Oh Lordy, What Ever Happened to the 1940s?

I think I’m going to crawl back into bed now after this day. Ugh. I don’t even know how else to explain my first day of classes. My first day of FRENCH-speaking classes. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I’m rather scared shit-less. And you know that when I straight out swear like that, I mean business.

What am I doing? Like really, what am I doing? I can only be grateful that I thought my schedule out enough to pad it with language courses because without them, this minor nervous breakdown would be one step short of insanity. I knew I didn’t feel ready to be in Program 2! I knew I wasn’t comfortable enough to do content courses in French. I mean, I know how to take language courses taught in French. The teachers KNOW that you’re not fluent. That’s what they’re there for — to help you learn French. I am semi-confident in language courses in French. But, heh, not non-language courses. This is my first time taking any content courses taught in French, and I got my first taste of my unfortunate fate at my third class of the day (after I had been at school since 9am already…).

I can handle the language ones. Sure, listening to French first thing in the morning wouldn’t be my first choice — let alone the fact that it’s a speaking course so once we’ve gotten over our first week of justified silence, we’re all expected to be yacking away in this language — but it wasn’t that bad. And I love my professor, Isabelle. I had her for the prelim course in September and have been dying to have her since, so I’m very happy no matter what hour of the morning it is. Then I had Written Contemporary at 10:45am, which was better than I thought it would be. I understood every word Professor Molkou said to us, and I was feeling pretty good, especially picking up on a grammar rule that some other people were confused about, which she noticed. The consummate teacher’s pet that I am, I was beaming with pride. I like her idea of making writing in French a regular part of our lives by making us write a one-page journal about our lives (or really whatever) due every Monday that she’ll correct and we’ll re-write. It makes sense that in this way writing won’t become such an ordeal every time a slightly longer assignment comes up. Honestly, between Spoken and Written, I know I will be challenged but I feel ready and up to it. I KNOW I will learn and grow a lot from these courses.

But here’s when we come to my third class of the day: Museums and Monuments. First of all, I went to the wrong classroom originally for it and was automatically put off. So that made me late (actually, not even — I technically had 5 minutes left but she started taking attendance early). And what do I walk in on but like 20 other students crammed into a small room and no chair left for me. The professor ended up giving up her chair for me but I was still horrified by the size of the class. I know that NYU Paris is (begrudgingly) growing but now I know I wasn’t dillusional during orientation; there are definitely more people here than there were last semester. Right off the bat, I’m disturbed by how large all my classes are this semester. Not one of them is small (besides potentially my one English-speaking class tomorrow but that is yet to be seen) with at least 12 people in each class. I know, I know, I’m spoiled. But that’s what NYU Paris is supposed to be about: small classes, close attention, and real participation. If I wanted bigger classes crammed into small rooms and not getting to know my professors, I’d go back to New York.

Now add on the fact that this is a content course, not a language course. The professor, as nice as she seemed, also seemed to have very little concept that this wasn’t our first language other than giving us a two-page vocab sheet and telling us that if we didn’t know it, we essentially would have no idea what’s going on before starting to go off on some aspect of the history of art in the 17th century. I still don’t even know. I was too shell shocked. I then noticed that I was no longer in my language-class haven of everyone being in the same level. At least in Spoken and Written Contemporary, we know we’re not as strong as those in Advanced. It’s our goal to get there by being IN those classes. But in these content classes, there is no distinction. And then I realized the other problem I hadn’t considered: my competitive nature.

I know what everyone will say and what my dad has been telling me for years: don’t compare yourself to others, compare yourself to your potential and do your best. BLAH BLAH. No, when I’m sitting in class struggling to keep up with what the professor is saying, wanting so badly to ask a question but my timidity/lack of vocabulary holding me back (and I am ALWAYS the person who asks questions to be sure, which is seriously frustrating me that I can’t do that now), and this basically fluent girl speaks up and has a debate in rapid-fire French without an unsure waver in her voice, I can’t deal. I’m sure she’s a nice person but I automatically hated her. And this is the one case when I will admit that it’s purely out of jealousy. I want to be fluent so badly that I am unbelievably jealous of anyone who is, particularly those Americans who had some at-home advantage in learning it. And so a small part of me burns up when I hear anyone speaking well and I shut down further into my cranky mindset. Snap out of it, you say? Don’t let that hold you back? Easier said than done. This is why I never did sports either: my competitive nature always makes me angry and I don’t like Angry Anna.

I don’t think it’s fair for people like me just coming out of all-English-speaking courses and a basic-but-not-much-more level of French to be plunked in the same classes with the same expectations as those who are fluent or at the very least more confident than I. I don’t know what the alternative is, but I know I need to rant about it because I am frustrated. I sat there the entire class, practically on the verge of tears by the end, realizing that I was royally screwed for the semester. It would be hard enough learning art history in English; In French, you may as well be teaching me Greek. And I can’t drop the course because I need it for a core credit. I don’t know whether to take notes in English or French so my notes are a blend of both, probably completely incomprehensible with every other word spelled wrong. I find myself glancing on my neighbor’s notes to make sure I’m hearing correctly. I don’t even know how I am going to take notes on our visits to the museums if I could hardly keep up with my notes at our monuments visits last semester when the class was in ENGLISH. I found out that it wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t understand her; rather it was impossible to actually learn anything between listening, trying to figure out what to write down, how to write it down… and don’t even get me started with dates. Anytime a year like 1967 is said and isn’t written on the board, I spend 2 minutes trying to decipher the numbers in my head, by which point we’ve completely moved on and I’ve missed it. And when I miss stuff or I get frustrated, I zone and pretend it’s not happening. Oh my God. I’m so screwed.

The last thing to burn me was the fact that the professor kept us 15 minutes over class, another pattern I’ve noticed among my French professors. None of them seem to look at their watches and are blissfully unaware of the fact that we have other things to do/places to go/classes. And no one ever says anything to them because we don’t want to look rude or impolite. Oh, and did I mention that in my stress I accidentally “tutoyed” the professor and then immediately switched to “vous,” humiliated? My bed is looking better and better.

Last semester was not cake, not even in comparison to this. But what I will say about last semester is that I learned SO MUCH. And that really meant something to me. I left the semester with so much knowledge in my head about France, monuments, Paris, politics, culture, history, architecture, symbolism… so many amazing things, some of which I still miraculously remember. And I was SO happy about that! I would chatter away to my parents about French history, maybe sounding pretentious at times but the point was that I had a source of pride in knowing things I never thought I would. And on top of that I worked my butt off to get straight A’s. But I see what this semester is coming to. This is going to be all about me learning French, and absolutely nothing else. Which is disappointing because I do like learning other things, too. I had to take the dive sometime, and even though it’s not enjoyable, it’s the only way I’m going to get to the point of fluency that I’m currently jealous of. But I can kiss my straight A’s goodbye.

