Sometimes it seems that vacationing can be equally, if not more, stressful than la vie quotidienne.
That is certainly how I felt the day before my departure, when I made my last post, and the sentiment persisted a number of times throughout my near two weeks of travel across Northern and Central Europe and back to Paris.
But, in all, I would have to say that I greatly enjoyed the trip. We made sure to keep things low-key, resisting my typical tourist-on-overdrive style in favor of a more laidback and leisurely attitude. Amsterdam, Prague and Vienna were all great. Although my obsessive compulsiveness regrets that I did not see everything that there is to see in these lovely cities, I am happy with what we were able to do and see. I got a great feel for each of the three cities and their dynamics which were all so different – from each other and, especially, from Paris.
I will be updating more about the trip and each city, hopefully with pictures – that is if I have room to save all 400-plus of them on my nearly-full hard drive – within the next few weeks as things settle back down for me.
During my vacation, I thankfully managed to free my mind – for the most part – of all the stress and work that plagued me before the break. Unfortunately, I have returned to face it all again in Paris. The decision to forget my troubles during the break was reasonable and psychologically helpful, but it is now becoming a bit regrettable; now back and settled into my home-away-from-home that is Paris, I am overwhelmed with the responsibilities and tasks before me.
My to-do list is chocked full of the things that I need to catch up on. From the practical (grocery shopping) to the silly (reading my favorite Slate columns) to the serious (preparing for a 3-hour, open-note final exam which will take place a week from today), each bullet point adds to my stress. Thankfully, having just finished writing it all down, the tasks are beginning to seem more manageable.
And being back in my cozy room in this intimate 6th-arrondissement apartment gives me the comfort and confidence to get to work.
At least for now, this feels like home.
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
01 January 2009
18 December 2008
Bonnes fêtes
I am a wreck and apparently I am supposed to leave for Amsterdam at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. I haven’t packed, and I don’t feel particularly prepared. I also feel that I won’t be able to enjoy it in my current state. But I am working on it.
To clarify: I had to give up the New York Times internship. The rules of the Smith JYA Paris are non-negotiable, and I cannot leave the program before the end without losing all of my credits for the year.
I will get over. I know I will. It’s just hard to realize it now. Hopefully I can enjoy my petit tour of Europe despite my present situation.
Thank you to all those have been supportive during this difficult moment and Happy Holidays à tous!
To clarify: I had to give up the New York Times internship. The rules of the Smith JYA Paris are non-negotiable, and I cannot leave the program before the end without losing all of my credits for the year.
I will get over. I know I will. It’s just hard to realize it now. Hopefully I can enjoy my petit tour of Europe despite my present situation.
Thank you to all those have been supportive during this difficult moment and Happy Holidays à tous!
28 November 2008
Comment dit-on procrastination?
The newest Michel Gondry music video.
Dick Annegarn "Soleil du soir" (par Michel Gondry)
envoyé par totoutard
Dick Annegarn "Soleil du soir" (par Michel Gondry)
envoyé par totoutard
21 November 2008
M’éclater
I feel like two heavy weights have been lifted from my shoulders.
En premier temps [First of all] I completed my exam this morning without dying, passing out or crying (all of which were possibilities).
To celebrate its completion and the end of the school week, my friend Rebecca and I decided de flâner [to stroll aimlessly but observantly] around the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Près areas. It’s cheap entertainment and I am a flâneuse at heart. Also, I wrote in my JYA admissions essay that one of the reasons I wanted to go to Paris was pour flâner ses rues. Donc, je réalise ce rêve [So, I’m living my dream].
En deuxième temps [secondly] I have also successfully finished making travel plans for Christmas Break.
As many of you know, my brother, Ben, will be coming to visit me for nearly three weeks at the end of December. During this time we will complete a whirlwind tour of some of Europe’s hotspots – and by hotspots I actually mean coldspots because I anticipate that these cities will all be nice and nippy – spending three nights each in Amsterdam, Prague and Vienna. Now that all the travel arrangements have been made, I’m no longer stressed and simply look forward to being a tourist and relaxing.
