COASTIE IN PARIS

Photo

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 16:56:00 -0500

Trevi Fountain

Best gelatto in Roma

Badgers at the Vatican

I died for 40 hours and went to heaven: Amsterdam SO to the...

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 00:28:00 -0500

Bulldogs

Outside Red Light District

Trix in Amsterdam

I died for 40 hours and went to heaven: Amsterdam

SO to the gals, AliMeow, Jamie, Liz, Laura, Allie, Jamey, Kara, Dana, Steph, Wolstein

Been There, Saw That

Wed, 22 Feb 2012 17:17:54 -0500

In case my map (that I can’t read) and my undying urge to wear sweatpants didn’t let you know I’m a tourist…

Here are the “must sees!!!!!!!” I’ve hit so far. I’m not a real sight seeing kinda gal, but when in Paris do as the Parisians do (pretty sure that born and raised Parisians aren’t posing with their entourages in front of the city’s ‘hot spots,’ but you get what I mean).

Eiffel Tower: To be completely honest, the Parisian icon didn’t wow me when I saw it during the day. Maybe I’m just used to tall structures (like myself) or was thrown off by the overwhelming masses of Asians throwing up peace signs, but I was underwhelmed. But when this thing sparkles, time stops and people drop what they’re doing to stare (just like when I enter a room, right?). The Eiffel Tower at night is absolutely stunning and goes above and beyond any expectation you might have had. Maybe it’s just my child-like obsession with shiny things, but for the first time I understood why Paris is called the city of love.

Sacre Coeur: A couple metro changes and a the steepest hill of all time later, and I was standing on the top of the world. While the trek to Sacre Coeur is less than desirable (I saw nothing but janky nail salons and small storefronts selling weaves), the view from the top of the church’s steps is nothing short of spectacular: you can literally see all of Paris (check out Ali Killam’s tight panoramic snapshot). The church itself is nice, but if you ask me, it doesn’t hold a candle to the view. (Dads, Grandma definitely would have stopped the car until you admitted the beauty of this site).

L’Arc de Triomphe: After a nauseating trek up what felt like a million steps of a narrow spiral staircase, I felt like a champion (out of breath and ready to puke). Similar to Sacre Coeur, the view from the top of L’Arc is amazing. Unfortunately this landmark has been tourist-ized by the inclusion of lame gift shops (I say lame because there wasn’t anything I wanted in there), but aside from that it was pretty darn cool.

Musee D’Orsay: Call me a brat or uncultured or some other negative word, but I hated this place. Dragged here twice by my Modern Art teach, I was unimpressed by the overall setup and feel of the museum. I will say that the Musee D’Orsay has an incredible collection of Van Gogh paintings, all of which I had no idea I liked until I was forced to stare at them for 20 minutes (each). Another plus of this place is the cafe…cheap sandwiches and salads that interest me more than the art (sorry, I’m a growing girl (not)).

Centre Pompodou: I’ve never been a museum kinda gal, but I’ll be the first to say that the Pompidou is the bomb (you know when phrases like ‘it’s the bomb’ are used, I’m serious). The exterior of this museum looks like the inner workings of some kind of machine: colorful pipe-like things line the main wall and the others are made of glass.Then the inside…oh baby…pieces of art I’m actually head over heels interest in. There are paintings and photographs and huge tapestries and cool mechanical pieces that flash lights and make noise. The Pompidou seriously has it all. I was actually sad when the class was over (who am I), and am excited to go back tomorrow.

Louvre: The outside of the Louvre is cooler than all of the art inside. I waited in a massive line twice just so I could see a statue of some chick without arms and that Mona Lisa character. The girl without arms…was a girl without arms, and Mona Lisa - the most famous painting in all the land - was the size of my laptop screen. Wompwomppp (underwhelmed).

Notre Dame: Read the post titled ‘Poppi, Can You Hear Me?’ and figure out my response for yourself.

Poppi, Can You Hear Me?

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 06:58:00 -0500

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…

That’s what I would have said if the nasty priest hadn’t shunned me from his glass confession box. That’s the first problem: a glass confession box. Wait a hot second, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning…

If you ask me about religion you can expect a solid eye roll and a lot of nothing else. I’m a big believer in spirituality - religion as an attempt to find comfort in yourself and the world - however, I’ve noticed that not many people are on the same page. In my opinion, religion has turned into one more thing for people to disagree on and compete over. Very, very long anti-religion rant short: I don’t associate myself with any single religion, but have been interested in and respectful of all of the religions that mean so much to others. My acceptance of all religions was shot to hell when I visited the Notre Dame.

