Punching, Pigeons, and Pizza

{Wednesday, September 17}

Yesterday's entry was getting a little long, and I figured I was at a good stopping point. But the story continues...

Samuel felt bad about the beer being so expensive, so he paid the difference for all of us, saying, "Vous n'avez pas su; c'est à moi" {"You didn't know, and it's my fault [because I asked you to come here]"}. So, in turn, we felt bad about having to leave early to go to bed; Elissa and I decided to try and stay until the end of the first set, when Samuel was supposed to play. At 11:15, when the first set had still not ended, we gave up and left poor Samuel there {though he said later that it went really well, and that he had a lot of fun}. On the metro, some strange high school kid talked to us while his friends yelled insults at him, then wished us a good night before exiting the train. It was quite odd.

The next morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed and made it to class, where it was time to talk about relative pronouns! Yay! Fortunately, there was a light at the end of the tunnel: a small partner exercise wherein we got to write a hypothetical synopsis from the back cover of a book. Elissa and I chose the second option, the story of a great love between a boxing champion and a singer. Prepare yourselves.

Un Vrai Coup de Foudre

Jacques est un champion de boxe. Caroline est une chanteuse ravissante. Qui aurait imaginé qu'un jour, par accident, Jacques se tromperait de son adversaire, le costume duquel ressemblait beaucoup à la robe que portait Caroline? Au moment où Caroline a ouvert ses yeux au beurre noir, devant lesquels se trouvait Jacques, elle a été encore frappée...par l'amour, le grand sujet sur lequel elle avait chanté pendant toute sa vie. Mais quand Jacques part pour la guerre, est-ce l'amour quelque chose sans lequel elle peut vivre? Tombez amoureux de ce livre, dont le texte vous donnera un véritable coup de poing!


Note: "coup de foudre" is used to mean love at first sight, but coup is also the word used for hitting or kicking, e.g. "un coup de poing" {literally, "a stroke of fist", but we call it a "punch"}
Also note: I didn't choose the names. Really.
So! Bearing that in mind, we will call this vignette...

Punch-Drunk Love

Jacques is a boxing champion. Caroline is a ravishing singer. Who would have imagined that one day, Jacques would accidentally throw a punch at Caroline, mistaking her dress for the costume of his competitor? The moment Caroline opened her black eyes, she was hit once again...by love, the sweet subject she had sung of all her life. But when Uncle Sam calls Jacques into duty, will love be something that Caroline can live without? Fall in love with this book whose text packs a lot of punch!

Classic.

Later on, as Cody and I returned to IES fro lunch in the midst of a good discussion, we got a little surprise in the courtyard. The exchange went something like this:

Caroline: Have you seen 'Stranger Than Fiction'?
Cody: YES. That's a good movie.
Caroline: I know; it's so...that's a pigeon in a cage.
Random man sitting in courtyard with a pigeon in a cage: Yeah, it happens.

Paris really is full of surprises. The rest of the day held reading, writing, and a well-deserved nap for me, and today I had more French class {the professor of which is slowly driving me insane; I'll probably rant about it at some point}, beef carpaccio at the Café du Maine for lunch, and wrote my lovely homework essay - the infamous story of the men's bathroom at the Mairie {Town Hall} in Brest. Monica, Cody, and I concluded our day with a visit to Hot Pants pizza - which is delicious, by the way, and not badly priced. The owner even speaks French with a cute Italian accent.

Some {Mostly} Intellectual Outings

{Tuesday, September 16}

The rest of Sunday was quite pleasant; Monica sent me a text message on Saturday night suggesting that we visit the Sorbonne and eat lunch around 2, which is just what we did. On our way to the first destination, we encountered Montaigne {inventor of the essay! among his other accomplishments},

and some British tourists who didn’t know who he was, which made us feel wicked smaht. The Sorbonne itself is very pretty, but sadly undergoing some construction/renovation at the moment, hence the scaffolding.

We also found a bust of a famous figure with a bird on his head – awesome.

Next, it was time to seek out a café or restaurant of some sort that wasn’t going to rob us blind, and would hopefully even provide a tasty meal. We found a place that fit the bill and THEN some. Le Marathon, with its welcome goat, entertaining wait staff, and candlelit ambiance, has a 10 € “menu” from which you pick an entrée {appetizer}, plat {main course}, and dessert {duh}. While this is a common occurrence here, the “menu”s are usually not wicked exciting {e.g. cold chicken leg and small salad for 9 €} and often expensive for what they are. Not here. For 10 €, I got a small bowl of steamed mussels, a decent-sized steak au poivre with a small salad and fries, and a softball-sized serving of chocolate mousse for dessert. Not to mention the bread was delicious, our server was an elegant and charming middle-aged man who made us feel like queens, asked if we were French {yes!}, and warmly welcomed us without a hint of irony when he learned that we were American, and every bite of every course was heavenly. Poor Monica had to eat dinner with her host family later that night, while I enjoyed being full all day and not spending a cent on food afterward. While $15 may seem like a lot, it’s incredibly rare to find such a meal in Paris for so little, so I recommend that anyone coming to Paris go there – it’s on a side street in the Quartier Latin and, if you come in the next three months, I’ll take you there myself. Definitely my favorite meal so far.