In short, you’re looking at a very stressed and nostalgic Anna, desperately missing the English language. I miss learning and participating in English, having the freedom and ability to be the student I know I am. And I miss Program 1 courses. There are so many interesting ones!! All I can say for now is that I’ve never looked forward to a class more, for TOMORROW the only class I have is entirely conducted in English and done so by my favorite professor. I guess that’s the one light in this murkiness: I have Nadine, Isabelle, and Christina again. And did I mention tomorrow’s class is in English?!

So my internship with Rollinglobe has begun again! You know what that means? No, actually it doesn’t mean a new blog post and 2 destination reviews every week anymore. The semester I’m trying my hand at editing — and that’s where my energy is being placed! It looks like I’ll still be maintaining 1 destination review a week (and not to worry, that will be posted here as per usual) but my blog posting is going to be more sporadic. I’d like to say that I’ll be good about this and make some sort of schedule, but I know myself better than that. I don’t do schedules like that. But I do think a series of short posts followed by long ones, like this one below, from time to time is doable.

And so I begin the second week of my internship (sorry guys, it started last week and that week involved no writing or inspiration/motivation on my part) with a new blog post on what else: the question of home.

New Blog Post: http://www.rollinglobe.com/RGWeb/blogs/default.aspx?u=AnnaLise

With posting stuff right now, I want to mention my triumph of the day. I had dragged myself out of bed at 10am this morning to go to a meeting at NYU that I really didn’t have to go to but I kind of wanted to go to anyway. Plus I was expecting a package and I needed to fix my schedule… excuses, excuses. Once the meeting was over by 1pm and it was time to go home, I found myself sighing heavily and dragging my feet out the gate. I didn’t want to stay at school and hang around really. But going home only meant locking myself in for the next 8 + hours and eating more baguettes with peanut butter, the chocolate/caramel swirl mix I got in London, and rillettes. I swear that the more time I spend in my apartment, the more I seem to eat. The days last semester when I was down to 2 meals a day have long since past. Reason #1 why I need but don’t want to go back to school. I need something to control my hunger.

I was on my way out the door when my professor suggested to me an exhibit she was wanting to go at the Grand Palais, one with the towns of France in miniature. Typically, I would take the suggestion, smile, nod, think to myself “I really SHOULD go” and then end up going home anyway. But this time I decided to try something different. Instead of going straight back to my comfortable abode, I found myself marching down the Champs Elysees to the Grand Palais, a space I also hadn’t seen but had learned so much about last semester… and into the exhibit. First of all, the Grand Palais is spectacular. I was in simple awe staring up at the high, iron ceiling. But the exhibit itself was spectacular in itself as well. These miniatures are far from small, all so massive and detailed that I stared in disbelief. It only makes sense to me that they were constructed in a time before the modern day, as I can’t imagine anyone having the same amount of patience nowadays to construct models with 100,000 + different types of trees included.

I read all the posts on the side and walked to each of the 16 miniatures, giving each their moment in the sun… The Alps models ultimately being my favorite thanks to their rolling hills and decadent examples of nature beyond even the others. Grenoble was also one of my favorites. I hadn’t been to any of these towns yet, but I could appreciate them nonetheless. And I wondered what it was like for anyone visiting who had visited, or even lived in these spaces… how different they must look from a 19th century perspective. Imagine pointing out your home, or where your home would be, on the model. The exhibit was topped off for me with a brief mostly one-sided (not on mine) conversation with a couple. The wife was just about as short as I was and went to look in the magnifying glass-type contraption they had on each one to enlarge the display only to find it was too high for her. She made this comment to me about how they only make things for tall people and I smiled and said I completely understood. This got her riled and she continued to go off on how stupid it was to me. I convinced her somehow to stand on her tippy-toes, which is what I did and it worked just fine, all during which her much-taller husband stood in the background smirking half out of support and half out of amusement. I can’t say I understood everything she said to me, but I enjoyed being included in their lives and secretly wondered if they knew I was foreign through it all.

This was the first time I actually went out of my normal comfort zone and routine to go to one of these exhibits. Now I can smile with pride every time I see the sign advertising it on the Metro, knowing that I had made the effort to go. Just like breaking the ice on the bus, I feel like I have broken the ice on going to these things. This exhibit on miniatures may have been the first, but it certainly won’t be the last. What’s more Parisian than casually going to an exhibit during some free time on a Thursday afternoon?

SWOON. Lately I have been going through my pile of old movies that I’ve been saving for some free time for over a month. These mostly include Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, with Funny Face thrown in the loop.

I’ve been calling myself vintage for a while now, whether or not that still holds true now. Yet I have never been able to get myself to sit down and watch and old, black and white movie, with the exception of the “I Love Lucy” and “Bewitched” episodes on TV Land from my childhood. But any full feature film, forget it. I always blamed the black and white images and that my generation would get bored without colors and pretty effects. But figures… just like history, symbolism, buses, ballet, and opera, old movies were in the mix as something for me to experience anew in Paris and discover.

I knew from general pop culture that Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were dancers… BUT NOT TO THE EXTENT THEY ARE. HOLY CRAP. I stared at the TV screen with my jaw on the floor during Shall We Dance. I so did not expect the extreme talent in their synchronized tap dancing. Swoon. It makes me want to know how to dance even more. And I can’t even figure out whether ballet with its slow grace movements or tap with its fast and loud motions is more difficult. Either way, I want to be a dancer when I grow up now!

Can we also talk about how Ginger Rogers and Audrey Hepburn are more beautiful than any of the movie stars today? I’m sorry, you know I love Meryl Streep, but still. Maybe I’m struck by their old-time beauty that we have so far evolved from, but between Fred Astaire’s charm and dancing ease and Ginger Rogers mysterious beauty, I can’t get over these movies. So far, my favorite is Follow the Fleet, which also contains some of my favorite songs from that era, which I get to sing along to! Swoon some more. “We joined the navy, to see the world. And what’d we see? We saw the sea…..”

Funny Face, then, falls into its own realm where I was quite literally stupidifed by the end. IT WAS THE MOST PERFECT MOVIE I HAD EVER SEEN. Ok, so this one was in color, but I literally found myself shouting to the screen in my empty apartment that there was no way this could get any better. I squealed when they sang “Bonjour Paris” and couldn’t contain myself as they ran around Paris. I swooned some more at Fred Astaire’s quick feet and I drooled over Audrey Heburn’s clothing. In my mind, I don’t know how that movie could’ve been any better. The plot was even quick, something that I will say sometimes older movies lack.