One final thing to celebrate: I am no longer an illegal alien! Since my temporary visa expired at the end of October, I had technically been living as a semi-illegal resident. Sure, it was a pretty posh life for a sans-papiers, but still a big gênant [annoying] since I couldn’t leave the country. Titre de séjour and chest x-ray in hand, I am now a legitimate Parisian resident.
En premier temps [First of all] I completed my exam this morning without dying, passing out or crying (all of which were possibilities).
To celebrate its completion and the end of the school week, my friend Rebecca and I decided de flâner [to stroll aimlessly but observantly] around the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Près areas. It’s cheap entertainment and I am a flâneuse at heart. Also, I wrote in my JYA admissions essay that one of the reasons I wanted to go to Paris was pour flâner ses rues. Donc, je réalise ce rêve [So, I’m living my dream].
En deuxième temps [secondly] I have also successfully finished making travel plans for Christmas Break.
As many of you know, my brother, Ben, will be coming to visit me for nearly three weeks at the end of December. During this time we will complete a whirlwind tour of some of Europe’s hotspots – and by hotspots I actually mean coldspots because I anticipate that these cities will all be nice and nippy – spending three nights each in Amsterdam, Prague and Vienna. Now that all the travel arrangements have been made, I’m no longer stressed and simply look forward to being a tourist and relaxing.
One final thing to celebrate: I am no longer an illegal alien! Since my temporary visa expired at the end of October, I had technically been living as a semi-illegal resident. Sure, it was a pretty posh life for a sans-papiers, but still a big gênant [annoying] since I couldn’t leave the country. Titre de séjour and chest x-ray in hand, I am now a legitimate Parisian resident.
19 November 2008
3 heures, 1 examen
I am, right now, en train d’étudier [in the process of studying] for my first real French exam. The exam is tomorrow morning and I’m not too sure that I’m properly prepared, but I somehow am maintaining the nonchalance of someone who was either extremely knowledgeable about post-colonial film or actually spoke French.
The professor has kindly allowed me, the only foreign student in the third-year cinema course, to, in lieu of writing out the whole dissertation on the subject she will give us, complete a très détaillé [very detailed] outline. A reasonable suggestion, except when you consider how crazy the French are when it comes to essay organization. My English essays, although often unorganized, get by thanks to a fairly crafty manipulation of words that somehow dazzles professors and makes them believe that I’ve actually said something logical and A-worthy.
This strategy does not work in my pathetic French. What’s more, the French would never be tricked by clever turns of phrases the way my American professors are. They want structure, they want organization and they want neatness. Everything else is secondary.
So with dictionary, double-copy paper, white out and pen in hand, I will set off at the break of dawn tomorrow morning to embark on the quest of a lifetime that is my first French exam.
19 colonial and post-colonial films, 2 wars in Indochine, 3 hours, 1 exam.
24 October 2008
Un jour dans la vie
Thursdays are, at best, hectic and, at worst, hell. I have three different classes at three different locations, spread out across Paris. To make matters worse, my school day stretches from 9 a.m., when my first class begins, until 7 p.m., when my last class ends.
Today was no exception and was, in fact, busier than most.
I woke up at 7 a.m. when the first of my two alarms sounded (I’m paranoid after the debacle of two weeks ago, plus my professor now refuses to admit tardy students…which is amusing enough, as long as I’m not the tardy one). I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head, etc., all before the sun came out. At a quarter after eight, I left the apartment to brave the cold – for the first time this season, I could see my breath – the dark and the Metro.
Perhaps because I was a few minutes later than usual or maybe because of the cold, my train was a bit crowded. It wasn’t too bad, however, and the now-routine ride from Raspail to Bercy, where I transfer lines, and Bercy to my stop went by quickly. As often is the case, the escalator was en panne [out of order] so I had to walk the 106 stairs (yes, I’ve counted) from the station to the street.
A bit tired, I arrived to my cinema class with time to spare and upon noting my enormous thirst and the stifling hot temperature in the normally frigid room, I bought myself an Orangina. Class went by as normal, but by the end of the three hours, the combination of the heat in the room and the rapidity with which the professor was talking made it difficult to pay attention. Subsequently, my notes suffered and sleep sounded oh-so tempting. At the end of class, I learned the pleasant surprise that next week is apparently vacation for Paris VII so I don’t have class.