Quite content, we then walked just down the street and turned the corner, where the famous English-language bookstore Shakespeare & Co. awaited us. The selection is decent, from history books to beat poetry to, of course, Shakespeare, and the shop itself is inviting and pleasing to the eye.

We plan to return some time for Monday night poetry readings, nerds that we are.

We wandered along the Seine looking at the various products of the bouquinistes, Parisians who set up shop and sell {mostly to tourists} postcards, posters, magnets, hand mirrors, and cigarette-case wallets, all decorated with classic French images like the Eiffel Tower and old ads for the Moulin Rouge. Then we crossed to Notre-Dame and gazed at some of the tourists shops in the area before catching the metro back to Levallois.

Funny enough, when I returned, Cyprien {my host ‘brother’} asked where I had gone. I find this amusing because the other times I’ve gone out and left only him home, I’ve told him where I was going, as a courtesy or in case his mother came home and was curious, and he has responded with naught but sarcasm. The first time {this past Thursday}:

Caroline: Je vais aller rencontrer une amie {I’m going out to meet up with a friend}.
Cyprien: T’as le droit {You have the right}.

I figured this was an indicator that he was not interested in what I was doing and that he didn’t feel an overwhelming need to hear about it. Cool. Still, a couple of nights later, I needed to go find something to eat for dinner. Cyprien, the only other person in the apartment, was in the living room, which is right next to the door. Well, it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye, so quickly before leaving…

Caroline: J’vais chercher le dîner {I’m gonna go look for some dinner}.
Cyprien: C’est une bonne idée {That’s a good idea}.

Ah, well. So much for being polite. I now leave the house without a word.

Yesterday morning meant once again waking up at 7 for French class. I’m really not thrilled about having a 9 AM class every day, but at least for the moment it’s a grammar review, and when real classes start it’ll be theatre every other day {not fun, playing theatre, but the study kind of theatre. I’m still excited, though}. After talking about concordance of tense for eight forevers, I went and got the traditional lunch with Cody. We get along extremely well, and have the same dry sense of humor, which is nice. I signed up at the last minute for the free excursion to the Louvre, which Cody and Monica also went on. At the entrance, I couldn’t find my ticket, and everyone walked ahead and the tour continued without me. Had I not heard the docent say “Tout droite” {“Straight ahead”} on the radio headset that they’d given to each of us just before she got out of range, I would have been lost in the Louvre, which happens quite easily, let me tell you. Fortunately, I caught up with everyone a minute later, and off we went. I took a few pictures for your viewing pleasure and/or pain, and some for myself, but mostly I figure you know what’s in the Louvre, or you’ve been there, or you can go someday, and people have taken much clearer pictures of these works in much better lighting with much nicer cameras.

A statue of "La Victoire" {Victory} that I really liked.

The hour or so tour we took was just to see the really famous statues and paintings, as a sort of introduction to the Louvre. Needless to say, I saw the Mona Lisa {here they call it “La Joconde”}, from a great distance and behind a cordon and a crowd of people. Magnificent, of course, and I appreciated it very much, but the details of the painting are the most important feature, and you can’t see details from 30 feet away. Bummer.

Cody, Monica, and I set off to explore a bit before going home, and ended up in the same area that Monica and I had visited on Thursday, off of the rue Saint-Denis near the Halles Garden. We were looking for relatively cheap coffee and a place to sit, but first we had to battle a three-headed monster – ourselves. Monica refers to herself as “indecisive”, Cody is “indifferent”, and I went with “ambivalent” as my personal descriptor. So who took the lead in this quest for caffeine? I did. Not by choice, mind you, but I have become the inadvertent leader of all three small groups in which I’ve spent much time. I’ve even tried to pass the buck, or to cede my title – when Stephen, Samuel, and Julian asked if it was “alright” to go to Place de Clichy, I said, “Je suis pas la maîtresse, moi” {“I’m not the kindergarten teacher”}, but to no avail.

So I led us to the Café Coeur Couronné {the Crowned Heart Café}, where we did not drink coffee, but in fact ate brownies {the girls} and drank cider {Cody}. And if you thought Cody and I were a sarcastic force when the two of us converse, Cody, Monica, and I are unstoppable. Lots of laughs, mostly requiring oral description and/or “You had to be there” moments, but trust me, it was epic.

