Au Revoir

I really did not keep my word about finishing up this blog with something other than a cheeseburger. 

It's July now, I've been in the States for a little over a month. I've found a job working at a front desk of a hotel, which does not satisfy me nearly as much as frolicking around Europe. I've started a countdown until school starts up again. 63 days from today. 

In other words, this blog has now become obsolete. However, I will continue to be part of the blogging community. If you ever find yourself wandering around aimlessly on the internet, feel free to stop by eganwrig.blogspot.com. I promise there will be something to read, whether it is good is another story.

A tout a l'heure, mes amis,

Danni

Royally Cheesy

- And you know what they call a... a... a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
- They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese?
- No man, they got the metric system. They wouldn't know what the f*** a Quarter Pounder is.
- Then what do they call it?
- They call it a Royale with cheese.
- A Royale with cheese. What do they call a Big Mac?
- Well, a Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it le Big-Mac.
- Le Big-Mac. Ha ha ha ha. What do they call a Whopper?
- I dunno, I didn't go into Burger King.

- Vincent and Jules, Pulp Fiction

It all comes down to this. I've have succumbed to going to Mc Donald's in France, only to use their free wifi.

These past several days have been great. I've been driving around western France with my dad, getting lost in all the round-points, involuntarily listening to Bono repetitively, visiting family friends, drinking wine, and mooching off of bad American fast food joints. But now, my time in France is about to come to a close. I arrive in Denver in just a little over 48 hours. Crazy.

I hope to conclude this blog with something more creative than this lame post upon my return home. It should be something to keep me occupied until I find a job. (On that note, know anyone who's hiring?)

And yes, I've had the McRoyale with Cheese. Several times.

Note Bono: When renting a car in Paris, be sure it has a working radio antenna. Or you will be stuck listening to the left-behind U2 CD over and over again to the point where you desire nothing else but to throw it out the window and set yourself on fire.

Soeur Sombre

One of my passions is watching movies. 

In France, I have all the time in the world to watch movies. It is also a good way to become more familiar with international film and further train my ear in the French language. Discovering that I can get into the Rennes Gaumont theatre for €5.50 with my metro card, I have jumped on this opportunity.

But this afternoon, I realized something about my choices of films. They have all been depressing. Really depressing. 

Soeur Sourire

Don't be fooled by the cheery "Sound of Music-esque" photo, this whole movie was anything but one of my favorite things. A biopic of Soeur Sourire, or Sister Smile, this film fed on the irony of her stage name and the brief success she encountered in the 60s. Those who are familiar with Debbie Reynolds's interpretation of Jeanine Deckers in The Singing Nun, you would be devastated to find out how the real story ends.

Moral: Women are never really free... We are forever doomed if we don't get married and start a family or if we fail to carry out our vows in a nunnery.

Coco avant Chanel

"Coco before Chanel" with Audrey Tautou (or Amélie) is probably the least depressing out of the bunch, however there is still a sort of melancholy present. Although appearing rather menacing, Coco Chanel is a much more likable character than the aforementioned Soeur Sourire. You sympathize with her through all her grief and dejection. You rejoice when she eventually achieves her dream in high fashion. Yet even in the final scene, Coco's face still channels a history full of sadness.

Moral: Women can liberate themselves... With hard work and useful connections, we can be successful without getting married or going to a nunnery.

Welcome

No, I did not make a mistake during my Google image search...Welcome is the official French title. But for fun, "bienvenue" is the translation. Although the main story line may seem funny - a boy's obsession to learn how to swim so that he could cross the English Channel - this film approaches a variety of serious topics such as immigration, civil law, justice, and prejudice. From the very beginning there is a small flame of hope that things will turn out well, but in the end it gets extinguished and all is unwelcome.

Moral: No one is free... Prejudice is so prevalent that it is impossible to marry the one we love or even think about fleeing to a nunnery.

Je te mangerais

During "le printemps du cinéma" festival in late March, "I Would Eat You" was the only movie that was not sold out yet when we arrived at the theater. Judging from the poster and title alone, you are not wrong to deduce that it is very bizarre. However, you must not take the title too literally. The verb "manger" also denotes a sexual meaning. And that was exactly what this movie was about. It is an hour and a half of confused psychological frustration and tragedy, leaving you with anxiety and a developing mistrust in all of your close childhood friends.

