samples, and both times I practically ran out of there when I saw the glass cases full of truffles and other such chocolate delights so that I wouldn’t start dropping cash like Michael Vick when he sees new puppies.

Sensory Delights

The other day, in class I realized that I had forgotten to put on deodorant. This is usually cause for alarm, but then I remembered I was in France and this was totally normal.

I was at the grocery store getting shampoo and noticed there was a very small deodorant selection. This selection was dwarfed however, by the AXE selection. If you dont know what AXE is, its essentially spray on deodorant meets cologne. Very popular with boys between 6th and 9th grade. It comes in scents ranging from bathroom cleaning solution, to summer time bathroom cleaning solution. No one would use it, if it weren't for clever marketing. So great I think, everyone if France can now run around smelling like an 8th grade boy after gym class.

Luckily, I brought two sticks of Old Spice.

Faire la grasse matine

The weather has been rather dreary for most of our time here thus far, cool and damp. Its 55 degrees in January but I'm getting the sense that everything is a little more sleepy than usual and the palm trees on some of the streets make me wonder what the city is like come Spring and Summer.
Sunday though was really bright and sunny so with nothing to do I wandered around the city. It gave me a chance to get off my usual routes and get lost in the tiny streets. When I say lost, I mean not knowing where I was but always knowing how to get back where I came from.

Place d' Comidie- the main square

Cafe I stumbled upon

Really Cool Courtyard

What Most Streets look like

I found lots of really unique shops, at least two cafes per square, bars that looked like they would be ruckus had it not been 4 o'clock on a Sunday, and a Cathedral older than dirt.

Cathedral

Manger

Yea you knew that one was coming. This Reutershan trait, unlike the architect traits, runs deep and does not skip generations. I am debating getting a pair of jeans a size larger while all the 30-50% sales (also inherited the inability to ignore something that’s not full price) are still going on in preparation of the impending doom. Its been said that I eat like a man who weighs 250lbs but through a jackpot in the genetic lottery with my prize being a high metabolism, I don’t really put on weight. However, even good genetics are no match for the French diet eaten in an American way.

-Breakfast
Nothing exciting here, pretty simple. Every morning we wake up to a full baguette on the table with strawberry jam, a pot of tea, and orange juice. I have eaten more bread in the past week than I average in six months. I don’t think Atkins ever really got off the ground in France. Bread for breakfast and with dinner. Always.

Lunch
Intooooooo itttttttt. We’ve found a really good sandwich shop where its only 2.50 for a good size piece of quiche. I got a kebab the other day, which was good and kept me fuller than the quiche usually does, but it was more expensive and in the Morocan section of town, which is further away and a bit shady.

I think I have found love and its name is gateau breton. Two out of the past three days, lunch has been followed with a trip to the pastry shop. I don’t know quite what a gateau breton is, I ordered it on a whim. It’s a bready pastry a little smaller than your fist, with a sugary outside. I think each one has about two full sticks of butter in it. Good thing I get the fat-free, low cal kind made with Splenda.
I believe it was Julia Child, who is on par with the likes of JFK and Ghandi in important quotes, that said, “a life without butter is a life not worth living.” Preach it sister.
Daily trips to the pastry shop is a dangerous habit to get into. But we are not talking about hitting up Cinnabun in the mall or Panera on the Pike. France is the major leagues of baked goods baby. They’re playing chess while everyone is playing checkers and ive reached the conclusion that if I can’t be good, might as well be really bad.

Dinner
Never really know what to expect here. Has ranged from pork with gratin potatoes, to omelets, to hot dogs. No really, we had hot dogs tonight. No, not the French equivalent of hot dogs. Straight up hot dogs.
I think the only constant is that Monique tries to include something very French one degree or another at each dinner. So far we’ve had French cheese, awesome pate, and something I can only describe as a dinner twinkie. She said it was a specialty of Niece or maybe Lyon and from what I could tell it was some sort of bread soaked in a heavy cream based sauce, baked with cheese on top. It was so rich I started to feel full after two bites. So, naturally, I had two helpings. Oink.