Back in Levallois, I ate dinner and hung around before deciding definitively that, illness and all, I was going to go out to a jazz club to which Samuel had invited me. I figured, with no cover charge, that I could get there at 10, stay for a short while, then take the metro back and be in bed by 11:15 or so. Besides, Samuel was supposed to play, which I wanted to hear. I found him, Elissa from my French class, and another girl in the street , and we got to Le Baiser Salé {The Salty Kiss} at 10:10 or so, and climbed the stairs to…a completely empty room. Well, not empty in the sense that there were chairs, and a stage, and instruments, but there was quite literally no one else there. The girls looked confused, checked their watches and said, “J’ai pensé que ça commençait à dix heures” {“I thought it was supposed to start at ten”}. Samuel shrugged. I caught his eye, smiled, and said, “L’heure du jazz”.

Jazz time. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, jazz time is, essentially, based on the fact that no one is on time {we could go for a grand metaphor about syncopation here, but I’ll keep it simple}. So when the rest of the audience arrived at 10:30, I nodded knowingly. They are wise in the ways of the jazz masters. Everything starts late.

So besides the cool name, hot music, and deliciously flamboyant waiter from Martinique, Le Baiser Salé is great because it has no cover charge…or so we thought. Here’s how it goes: the first drink is obligatory. So we bought the cheapest {4,80 €} beer – no problem. Oh, and did we mention that the first drink has an extra 7 € fee tacked onto it? We didn’t. O, elusive cover charge, I think I have found thee. Here’s to $17 beer.

Not-so-Good Friday

{Sunday, September 14}

When we last left our heroine, she in the midst of making plans to see the flesh-and-blood, real live leader of the Catholic Church, that fine fellow clad in white; you know him, you love him…Pope Benoît XVI! Prepared to face the crowds, the closed metro stops, and the French police force

, she and her sidekick Monica would stop at nothing to catch a glimpse of that beloved benevolent as he addressed the pious Parisians. The two set off from the suburbs armed with cameras and 2 ½ hours of extra time, one with a fierce hunger and the other with a fierce cold. They walked the streets with which they had become vaguely familiar, photographing the occasional oddity,

Ahhh! The evil empire!

filling Monica’s growling stomach, and each enjoying a cone of ice cream.

The two intrepid ladies then traversed the Pont Notre Dame and tried with all their might and French-speaking skills to enter the sacred courtyard…but to no avail. For there is a place, my friends, for Parisian parishioners within this holy courtyard, reserved by a certain yellow piece of paper referred to a carte des gens, and there is a place for blasphemers and foreigners and it’s known as the street.

Apparently, going to see the Pope is no small feat. I asked one of the volunteers how to get a yellow card, and she literally said that they were only given out by priests at the churches, and that we could go west to where the cars and foreigners were, and follow them all night. So, try as we might, we didn’t even get close to dear Benoît XVI, but watched him on large TV screens from the closest open street to Notre-Dame,

We even got a little closer than this, but it was tough to take pictures above everyone's heads.

and we may have caught a brief glimpse of him from afar, but that was the best we could do. This was also the most unpleasant day of my illness, so the odds were generally against us, and we capitulated after watching the speech. Still, we’re both glad to have gone, and will remember the experience fondly {despite an unsavory incident involving a Starbucks bathroom}.

Back at the apartment, I literally crashed, reading for about 20 minutes before giving in and turning out the light at 8, neglecting to set an alarm because I needed my body to start cooperating again. Sadly, I spent most of yesterday indoors, but it was definitely a good idea, despite not making for my most exciting day in Paris. On a positive note, my bed is very comfortable, the internet actually functioned in my room all day, and Ce Cher Dexter {the French version of Darkly Dreaming Dexter} is enthralling; it’s usually better to read the original version of literary texts, and I will someday, but for the moment I get to practice my French and enjoy the murder mystery off of which one of the few TV series I watch is based, so I’m happy. And, of course, I am much less totally disgusting today, which is always a plus.

And finally, per Cora's request, a few more pictures of my humble abode. Those of you who are disinterested can feel free to disregard this section and skip straight to commenting and/or enjoying the rest of your day.

A very shadowy picture of the window in my room, with its lovely view of wall in the courtyard. By contrast, my favorite mobile window {courtesy of Fae Messier} sits floppily on the dresser, next to the lamp.

My shelves. Cora, look to the right.

The {very narrow} hallway that connects all of the rooms.

The cute little kitchen where I have breakfast every day, and where everyone eats dinner.

One half of the living room...

...and the other half!

Thank you, and goodnight!

I'm On My Feet, I'm On the Floor, I'm Good to Go

{Saturday, September 13}

Okay, so I haven’t written in a while, but it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve been sort of busy and, joy of joys, I’m sick again. Cyprien and I suspect that it’s the cold he had last week, but we can’t be sure because I seem to have every symptom under the sun. Last night, I slept from 8 PM to about 9:30 AM, so I’m really hoping my body gets a clue soon.