Moral: Women have too much freedom... If we don't marry and have a family or join a nunnery, we will go insane and attack our lovers of both the same and opposite sex.

I must see something happy before I leave. Or I might get the wrong impression of today's French cinema.

The Search for Harry Potter: Part 2

Although unsuccessful on our quest to find the real Harry Potter in Dublin, Aberdeen, Glascow, or St. Andrews, we did not give up. We packed up our things and moved on to the lovely Edinburgh, Scotland...where a poor and depressed J.K. Rowling began writing what would instantly become a worldwide phenomenon that would bring her fame and a higher income than that of the Queen.


And that small café where J.K. Rowling wrote the beginnings of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone is the Elephant House. A Mecca for Harry Potter fans.


So we had lunch there.


Then we found the prestigious George Herriot School, the original inspiration for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It can be seen from the Elephant House.


And a possible inspiration for Fred & George Weasley's joke shop?


Before leaving the magnificent Edinburgh, we climbed Arthur's Seat, the large hill in the background, to see if its views would allow us to find Harry.


Its views were marvelous, but Harry was not in sight. We sighed and fled to King's Cross Station in London to try our luck at Platform 9 3/4.


It turns out that I am a muggle and did not sucessfully make it onto the Hogwarts Express. But I did stumble upon the St. Olaf House, which does not quite resemble the beautiful St. Olaf College...the "Hogwarts for Lutherans."


Losing hope, we took a visit to the Queen at Buckingham Palace to ask for her advice.


She suggested looking for Harry at Madame Tussaud's wax museum. There, we ran into another friend, President Nicolas Sarkozy.


But we missed Daniel Radcliffe, the actor who plays Harry Potter in the Warner Brothers films.


Sad and broken-hearted, I finally called a taxi to take us to the airport so we could return back to France.



Overall, we were disappointed that we were not able to find the real Harry Potter, but we had an excellent time in the United Kingdom. 

I know Harry's out there, somewhere. In the meantime, I'll be waiting.

The Search for Harry Potter: Part 1

I apologize to any regular readers for my recent absence. But you must excuse me, I was on an epic quest to find Harry Potter.

Several years ago when I was still in high school, a friend predicted my future. She told me that I will marry the real Harry Potter. Despite what readers learn in the last installment of J.K. Rowling's series, Harry Potter and I were meant to be. Now, years later, I was finally given the chance to fulfill my destiny. Here, I will recap my journey to find Harry Potter during spring vacation in the United Kingdom.

To start our journey off right, we first grabbed a pint in Dublin, Ireland. Guinness of course.


Not quite the UK, but there's the possibility that Harry would be visiting his Irish neighbors. Such as my best friend, Oscar Wilde.


There is also a castle in Dublin that Harry could have been haunting, tired of his home at Hogwarts. But he was no where to be found.


Convinced that Harry was not in Dublin, we hopped over to Aberdeen, Scotland...the city of granite.


Deciding that the city was too gray and depressing, we perked up with a coffee break in the lively Glascow.


Or not so lively Glascow.


We then took our chariot of fire and sprinted to the beaches of St. Andrews.


Found its beautiful ruins...


...and Harry Potter!


Or so we thought. We quickly found that we were mistaken. He was only a poser. And he was a Scot. Alas, would we ever find him?

23 Surprises

I have a Kinder toy army. 

Kinder eggs are a godsend. As you can see above, I have eaten a few too many Kinder eggs (along with my Jif peanut butter from home). And I have managed to not get a single toy twice.

An inventory of my collection:

3 crazy-haired kids with removable modes of transportation on their backs

4 animal characters from the Dreamworks film Madagascar 2

2 bumper cars with stickers of ridiculous kids in costumes

1 regular miniature race car

3 animals (an elephant, a dog, and a cow with antlers?) with interchangeable body parts (meant to create chimeras) 

1 yellow pencil topper in the form of a face 

1 hockey-playing cat

1 wobbling tiger

1 red-bearded man on a fancy skateboard

1 meditating figure with a "computer" face that changes emoticons

5 pirates; 3 of which are human, 2 of which are monsters 

And yes, Kinder chocolate is excellent with peanut butter.

