ode to spring

I have become a connoisseur of spring: the only slightly chilly breeze, the buds on trees, the fact that I can't see through barren trees so easily to see the lake and the road, the fact that I've put up my heavy black winter coat that I hate passionately, the SUN.. I've never in my life been so aware of spring. Chalk it up to always having lived somewhere warm-ish and this being my first real experience with real cold and snow. When I left Metz in February to embark on the big two week holiday, I told myself that spring would arrive when I got back. So, on the first Monday back, when I was taking a walk around the lake, I scrutinized the bare bushes, hoping, praying, basically begging buds to be there. I saw a few little dots on the ends of branches that could potentially become buds on a couple of bushes, but for the most part, winter was still lingering. But I found hope in those tiny maybe-buds and I reassured myself that spring would come soon. So every couple of days after that first March walk, I would scrutinize just about every plant, bush, or tree that I came across to see if buds were appearing. The snow we had my first weekend back did not help things, but I told myself that these buds were tough and could survive, and that spring was inevitable, and so I felt better. And, those tough little buds did survive. Last week, they appeared to be a little more numerous, and bigger? Or was it just my eyes? Or was I willing them to be bigger.. who knows. I guess not because as I walked to the lake today, I saw BABY LEAVES!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm elated.. sitting here in my room with the window open watching the sunset -- this is the life. I have convinced myself that I'm just going to wake up one morning someday soon and that spring will have sprung, kind of like in that scene in The Secret Garden when it literally shows the flowers opening. It will be glorious! Pictures coming!

and so it turns out americans fail too..

So this week, one of the teachers asked me to do a lesson on something cultural/American. It was a busy week, what with St. Patty's Day (which was incredible) and spring finally arriving and all, and so I wracked my brain for a few minutes trying to think of something cultural, and all of a sudden I remembered that I had brought some pictures from prom in 11th grade. Plus, it's prom season back aux Etats-Unis. Perfect!! So I dug them out, and then came up with a lesson plan about Prom. I really actually got excited about it, I mean who doesn't get excited about prom? It's a night devoted to beaded long dresses, rented tuxes, hairspray, corsages, limos, dj/band, dancing... etc. So I set up a whole lecture starting with "Prom Committee," who I told them decided on the theme, raised money for decorations, did the decorating, and did the elections for prom king and queen. Then, I told them about girls going shopping for the "perfect" prom dress, trying on thousands, and finally settling on one that has just the perfect amount of beads/bright color ratio. Asking prom dates came next, they had a little trouble with that concept, here in France you only go on "dates" if you are with your boyfriend/girlfriend. Then, we arrived at "Prom Night." I told them about all the hype that leads up to it, girls getting their hair and nails done, and then all the boys arrive at one of the girls' houses to "pick them up," which also doubles as a photo op. I had photographic evidence of this, so I passed a few 11th grade photos taken at my house around (thank goodness i didn't still have braces..). I watched their faces as they recognized me and my hot pink dress (and yes it had hot pink beads too, and it still has a special place in my heart), and instead of the "oohs" and "ahhs" and basic jealousy that they don't get to do this that I was expecting, I heard snickers and whispering. I thought to myself: "Oh well, they'll get into this once I get into the actual prom part." So, I kept going. They did get excited when I told them that most groups are picked up by a limousine, which drives them to dinner and to the prom. Apparently that doesn't happen very often in France. Then I told them about "Prom Pictures." And yes I also had photographic evidence of this, my date and I in the typical prom pose, facing each other, hands clasped, corsage and boutennière i perfect view, the train of my dress carefully arranged behind me.. I thought "Surely they'll recognize this from movies and laugh and finally get into this lesson." Instead, they all had quizzical looks on their faces as they passed this photo around. So I kept going. Next topic was "Prom Presentation." I told them about how all the seniors and their dates are presented before the prom actually begins, and how everyone watches. I also had photographic evidence of this, which I then passed around. It's actually a really nice picture, the hot pink-ness of my dress really stands out. My students, however, were still not impressed. After that, I told them that the dj or band starts playing music, and that everyone dances the night away. It was a very anti-climactic finish, I know, but this audience was impossible! At the end, I asked if any of them had any questions. They said no. I then told them that if they were in high school in America right now, that they would be getting dates and shopping for prom dresses (they are the equivalent of juniors in high school). Still nothing. So I asked, "What do you think of the Prom?" Bad move. One girl in the front, who had been smiling the whole time, I thought at me because she was interested, raised her hand and said "Eez theez a johke? Eez eet fuhnny?" How do you answer that? It's prom, yeah it's kind of a joke, but it's also a rite of passage in high school in America, something you look forward to from when you are young -- and there are numerous movies to back it up. So, I just laughed it off, as the French students just looked at me like I was crazy. So yeah, Americans can fail too.