So Wednesday morning, I had my first class, or Propédeutique {a crash-course in French that students take in groups of 14, based on how well they did on the test}. I felt for sure that my group was being punished, having to go in at 9 rather than 11:30 or 1:30, but I guess someone’s gotta do it. When I arrived, there were three or four other girls there, and we all introduced ourselves; each one had out a notebook and interacted in French {unlike most of the students when they first meet}, so I knew that I was most likely among fellow geeks, and we had all done well on the test.

The professor, Dominique {female}, mentioned translation and used the words “étudiants avancés” {“advanced students”}, which we figured indicated that we would be in the highest-level French course, Translation. Directness does not seem to be important here, so that’s about as much confirmation as we got. We did two hours of grammar study, which wasn’t too painful because after this coming Thursday, it will be all translation, all the time. It was, however, occasionally patronizing, because she seemed to think that none of us was familiar with the passé simple, or when to use it {the answer is never. More or less.} My frustration with her is also probably based on the fact that she is extremely enthusiastic at an hour in the morning during which I would rather not be in class, let alone having already been awake for 2 hours {it takes me about 45 minutes to get to IES by metro}.

Fortunately, there was someone in my class that I knew – Cody, so we wandered around till we found a fairly cheap lunch at a Chinese restaurant {though, thus far, I am unimpressed by the Chinese food that Paris has to offer…which probably shouldn’t be a surprise}. Cody is cool; he goes to DePaul and studies French and religious studies, and appreciates puns and horror movies, which means we at least have some things in common. Unfortunately, I find myself getting frustrated with other people’s difficulty communicating in French, so I often let them switch to English – bad habit.

I made the mistake of returning home before my 3:45 academic meeting instead of going to buy my grammar book {I’ll explain that shortly}. Back at IES, I ran into Monica, who lives near the same metro stop as I do, and had nothing to do for the weekend, so we made plans to meet up on Thursday sometime. Then I had my rendezvous with Marie Paniez about my schedule, which was fine except that I had double-booked myself on Tuesday/Thursday afternoons with drawing and art history. As incredible as the art history course sounds, I opted for drawing because it gives me the chance of getting into Julie & Johnny’s photography course back at LU. Besides, I found another course that sounds pretty sweet – a cultural/sociological/historical look at the effects of comic books in France. I asked about signing up for a French course, and she said, “Si tu es dans le cours de Traduction, tu es dans le cours de Traduction” {“If you’re in the Translation course, you’re in the Translation course”}. I guess that means I’m in the Translation course. So, for the time being, my theoretical schedule is as follows:

Monday/Wednesday 9:00-10:30 Theatre in Paris
10:45-12:15 Comic Books & Society
4:00-5:30 The Word and the Image {i.e. looking at the translations of ideas between media, like from a book to the big screen, from a painting to a play, etc.}

Tuesday/Thursday 9:00-10:30 Translation
12:30-2:00 Drawing

Needless to say, Tuesday/Thursdays will probably be relatively relaxing. But we’ll see.

On the way home from my meeting, I stopped at the FNAC {it’s like the Borders-meets-Best-Buy of France} nearest my neighborhood {15 minutes by metro} to find L’expression française écrite et orale, the book Dominique had asked us to purchase for the next day. I walked around leisurely, found Darkly Dreaming Dexter in French for some light reading, then went to find the book I needed. I was deeply perplexed when I found the corrections, but not the grammar book itself, and the clerk informed me that they no longer carried the normal version of the book, and I would have to go to the “Quartier Latin” {“Latin Quarter”}…back in the direction of IES. Not to be deterred, I walked back down the four flights of stairs that I’d climbed in my high-heeled sandals and hurried back to the metro station. No worries. I would go three stops, change to Line 3, go the two more stops to get to Line 12, then travel seven stops to Rennes, which should be on the same street as the other FNAC. However, I was not aware of the fact that a. switching to Line 12 at Saint-Lazare means about 10 extra minutes of walking and b. the station at Rennes was closed for repairs, meaning I’d have to get off of the metro one station earlier and find the FNAC from there. So, leaving the first FNAC at 4:30, I had no idea that I would not get to the other location until approximately 6:00, at which point my feet were ready to fall off. And as I took the escalator to the fourth floor of the FNAC, I was unaware that I would find only the corrections book because, according to the salesman, lots of students had come in that day, and they wouldn’t have any more for another week.

I found a closer metro station and rode home, defeated and exhausted, switching lines only once but arriving home around 7:30 and vowing never to wear those shoes for an entire day again. Lesson learned. The girls and I were supposed to go to a jazz club in Montmartre, but Amanda never signed onto Skype {our clever way of avoiding using precious minutes on our cellphones}, and thus plans were never made, for which I am now somewhat grateful, considering that I woke up the next morning with a sore throat. I promise to look back at this incident and laugh…just as soon as my nose stops running.

