As promised, I will pick up where I last left off, which was in an apartment alone in Paris, moping over my lost goods. I would once more like to apologize for such a downer of a post and even more so for neglecting to follow up on a lighter note soon thereafter. So here I am with some exciting details of the many ways in which my two week vaca drastically improved from what was undoubtedly a low point in my life.

That night, Alex arrived in Paris with two of her friends from Florence and one of their friends from Barcelona. I was so happy to be reunited with Al that words cannot adequately explain it (NOTE: It was actually a miracle that Al and I were reunited at all, seeing as she realized after getting on a train to the Pisa airport that she had left her passport in her apartment, an incident that gave us the sneaking suspicion that our trip may have in fact been jinxed). After a very good night’s rest on our futon bed, Al and I headed to meet our rather eclectic land lady, Genevieve, at the Louvre café (which was not unlike an overpriced version of the food court at North Star Mall) for a quick bite to eat. At last, it was time for Al and I, two art history enthusiasts, to make our way into the Louvre itself. After a failed attempt at following a Rick Steves audio tour on Al’s iPhone, we decided to take matters into our own hands, eventually making our way to the Venus, Nike of Samothrace and of course, the Mona Lisa where we were fortunate enough to snap some great photos with a minimum number of our fellow tourists in the background. After leaving the Louvre, we decided to continue on our artistic voyage and head to the Musee d’Orsay, only to find out that it closed 5 minutes prior to our arrival. Dead set on not allowing this get us down, we forged forward and onward to the Eiffel Tower, making it just in time to see it light up as it does every hour on the hour during the evenings. Determined to look as American and touristy as possible, we took approximately 478 pics in front of the tower, both individual and couple shots, before heading back to our lovely little Parisian walk up to get dressed for dinner. And that about sums up our evening.

The next day, we planned to go to the Picasso museum near our apartment after grabbing coffee at a quaint little Parisian coffee shop called “Starbucks” (NOTE: French Starbucks do not, shockingly, serve oatmeal. They do, however, offer pre-made crepes as an exciting alternative). Therefore you can imaging our disappointment when we discovered that the Picasso museum will not be open to the public for another year. We then decided we should try Musee d’Orsday once more. Seeing as we actually made it into the museum the second time, we considered the event a success. After seeing some Cezanne. Van Gogh, etc. etc. and feeling as though our cultural capital was adequately expanded, we grabbed a bite to eat and made our way to Notre Dame with Kara and Amanda where we climbed the steps with great determination and vigor after being temporarily locked in the gift shop. After this, I made my way to a Parisian pharmacy where I successfully purchased two bags of syringes without a prescription, an exciting accomplishment to say the least. I then headed to a photo exhibit at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, highlighting authors who have been published by the now 100-year-old Gallimard publishing house (i.e., Simone de Beauvoir, Jean Paul Sartre, Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, etc.) before journeying home to prepare a fine French meal of brown rice, kidney beans, salsa, and guacamole. You can take the girl out of San Antonio, but you can’t take the San Antonio out of the girl, or so I’ve heard.

The following day it was time to migrate yet again. Destination: Aix en Provence, France. I will spare you the boring details of my trip to the airport, save for the part where a young lad with a disturbing number of facial piercings tried to convince me to get on the wrong train, sat next to me on the correct train, and ignited in me a panic attack so severe that I got off the train 8 stops prematurely out of a genuine fear that he was going to bomb the train. #Neurotic (NOTE: As of late, I have been unable to control my urge to use TweetSpeak in everyday life, so forgive me should I unnecessarily use hashtags as a means of expressing complex thoughts and deep emotions). Anywho, long story short, I found Kate at the airport and we endured the mildly terrifying turbulence of our short flight to Marseilles. Once we arrived in Aix, we headed to her “auberge,” picked up Gillis, and made our way to Samos’s, a little Mediterranean restaurant owned by the charming, mildly overweight and surprisingly sexy middle-aged Turkish man, Samos. After our meal, Samos invited us into his cellar for tea, which was only mildly strange and only temporarily frightening. Sadly, Samos spoke not a word of English and I not a word of French, but Kate and Gillis explained to me that Samos said I spoke with my eyes, an extremely romantic observation. The evening grew even more romantic when Samos refused to allow me to pay for my meal, leading me to believe that he misinterpreted the severe exhaustion in my eyes as some sort of mating call. But his generosity was flattering nonetheless.

