Of course I didn't forget about my blog...

My friend James recently told me that I need to update the blog because I can't possibly have spend the last few weeks in France without anything eventful happening.  And it's true...a lot has happened.  The problem is that most of it is mundane, everyday kind of stuff, which I absolutely adore doing, but would probably bore readers.  Do you care that I picked up a copy of The Devil Wears Prada and spent an entire afternoon reading it while a crisp breeze came in through the windows?  Is it interesting that I took a nap on the couch in the TV room at the center while my friends dozed in chairs?  Does it pique your interest that I went grocery shopping the other day, and need to go again this afternoon?  Probably not.

So I will try to tackle things that are a bit more vibrant.

The weather here has been absolutely gorgeous.  It's been in the 70s (Fahrenheit...I can't even begin to tackle Celsius while speaking French) and everyone has been wearing shorts and skirts and tank-tops.  Last week my friend and I were on our way back from a mid-afternoon café break, planning to go straight to the center to start a Lord of the Rings movie marathon (dubbed in French, of course), when I was overcome with a desire to lie down in the middle of Place Graslin, a rond-point with a grassy circle in the middle.  I flopped down dramatically next to a pile of backpacks and camping gear and began talking loudly in English to my friend.  We were both a bit surprised when an amused voice with an American accent hopped into the conversation.  We turned and saw a man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, lounging against the pile of stuff.  I offered him some popcorn and he asked how old it was.  I calculated quickly in my head and assured him that it was no older than 15 hours.  He laughed and said, "as long as it's not more than three days..."  It turned out he was an American who had been shot in the head, arm, and leg while working for the military, so he has a small paycheck from the government for the rest of his life.  He sold all of his possessions, and has spent the last year travelling, spending his paychecks only on planes and trains.  He does programs like WWOOFing where you work in exchange for room and board.  We talked for a while, and then another friend came over and asked if we were ready for our marathon, so we left.  I'm really glad we encountered that guy, because it reaffirmed the fact that people do, in fact, spend their lives traveling.

One of the joys of being in a country where it is legal to drink is that I have had the chance to find my bar.  You know in sitcoms how the group of friends always has a bar that they frequent, where they know the names of the bartenders and have a special table?  I haven't gotten quite to that point yet, but my friend Elise and I have become completely enamored with a café-by-day-bar-by-night called Café Cult.  The bartenders are energetic, and exude confidence when they mix drinks.  There is one bartender in particular, whom we call Impala (although we have no idea what her real name is), who left us speechless with our mouths hanging open the first time we watched her make a Gin Fizz.  She makes bar-tending into something simultaneously artful and sexy, and watching her makes me desperately want to spend some time mixing drinks.       

On the subject of alcohol, I finally tried the one drink that I have been working up to ordering since I arrived in France: Grog.  It brings to mind an image of pirates, and because it costs at least five euros (more at some bars) and was in the Hot Drinks section of every menu, I was a bit intimidated.  I ordered it on a whim one night at Café Cult, and watched carefully as Impala mixed it.  She poured in at least three shots of Rum (I ended up needing to share it with my friends because it was so strong), an equal amount of honey, and then threw in some mint leaves and a lemon slice before filling the mug to the brim with boiling water.  It was served in a large glass mug with sugar packets on the side.  I learned later that this is not the kind of Grog that pirates drank, although I enjoyed the image of them sipping daintily on this artful boisson.  It was certainly good, but a bit decadent for my taste.  The honey made it almost unbearably sweet (not to mention rendered the sugar unnecessary), and the alcohol-to-everything-else ratio was just too strong to be enjoyable.  Nevertheless, I am glad that I tried it once, because now whenever I watch a pirate movie, I can proudly declare, "Grog's alright, but I prefer a nice Port."

Last weekend my whole group went on a trip to Normandie, where we visited a WWII museum and a beach where a major battle took place.  We also stopped at the American Cemetery (which is actually American soil), as well as the German Cemetery.  My host parents were surprised that they had taken us to the German Cemetery, but one of the trip leaders assured us that it was important to see both because the war touched both countries.  I couldn't agree more.  It was a harrowing experience, and the incessant fog that descended the entire time we were there made it still more dismal, but it was certainly eye-opening.

Painted on a wall in the museum.

The German Cemetery.

In a crater created by falling bombs.

A political cartoon.  The man is asking, "Are you for or against the death penalty?"

They served ham and cheese for breakfast at our hotel.

A very sad and accurate political cartoon.

This one really struck a chord with me.

My feet on American soil...er...sand.

The American Cemetery.