On Thursday, I spaced out a bit in French class, but survived and even managed to find another cheap lunch with Cody at “Good Times Restaurant”. Then, he ever-so-generously showed me where he had purchased his L’expression française book, and all was well. Monica and I met up at 3 outside our Louise Michel, our metro station {we both live close to the same one; who knew?}, and went to the café “Au vieux Châtelet”, outside one of the great theatres of Paris. We ate a croque-monsieur {her} and escargot {me}, then wandered the city for approximately 5 hours…without exaggeration. We found a great hippie shop on the rue St Denis, a book store called “Mona Lisait" {a pun, obviously, that means “Mona was reading”},

...near which we found the nymphs of La Fontaine des Innocents {The Fountain of the Innocents}, carved in the 1540s

and both the garden "Les Halles", built above the three-story underground mall

The garden itself isn't that impressive, but it has some fun elements.

and the old cathedral Saint-Eustache, commissioned by François I in the 1500s and modeled on Notre-Dame.

...but also influenced by the Renaissance

and with a random statue in the courtyard.

You probably can't tell, but this is a giant sundial, which we thought was awesome.

And finally, one of Paris' many Arcs de Triomphe. I like the panting lion.

After that, we literally just walked and talked and then started to head back in the general direction of the metro stop at which we had started our exploration {the one in the middle of the city, not the one near our apartments}. Fortunately, we are both firm believers in the philosophy that you are never lost in Paris, because you can always find a metro stop and figure out how to get back home. Around 7:30, we decided to start looking for one, because it was starting to look like rain. We took shelter in a small, empty café which was soon filled with others seeking refuge from the downpour. Using our handy-dandy maps of Paris {this book has seriously been my best friend; thanks, Dad and Pam}, we located ourselves and headed to the nearest metro stop, Gare de l’Est…and realized we had covered about a third of the Paris metro Line 4 during the course of our meanderings.

We both returned to our respective homes due to the strict ‘no visitors’ rules and general fatigue, planning to meet again at 3 the next day to go back to Île de la Cité and try to see the Pope, which, to avoid making this entry any longer, I will tell you about later. To be continued…

Lilac Wine is Sweet and Heady...

{Wednesday, September 10}

I have my first class this morning…sort of. It’s really a “language-intensive session”, or something like that, but we can just call it a French class.

On Monday morning all of the exhausted IES kids headed over to the FIAP {I have no idea what it stands for}, and had some more orientation. Before our brains were clogged with academic, safety, and housing information, most of which had been available in previously sent IES materials or should be obvious by now, I made a new friend from California, a chemistry major named Amanda. She’s very sweet, and looks a lot like Jennifer Aniston {maybe I should call up Yannick and have a celebrity look-alike party}. Together, we sat through hour after hour of semi-useful information, which included some amusing moments, both in French and English.

Bertrand, on meeting French people: Les Français sont beaucoup plus directs que les Américains; si vous rencontrez quelqu’un dans un bar et vous, comme vous dites, ‘make out’…you’ve got a boyfriend now.

{French men are much more direct than American men; if you meet someone in a bar and you, like you say, ‘make out’…you’ve got a boyfriend now.}

Bertrand, on the love life of one of the older professors: Même Jeanne…à l’époque, Jeanne sortait avec deux ou trois mousquetaires à la fois.

{Even Jeanne…back in the day, Jeanne would go out with two or three Musketeers at a time!}

Rosa, on conserving water while staying with a host family: I really don’t know what you’re doing for twenty minutes in the shower. Explain me.

Edit: Yeah, I think I need to clarify that one - this was not something someone said to ME, it was part of Rosa's presentation to all of the IES students on living with a host family. I do not take 20-minute showers xD And, even if I did, it wouldn't matter because my host brother, Cyprien, takes 30-minute showers.

During lunch in the FIAP’s restaurant {crab-stuffed puff pastry, braised leg of duck, and chocolate mousse – yum}, I met two other girls named Meredith and Shaina, both from Ohio and both bio majors at the University of Indiana. Very content to have female friends, I sat with them during the rest of the presentations, and we all decided to hang out afterward. Samuel, however, also invited me to go get coffee with him, Julian, and a couple of other guys, so we tried to all do so at once – this meant that there were now eight of us. We took the metro in the direction of the Centre Pompidou {which made me think of you, Lauren; remember that project freshman year?}, getting off at the Place de la Bastille and planning to walk the rest of the way, then go to a café in the area. This plan lasted about 15 minutes, or until the guys spotted an Irish bar and decided it was time for a Guinness. Well, turnabout is fair play, and the girls and I weren’t interested in Guinness at the moment, so we went to another café and agreed to meet at the Centre Pompidou.

A couple of carafes of white wine, some girly stories, and a pile of bird poop later, we went shopping, as it seemed like a better idea at the time, and the boys had clearly not been thrilled to have us around. I realize that this entire excursion is ridiculously feminine and fairly un-Caroline, but my experience in Paris thus far was severely lacking in the estrogen department. Besides, sometimes making new friends merits doing something you wouldn’t normally do, but aren’t wholly opposed to, either.