Now that I’ve finally mastered the restaurant universitaire [university restaurant], I maneuvered through the cafeteria like an expert, choosing a cheese pizza (which despite questionably including goat cheese is quite good), apple yogurt, vanilla pudding and bread – all for 2,85 euro, which I love.
Part of the *appeal* of my Thursdays is the awkward amounts of time between my classes. It’s too much time to head straight to the next class, but too little to actually buckle down to do work (or maybe that’s my lack of gumption). So I killed some time in the gigantic Paris VII library until I decided it was time to hop on the Metro to the Centre Madeleine where I have my France-Africa class.
The Madeleine Metro stop is conveniently located on the same line as the campus of Paris VII, which means no transferring necessary. De plus, the line in question is line 14. The newest line in the Metro system, it is currently celebrating its 10th anniversary. This novelty translated to more spacious trains, speedier travel and nifty, space-aged glass blockades, which make the tracks suicide-proof. It’s a short 15 minute ride. In fact, it often takes me more time to walk to the building where my class is than it takes to traverse Paris in the Metro because I must cross five different roadways with lights that are never synched for pietons [pedestrians].
France-Afrique passed as usual, with our excitably passionate professor struggling desperately to contain himself as he lectured and us, the students, struggling desperately to decipher his handwriting.
Another awkward break comes between France-Afrique and my final course for the day, Translation. Today, the gap was pleasantly filled with a Smith-style tea. An alumna from ’75, who studied on the Paris JYA program during her day and has since set up an amazing fund which reimburses us for “cultural activities” while on the program, came to chat and share tea and cookies with us. It was just what I needed on a cold and stressful day.
Finally it was time for Translation. We got our first quiz back, and I was pleasantly surprised with my grade. As usual, we went over the translations that we had prepared for class. We also attempted to have a discussion about how one translates the verb “could” into French, but the whole discussion became very muddled as we attempted to complete an exercise without context…and our English-grammar stickler-ness kicked in.
After class I rushed to the Metro to head back to the 13th where I had started my day to see a movie for my service learning course. The movie, Coluche, l’histoire d’un mec, was very interesting, although I am not quite positive that I see the link to community service. I did enjoy the great late 70s/early 80s (when the real-life events of the movie took place) music included in the film: Iggy Pop’s “Lust of Life” (screw you, Royal Caribbean for trying to kill this song) and The Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” among others.
I got back to Boulevard Montparnasse around 10:30 p.m. when I stopped at a crêpe stand for my dinner: a delicious egg and cheese galette. I topped my day off by Skyping with ma mere [my mom] and now I am feeling quite ready for some sleep.
Tomorrow, I must write a paper, but I am keeping my spirits high for our excursion this weekend to Mont-Saint-Michel.
Today was no exception and was, in fact, busier than most.
I woke up at 7 a.m. when the first of my two alarms sounded (I’m paranoid after the debacle of two weeks ago, plus my professor now refuses to admit tardy students…which is amusing enough, as long as I’m not the tardy one). I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head, etc., all before the sun came out. At a quarter after eight, I left the apartment to brave the cold – for the first time this season, I could see my breath – the dark and the Metro.
Perhaps because I was a few minutes later than usual or maybe because of the cold, my train was a bit crowded. It wasn’t too bad, however, and the now-routine ride from Raspail to Bercy, where I transfer lines, and Bercy to my stop went by quickly. As often is the case, the escalator was en panne [out of order] so I had to walk the 106 stairs (yes, I’ve counted) from the station to the street.
A bit tired, I arrived to my cinema class with time to spare and upon noting my enormous thirst and the stifling hot temperature in the normally frigid room, I bought myself an Orangina. Class went by as normal, but by the end of the three hours, the combination of the heat in the room and the rapidity with which the professor was talking made it difficult to pay attention. Subsequently, my notes suffered and sleep sounded oh-so tempting. At the end of class, I learned the pleasant surprise that next week is apparently vacation for Paris VII so I don’t have class.