Now, I am as big a pop culture fan as anyone (or at least I used to be before I moved to Paris and stopped paying attention because English-speaking People magazines weren’t in my face everywhere), and am fascinated by my celebrities, but I now see that world differently now. Look at Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Look at their talents. They both (and Audrey Hepburn, too!) can dance, sing, AND act… and sometimes I think their acting is better than most modern-day films I’ve seen (not counting Meryl Streep, of course). Back then, you had to be a triple-threat to have “it”. And they truly deserved the celebrity they had. How many people can we say that of today? It’s simple: they just don’t make movie stars like Fred Astaire anymore. Forget it, I wish I lived in the 1940s again.

Classes need to start. I DON’T WANT THEM TO. But they need to.

These past 3 weeks have been as different as can be from each other. It began with a surreal week as an orientation leader molding new minds (haha) to the world of Paris. I made friends and felt like this semester was going to be amazing. The second week I went to London, had a fine time, met some awesome people, and realized that I chose the right place to study abroad as life would have been completely different if I had chosen London as the original plan had been (to this day I still can’t remember what made the idea of Paris click so passionately that day at the New Student Seminar other than it was an escape… but London could’ve been just as much…). And the last week, as in now, I have done what feels like nothing.

Wasn’t doing nothing supposed to be a nice change of pace? Yes and no. For one, it has been incredible finally being able to watch the old movies that have been sitting on my night table for the past month. I have fallen in love with Fred Astaire, Audrey Hepburn, and Ginger Rogers repeatedly this week and can’t believe I have lived this much of my life without knowing them… but more on that later. I finally did the much-put-off cleaning that needed to be done. I’ve basically devoured all the seasons of How I Met Your Mother, and it won’t take me much longer to finish it for good. I went to my first “bouncing around” ballet class and was pleased and touched that the teacher not only remembered me, but did so enthusiastically. And I also had a fun time grocery shopping on rue Montorgueil, where a fruit vendor actually recognized me and we had a short conversation. I’m beginning to see that what I had read about the 3rd arrondissement being small and people getting to know each other is actually true. The same thing happened to me at the butcher’s shop, as well, as I was picking up my weekly dose of goose rillettes.

But that about tops my human interactions for the week outside of a couple short meetings at NYU I went to on Monday and Thursday, and the awkward cow-herding of a medical visit to verify my visa on Tuesday. I miss people. Without reasons to go to NYU, I find myself stuck in my cozy apartment watching endless TV episodes instead of hanging around and making plans with everyone there. But there is no way I can make myself go to school for no reason. I can’t do it. So I’ve been alone a lot and feeling slightly like the world is passing me by. And in some ways it is. I can’t tell whether I should be more or less disappointed in myself for being this lazy the week before classes start. After all, this time in the semester last year, I was hopping all around Paris. But I’m in a different place now. And that place just makes me feel and act like an old lady, I guess.

Besides my whining, these 3 weeks have been incredible to say the least. Some of my favorite moments in my time here have occurred in these past 3 weeks. And just as I suspected, my time in Syracuse feels like it never happened. There’s a weird blur of time between Christmas and right after New Years that felt like a dream. I feel like I’ve always been here and yet so much keeps changing. I need classes to start but I’m scared of what this next shift is going to bring. The place I’ve been in for the past 3 weeks, regardless of how much in fantasy it is in, has been ideal. I don’t want what I have to go away. But the layer of fat that I’m growing thanks to these lazy days sitting at my table eating every piece of cracker and cheese in sight is starting to concern me. I suppose I need that routine back again, even if it does involve homework. And for all I know, it could be better than now.

Watch: 3 weeks from now, these 3 weeks will seem like a dream. The circle of life.

takemeaway4:

Disney morals. ♥

 This is why I love Disney so much.

(via stellar-stella-star)

Now all there is to do is wait.

Things I Did in London:

• Made friends in my hostel (and had my very first alone hostel experience!)
•  Figured out the Tube after like 3 days of intense frustration (which still hasn’t really gone away… I hate the Tube…)
• Sunday: Had hostel breakfast with my new friends, discovered how good tea is with honey in it, went vintage trolling on/around Brick Lane with Chelsea including finding Thai food at a random marketplace set up in a garage
• Spontaneously explored by myself (nighttime after Chelsea had to go): went to Covent Garden to see what it was all about (it’s just as amazing as it was described to me) and to see where I would be queuing up the next morning, got a steak and ale pie for dinner, tried to find the Theatre Museum only to find out it’s closed, randomly decided to get off the Tube at Trafalgar Square to see what that was and fell in love with the lion statues, walked to the Thames River and saw Big Ben from a distance and the London Eye up close, and found a Tube stop without asking anyone for directions.
• Monday: Successfully queued for Romeo & Juliet ballet tickets, spontaneously got off the Tube at Piccadilly Circus to see it, somehow was drawn to walk down the street and found St. James’s Park, happened upon the changing of the guard at the Horse Guards Parade, lost all my shame and asked everyone I could find to take my picture, explored the rest of the park, happened upon the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and followed the parade of guards down the street leading up to it, walked through Green Park, took riverside walk along the Thames from London Bridge all the way to Westminster Abbey (an hour or so walk), explored the Westminster area and got lost only to redirect myself by figuring out a map to get to a Tube stop to get to Chelsea, went grocery shopping in a real London grocery store and found Waitrose while exploring South Kensington waiting for Chelsea (DROOL), went to the Royal Opera House for ballet.
• Tuesday: Took the Queen’s Walk along the Thames in the opposite direction to the Tower Bridge, walked across the bridge and admired the Tower of London while waiting for Sam, went to Notting Hill and Portobello Road and looked at vintage stuff, took Tube to NYU London, walked to Piccadilly Circus to see it at night and compare it to Times Square, walked to Bond Street and to Carnaby Street and then to SOHO, and had a delicious dinner at a trendy restaurant complete with vanilla and berry cocktails with Sam.
• Wednesday: Successfully queued again for Royal Ballet tickets for The Nutcracker, didn’t feel like taking the Tube so walked randomly to the Seven Dials area and came across a very colorful sidestreet, walked to Leicester Square, walked to Trafalgar Square to see it in the daylight and got someone to take my picture with the lion (although I REALLY wanted one of me climbing on top of it hugging it but, unlike the other night, no one was climbing on the statues…), walked to Holborne from there to the Sir John Soane museum, took the Tube back to the hostel and spent 4 hours relaxing (I think I deserved it after the past few days), met up with Sam near Covent Garden for some fish and chips, and went to see The Nutcracker.
• Thursday/Today: going to the Victoria and Albert museum, grocery shopping at Waitrose (how in the world am I going to fit ALL the food I intend to buy into my suitcase? I’m going to have to stuff my pillowcase too…), eat dinner at a local pub in South Kensington, and FINALLY get on the train home.