I returned home and recounted my adventure to my host mother Bénédicte, who then spent most of dinner making fun of me for drinking at 4 in the afternoon. “Caroline picole,” she giggled, explaining that someone who picoles is someone who enjoys drinking wine…often. I pointed out that I was not partaking of the table wine, and Benoît recited the French equivalent of that well-loved proverb, “Liquor before beer and you’re in the clear; beer before liquor, never been sicker”, which is “Blanc sur rouge, rien ne bouge; rouge sur blanc, tout fout le camp” {“White after red, stomach of lead; red after white, throw up all night”}. And yes, while I realize that’s not a direct translation, I thought it would be more entertaining if it rhymed; gotta practice for that eventual translation career!

Tuesday morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 7 to head back to the FIAP for our placement exam. On the way there, I had an interesting experience on the crowded metro with a guy who tried to take advantage of the rush hour conditions by getting too close for comfort. Fortunately, he stepped off at the next metro stop, which saved me the trouble of attempting to relocate.

The test itself was multiple-choice and went fairly quickly, after which I made the acquaintance of a guy named Cody, who is from Kansas. More orientation, then lunch, where I met Monica {the history major from Chicago, ha}, who seemed much more my type of person than the other girls I’d spent time with so far. Nonetheless, Meredith, Shaina, Amanda, and I grabbed coffee at the end of the day, and I found a French poster for “Dan in Real Life”, but here, the title is…

"Love at First Sight in Rhode Island" :)

which I think is a prettier title, but doesn’t change the fact that the movie itself was not very good {so I hear}.

Boulot, Métro...Hobo?

{Sunday, September 7}

Friday morning I awoke, well-rested and incredibly glad not to be jetlagged. I had a few slices of a fresh baguette for breakfast, along with some English tea {Melanie, aren’t you proud}. I showered without any big problems, got dressed, and hung around, enjoying my room and the apartment, until it was time to leave for orientation.

One of the restaurants I encounter on my way to the metro. I'm not sure what they were going for with this one, but I think they missed it.

Switching metro lines at Saint-Lazare was a piece of cake; the Parisian metro system, despite being in French, is ten times clearer and more straightforward than the T in Boston. I felt completely at ease in my new surroundings, which is rare for me.

At orientation, all of the students were speaking English, and they all seemed to already know each other and have formed cliques. I tried to sit down next to a girl who looked nice, asking her politely in French if it was okay; she dismissively replied, “Yeah, you can sit” and sent not another word in my direction. Fortunately, a guy named Julian came over, sat on my other side, and introduced himself, and we talked for a bit before the presentations started.

While semi-useful, two hours of orientation proved to be quite boring. Just by having a cellphone and understanding the metro, it seemed, I was way ahead of the game. When it was over, I reclaimed my passport {which they had taken to copy} and stepped outside to call Aurélie, my friend from Brest with whom I’d stayed two-and-a-half years ago when I came to France with the PHS choral groups. We planned to meet up Saturday at 2:30, as she was in Paris for the weekend. I saw Julian on my way out, and went with him to buy a SIM card for his phone. He was actually born here, but lives in Boston and lost all of his French over the years, so he’s back to recollect it. We stopped back at IES {Institute for the International Education of Students, our “school” building} where he’d forgotten his passports {dual citizenship}, then found a random café because we were both starving.

After eating a croquet-monsieur and a tarte de pomme, because they had nothing else, we went back to our respective places and planned to go out with some other IES kids that night. What actually ended up happening was that I hung around for a few hours, then went to bed, because Julian had fallen asleep. No worries; not to be deterred, I hung out with Aurélie on Saturday afternoon, proving that I can and will have fun in Paris {as if there was ever a doubt}. We sat at the Place de la République and caught up on each others’ lives, remarking how amazing it was that we could be so instantly comfortable together after not having seen each other for two-and-a-half years.

Later that night, I walked over to the apartment where Julian sometimes lives {long story}, and we took the metro to meet up with Samuel and Stephen, two other IES students, at Sacré-Coeur. On the way up the {very steep} hill, we stopped briefly and encountered Ludwig, a somewhat sketchy 50-something Frenchman who enjoys beer and innuendo {one of which he had in his left hand}. He showed us up the hill, where S & S were talking to three Russians who live in Paris. Samuel is pretty cool; he plays piano and loves jazz, and is good about avoiding speaking English, even though his French isn’t great {which I think is really brave, because I used to get too nervous to speak due to being extremely self-conscious about my speaking abilities}. Stephen, who goes to UMichigan, and I share tales from the Midwest {like Tales from the Crypt, but with more cheese}. A native New Yorker, he is also quite nice and tries to keep the conversation in French. Both are staying for the year.