french girl fail

So the weather is slowly, but surely, getting better. We've had only 2 days of rain, and 1 of snow in the two weeks that I've been back from the February holiday, and even though it's been freezing, there has been lots of sunshine, so it's a nice trade-off. The last few days have been a bit warmer, and according to le Météo (weather), spring should arrive on Friday, just in time for the first day of spring, which is Saturday, when I'll be in Paris!!!! I can't think of a more perfect day to be in my most favorite city. I've got some shopping/museum seeing that I want to do, and I've been waiting on better weather to go. Anyhoo, the point of all this is to say that I have found a new favorite café in Metz and since the weather has been somewhat warmer (45-50 degrees), I've been sitting outside -- one of my most favorite things to do. No worries, they have heaters, and with a nice pot of tea and a heater and a good book, it makes for a very nice afternoon.

So yesterday, I went into Metz to see a movie, and got there early so that I could take a cup of tea and read a little at my café, which is located near the movie theater. I was very lucky to get a table that was located just under the heater, and somehow miraculously not near any smokers. I ordered a lovely pot of tea, and got out my book and was heavily into it when I just happened to look up. I noticed a group of French adolescent girls, they couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, and at first I noticed how I liked what they were wearing (first thing I notice about French girls). Then, I noticed how, like adolescent girl groups in the US, they were basically attached to each other and couldn't move without doing it collectively. So they all got up, and the "Queen Bee" had to go inside to the bathroom or something, and the rest stood outside in front waiting on her. They were basically eating their cigarettes, which I thought was too bad because they were all so young and pretty, it just kills me when I see the young ones smoking, but that is neither here nor there. Anyways, I noticed one girl, loved what she was wearing, and noticed that she cute in an adolescent way, definitely would be a heartbreaker when she was older, but she was absolutely eating her cigarette. All the girls decided to go inside, but she was the last one with a cigarette. And like I said above, this group, in typical adolescent fashion, was doing everything as a collective group. So I could just see the uncomfortable-ness on her face when she was left outside with her cigarette -- like a fish out of water or something. So I watched her take a final drag and then look around, eyes falling on a table to the right of the door, with a man and woman seated at it. Then, she took the cigarette and reached between the man and woman, who were in the middle of a very serious-looking conversation, and put it out in the ashtray on their table. Both the man and the woman looked at her like she was absolutely utterly insane, and she just gave them that nonchalant French girl smirk and shrugged her shoulders and walked inside. The man then proceeded to let out a string of curse words, and the woman waved her hand in front of her face -- obviously the only other non-smokers besides me in the entire centre ville area. He then proceeded to cover the ashtray with a menu and the two of them proceeded to get really annoyed and talk about how "impolite" and "inconsiderate" the little girl was. A minute later, the entire girl-group walks out together, all with the smirk, and I saw the girl pass the table and notice the menu covering the ashtray, as well as the angry looks on the faces of the man and woman. I could just picture her seeing a beautiful model or French girl in a movie or tv show or something doing the same thing and completely getting away with it because of her beauty and charms and savoir-faire and the girl thinking it was the epitome of cool, and then trying to pull it off in real life, resulting in a massive F-A-I-L.