Now that I’ve finally mastered the restaurant universitaire [university restaurant], I maneuvered through the cafeteria like an expert, choosing a cheese pizza (which despite questionably including goat cheese is quite good), apple yogurt, vanilla pudding and bread – all for 2,85 euro, which I love.
Part of the *appeal* of my Thursdays is the awkward amounts of time between my classes. It’s too much time to head straight to the next class, but too little to actually buckle down to do work (or maybe that’s my lack of gumption). So I killed some time in the gigantic Paris VII library until I decided it was time to hop on the Metro to the Centre Madeleine where I have my France-Africa class.
The Madeleine Metro stop is conveniently located on the same line as the campus of Paris VII, which means no transferring necessary. De plus, the line in question is line 14. The newest line in the Metro system, it is currently celebrating its 10th anniversary. This novelty translated to more spacious trains, speedier travel and nifty, space-aged glass blockades, which make the tracks suicide-proof. It’s a short 15 minute ride. In fact, it often takes me more time to walk to the building where my class is than it takes to traverse Paris in the Metro because I must cross five different roadways with lights that are never synched for pietons [pedestrians].
France-Afrique passed as usual, with our excitably passionate professor struggling desperately to contain himself as he lectured and us, the students, struggling desperately to decipher his handwriting.
Another awkward break comes between France-Afrique and my final course for the day, Translation. Today, the gap was pleasantly filled with a Smith-style tea. An alumna from ’75, who studied on the Paris JYA program during her day and has since set up an amazing fund which reimburses us for “cultural activities” while on the program, came to chat and share tea and cookies with us. It was just what I needed on a cold and stressful day.
Finally it was time for Translation. We got our first quiz back, and I was pleasantly surprised with my grade. As usual, we went over the translations that we had prepared for class. We also attempted to have a discussion about how one translates the verb “could” into French, but the whole discussion became very muddled as we attempted to complete an exercise without context…and our English-grammar stickler-ness kicked in.
After class I rushed to the Metro to head back to the 13th where I had started my day to see a movie for my service learning course. The movie, Coluche, l’histoire d’un mec, was very interesting, although I am not quite positive that I see the link to community service. I did enjoy the great late 70s/early 80s (when the real-life events of the movie took place) music included in the film: Iggy Pop’s “Lust of Life” (screw you, Royal Caribbean for trying to kill this song) and The Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” among others.
I got back to Boulevard Montparnasse around 10:30 p.m. when I stopped at a crêpe stand for my dinner: a delicious egg and cheese galette. I topped my day off by Skyping with ma mere [my mom] and now I am feeling quite ready for some sleep.
Tomorrow, I must write a paper, but I am keeping my spirits high for our excursion this weekend to Mont-Saint-Michel.
15 October 2008
Déçue
Up until this point, every entry here has been overwhelmingly positive – which is great because that’s a true reflection of how I feel. So, j’hésite [I hesitate] to add any thoughts of negativity. Not because I want to look at this experience completely through rose-colored glasses and forget the bad or stressful moments, but because I don’t want to misrepresent things. Overall, everything continues to be wonderful, but there are moments when I am down and now is one of them.
The problem? I’m discouraged. I’m disappointed. I’m déçue. All because I am beginning to realize that I cannot speak French. Yes, it appears that I can carry on conversations in the language with my American-student friends and my host mother – in fact, I am happy to report that I am beginning to feel more at ease in these exchanges – but, apparently, the rest of the world speaks a different French that I do not understand.
The minute someone other than my host mom, a friend or a professor asks me something, I freeze. It always sounds all jumbled and not-like-French to me. My immediate response of “Pardon” and the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face surely makes me seem as if I’m another stupid American who can’t speak a lick of French. But how can this be? I can grasp Proust, but I can’t understand the boulanger?
My most recent episode ended up invoking a tearful ride home on the Metro after I horribly botched a conversation with a representative of Greenpeace France at a meeting for interested volunteers.