After the Russians left and we realized it was getting a little late, we took the metro to Place de Clichy {even Ludwig – despite his apparent lack of concern regarding time and alcoholism, which one might attribute to a hobo, he has a metro pass and, we think, a home}. On the metro, there were some ladies around his age {and obviously drunk} who were offering a pair of underwear to the highest bidder. “Tu n’en veux pas?” {“You don’t want then?”} I teased Ludwig. “Si, si, tiens” {“Yes, yes, hold this”}, he responded, handing me his beer. Sure enough, we were shortly thereafter one pair of underwear and one very weird experience richer.

Stephen immediately spilled his expensive beer upon receiving it at the bar we all went to, and everyone agreed that it was time to go home, especially after seeing the look on the waiter’s face {if he didn’t hate Americans before, he does now}. Julian and I took the metro back to our homestays. “Quelle nuit!” {“What a night!”} we laughed.

Today mes garcons {my boys} and I hit the streets of Paris. On a day-long self-guided walking tour that my host brother would sarcastically describe as “original” {whaddaya know; it’s the same word!}, we walked the Champs-Élysées

and saw the Place de la Concorde, Arc de Triomphe,

and the Tour Eiffel.

The stars are from the EU flag - to celebrate France's current presidency thereof.

We figure we’re allowed to be tourists for the moment, and can concentrate on blending in later; Bénédicte says I already have the look down. Besides, what kind of friend/family member through whom you live vicariously would I be if I didn’t visit the tourist-y places and post bad pictures of them?

Finally, a special note on the Paris metro. There are advertisements absolutely everywhere, as you would expect them to be. Sometimes, however, they're not quite what you expect...


Shitz: War, Love, and Sausage.


This English language program's slogan is a double entendre, meaning both "Stop massacring English!" and "Stop massacring the Englishman!" Brilliant.

And finally, the coup de grâce...


Close-up on an ad for the Tower of Terror at Disneyland Paris. But look a little closer...


Two words: Poetic Mustache.

An American in Paris

{Saturday, September 6}

I am officially settled in in Paris. Surprisingly, I haven’t gotten lost yet, either, which is a good sign. I also promise that there will be fewer pictures clogging up your bandwidth, as I’m trying to look as little like a tourist as possible.

During my first day here, by contrast, there was no way to avoid looking completely inept. I played it pretty cool on the train – writing, listening to music, and not smiling at anyone because “ça ne se fait pas” - “it is not done”. When the ticket control guy came around, I handed him my ticket and prepared to excuse myself for being in the wrong place, but I was lost and I’ve never taken the train and maybe if I speak French perfectly he’ll help me move my suitcases to the right car and he said “Merci” and handed back the ticket. Huh? For the second time that morning, I felt an immense sense of relief, despite also being confused. I knew I wasn’t in the right car, because my ticket said Seat 23, and there was a woman sitting in 23, next to her husband. Ah, well. Enjoy the good fortune.

As the train pulled into Gare de Lyon, I stood up to get my suitcases, noting a plaque above the exit that said “1^er classe” and smiling to myself. This good feeling, however, was not to last, for when I pulled my suitcases down from the shelf, one of them fell squarely and painfully onto my left knee.

It's even nastier than it looks; trust me.

I grimaced and limped off the train, hoping that it wasn’t too far to the taxis. First, though, I had to exchange my money. I hobbled down the stairs, probably looking incredibly pathetic and definitely blocking everyone’s way, so when a nice man offered to carry one of my suitcases, I accepted without hesitation, my knee and fatigue overwhelming my sense of pride.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was a sign for taxis – bingo. But where do I exchange my money? I looked left and right and found escalators, advertisements, machines for purchasing tickets, and hurried travelers, but no money exchange. Fabulous. I started toward the exit, hoping to find one along my way, and saw a map. Ah, how useful. At least, it would have been, if it hadn’t been a map of the neighborhood and not the station. Crap. Still, I contemplated it for a minute or two, hoping no one noticed that I had absolutely no idea where I was going. Since this was really doing me no good, I decided to walk the extra hundred feet to the taxis, hoping the magazine stand wasn’t the only thing between.

Yet again, I must have looked enough like a tourist that a man came up to me and said, “Vous cherchez?” I stared blankly at him. I know that with the inflection, it can mean “What are you looking for?”, but quite literally it just means, “You are searching?” I thought, “Yes, duh, of course I’m searching; thanks a lot.” I blinked. He repeated his question two or three times, and I opened my mouth to stutter a reply, but nothing came out. He began to look both amused and impatient: “Dites!” {“Say it!”}. “Uh…je dois…changer…m-mon argent” {“Uh…I have to…change…m-my money”} I muttered awkwardly. He looked confused for a second, then said, “Ah, un ‘change’”, pronouncing ‘change’ just like in English. Stupid borrowed words. I nodded and he told me it was back the other way, in the middle of the station. Oh, I thought. The place where I just was, and couldn’t find anything. How helpful. I meandered back in that direction, feeling a bit like a salmon swimming against the current. A dumb, American salmon.