Food/Reasons Why I Would Be Fat (And Poor) If I Lived in London:

• CHEDDAR CHEESE
• Multitudes of cracker varieties
• WAITROSE (I seriously drooled all over the cheese and cracker section the other day)
• Spiked pear cider
• Beautiful and scrumptious food/taste combinations that are so interesting that I keep eating everything until I’m bloated
• Chips (or, as they call them, crisps)
• Chocolate and caramel spread
• The entire candy aisle at Sainsbury, including but not limited to gummy hamburger parts with which you make your own hamburger creations
• Bagged popcorn (my breakfast/lunch for two of these days
• Inventive cocktails and trendy restaurants in areas like SOHO
• BASICALLY EVERY SUPERMARKET I’VE BEEN TO

Essentially, I think it’s been a relatively productive 5 days, as I collapse in exhaustion. But I miss everyone and everything in Paris. Time to go back home now (excitement!!).

I’ve used the term “old soul” before but I’ve begun to realize recently that that phrase is more indicative of my oldness than I originally thought. Orientating everyone my age or ironically older last week has been an eye-opening experience as I discover my true potential for old-person behavior. But don’t let this post fool you: I am in no way looking to change my ways. I just find it humorous to share my idiosyncrasies with the world.

As orientation week came to an end, I began to overhear many conversations about people’s plans out on the town. Of course, they were all excited to see Paris and the nightlife, as I’ve heard, is quite invigorating. I had several people come up to me to ask me questions about bars which I honestly could not answer outside of the one bar experience I did have… and choosing that bar was more spontaneous and convenient than based on it being good. Luckily, another orientation assistant always seemed to be standing near me at the point of these questions, so I would just shrink back into my boring shadows and follow a more wholesome conversation. I am in no way a prude when it comes to drinking in Paris. Everyone who knows me knows I love my wine and have no shame about it. It’s just that I drink differently than many other people. My idea of a fun night is sitting at my cafe table in my apartment drinking a glass or two of wine over dinner and several episodes of “How I Met Your Mother.” My idea of a fun Friday or Saturday night is a “cooking lesson” over wine and good conversation with a friend. And once in a while going to a cafe for drinks can be nice. But particularly last week, when the early waking, tasks, and constant smiling of orientation left me pooped beyond belief, all I wanted to do was crawl home into my warm bed, wine in hand to clear my thoughts. No bar-hopping for me. And that’s exactly what I did while everyone else was exploring Paris nightlife.

Come to think of it, I never even did the bar thing when I first got to Paris. It has never appealed to me. And I’ve been lucky enough to find people who are like me. I don’t care at this point if people do want to go— I just have my own alternative. Staying in my London hostel, I came across other people who weren’t too far from me. I’ve found out that hostels are known as big party places that actually encourage heavy drinking through karaoke and bars in the immediate vicinity with deals on drinks for guests. The hostel I’m staying in, however, is the all-girls section of a typical party hostel. It’s very quiet and comfortable. I’ve come back relatively early each night with the exception of when I went to the ballet (it ran until 10:30pm) and everyone’s always already been in bed on their laptops or reading. It surprised me on my first night on Saturday when I came back around 9pm. I expected everyone to be out since it was a Saturday night. Nope. It was kind of comforting knowing not everyone is the party animals down the street. I don’t care what some people joke about it being the lesbian hostel… I like it here :)

When my old lady-ness REALLY came out, though, was last night when the WiFi in my part of the hostel went down. I desperately was in need of communication with the outside world and also needed to fix my schedule for this coming semester, so I went down the street to the main building that always has consistent WiFi. I was told to go to the “Hang-Out Room” to work on the computer as that’s where everyone goes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I should have had lower expectations than whatever it was. There was a group of young people with their guitars, tambourines, and other instruments playing loud music and singing and then a REALLY loud movie theatre behind me. All I wanted to do was Skype with my parents, but I basically needed to shout to talk to them. Half of the conversation I spent shouting to my mother about how annoyed I was at everyone, as I looked visibly pissed, not caring who heard me. I wanted so badly to tell everyone to shut up but I knew better than that. The loud music lasted the entire 2 hours I was there, from 11pm-1am. After 10pm is quiet time for me, and I don’t want to hear any loud music, especially from semi-drunk college students. I’m definitely staying in the right hostel, I thought to myself as I walked back to my quiet room to climb into my top bunk and drift into sleep. At least I learned one thing: I will ALWAYS research hostels before booking them. Because, unlike those other teenagers with their beer in hand and blasting karaoke in background, I am actually an old lady with a glass of red wine and an eye-mask for sleeping instead.

I’m sorry. You’re pretty and you are definitely different than Paris, but I’m done with you. My patience has been tried throughout this entire trip. The alone-factor was fine for the first few days… exciting even. But now that I’m on my fourth day in this city with no one to show me around or even just discover new things with me, I’m bored. Yes, I’m bored in London. I’m a horrible person for saying so, but I am. This trip began from the motive to visit friends over here. But I never see them. And I get it. People have classes, orientation. I probably should’ve known better. I think I’ve spent most of my time by myself. Which, as I said, was fun the first couple days, but now has gotten old. I find myself spending more and more time around Covent Garden, as it’s the only place that I really care about. Funny how the trip started out being all about friends and is ending revolving around the ballet instead. That’s the main good thing to come of it: my time spent seeing Romeo and Juliet and The Nutcracker. But even then, I miss being able to talk about the performance and my opinions with someone.

Overall, I’m finding myself in a bad mood, looking for people to bitch with and to about my troubles. My anger and frustration exploded, however, just about an hour ago when I was returning home from the Sir John Soane museum. I had queued again at the Royal Opera House and gotten my tickets. I had my day planned to do the Velvet Tour at the Opera House and then go to the museum… but they weren’t doing the tour today or tomorrow. Great. Already in a melancholy mood from discovering this morning that I missed consistent human contact, I walked down the streets looking for something to do. In desperation, I stooped so low as to go into Urban Outfitters and Top Shop to do some shopping, but it was unsuccessful and ultimately uninteresting to me. Then I kept walking in my slump to the Sir John Soane museum, having to go to the bathroom again the entire way. Why is it that every time I’m aimlessly walking in London I have to go to the bathroom? It is extremely annoying and inconvenient. The museum was just as fascinating as it had been described to me, and I marveled at the great design of the house among his vast sculptural collections. I’ll add that museum to the short lists of things I really got a lot out of here.