It all started when my History of Architecture “teacher” took us on a walking tour to the famous church. I was surprised to find that I actually gave a shit about all of the facts she piled on: there’s a story behind each of the intricate carvings on the exterior, thoughtful names of each of the three doorways at the front of the church, etc. My interest in the place only grew when we stepped inside. Beautiful stained glass windows lined the walls and high, high ceilings, and the light from clusters of candles illuminated every aisle and walkway. All in all, the Notre Dame rocked, and I was definitely trying to get in on its coolness. I signed the guest book with a heartfelt message: “Sophie, Chappaqua NY,” made a donation of 21euro-cents and lit a candle. This small candle was lit for Poppi - a man who would have punished me for participating in church activities by “braiding” my hair into a giant knot, but whose candle shone brighter than all of the others.

Shout out to the man who is missed: I wish more than anything that you were here. I think about you every time I see a dirty glass, a happy couple, a bottle of scotch, a kite. I know you’d be cracking the same joke for the billionth time if you were here - I promise I’d laugh. I love you.

Anyway, after becoming one with the Notre Dame I set out to do something I had always hoped to do: make a confession. I don’t know what it is about those little wooden cages, but those things definitely make me want to spill my secrets - and spill secrets and sins I was ready to do. (This post cannot fully explain just how excited I was to go to a confessional…seriously jumping for joy when I saw the sign “Priest is in”). So picture this: little (awkwardly tall) me searching around for an open confessional, only to find that the wooden structure I had dreamed of had been modernized into a huge glass room where you sit face to face with a priest. Don’t care, I’m going in. I sat in the waiting area and then walked up to the glass door and let myself in.

“Parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked. The cute old man said he did, in fact, speak English..go time. I was honest and began to tell the priest that I had never done…this…before, and asked how I should go about beginning. “You are not Catholic,” he spit out before I could even finish my introduction. Ok awkward…I tried to ask why that mattered and how he knew but he was done with me. I stood in his “office” for a few minutes hoping to make this work, but he wasn’t having any of it. I was officially shunned from the Notre Dame confessional.

To say I was an unhappy camper is an understatement. Crushed, embarrassed, heartbroken (insert other dramatic emotions) is more like it. THIS is exactly why I hate religion. Who gives an F if I’m Catholic or not - if I want to confess or take part in your practice let me do so, and welcome me with open arms…if you don’t you’ll end up as a horrible experience on my blog and your reputation will be ruined forever.

So here I am, full of sins I’m ready to confess and apologize for. Oh well, gave it a shot…YOLO.

peace, love, paris

Paris, meet the UW’s finest Greeks. Most special shout out...

Sun, 12 Feb 2012 14:22:00 -0500

Greek girls do the Sacre Coeur

Notre Dame

Models outside of Sacre Coeur

One of the best

Chappaqua, meet Chipputos

Paris, meet the UW’s finest Greeks.

Most special shout out to the girls who give Madison a good name: Chloe, Ali, Georgie, Maddie, Rachel, Steph, Annie, Allie, and Katie

Playing the ultimate tourist with my visitors. SO to Emily and...

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 19:53:00 -0500

Gazing at some stuff

Best macaroons on the planet

XO outside the Louvre

View from the top (of L'Arc)

Playing the ultimate tourist with my visitors.

SO to Emily and Amanda and all of the noms we inhaled.

A Quickie

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 17:19:00 -0500

The fans have been requesting more frequent updates, so here goes something…

Our power was curiously out all day today. Night (4pm) fell and we were left to wallow in the pitch darkness of our apartment (watch OTH by candlelight). An unexpected ding dong of the doorbell came along around 7pm and there stood angels with tool belts (our landlord and a male friend), ready to fix our power…and fix they did. Hello, hello light from our 3-bulb chandelier (only 2 of which are currently working)!
Rory and I traveled to a well-known falafel joint and shoved our face with a sandwich stuffed with fried chickpeas. The eating came after the part when the owner and entire line of French Jews laughed their heads off when I asked which sandwich had “pas de jambon.” (kosher food doesn’t include “jambon”…I clearly missed that memo, too). Glad I could provide you with some laughs!!!!!!! (fuck you). Despite the snootiness of said folk laughing at my expense, the falafel was good and I would recommend it to anyone with taste buds. Caution: benches don’t exist in Paris, so you’re going to have to fight off the pigeons while standing and eating in the street.
We wandered into a very upscale store right around the corner from our apartment (sorry, mom and dad) and fell in love. Celine, Lanvin, Balenciaga and other greats lined the walls and quickly draped themselves all over my commoner’s body…screw the “don’t touch unless you’re seriously considering buying” rule, these pieces were too beaut to not try on.