Daily Grind

I do things during the day too. I swear. Mostly school, wandering around the city, looking at things I want and controlling my urges so I can stay on budget, sitting in the café people watching and trying to use the internet when its not dropping out, and watching TV with Monique. But the conjugation of irregular French verbs, doing mental exchange rate conversions, hitting the reload button on a website for half an hour, and trying to pick out words on TV that I know don’t really position themselves for exciting reading. Im planning on going out and taking pictures of the city, but its been pretty cloudy and raining off and on for a few days which makes for lame pictures.

water and fire

Water and Fire
After singing happy birthday, munching on chocolates and little cookies with frosting, the tidal wave was introduced to France at Shakespeare’s British pub last night. The Brits who were there LOVED it. I recall the phrase ‘brilliant’ being thrown out quite a bit. Somehow the bartender spread the word to the other patrons as to what was afoot, so as the glass of water was being poured, everyone else casually stopped what they were doing and watched, trying not to be too obvious. Poor Chris was the only one unaware. The bar tender refused to be the one who threw the water and left that up to us. Wimp. I felt a bit bad, so I lobbed my water more than threw it as the rest of the bar erupted in cheers. Jill didn’t seem to have this problem, and got him in the face.

Natalie suggested next time we pull the Hurricane Katrina, which is the tidal wave quickly followed by a slap in the face.

Hurricane Katrina. Get it?

However, at the following bar the tables were turned and the joke was on me.

At the Vodka Bar, (three guesses as to what they serve) the birthday boy and girl got celebratory drinks and seeing that they were only two euros a piece, Mark and I decided to join in. At random Mark chose one off the menu, the Chernobyl. It sounded like a good idea at the time, I just figured it was strong and/or nasty gutter vodka. False.
All of the shooters at bars here come premixed so you do not know what is in them unless you ask/ there is a description somewhere. Not wanting to make the others wait, we skipped this precaution and plowed full steam ahead. Mistake numbero uno. The bar tender poured us our shooters, and being a dark bar, the only thing I noticed in my glass was a deep red color. After cheersing to the birthdays and what not, I threw mine down the hatch. My second and fatal mistake.

Immediately I noticed chunks in my mouth. Chunks where they were not expected and where chunks should never, ever be. My brain knew something was not right, but it was too late to stop my throat, the swallowing sequence was already set in motion. My mouth then went into meltdown.

It was as if I had been suckling on the teat of Satan himself. I believe a thick string of curses were uttered as the glass was slammed on the bar, quickly followed by me stomping into a corner where I trying to calm my stomach which, along with the rest of me, was not expecting this surprise and looking get rid of the Chernobyl the same way it came in. After settling myself and turning around, the French kids at the bar, who were my age and apparently knew what the Chernobyl entailed, were happy to see someone brave (stupid) enough to give it a go. It was at this moment I realized fate has a sense of humor and maybe the Hindu’s are on to something with the whole karma fixation.

Those chunks I felt? Oh, I think they are best described as what you find at the bottom of a jar of hot sauce. Not those wimpy sauces they have at Taco Bell no no dear reader. They were more inline with the ones you’ll find at the bottom of the really really spicy ones lined up on the wall of California Tortilla. I think the seeds and dregs in an almost empty jar of ‘Dave’s Rectal Rocket Sauce’ would best fit the bill.

Chernobyl. Get it?

Vodka Bar: 1 Jamie: 0

Getting adjusted

In Montpellier, we are taking French for 3 hours M, W, F and 5.5 hours on T, Th. Its similar to my classes at Colgate, however, those were only 50 minutes long apiece. Yesterday was our first long class and afterwards my brain hurt. Our teacher makes it interesting though so thankfully it could be way worse.



I didnt know this before going abroad, but different countries have different keyboards. Ive been using computers for as long as I can remember so using a the one at Moniques house, like I am now takes more concentration than I am used to needing inorder to type. The keyboard is similar enough to an American one for most of the keys, but some major letters are switched around. EG the previous sentence would look like this if I werent being careful- the keyboqrds look si,ilqre enuogh to qn q,ericqn one for ,ost of the keys but so,e ,qjor letters qre szitched qround:



Fun Fact: The keyboard was designed to be as inefficient as possible cause back when typewriters were used they would get jammed up because the secrateries would go too fast so they layed they keys in a way that would keep them from typing so quickly. I dont know how true this is cause I heard from Taylor and he goes to school in the south where they teach intelligent design and that on the 7th day God created the shot gun so man could kill the dinosaurs and homosexuals. So take it with a grain of salt.


The other night, we all decided to go out for our first night on the town and having no idea what to do or where to go, one of the girls asked their host moms what to do and she suggested salsa dancing. So all 18 of us show up at the salsa bar at 9 oclock and were just about the only ones there. We later found out that places really dont get hopping until much later- discos dont even open until 12!