The Tube wasn’t far and the gloomy weather and boredom was leading me right back to my hostel where I could have Internet. My confidence in the Tube has risen in the past few days so I knew exactly where to go. Never get too cocky or comfortable in a city that’s not yours, though. I switch lines and halfway through the ride, I realize that my week-long pass that I paid 30 Pounds for to save money overall is gone. You can imagine I was FUMING by the time I got to my station (which, by the way, you have to swipe out of) and had to explain to the attendant that I lost my pass. He barely twitched and told me to go tell the other attendant at the counter if it’s registered. But it’s not registered… it’s a WEEK pass. I ended up HAVING to get a day pass for, what, half the day left which I may use 3 or 4 times… but is still cheaper than buying ridiculously-priced individual tickets. I miss my Pass Navigo, which is not flimsy and easily lost, but durable and thicker than average things so I can find it in my pocket or purse. There goes 30 Pounds and now I have to spent 7 Pounds per day on day passes for today and tomorrow.

London, you are sucking my wallet dry more so than Paris ever has. You are making me fat from all your incredibly delicious and interesting food. You are exhausting me with your inconveniently-located Tube stops that I can only find because of the maps you have everywhere (those maps are one of the few things that I will say Paris can/should learn from) not to mention your lying bathroom signs. I miss my bed in my own apartment, where I can come in at 1am and not feel bad every time I move because I’m obviously disturbing the 7 other people in the room. I miss consistent WiFi. I miss baguettes… oh how I miss the simple meal and pleasures of baguettes. Since no one sleeps later than like 10am in hostels, I get up so early and have breakfast and then am hungry for all three meals of the day… which means I have to pay for three meals instead of the typical two when I wake up at my usual late times. I never pay this much for food back in Paris… even with my groceries. Seriously, my poor bank account. The only purchases I can say I have no qualms about are my ballet tickets. Ugh. I just miss Paris. The novelty of this city is gone for me.

Five days is a LONG time to be away from home. I remember my parents getting antsy to go back home during past family vacations… to get back to our cats mostly. To them, as well as me even though they may feel stronger about it, cats make a home. I always wanted to stay on vacation longer, not that I don’t love my cats, but because it was a new place that was simply more exciting. I don’t officially have cats in Europe but Paris has kind of become my pet in itself — I love it just as much. And so now I’m feeling the anxiety my parents felt at the end of all our trips… to get back to the comfort and love of home. I just want to go home. I am never going away from this long again.

Of course, because it is where the Royal Opera House is located. And it helps that the market is so gorgeous with its green gated appearance. I just smile every time I get off the Tube in this same spot. Tonight was the first time I went to a ballet completely by myself after paying for it by myself, as well. Usually NYU covers the bill and I just take advantage of the great opportunity. But this was MY ticket and I was to see this alone, without being able to talk about and critique the performance with anyone right after or analyze scenes over a glass of wine during intermissions. It had the potential to be sad in comparison to my school trips as described, but boy was it wonderful.

Romeo and Juliet as a ballet is STUNNING. And at the Royal Opera House, as I saw it performed, I can only imagine it looks even more stunning than usual. The sets, the costumes, the DANCERS my God! It was like watching an Italian Renaissance painting come to life. That’s honestly the only way I can find to describe it. The dancing was a bit simple for my taste but still entertaining and enviable on my part (it only made me more excited to get back to “bouncing around” this coming week). As usual, the ballet swept me off my feet and made me feel like I was in a dream. This ballet, in particular, told such an obvious story through movements. I really at the very beginning that this was also the first ballet I was going to without Christina’s notes and presentation on the story before. Yes I know Romeo and Juliet, but ballet narratives can differ a little. I didn’t need to worry, though, as this was perfectly easy to follow. It’s true that I sat there and didn’t talk to anyone until almost the third act but it didn’t matter. I floated on down the stairs and onto the Tube home (with the help of the wine I practically had to chug during the second intermission to finish in time for the third act) running only on the excitement of the night and the drive to queue again on Wednesday for The Nutcracker. Now I get why I was told that it was different to see a ballet in the Royal Opera House… even if I have seen The Nutcracker a million times. I love it there.

The only disappointment of the evening had nothing to do with the dancers, but with the boy I had met while queuing in the morning. We had hit it off so well and knew where each other were sitting that night. But no matter how hard I searched, I never found him. Sigh. Still, nights like this are what make my European life what it is. Europe has given me the gift of enjoying and openly experiencing ballets. I would’ve never known what I was missing without it. Merci beaucoup !

SERIOUSLY. All the cool I have in Paris seems to have evaporated since I stepped off the train at St. Pancras. I am one gigantic hot mess in London.  That being said, I’m glad I didn’t have time to write this in the past few days, because up until now, it would’ve been one giant rant on how much London does not like me.

I love how everyone in Paris gets excited to come to London because it is within an English-speaking country, because as far as I have experienced, the English-speaking aspect of London doesn’t make anything much easier. And I’m not counting the fact that London is teeming with French people… I actually spoke French this morning to ask a couple to take my picture. One aspect of this difficulty is the accent, which honestly is harder to understand at times than I thought. I find myself asking people to repeat themselves and wondering if I sound just as confusing to them.

The bigger confusion, however, is where my rant on London begins: the Tube. Oh how I hate the Tube. And I’m pretty sure it doesn’t like me either.  My troubles began the very first day on Saturday when my train came into St. Pancras. I lined up at a ticket machine among the multitudes of other people waiting to get a ticket. The station was PACKED. I looked like a hot mess already, a concerned look of anxiety on my face while wheeling a suitcase, a laptop bag, and my purse around. I get the machine and there are like a million different options: off-peak, on-peak, one-way, oyster card… I don’t know what any of these mean! In my panic, I asked the woman next to me to help me and between she and the man standing behind me, it was decided I really just needed a one-way ticket. 4, 50 Pounds for a one-way ticket. 4,50. You know how much that is in US dollars? Almost $10. For one ticket. I’m sorry, but this was not the best impression to give me right away. Even in Paris, which is supposed to be one of the most expensive cities in the world, the Metro tickets are under 2 Euros. And NYC’s at around $2.25. Even if I didn’t convert to the dollar, 4,50 is a lot. I now understand why London is considered THE most expensive city to live in.

Getting to my hostel at London Bridge was supposed to be easy enough… I just would need to take the Northern Line straight there (by the way, who in the hell decided to NAME the Tube lines?! What is wrong with numbers and letters like the rest of the world? So unnecessarily complicated.) Come to find out that because it’s the weekend and my karma was just not happening in London, the Northern line was under construction and shut down from St. Pancras to London Bridge. I already looked confused out of my mind and now I am running around the Tube looking for some way to get to my hostel. I eventually figured out how to transfer (thank you just about 2 years of using the subway in various cities for giving me the training to not completely lose my mind) and got there safely and efficiently. Even despite all my time on the Tube spent looking either petrified mumbling profanities or flailing my arms in the air asking “WHY?!” to myself. UGH. I then had trouble locating where I was supposed to check in, which was in a different place than where I’m actually sleeping.