Alright, folks, I’ve got a long hour and 15 minutes of class tomorrow, so I’m off to bed. Learning comes first!!!! (notice that excessive punctuation is usually a sign of sarcasm). I’m hoping to drop some dolla billz on something other than food and alcohol tomorrow, so reports will definitely be plentiful. Special shout out to Sister Hansen who graduated from the XOCC; Sister Kline and I support your decision so ditch us (but we also hate you).

peace, love, paris

Lesson Learned

Sat, 28 Jan 2012 10:31:00 -0500

Call me, beep me if you wanna reach me…

On my new French celly! Getting one of these bad boys has been nothing short of a struggle, but Ror and I finally have the latest and greatest in French technology (a piece of shit phone that’s more low-tech than my first phone circa 6th grade). Dial these digits: (parental control)

Speaking of phone numbers, Rory, Jord and I learned a valuable lesson: don’t give them out to strangers, especially 30+ year-old men from Sweden. Picture this: 3 hot chicks (us) strolling to a table at an outdoor cafe near the Eiffel Tower. After ordering 3 hot chocolates we are greeted by a blonde haired, blue eyed cutie pie and his overweight friend, the two men sitting at the table next to us. The men introduce themselves as Kenneth and “J” (because his real name was completely inaudible…mumbled by the tobacco shoved into his lips). The two chat us up for a good 30 minutes then offer to buy us a bottle of wine. Uh, yes please. Conversation isn’t too shabby until Kenneth becomes uncomfortably drunk and starts saying things to the likes of, “what happens in Paris stays in Paris!” “I traded in my old wife for someone younger…she’s 20.” “I had 21 strawberry daquaris by the pool in Vegas!” Ok, Kenneth, cool it, you’re weirding us out. Drunk Ken and J invite us out with them and, to make a longer story short, call us 10+ times throughout the night. Ipso facto, phone numbers are for friends.

Off to finalize travel plans. TTYLaterToday

peace, love, paris

The paparazzi found us…finally. A day in the life of...

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 20:41:00 -0500

Stupid American (sup XO gals)

Some new friends

Main food group, that's chill, right?

The paparazzi found us…finally.

A day in the life of Coasties in Paris (cheese, transvestites and questionable pictures).

Bizarre Bizou

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 13:54:00 -0500

Smiling leads to rape…

According to my CEA adviser, the reason Americans view the French as rude is because they are taught not to smile. You might wonder why the fack anyone would be instructed against smiling- well, in these here parts a smile is pretty much the same thing as saying “lets do it.” Wait right there you scrawny, smelly French man- I smile because I spent a lot of money on braces, and because I’m a happy gal…a smile is not an invitation into my pants. So far smiling and sarcasm are big no-no’s (there goes my social life). While smiling is not allowed on the heel-destroyer streets (cobblestone), the French love a good smooch - air smooch, that is. An introduction is not complete without two cheek-to-cheek air kisses, known as “bizou, bizou.” I’m not a fan of touching my face to that of a stranger, so call me a bitch but I’ll shake your hand and leave it at that.

Our trusty CEA advisers also taught us a couple other useful things, like: JK orientation week was a big fat waste of time, hence the reason Rory and I bailed on most of the sessions. We’re blaming our absence for the reason we don’t have that many friends (half joke). We did, however, make a couple of pals who love wine, cheese and all of the French illegals (smiling, sarcasm and sweatpants) just as much as we do. Please welcome Jordanna to the blog! Jord is a California native who studies at Parsons in NYC (wutup, Empire State), and she rocks.

Many, many more thangz to share, but I have to go microwave some frozen pasta…seriously. Special shout-out and the sincerest apology to my loyal fans (hi mom and dad) for my lack of blogging - I’ve been too busy having a life (sleeping). I will keep the updates coming on a more regular and frequent basis, so you can sleep easy now, loved ones.

peace, love, paris

Some Fun Facts

Sun, 22 Jan 2012 19:06:00 -0500

Together we’re not completely incompetent…

After 16+ hours of sleep, Rory and I made an incredible discovery: we need each other (cue the ‘awwws’). I may be able to speak the language of love, but I can’t get anywhere without being led there on a leash (hand-in-hand works also). Laura has no idea what anyone is saying to her, but she can navigate the Parisian streets by foot or metro like a pro. So, I ask for directions (my lack of knowledge about…anything is forcing me to conquer my debilitating fear of speaking to strangers) and translate to Rory, then she takes said info and leads us far and wide. Today we conquered some 4th arrondissements side streets, a 6th arrondissement cafe and a Latin Quarter bar. Thank you in advance for the congratulations on a job well done.