The next day,  I went to class with the gals, where once again, my inability to speak even a word of French proved to be a bit of a complicating factor. That evening, we made a rather delicious batch of Ratatouille and quinoa. And that was that.

Aix day 3 began at the marché, which is an absolute utopia for a produce enthusiast such as myself … Granny Smith apples and dried figs coming out the wazoo. After the market, the girls went to class and feeling quite bold, I decided to go get a haircut. Seeing as language barriers seemed to be characterizing my stint in France, I should not have been surprised when the hairstylist did not know a single word of English. Despite the fact that this situation had all the makings for a horrid disaster, all turned out well and I am quite enjoying my new buzz cut. That night we went to a lovely little club, the name of which escapes me, where we danced the night away to fabulous French hits such as "Right Round" by Flo Rida. 

The next morning, I decided to go for a run, an activity in which I partake approximately once every 6-8 months. Fortunately, I survived and was able to make my way to Cezanne’s old studio, which was really cool and only a tad creepy (NOTE: two of his jackets are still hanging on the wall. I cannot help but wonder how much MSG is required for such preservation …) as well as the Musee Granet where I saw Picasso’s Woman with a balcony. That night, we went to a fondue party at Kate & Gillis’s school and engaged in some quality sisterly bonding. The next morning, I once again packed my bags and headed out like the bold and fearless traveler that I have become, thus ending the wild and crazy adventure that was my two week travel break.

Now I am back in the Copes, settled and mostly happy save for the fact that the sun is now setting by 3PM and I have most certainly developed a mild case of seasonal affective disorder as a result. Fay and Alan are in town, which was been a treat. Since their arrival, noteworthy Seeman family adventures have included seeing Explosions in the Sky at Vega, watching Fay and Alan dodge death about 76 times to date as they perpetually jaywalk in front of moving bicycles, and explaining to them the small but important difference between 2 and 3 zone klippekorts. We are now at the airport, about the board our flight to Stockholm where we will be staying for a day before heading to Helsinki, where the weather is predicted to be a pleasant 28 degrees. We are preparing to board so I sadly must bid you a ….

Farvel!

Ord af dagen: "sultende" = "starving" (As in, "Seeing fresh produce markets in Aix en Provence made me realize that I am in fact 'sultende' to death in the Copes" ... no offense to Netto.)

Good morning, everyone! I am so excited to be back, seeing as I have many a fascinating stories to share about my adventures the past two weeks. As you know, I have spent the last two weeks traveling about Europe, familiarizing myself with the cultures of Dublin, Edinburgh, Paris, and Aix en Provence, all lovely locales with their own unique charms. 

I am sorry for not writing since my somewhat negative post from Paris after the unfortunate "two gypsy girls stole my wallet in the metro station" story. But fortunately, things could really only go up from there. 


Now, seeing as I have so many things to share with all of you, I am going to be locking myself in a quiet place for 4-5 hours at some point this week to get my tales down on paper (i.e., computer screen). So I am sorry for the delay, but I beg of your patience and ask you to please tune in again in a few days. I assure my next post will rival the Justin Bieber baby mama story in both shock value and cultural appeal (NOTE: I rather devastated by said baby mama story and would like to refrain, if possible, from every speaking of it again). 


Tak!