So we made our way up to where the salsa lessons were and someone was told we couldnt join the lessons until we had bought a drink at the bar and showed our reciept. Being Colgate students, we were more than happy to follow this rule. Back upstairs, reciepts in hand we joined the lesson. I was too enthuastic cause the instructor had to shush me for clomping my shoe louder than his everytime he counted out the first beat. However, salsa didnt last long because most of the guys couldnt get the steps down and the girls in our group were not ready (had not invested in enough reciepts) to dance with the European men there. After we left we just sort of wandered around town looking for another bar; but with 18 people there were too many Indians and not enough cheifs so the jet lag kicked in and we all went our sepeate ways and went home.

Tonight were are going out again to celbrate two 21st birthdays this time. Plan is to go to an Irish pub that will probably be more our speed. Do you think they have tidal waves in France?

* For those of you who dont know, the tidal wave is a 21st birthday tradition at Colgate. You offer to buy the birhday boy or girl a tidal wave telling them how good it is etc. Unknown to them however, you have prearranged with the bar tender that once the shot is done, he throws a little water in their face. Voila!

The Eagle Has Landed

So after traveling for 14 hours, we met our host mother, Monique at the train station in Montpellier. We will be staying with her for a month. She is a widow in her 60s who speaks a little English. I speak minimal French, emphasis on the minimal. So far we’ve been able to understand each other. The international language of smile and nod seems to work well.
The rainy 15 minute walk from the train station to her house in the ‘old section’ of town was not totally smooth sailing. Highlights include one of my bags catching on a rock, overturning, and landing in a puddle. Monique offering to help carry one of my bags then promptly followed this spill. I gladly accepted her help. It was a few moments before I realized she was carrying my heaviest bag but she was forging ahead and I don't know how to say "That one too heavy" au français. Not two minutes later, one of the straps on the duffle bag that I received for free with my opening of an account at Oneida Savings snapped. So I then carried it with the other strap, which proceeded to break in record time. You get what you pay for. So with a duffle under my arm and suitcase in tow, I marched on.
Also, I often forget how much I do not enjoy walking. I think my flat feet have something to do with it. But despite getting off on the wrong, or should I say flat foot, I am enjoying myself.

Imagine the cliché European old world alleyway/street sort of deal from every movie ever set in Europe- balconies, narrow cobble stone streets and all. Monique lives on one such street. Everytime I step outside I have to remind myself that this is where I am living and that I am in fact awake. I still havent stopped walking with my face towards the sky yet. I asked her how old the house (although I don’t really think you could call it a house, its more of an apartment I guess) was and she said the oldest section was built in the 14th century. Since my house was built in the 70s this is way more history than I am used to living in. Oldest Part of the House



I read somewhere that in Europe, staring at other people is not as rude as it is at home. This seems to be on par with my experience thus far having gotten stared shamelessly multiple times and I am only too happy to participate in this custom as it serves to add to one of my favorite hobbies state side. Today at the café, I noticed that almost everyone was sitting side by side so they could face the street. I wanted to take a picture but am trying my best to not come off too aggressivly as a tourist. Here, people watching is not a pastime, but rather a sport. We were talking about this and decided it is one of the reasons that people are always look more put together than at home. Also as I post this a midget just walked by. To be a midget in the country with this as your national sport has gotta be rough.

People watching > Walking

Prepare for Takeoff

In keeping with true 20th century tradition, I have started a blog, or as my Dad pronounces it a blOgggggg. More than once, he has asked me if I have been reading so and so’s blog. So and so is usually an acquaintance who I have not spoken with in years so I usually respond with “no" and “how in the world did he manage to find that.” Internet stalking apparently is a skill that is passed from one generation to the other. Well Dad, now you can ask people if they read MY blog.

I write this from Gate 12 in Ronald Regan International Airport where I arrived an hour and a half early to my gate with some time to kill and after two days of packing and reminders that went something like this…
“Did you pack X”
“Yes”
“What about Y”
“you already asked me that”
“You’ll need ABC if this happens”
“ok”
“Heres the number for the embassy in every country you visit for when your passport gets stolen and/or you get arrested.”
“Lets get those tattooed to my arm”

While the gestures were most appreciated and ill be the first to admit I am not known for my steal trap of a mind, after the scene has repeated itself 15 times combined with the anxiousness of being abroad for 5 months I was frazzled. Questions then became answered with an immediate yes. So flash-forward to the airport and she asks me a question she hasn’t asked before.
“Do you have the locks for your luggage?”
“Yea this one came with one of the bags” and scrounge one out of my pocket. This however was not enough to lock all of my bags.
Luckily we were able to find lock and I was on our my, 97 lbs of luggage inaccessible without a key. Better safe than sorry.

Accomplishment of the day: Bag weighing 49.5 lbs with a weight limit of 50 lbs.
Jamie: 1 Continental:0