Each time this happens I feel stupider and stupider. I’ve been here for over a month; shouldn’t I be seeing some progress? And my confidence is beginning to dwindle. Maybe I should just start speaking in English; all the French respond to me in it anyway.
Just today, I ventured to the Bibliothèque du film, where I had to subscribe to watch the films for my cinema class. After struggling through the application for the card with the surprisingly patient secretary and successfully employing the nifty coatroom lockers, I headed to the vidéothèque [the library of films]. I observed intently as the girl in front of me checked the film she wanted to watch in the catalogue and then told the librarian, who gave her the film. It looked simple enough. But as I tried to utter, “Je cherche Indochine de Régis Wargnier,” she gave me a blank stare. “You couldn’t find it in the catalogue?,” she answers back in English. We continue to play this game where I stumble along in French and she responds in perfect English as she explains where I have to click in the catalogue and the number I need to give her. This woman was actually amazingly helpful and very friendly, but it’s unfortunate that my French is so horrible to her ears that she’d prefer English.
I again embarrassed myself when I returned the DVD of the 1921 colonial film L’Atlantide – I didn’t actually get to watch Indochine yet because someone had it out – to the desk after I had finished. This time, the patient women from reception was waiting and as I walked up with a friendly “Bonjour,” she replied “Comment?” [What?] as if I was speaking gibberish. She then asked me something I didn’t understand. Finally, we worked out that I was finished with the DVD and wanted to give it back (which I thought was apparent enough), and then she asked me if I was finished for the day or if I had other things to watch.
I knew this was a trap. French people like to do this; they ask you a question as if you have the choice between two options when really you do not. There were clearly people waiting, so I had figured I would have to forfeit my place. But since she asked, I thought I might as well try so I responded that yes, in fact, I do have something else to watch. Snap! That’s me falling right into her trap. She very condescendingly informs me that there are actually people waiting so I can’t hog the terminal and I must patienter [wait].
Thanks for the life lesson, Madame. At least that whole conversation took place in French.
The problem? I’m discouraged. I’m disappointed. I’m déçue. All because I am beginning to realize that I cannot speak French. Yes, it appears that I can carry on conversations in the language with my American-student friends and my host mother – in fact, I am happy to report that I am beginning to feel more at ease in these exchanges – but, apparently, the rest of the world speaks a different French that I do not understand.
The minute someone other than my host mom, a friend or a professor asks me something, I freeze. It always sounds all jumbled and not-like-French to me. My immediate response of “Pardon” and the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face surely makes me seem as if I’m another stupid American who can’t speak a lick of French. But how can this be? I can grasp Proust, but I can’t understand the boulanger?
My most recent episode ended up invoking a tearful ride home on the Metro after I horribly botched a conversation with a representative of Greenpeace France at a meeting for interested volunteers.
Each time this happens I feel stupider and stupider. I’ve been here for over a month; shouldn’t I be seeing some progress? And my confidence is beginning to dwindle. Maybe I should just start speaking in English; all the French respond to me in it anyway.
Just today, I ventured to the Bibliothèque du film, where I had to subscribe to watch the films for my cinema class. After struggling through the application for the card with the surprisingly patient secretary and successfully employing the nifty coatroom lockers, I headed to the vidéothèque [the library of films]. I observed intently as the girl in front of me checked the film she wanted to watch in the catalogue and then told the librarian, who gave her the film. It looked simple enough. But as I tried to utter, “Je cherche Indochine de Régis Wargnier,” she gave me a blank stare. “You couldn’t find it in the catalogue?,” she answers back in English. We continue to play this game where I stumble along in French and she responds in perfect English as she explains where I have to click in the catalogue and the number I need to give her. This woman was actually amazingly helpful and very friendly, but it’s unfortunate that my French is so horrible to her ears that she’d prefer English.
I again embarrassed myself when I returned the DVD of the 1921 colonial film L’Atlantide – I didn’t actually get to watch Indochine yet because someone had it out – to the desk after I had finished. This time, the patient women from reception was waiting and as I walked up with a friendly “Bonjour,” she replied “Comment?” [What?] as if I was speaking gibberish. She then asked me something I didn’t understand. Finally, we worked out that I was finished with the DVD and wanted to give it back (which I thought was apparent enough), and then she asked me if I was finished for the day or if I had other things to watch.