From here things turned around for a few hours, as I found my 8-bed room and settled in happily, meeting and talking to several of my roommates, who are quite awesome. I wasn’t sure how the whole by myself with 7 other girls I don’t know in bunk beds thing was going to go, but I really am enjoying staying at a hostel. One of my roommates is Australian, another Bosnia, and another from Finland. Last night I got back early and we talked and laughed about comparing our different cultures for like 3 hours, listening to Madonna and trying to find something I missed about the US. We came up with everything in the fall: Thanksgiving, Halloween, the leaves changing, corn mazes, apple picking… and technically Mexican food, which we don’t think counts seeing as it’s from Mexico. Is this not the cultural exchanges I’m supposed to be having? I’m loving getting to know and talking with these girls. Traveling alone isn’t nearly as scary as it seems… it opens you up to meeting new people. And I’m actually the youngest, as they’re all mainly here for job interviews. Hostels aren’t just for college students!

We’ve been bonding over my horrific Tube experiences, which continued my first night when I finally dragged myself from my bed to get out. I was told to go to the convenience store nearby and get an Oyster card (their version of a Pass Navigo or Metro card). So I go and tell the person (in English, mind you) that I want an Oyster card for a week. He didn’t ask me anything else in specific, I paid, and left. I get to the station and try to swipe in and it doesn’t work. The attendant tells me that I have nothing on my card except a bus pass, apparently. So now I need to go to the main part of the station several blocks away and have them recharge it. I walk ALL THE WAY there and the woman at the counter tells me that she can’t change it because I didn’t buy it at the station. I need to walk ALL THE WAY back to the convenience store and have him change it. At this point I was beyond pissed not to mention tired at the very notion that someone could misunderstand me. Apparently you HAVE to say you want a “Travel card” otherwise people get confused. I stormed my way back to the convenience store, mumbled swear words pouring out of my mouth. I missed Paris’ easy system… which even my Bosnian roommate keeps reiterating is absolutely perfect. Yep. That’s my city.

The guy at the convenience store ended up fixing the problem. I guess it was just a misunderstanding that I still don’t understand seeing as I’m clearly a foreigner and he assumed that I knew the Metro lingo. Um, assuming makes an ass out of you and me. But I did have to pay a little more for what I actually wanted. This made things complicated when I sifted through my wallet looking for the coins to make change. I do not understand English money at all. It’s not logical! The Euro coins go from biggest both in value and size down. English coins are all different sizes and there’s even one coin that’s slightly hexagonal. AND not all the coins have values written on them numerically… which means I have to squint to see how much everything is. I do not get this. WHY? And this is on top of the wording that still slightly confuses me: 29 pounds 60 pence. Pence? Chelsea explained it as being like “pennies”. Ok…

By the time I got to Chelsea in South Kensington I was at the point where I literally told her I needed a drink. And I mean a drink-drink. We found a cute little restaurant nearby and sat down to a relaxing meal including a bottle of spiked pear cider, which was quite delicious. Now in a happy state of mind, I headed back to my hostel in a good mood, only to find out – after washing up and being ready for bed – that my bed didn’t have a towel on it like it was supposed to. And so I threw on the tiniest amount of makeup and put on jeans and a coat over my nightgown and had to walk all the way down the street to the reception desk. What a fun day.

The second day got the tiniest bit better. I was there in sunlight and began the day by getting breakfast at the hostel with two of my roommates. As I said,  the hostel situation has actually become one of my favorite parts of this trip and I enjoyed their company. I was even introduced to the notion of putting honey in tea. It was good! Then I met up with Chelsea and we went shopping on Brick Lane where there are many vintage finds. Somehow my vintage identity has shrunken since I’ve been in Europe. I saw so many things that I would’ve gone gaga over a year ago that I just don’t care about. From what I’ve gathered, Paris style is very simple and chic yet practical. I’ve adopted it quite well and dress nicely without ever feeling a need to go overboard. I reserve my really nice looks for the ballet/opera. Despite everyone thinking Paris is the fashion capital of the world and that everyone walks down the street like models, it really isn’t like that. In fact, I think London is more of that fashion capital than Paris is. I’ve been cold lately in Paris so I wear my poofy coat, among a sea of everyone else in Paris wearing poofy coats. We’re cold therefore we dress warmly. Here in London, no one wears poofy coats. Everyone seems to be dressed for style rather than warmth. I have seen large groups of people walking around with sweaters and nothing else on… and the temperature is under 50 degrees and chilly. Tight-fitting synched jackets (which I have but didn’t bring because it’s too cold), towering heels, short skirts, and dramatic makeup that makes mine look tame continue to make me see that London is an entirely different beast than Paris. It’s interesting, but I’m definitely finding that I fit more into Paris.

Chelsea and I had to part early at around 5:30pm because she had work to do, so I decided to go check out the Theatre Museum at Covent Garden (which I found out is now closed) as well as check out where I would be queuing up the next morning for tickets for the Royal Ballet. Covent Garden is as spectacular as it had been described to me, and it quickly became my favorite sight in London. The queue spot wasn’t hard to find and I walked through the marketplace. The sounds of an opera singer wafted through the building, a woman performing for the public on the bottom floor. It was perfect. I then found a place to get take-out steak and ale pie. The only problem was that I didn’t have any silverware to eat it with. I wanted some dessert and practically fell over in homesickness when I found Ladurée was right nearby. I never go there in Paris biut a couple rose petal macaroons sounds scrumptious at the moment. I asked for plastic silverware there and they only had a small dessert spoon… to eat a pie with. It was definitely a challenge.

I then spontaneously decided to get off the Tube at Trafalgar Square and have a look around. It was beautiful and I continued to walk down to the Thames River and the London Eye, eventually finding an Underground without asking. Unfortunately this led to another Tube disaster as I didn’t realize the Northern line was still having trouble when I took it to some station to switch to another part of the Northern line (I can’t even explain it. The Northern line is so messed up. Just Google “London Tube” and look at the map and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Whoever came up with the layout of it needs to be shot) and found out that it wasn’t running to London Bridge. So I had to get back on the Northern line and backtrack to another station and then transfer there. To make things worse, throughout all of this (from the point of getting off the Metro at Covent Garden to finally returning to the hostel) I had to go to the bathroom SO BADLY. There are signs everywhere pointing to toilets but when you’re looking for one, you can never find it! I was about to crumple with exhaustion from the entire day and the continuous build-up of sleeplessness, in addition to my arms hurting from sifting through racks and racks of vintage clothing (during which I only found a cute pair of sunglasses). FINALLY I got to my room where two of my roommates were sitting at the windowside table and talking. Immediately seeing my dramatic expression they laughed and asked how my experience with the Tube was today. And as I recounted my story the paper bag holding my macaroons and pie split. Figures.