CIREFE Caféteria

I spend too much time in the CIREFE caféteria.

First of all, the French "caféteria" does not hold the same connotation as the English "cafeteria". Instead of being a location where you buy unappetizing lunch and eat at long tables with your friends, a caféteria is a space where you can sit and drink café. In other words, the CIREFE caféteria serves as a break room for students and teachers.

The CIREFE caféteria is actually a small crowded room with a few wooden benches and fewer stainless steal tables to set your tasse de café upon. There are newspapers ranging from the local Rennes paper to the national Le Monde available to read. The best part of the CIREFE caféteria are the automatic coffee and snack machines. You can get a candy bar or a soda for about 80 cents (except Coke for some reason is a euro). Or better yet, you can get a very small cup of coffee - regular, crème, cappuccino, macchiato, chocolat - for 40 cents. Unfortunately, the coffee only lasts for a few sips...but the price is right.

The CIREFE caféteria is also a place where French is rarely spoken. English-speakers, Chinese-speakers, and Spanish-speakers congregate together to take a break from their French. Americans are the worst. It's rather disappointing, but you cannot escape it when all your friends are laughing and talking as you sit on those wooden benches. The conversations they have are also of the most ridiculous sort. One afternoon, people were heating up over whether masculine and feminine words existed in English. Someone even tried to prove that the pronunciation of "the" entailed the gender of the word. (Of course that was stupid, for the pronunciation of "the" is dictated by the presence of a vowel or consonant following it.) Because these conversations are so loud and fierce, it's impossible to read or study to the point where you give up and let yourself become part of the discussion.

When Americans in the CIREFE caféteria are not participating in absurd debates, they like to sing and dance. Beyoncé's "All the Single Ladies" for example is popular. There are several people who have been working on learning the dance and will occasionally practice their moves in the small space, attracting attention from those passing by in the hallway and even those in the classrooms. There has also been a rousing chorus of the "Star-Spangled Banner" where even our friend from Saudi Arabia, who is probably more American than most of us, joined in.

All in all, the CIREFE caféteria is an unusual and unreal place. I don't know why I spend so much time there, but I know when I look back at my days in Rennes, the caféteria will always be a part of that memory.

Liz, being herself, in the caféteria.

En grève

"During the strike, there is no cleaning.

Do no put anything in the trash and leave this space clean.

Thank you for your understanding."

I have seen this sign every day for the past month, the amount of time the students of Université Rennes 2 have been on strike. Posted on the doors in the bathroom, in the hallway of the 4th floor of bâtiment E, in the CIREFE caféteria...we are reminded that times are hard when the students are on grève.

And it's true, times are hard. The university students here in Rennes treat their grève with upmost severity. Although revolt is part of French tradition, there must be something in the Rennais' blood that kicks it up to an obsessive level. One of the causes they are protesting is the proposed cut of jobs, due to the struggling educational budget, which would result in less professors and larger class sizes. Certainly, this is a grave issue...but I get the impression that the grève is producing less result and more nuisance.

As an international student at the CIREFE, I still have the ability to attend class. (And for what I'm paying, I would be quite upset if that weren't the case...) Yet, students at the regular university haven't attended class for several weeks. Instead, they come to the campus to block entrances to each building - except the restaurant, of course - denying students, professors, and faculty alike from entering. Every morning, I must identify myself as an American who only wishes to improve her French by being able to walk inside the building. When the students are not sitting and policing those who wish to trespass, they are busy building barricades. Like what their ancestors did during the days of the Revolution, they pile dozens of chairs and tables to blockade the doors, making it impossible to get through.

At least once or twice a week, the students also gather for an assemblée générale to discuss their progress with the grève and decide if they wish to continue. Crowding on the lawn right outside bâtiment E, the students yell through megaphones while others cheer or boo with great enthusiasm. It's almost like a sport, the hundreds of students screaming and shouting outside catches you off-guard when you're in class talking about the imperfect and subjunctive in hypothetical statements.