Said Latin Quarter bar is called “Canadian…something or other.” In other words, we went to an American-ish bar and drank American beer and ate an American classic- nachos. HOWEVER, we were not surrounded by equally stupid Americans! Instead, we sat at a corner table (a seemingly frequent choice by French hostesses) and watched French boys and gals lose their voices by cheering on American football teams. Fun fact: these people love a good football game. Not so fun fact: these people don’t love a good joke or sarcastic comment. There goes my Parisian social life.

I’m off to watch an episode of One Tree Hill and eat a piece of bread. If you hear grumbling, that’s my belly bitching, asking me to feed it something other than bread. Until tomorrow…

peace, love, paris

American Girls in Paris, Part Une

Sat, 21 Jan 2012 11:25:00 -0500

7 hours, 8 suitcases and 3 flights of stairs later…

And here we are. Rue de Sevigne. Home sweet tiny apartment. Rory and I gave up space for location and are happy with our choice so far (we’ll see how she feels when my legs swallow our shared bed).

Once I get around to taking pictures of our new abode I’ll upload them to this holy blog, but for now a verbal explanation will do: you drive down a small cobblestone street and walk up to two huge gray double doors. Enter a secret password and you’re on your way into our courtyard (courtyard being a little tiled area with no roof). Hook a left and you’re ready to enter our apartment…SIKE, you’ve got three of the world’s narrowest, jankiest stairways to climb (no one will offer to help you with your overweight luggage and if you forgot your headlight in the states like this guy, you’re pretty much doomed to the dark of the stairwells). Finally you’re on floor 3 and are ready to enter - grease up your shoulder and hip because that door isn’t opening without a fight.

Ok, you’re in: very pretty, modern bathroom on your immediate right (complete with a real live douche, that Ror and I are sure we’ll end up peeing in on a daily basis…stupid Americans). Turn left and you’re in our kitchen/living area. We’ve got a couch that’s hard as a rock, a small table, a mini sink/dishwasher/fridge set, and a flat screen TV that doesn’t work (but we did switch the auto language to English for when that fine piece of machinery does work). The two bedrooms are off of the living space: one closet turned bedroom, complete with a bunkbed, and another room with a double bed and more closet space than we bargained for #winning.

We ran into a ~~few~~ several issues setting up our beloved internet, and our lack of communication with the outside world did not sit well. Luckily the two of us figured out the way to French WiFi’s heart and are now chillin in cyberspace. We’ve got some odd thermostat that somehow controls the heating and water temperature at the same time. I feel like I’m sitting on Lake Mendota in a bathing suit in the middle of January, so those rules our angelic (not) French landlord made about not turning the heat over “4” is in the toilet (or pee douche). The extreme language barrier didn’t help with our internet/heat trouble or any other troubles we’ve encountered thus far. I have been doing my best to communicate with the French (who are as bitchy as they’re made out to be): some of them appreciate my attempt to communicate, while others immediately ask where in the states I’m from. The man at Sephora congratulated me on my speaking skills, so there’s my proud moment of the day (yes, there was a man at Sephora…and yes, we went to Sephora).

Besides these minor complaints, that are mostly due to my extreme over-exhaustion and nauseating hunger, live is good on this side of the ocean. To anyone who has yet to go abroad: be prepared for a culture shock, today was not easy. But things can only look up from here. I see a dinner of bread and cheese in my immediate future, and a bottle of wine with my best friend in the future after that.

peace, love, paris

Aurevoir, Chappaqua

Fri, 20 Jan 2012 15:34:00 -0500

Here I go/here I come…

My first blog post should be funnier, cuter and more informative, but I’m too unprepared to consider being anything but stressed. So here’s a little “later, gator” to my house in the hills (realistically, the woods) and my family who can’t wait to have the place back to a clean, quiet, fun-free zone. “Miss you,” to my noble steed, Titan. “Behave,” to my much cooler and more boring little brother, Jason. “Lover you,” to my lone friend left to fend for herself in big, bad Chappaqua. And “screw you” to all of my friends, sisters and others who get to enjoy another semester at the best school in all the land…I already have FOMO.

T-1.5 hours until I depart from 250 Hamilton, so this is my final goodbye. Write ya from the other side…

peace, love, paris