I knew this was a trap. French people like to do this; they ask you a question as if you have the choice between two options when really you do not. There were clearly people waiting, so I had figured I would have to forfeit my place. But since she asked, I thought I might as well try so I responded that yes, in fact, I do have something else to watch. Snap! That’s me falling right into her trap. She very condescendingly informs me that there are actually people waiting so I can’t hog the terminal and I must patienter [wait].
Thanks for the life lesson, Madame. At least that whole conversation took place in French.
13 October 2008
Le temps file
Another week of schoolwork and classes quickly passes by and with it another weekend to enjoy. After ending my week on a sour note of a stressful Thursday on which I incorrectly set my alarm and nearly missed my 9 a.m. class at Paris VII – my host mom woke me at 8:30, wondering if I had class, at which point I rushed out the door to catch the metro and ended up only 15 minutes late – and became discouraged by my translation course, the weekend was a welcome escape.
And escape I did, mostly from the French language. I hardly spoke it this weekend, and barely even heard it around me, which would seem difficult considering I am living in the preeminent French-speaking country in the world.
I spent Saturday strolling the designer-store-lined streets around the Champs-Elysées and near the U.S. embassy, where tourists abound, especially on a Saturday. Later, I braved the crowded Champs-Elysées shops with friends. There, we encountered all nationalities, including an adorable German child who applauded Alix’s lip-synched rendition of the Chris Brown song blaring over the United Colors of Beneton sound system and an American tourist, who happened to be a professor at Grand Valley State (small world), with his family. Very minimal amounts of French were spoken and even less was heard.
Sunday was no different as Rachel, Rebecca and I visited Montmartre for a street festival. All nationalities were again represented, including the older British man, who during a particularly log-jammed moment in the crowd remarked rather loudly, “The bloke behind me has a large belly!” The knowing look of the man behind him, who clearly also spoke English, was priceless.
My host mom was even in la campagne for the weekend so I lacked Francophone interactions with her. When you add on my time Skyping to those back home (brother, boyfriend, mom, dad) and my guilty-pleasure screenings of Project Runway and Freaks and Greeks, my “plus-français-que-les-Français [more-French-than-the-French]” program director would be appalled.
Not to say that my weekend was a bust. I had a fabulous time swimming amongst the crowds, profiting from the fantastic and unseasonably warm weather and catching up on American pop culture.
Plus, I tried a new pastry. What could be more French than that?
And escape I did, mostly from the French language. I hardly spoke it this weekend, and barely even heard it around me, which would seem difficult considering I am living in the preeminent French-speaking country in the world.
I spent Saturday strolling the designer-store-lined streets around the Champs-Elysées and near the U.S. embassy, where tourists abound, especially on a Saturday. Later, I braved the crowded Champs-Elysées shops with friends. There, we encountered all nationalities, including an adorable German child who applauded Alix’s lip-synched rendition of the Chris Brown song blaring over the United Colors of Beneton sound system and an American tourist, who happened to be a professor at Grand Valley State (small world), with his family. Very minimal amounts of French were spoken and even less was heard.
Sunday was no different as Rachel, Rebecca and I visited Montmartre for a street festival. All nationalities were again represented, including the older British man, who during a particularly log-jammed moment in the crowd remarked rather loudly, “The bloke behind me has a large belly!” The knowing look of the man behind him, who clearly also spoke English, was priceless.
My host mom was even in la campagne for the weekend so I lacked Francophone interactions with her. When you add on my time Skyping to those back home (brother, boyfriend, mom, dad) and my guilty-pleasure screenings of Project Runway and Freaks and Greeks, my “plus-français-que-les-Français [more-French-than-the-French]” program director would be appalled.
Not to say that my weekend was a bust. I had a fabulous time swimming amongst the crowds, profiting from the fantastic and unseasonably warm weather and catching up on American pop culture.
Plus, I tried a new pastry. What could be more French than that?
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