Today I woke up early and had the hostel shower situation down. I got myself to the Royal Opera House by 9am and was only like 6 in line. While waiting I talked with this very cute and charming British boy, a continued cultural exchange as we compared his experience in the US with mine here and so on. I like talking to foreign people. I successfully got a last-minute ticket for the Romeo and Juliet ballet (as did he!). I initially intended on returning to the hostel to put some stuff away but instead spontaneously got off at Piccadilly Circus to see what that was all about and ended up walking to and through St. James’s Park, seeing the changing of the guard at both the Horse Guards Parade and Buckingham Palace, and through Green Park. I also embraced my tourist-ness and asked people to take my picture, two out of three of these people being French. I should just start speaking French to random tourists and assume they are, because really I hear it everywhere. I have to keep telling myself that I am on vacation and should stick to English while I can.

It seems the best experiences I have had on my own so far have been those spontaneous ones, as I never expected to end up seeing the changing of the guards and these two pretty parks. But I got tired lugging a bunch of stuff around from Covent Garden and am now sitting on my suitcase cage in my hostel taking a break. Today is a day for myself and I get to enjoy a ballet later in what looked like good seats. It may have taken two days for me to come to a mutual understanding with the Tube, but it seems like we’re ok now. Knock on wood. Now off to explore more on this gorgeous crisp winter day!

I have been out of the ballet game for 4 weeks, which is long enough for someone who dances normally, but even longer for me, an inexperienced and still somewhat recently-converted dancer. At least those who have danced for years retain many of the steps and the general composure. I wasn’t so sure that 2 months of taking consistent classes would leave me in the same spot.

From here, I have to admit I was quite anxious to go back to my twice-a-week ballet routine in Paris, both because I truly missed it and because I was nervous as hell that I would be starting from scratch again. I found myself flexing and pointing my feet in bed back in Syracuse, which I took hopefully as being a sign that my body was still as devoted to ballet as my mind was. It’s not that I got that significantly better between late October and mid December, but I did make some minor progress! I knew I would be terribly disappointed in myself if I found out I had regressed. After all, the last time I was in any class, I was given several compliments by the instructor for my near-perfect jumps (not that they were super graceful or anything, but I did the steps all right!). No way I want to go back from there.

In true Parisian spirit, my first ballet class of this new (and hopefully not last) semester took place the morning after a fun night of inhaling wine… which didn’t make waking up at 7am any easier than it always is. (In a quick side-note, I just want to revisit the fact that I am voluntarily waking up on Saturday mornings to go to class every week… it’s been over a month and I still can’t believe I do that.) But I went to sleep peacefully and awoke ready to see what would become of class. As it is a floor barre class, so we spend all of the time on our backs and stomachs, I’m still relatively shocked that I didn’t fall asleep. Between the wine and the general lack of sleep I have gotten this week in doing orientation, I am practically dead to the world. The only reason why I’m writing this now on my train to London instead of sleeping is because I fear that if I do sleep, it’ll be one of those enchanted Sleeping Beauty type slumbers, where not even the train conductor’s announcement will be able to wake me up. And I kind of want to go to London…

I remembered that I liked floor barre. It was definitely a very different class than my “bouncing around” class that’s pure amusement. But ever since it was introduced to me, I’ve happily, even if somewhat groggily, set my alarm clock on Friday nights and rushed over to the Centre de Danse du Marais, perpetually leaving later than I should. Floor barre is definitely harder than “bouncing around”. I can recount several times during the hour and a half when my legs were shaking. And then there was the partner stretching routine that is difficult but I like because I get to see just how flexible I am (hint, it’s not much) and it produces that weirdly good kind of pain. I enjoyed seeing my instructor Christine again: she is as sweet as I remember if not more so. Because I am the only “debutant” in the class, she makes up easier variation of the routines for me, which is actually quite funny. I often get picked on for the constant look of horror on my face, my jaw on the hardwood floor, when she demonstrates routines including full splits and such.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen Christine do that split or lift her leg up completely straight; every time it astounds me. Of course, I’ve been to class for several weeks now, so she knows me and always responds to my shocked and entertaining expressions (which everyone else can see reflected back in the mirror) by laughing and asking if I’m ok and then showing me MY version. All in French. Everyone else in the class is quite nice and laughs with us (I’m constantly quietly laughing during class because I find it’s better for me to laugh instead of cry at my inability to do anything. And if laughing occurs every time I don’t know what I’m doing, it happens A LOT). I’d like to think that everyone in the class thinks I’m cute and funny in my newbie-ness rather than annoying. You’d get it if you saw my expressions: they really are animated! And it’s not fake or exaggerated… I really am always amazed!

Turns out I actually didn’t get worse, as I was told during our weekly coffee outing afterward. In fact, it seems that my brain harbored everything I had learned before and worked on it without my conscious knowing it, as Christine said that I remembered the routines much better than before break. I’ll take it! Of course, with good news comes bad, and I was also told before and after class how horrible my feet are, which isn’t really news to me. I try so hard to point them correctly in that unnatural way, but they never stay that way! Grrr.

I just want to express how good it felt to be back. Being out of practice for a month, my body isn’t used to it, and so I am as sore as possible and have been since the end of class. Advil won’t even touch it either. Usually the soreness doesn’t hit me until later in the day, but I have been aching for a while now. But as I said in a previous post, it’s not a bad kind of pain. It’s the kind of pain that makes me feel like I accomplished something today. No pain, no gain, right? This week I have been running around like a manic woman meeting new people and playing tour guide with a smile plastered on my face, a job I quite loved and would have done without pay, but it has been an exhausting 5 days. I needed this relaxing and satisfyingly painful foray back into routine.

Paris is still my beloved but it has now shifted again due to new faces and the looming new semester. I needed floor barre to bring me back to normal, with this week being so exceptional in many ways. As soon as I stepped back into the studio, I felt like no time had passed. And I felt it even more as class quickly passed and I followed everyone to coffee, being the mute I usually am since I use that time to improve my listening comprehension. I don’t have the vocabulary to add anything significant to the conversation and as soon as I find any, the relevant point has long since passed. So I sit there with my intent listening face on and try my best to understand their conversation on ballet and laugh at the jokes. It doesn’t matter that I’m a mute, sitting there wide-eyed in concentration with my hot chocolate; it feels right. It’s things like my Saturday morning routine that made me miss Paris so much. And I can’t say enough how happy I am to be back.