Ord af Dagen: "billet" = "ticket" (As in, "My wallet was stolen in Paris, I failed at using the new debit card my parents sent me, and was therefore forced to ride the Metro home from the airport last night without a 'billet,' ... a rebellious move, indeed")

Long story short (NOTE: this will actually not be a short story in all likelihood, seeing as I have quite a lot of feelings at the moment) I am a bit of a miserable human. In fact, my current state of depression is so severe that I am very seriously entertaining the idea of standing on the balcony of my Parisian apartment (yes I'm in Paris) and belting some tunes off of Korn's greatest hits album as a sign of my angst.

So I'm on my two week travel break. I went to Dublin. It rained a lot and I learned that it is quite a common occurence for people to burst into song on buses at any given moment, which made me very much wish I had listened to my parents when they told me I would regret quitting my Irish folksinging lessons in 7th grade. I saw a William Butler Yates exhibit. I saw an Alice Neel exhibit. I love Alice Neel because I did a project on her in 9th grade and found her to be quite a fascinating creature. My dad hates Alice Neel because for said project, I had to create a Neel-esque portrait, chose my dad as the subject, and somehow, created a final product that made him look bald ... Quite odd. Hannah and I went shopping on Grafton Street. I bought a new sim card because my phone recenty ran away from home and the sim card I purchased in Copenhagen turned out to be less than perfect. Hannah and I went to the Guiness Storehouse where for about 3.5 minutes, I was convinced that I actually like beer. We went to Kilmainham Goal, an old prison that made appearances in several movies I have never seen. We ate at the Brazen Head, the oldest pub I'm Dublin. I woke up at 3 am today to catch a flight to Paris (NOTE: I had an amazing time with Hannah but today's events will explain my seemingly bitter attitude toward my present travel excursion).

I arrived in Paris at 9:07 this morning and successfully made my way onto the hour and a half bus ride from

the rather odd Bouvais airport to a metro station in the city center metro station, which is where the fun began. Two seemingly kind young girls helped me carry my suitcase up the metro station stairs. Moments later, I noticed my purse was open and my wallet was gone. This means I was alone in a Parisian metro station with no cash, credit card, drivers license, health insurance card, Danish CPR card, DIS student ID, Danish public transportation pass, and most importantly, my frequent users Baresso card, which, to make lemonade from lemons, only actually  had two stamps on it. Fortunately, a random man in the station helped me dig through trash cans looking for my wallet and file a "report" to a "security guard," who I suspect was just a man in a blue cotton shirt standing near the security counter. The landlord for the apartment Alex and I are renting was very lovely and once I was able to find her, took very good care of me, seeing as Alex isn't to arrive until later this evening so I was basically destitute. And I had yet to put in my contacts or brush my hair at this point, so she also probably took pity on me for my less than stellar physical appearance. She took me to the market and I made a rather interesting lunch before going on an adventure around Paris. There was a bit of a downpour outside, but I still managed to make it to Notre Dame and the Bastille (NOTE: I am not actually certain whether or not I saw the Bastille, as I have zero clue what it looks like and the signs were ambiguous to say the least). Then I got lost. So I took a cab, using a large portion of the euros my kind landlady loaned me. Then I made dinner. As it turns out, Parisians haven't heard about non stick pans. So that was that. Then I sat down to blog. Then I wrote said blog. Then my iPad deleted said blog, thus being yet another reason for my current state of bitterness.

But I realize being such a downer while in Paris is ... Well ... Wrong. So in an effort to end this day asap and start a new, more positive one, I am going to go to bed now. Well, I am going to listen to some Korn and then go to bed (NOTE: If you must know, I am actually listening to Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge over Troubled Water" on repeat... in large part because I am disgruntled by the fact that we are forbidden from flushing the toilet between 11pm and 7am due to the noise complaints received by neighbors ...  Troubled water indeed).

May the force be with you all.

Ord af dagen: Vole = stolen (As in, "My wallet was 'vole' today because my gigantic suitcase and North Face backpack scream, 'Rob me. I'm American.'")