I don't know when this student strike will end. I wouldn't be surprised if it lasted for the rest of the semester. And the most shocking thing I've learned from this experience is that these students will still get their diplomas in the end...it's too expensive for the university not to allow them to graduate, despite their lack of participation in the classroom.

A reason to love St. Olaf.

Merzbau

We have a crazy art history professor. Granted that most art teachers are crazy, this one is especially crazy.

With students taking her class in French as a second language, she has a habit of repeating words for clarification. Her intentions are good, but for advanced students it seems unnecessary. In addition, the words she normally repeats are simple ones. Or English cognates. Standing in front of the classroom with a whiteboard marker in hand, back slightly hunched, lecturing on some 20th-century artist, she will come to a word...pause...look at us questionably...repeat the word...look at us again...and continue talking.

"Le artiste Schwitters est le roi de recyclage...recyclage?...Il utilise des morceaux de bois..."

Sometimes she will find a synonym for a word, or better yet, she will rephrase the word.

"Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais je suis en train de discuter le mot esclave...esclave?...esclavage!...Et je continue comme ça..."

It drives us insane, but in order to keep our interest during the 2 or 3 hours of class on Friday evenings, we have begun to keep a list of all the words she repeats.


Some of her greatest words have included:

escalier (stairway)
sourire (smile)
plage (beach)
hypocrisie (hypocrisy)
Judas (Judas)
sodomie (sodomy)
t-shirt (t-shirt)
Oscars (Oscars...the awards)
pauvre (poor)
copier (copy)
Père Noël (Santa Claus)

Or we draw pictures.

My doodle of out art teacher saying, "You must learn contemporary art for 3 HOURS! Hours? Hours?"

Although she is crazy, she is funny old lady. Especially when she plays aloud Schwitter's poem entirely composed with animal sounds, with the volume on high scaring those in the classroom next to us.

Winter Break Sampler

Seeing as I haven't written for a while, I must explain that last week was winter break. Instead of updating my blog, I decided to head back to Paris with a few friends. We also ventured to Geneva to see what the Swiss were like. In sum, the trip was great. But not having the desire nor patience to type out every single detail, I've decided to give those who are curious a taste of what happened. Alas, in photos to make life easier.

The first day in Paris was Valentine's Day. So what do 3 single ladies do on this special day in the City of Love?

We take photos with random Italian men in front of the Eiffel Tower with roses in our hands.


Then we visit the Catacombs, where thousands of unwanted bones of innocent people rest under the streets of Paris. Translation of the inscription above the portal: "Stop! This here is the empire of the dead."


Afterwards we hop Geneva to play on a playground in the Old Town.


And build a snowman, named Jacques, in the lawn in front of the musée de l'art et l'histoire.


So that small children can admire...and terrorize him.


But they don't terrorize the great Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a man I ought to owe my life to, on his little island on the lake.


Back in Paris, we renew our interest in the dead and return to Père Lachaise. In quest of finding graves of Proust, Molière, and Sarah Berhardt, we learn that map of the cemetary is completely wrong in the Guide Vert.


Yet we found a cat lurking around Ingrès tomb. Bad luck?

Des Mots & Des Mots

As I was sitting at the salon de beauté today, getting all my hair chopped off, a song that has irritated me since Paris came on. Even the coiffeuse was singing along to it, although she didn't know the words. Whether it is popular in the states, "I Hate This Part" by the Pussycat Dolls is ridiculously loved in France. I hear it everyday. On TV, in the metro, coming from my host sister's bedroom... One afternoon, I counted it playing 3 times on the radio. I think I will never escape that song, no matter how hard I try.

Along with the Pussycat Dolls, there are several other American artists that are quite the hit in France at the moment. Britney Spears has regained her fame, but not her sanity, with "Womanizer and "Circus." Beyoncé Knowles is also hot with her "Single Ladies" (Liz, have you learned the dance yet?) and "If I Were a Boy." Akon's "Right Now (Na Na Na)" and Lady GaGa's "Poker Face" are also on the top hits list. Yet personally, I prefer the French artists.