Now all I need is my 5-day trip to London to clear my head. I have reached a level of exhaustion that doesn’t permit me to understand or speak much French, so as horrible as it sounds, I am looking forward to hearing English for the next few days, even if it is different from American English. It’s just been one of those weeks where my communication skills barely happen even in English. Being “on” all the time, even despite my naturally peppy disposition, really is tiring. I don’t care what people say about traveling and needing to wake up at the crack of dawn: ONE of these days I am letting myself sleep until I wake up naturally. But I promise I won’t do it Monday, when I need to be in line at the Royal Opera House to get standby tickets for the Romeo & Juliet ballet. And I also promise I will get to Covent Garden again to take a tour and to the Sir John Soane’s Museum as I have been instructed… but Anna values her sleep enough to not be a walking zombie for another week. See, I just talked in the third person… THAT’S how tired I am. Luckily, everything that made me tired this week are things and people I enjoy. In that case, I’ll take this “content and tired” feeling if it always comes with these many awesome things happening in one week. It has been a good week… I have nothing to complain about.

On an unrelated note, I just realized that my friend Chelsea, who I am currently en route to visiting in London, is the same distance away from me (2 1/2 hours from Paris to London) as she is when we’re both in the US (2 1/2 hours from NYC to Philly)… only we’re in Europe. Life is funny, isn’t it?

Because orientation is making me feel like I just stepped back in time. Only this time, instead of being oriented, I am orienting everyone! As an “experienced” NYU Paris student, I am working as an orientation assistant this week to meet all the new people and to make some money… even if it is something that I would’ve done for free. I love this stuff, anyway! In fact, I applied to be an orientation leader last year for NYU’s freshman orientation and got rejected, as well as getting rejected for the tour guide position at NYU in New York. Well, NYU, who’s laughing now? NYU Paris has provided me with some of the most amazing opportunities yet, both culturally, socially, academically, and career-wise. Just saying (faint echo of resentment). Can I stay here forever?

Anyway, doing orientation has been a lot of fun. I just completed my first day during which everyone arrived, and am honestly ready to flop on my comfy double bed and sleep for the next day… even though I have to wake up at 7:30am tomorrow in order to pick up my group from the hostel and bring them to NYU. Of course, it’s all worth it because I get to be the first one to see their faces when we ride the Metro line 6 over the bridge from Bir Hakeim to Passy, when the Eiffel Tower unexpectedly comes into view and everyone inevitably screams, as most of them haven’t even seen it yet since the FIAP is in the isolated 14th arrondissement. I can’t wait to see their faces.

I thought it would feel so different being the leader this time, but I find myself feeling the same giddiness they all do. It could be because I, still, have only returned to Paris for 4 days and haven’t knocked my pleased and overjoyed smile from being back from my face. It didn’t help that I had a particularly spectacular day yesterday, making my happiness meter even higher than any other human being could possibly tolerate. I feel like a non-jet-lagged version of all my peers, “experienced” yet just as thrilled with my surroundings. And being around them only makes me happier. They have even encouraged me to see things I wouldn’t normally already. For instance, yesterday I had to go check out the area around the FIAP so I could answer any questions about the quarter the next day and consequently got lost looking for the post office. Not to panic, I eventually found the Metro station after what felt like an hour of walking. It was the 7, though, and I really didn’t feel like transferring several times after walking for so long. I soon realized that the 47 bus ran from Place d’Italie (where I was) to basically right next to my apartment. And so I took a bus for the first time in Paris and rode home happily with no transfers. Oh, and then I took a few new friends on a walk after dinner tonight all the way to Place d’Italie. Before yesterday, I had never stepped foot there.

Once again, I thought I would feel differently about all the new people coming. I wasn’t expecting a negative feeling necessarily, but moreover one of those coming in to shift my world from last semester’s. Well, my world has already shifted a little since coming back and it will continue to do so, thanks to several elements in my life. I even expected it to be strange to have so many of my MCC classmates here, as Paris has always been “mine,” so to speak, and now I was to combine my two worlds. I didn’t realize just how many MCC people were coming, and it surprisingly quickly turned into a reunion. I was with some of the same people who I did freshman orientation with, only this time I was the orientation leader for them in Paris. But that wasn’t weird, it was wonderful. We laughed and talked like we had just seen each other the other day. I even ran into a few people I had had class with last year and remembered how awesome they were. I may have been the orientation leader this time around, but I found myself with the same constant thought of “Oh my God, everyone here is awesome!” I met some MCC people I didn’t know already and met new people of different majors who I enjoyed just as much. Just as I was upon coming to Paris completely alone last year, I felt overwhelmingly positive about the group. Once again, I felt that general consensus of pure excitement to be here that radiated from everyone.

It’s strange to say just how comfortable I am now, as if I wasn’t already. Now I not only have established myself with all the NYU staff from last semester among other friendships, I ALSO have all of these past friends and acquaintances from NYU last year. Oh, and then I have my comfortable apartment, which I truly adore. Between all these factors, I can’t think of too much else that would make Paris more of a home to me. And I’m excited to think that in a few month’s time, it could be near the same for some of these people. Granted, I know that I’m not the average student; this is something all of NYU Paris knows and has pointed out about me. But if even 2 of these new students leaves feeling nearly the same thing I do, I think that’s incredible. Overall, I have to say the semester is off to a promising and wonderful start.

There are 3 more days of orientation and then it’s off to London, which I simulanteously can’t wait for and also wish I could be here to spend time with new friends. I definitely see a wine and cheese party in my future. And once again, I find myself flashing back to late August/early September and last semester’s friends, and our first big social gathering among wine and cheese. It’s all coming back to me this week. I could only realize that an entire semester has gone by like a dream, most of the people I knew and loved then gone now. It honestly feels like just yesterday that I was just meeting them like I am these new people. There are some consistencies in my Parisian life but many things are different masked in same surroundings. The FIAP may not have changed, but everything else has. And this cycle will continue to happen as long as I am here. But despite missing some of my old friends, I like this change.

I contemplated all this on the Metro on the way home, my eyes drooping without jet-lag but a 10-hour work day as an excuse. My trance was broken, though, when I stepped out from my weird flashback imaginary world and onto the familiar Parisian streets outside the Metro Etienne Marcel. I was home, within blocks of my apartment and far away from the 14th where I only go for orientation purposes. And the wonderful thing is that I knew that, unlike all the people I had just left in their hostel bunk beds, I have been home for a while.

That one of things I missed most about Paris was my bed? 17 hours slept after jet lag and the only reason why I got out of bed was to eat and make sure I’d be tired enough to sleep tonight. And even then… I’m just planning on watching movies for the rest of the day so I should be plenty tired. It’s just SO COMFORTABLE and big! I don’t think I can ever go back to a twin bed again. *Sigh of Happiness*