Lesson from this story: Just because you're French doesn't mean you can't fail.

les histoires racontées du voyage, partie une

So I've always wanted to run through an airport, like in the movies. To lose all sense of propriety and just run like hell, bags flying behind. To me, that has always been the epitome of cool. Well, my wish was granted during my February holiday while I was at the airport in Barcelona. When I bought my plane tickets back in January, the best deal I could find to get from Budapest to somewhere in the south of Spain was through Vueling. However, Vueling does not do connecting flights, so I had to buy a ticket from Budape(sh)t to Barcelona, then from Barcelona to Sevilla. I told myself that this would be different from how I had flown previously, and that I would need to allow enough time to re-check-in and go through security, etc. I almost missed my flight from Budapest, which was kind of stressful but made me think that my stress quota for the day had been reached. Boy was I WRONG. My plane arrived at 12:50, and the next one to Sevilla did not leave until 4:15, so I had enough time to change out of my winter woolens and into clothes for warmer weather, eat lunch, and sit and listen to my ipod. I was feeling super savvy, like a very experienced traveler, and was thrilled that I did not appear to look as clueless as some of the other Americans that I saw in the airport. I looked on my ticket info that I had printed out, and saw that my plane boarded at 3:45. So I said to myself that I'd head to the gate at 3:45. So, I sat on a bench and listened to my ipod (my current obsession: Phoenix, and yes I know I'm way behind the boat on that one but they are A-MAZING and hopefully I'll get to see then in Nancy in a few weeks). At 3:43, I got my suitcase and bag and started rolling up the escalator/incline towards departures. I arrived at the check-in area and it still didn't occur to me that I had to check-in and go through security and that the flight was already BOARDING. I even got in a slow-moving line and patiently waiting for about 10 minutes before looking down at my printout and REALLY reading it for the first time. Then, I panicked, because underneath, in the fine print, it said that check-in closes 40 minutes before the flight leaves. By this time, it was 4:00. My heart dropped to my stomach. I started praying. I finally made it to the counter, hoping that maybe the man would take pity on me and let me check in. He just looked at me after reading my printout and said "Sorry, check-in for this flight is closed." I mustered up some real tears because I was honestly freaking out at this point and said "I just flew in from Budapest and got here as quickly as I could, is there ANY way I can get on this flight??" After regarding me with a skeptical eye for a few seconds, he conceded, wrote something on my printout, and directed me to a counter a few feet away. I waited another minute behind a group of Englishmen who were having flight problems as well, but miraculously they dispersed fairly quickly. The woman scrutinized me as she read my printout, and I told her the same thing, that I had just flown in from Budapest. She then said that if I hurried, I could make the flight. It was then that I realized that I had a bag that had to be checked. So I asked if I could check it. "Absolutely not, it's too late," was my answer. Then she told me my gate and bid me adieu. I started to walk towards security, which miraculously was not crowded. I got just inside the gate when I realized that not only was my suitcase too big to be a carry-on, but that I also had a large bottle of shampoo, a bottle of hand-washing liquid, razors, nail scissors, and probably all kinds of other illegal things that I had forgotten. I was torn between going back to the counter and seeing if there was another later flight to Sevilla and just throwing all of these things away and seeing if I could make the flight. After thinking about it for a split second, I decided to throw it all away and give my best effort to making this flight, for I didn't want to pay for another one if possible. So I unzipped my overstuffed suitcase and starting flinging things out and into the trashcan. Then, I took off my boots and coat, slung it all through the security contraption, and then I proceeded to walk through the metal detector. I had on a ring that I don't normally wear when flying, which caused the alarm to go off, and the woman security personnel had to frisk me. But somehow my suitcase made it through. I threw my boots back on and took off RUNNING, suitcase dragging behind, coat swinging through the air under my arm, about 150 feet to the gate. When I got there, my mouth was completely dry, my heart was in my stomach, and the gate was OPEN. I handed the flight attendant my passport and boarding pass, somehow she didn't even notice my suitcase that was dragging behind me, and I was allowed to walk into the tunnel to get on the plane. Turns out that another stewardess ended up checking my suitcase, but I WAS THE LAST PERSON ON THE PLANE. They literally closed the door after I sat down. The relief I felt cannot be expressed in words - I've never been so relieved to be anywhere in my life. I wanted to get on my hands and knees in the aisle and thank God for moving mountains and letting me make it onto that flight, but I decided that would probably be taken as a terrorist attempt or something and I figured I had caused enough stress for one day, so I sufficed to pray to myself in my seat with my eyes closed. But I made it to Sevilla, I sure did.

And when I got there and opened my suitcase to freshen up for the night, I found razors and a bottle of make-up that was definitely over the limit for carry-on luggage. Sure is comforting knowing that the Barcelona security are so on top of things.
And don't even get me started on airport security in Marrakech.