For a mix of classical and rock, Mikelangelo Loconte's "Tatoue-moi" is a premier choice. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USZ7-Hcnuko

For a terrible music video but decent song, Stanislas and Calogero's "La Débâcle des sentiments" is perfect. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdWLqzv0sS4

For something cute in time for Valentine's Day, but in Bobby Barjasteh's words a "chick song", Grégoire's "Toi+Moi" is a winner. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOru9ITtVIg&feature=related

For something that will just scare you, Bebe Lilly's "Viens avec moi" will suffice. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_dDxkDTkvQ

Schizophrenia

The weather in Rennes has a mind of its own. One minute, the sun is shining and the world is beautiful. The next minute, dark clouds appear from nowhere up above and rain suddenly falls over your head. My host mother keeps telling me it's unusually cold for the season, explaining the negative temperatures (in Celsius) in the morning and the need for me to wear a sweater both inside and outside the house. Because of the cold, yesterday a few of us witnessed a freak snowstorm of about 10 minutes in the center of town.

When I stepped off the metro, the sun was out and I was fooled into believing that it would a beautiful day. Once I met my friends, the few flakes of snow began to fall. Amused by this change in atmosphere, we were initially excited.


The snow started falling harder. In France, to protect yourself from the snow, you take out your umbrella.


Then it started falling even harder. And we started to lose control.


Again, the snow kept falling harder and harder.


All of the sudden, the snow stopped! The sun came back out as well as our sanity. All within a matter of seconds.


After this phenomenon, we decided to enjoy the beautiful weather before the next snowstorm. Naturally, we went to the park to feed the birds clementines.

I love Rennes.

Mal au pied

At the end of last August, I dropped a box on my foot as I was moving out of St. Olaf summer housing. As a result, an ugly bruise appeared underneath my big toenail. As the months passed by, my toenail has grown and I have watched the bruise slowly creep up my toe. This evening, five months later, I finally have touched the top of the bruise when clipping my nails. For some reason, this sliver of my toenail fascinated me. It was something pleasant about my feet, which have not been too happy with me lately.

Since I've been in France, I've been walking a lot more than I have done back home. And it's not just walking on sidewalks and smooth pavement, but also on older streets and plazas of cobblestone. I was everywhere in Paris, visiting the 50 some odd monuments for credit in our interim course. Now in Rennes, I have a 10 minute walk to and from the metro stop everyday in addition to my various promenades around the centre ville and the campus. On my feet, I've been more concerned about what shoes they look like as opposed to how practical they really are. I have not been foolish enough to wear heels everyday. (Although I did make the mistake of wearing some one night in Paris when we got lost finding the Rue Mouffetard...which is nearly right behind our hotel.) But I've been wearing shoes with little support. And boots.

Boots are a requirement in France. Everyone wears boots. They don't let you even get you through customs if you don't own a pair of boots. Okay, that's a bit hyperbolic. But in order to really fit in the crowd, you must have a pair of boots on your feet. Black, of course. I waited until I got to Rennes to buy a pair of boots. I had an ideal pair in mind, no heels, not too tall, and not too expensive. Because of the soldes, I got lucky and found a pair of simple black ones for 17 euros. I even traveled through the crowds of demonstraters during a state-wide strike (which is practically a national sport here) in order to enter the boutique. I was excited, and wore the boots with pride for the next few days. But to my dismay, immediately after wearing the boots, a sharp pain developed in my right foot. Looking at my boots, I discovered had really done a good job finding a pair of flat ones. So flat that there are no arches at all. None.

Quickly returning back to shoes I already had with me, the last few days were spent limping from store to store in search for something to make my boots bearable. I've checked pharmacies and department stores for something that would resemble a Dr. Scholl's arch support pad that you insert into your shoe. Nothing. Convinced they don't exist in France, I shed a tear when I look at my new boots sitting in my closet instead of sitting on my feet. I even have to admit that I even asked my dad to send me arch support from the US...so that I can wear those boots.


In the meantime, to convince my feet that I still indeed do love them, I gave myself a pedicure my clipping and filing my nails. This brings me back to my toenail and the joyful clipping of the top of the bruise. Considering that the bruise takes up about 40% of my toe, I'm guessing it will be another 4 months before it completely grows out. When it does, it will be time for me to leave France and go back home where I will see people and places I have not seen in a long time. Of course, it will be summer again...and at that time I will not want to wear those boots.