But sure enough, the booth was there, and I gave the guy the $70 I had in cash for a grand total of 35 €. Stupid commission, stupid U.S. dollars diminishing in value by the second. Ah, well. The taxis were right where I’d left them, and the driver even put my bags in the trunk and didn’t try to scam me. I did, of course, wait to give him the address until we were already in Levallois-Perret {the suburb directly NW of Paris where I live}, because he seemed impatient when I got in the cab. Despite sounding slightly irritated when I did tell him the address, he pulled out his map and found the apartment building and dropped me off and took my 20 € {almost as much as I paid for a four-hour train ride} without complaint.

I punched in the door code my host mother, Bénédicte, had e-mailed me, and dragged my suitcases into the tiled hallway. This apparently made a lot of noise, because the superintendent came out of her apartment and said, “Ah! Famille Dufournier?” {“Ah! Dufournier family?”} I indicated that yes, that was my host family and I needed to find their apartment. As soon as we opened the door to the stairs, Bénédicte appeared. “Ma petite Caroline!” she said warmly, greeting me and helping me put my suitcases into the tiny elevator before leading me up the stairs.

The lovely front door

The intercom {duh}

The aforementioned elevator

Just leaving the apartment was her eldest son, Romain {c. 30 years old}, who had stopped by for lunch. Bénédicte showed me my very comfortable room,

Yeah, I know there's a wall there. It's weirdly-shaped, so it's hard to get a good picture of it. More attempts available upon request.

as well as the rest of the apartment, then said that I spoke very well, and asked me if I wanted to eat something. Did I ever. “J’ai su que vous étiez intelligente” {“I knew that you were smart”}, I told her. She laughed and said, “Non, tu sais ce que c’est? C’est que je suis maman” {“No, you know what it is? It’s because I’m a mom”}. We’re off to a great start. She had to leave to go to school {to teach}, so I was left with Rosa, who kindly showed me to the phone store to buy a SIM card and minutes for my {obligatory} cell phone. I kind of miss not having one. I walked back alone, deciding to stop at the nearest pharmacy to find some deodorant that doesn’t ruin my clothes {thanks a lot, Secret}. I listened to the salesman’s diatribe, understanding about half of what he said, because he spoke so rapidly. Nodding and pretending to understand completely, I bought the cheapest one, thanked him, and left.

It was then that I realized that I had paid $15 for deodorant. Oops.

I was hanging around the apartment, unpacking my suitcases, and generally settling in, when I heard a noise that sounded like someone had come in, but no one was supposed to be there till 7 PM. I tiptoed to the kitchen…and met Laure-Hélène {pronounced “Lor-ay-len”; prettiest French name ever}, the other older sibling who doesn’t live here, but stopped by to see if anyone was in. Shortly after she left, Cyprien {the one who does live here} showed up, so I was not alone after all. He kindly offered to help me connect to the wireless network here, so I followed him down the hall toward the router. Physical discomfort being a common theme on this particular day, I slipped and fell on the wooden floor, but did manage to save my computer.

When Bénédicte and her husband Benoît came home, she prepared a lovely dinner of turkey with potatoes and onions, and I partook of the French custom of drinking wine at dinner. Then, Bénédicte showed me how to take the metro to IES, actually walking me to the station and pointing out my route. When I mentioned that I’d taken the T in Boston, she was thunderstruck; I am apparently the first American of the dozen or so that they’ve hosted to have already taken the metro. Back in the apartment, I watched “The Naked Gun” dubbed into French with Cyprien. There is much more…er, adult humor in it than I realized as a kid.

Bénédicte came into my room to see pictures of my family, and I gave her the calendar, blueberry jam, and Swiss chocolate that I’d bought for everyone, which absolutely delighted her. We actually walked through the apartment, making Cyprien and Benoît taste the chocolate and jam. Then it was bedtime, because I was exhausted. Hooray for sleep.

Bought a Ticket for a Runaway Train

I know, I know; I've been in France for almost a week, and am still not even caught up to my departure on my blog. Well here it is, folks {sort of}, the first entry that concerns in some way my journey to France. Enjoy! And worry not - I haven't written pages upon pages for every day of my life here, so posts will be less frequent and less overwhelming.

{Thursday, September 4 – somewhere between Geneva and Paris}

What a nightmare. This morning started off well enough; I got up on time and hoped to watch the sun rise, but it was too gray and cloudy to see anything. Olivier wanted to leave at 7:15, which left me 45 minutes for Rice Krispies and green tea {breakfast of champions}, and to label my suitcases – piece of cake, right? Except when you take the rain into account; I spent a few minutes hauling the suitcases down the stairs, then covering every millimeter of the labels in Scotch tape {it took long enough, in fact, just to find the tape; I couldn’t think of the word until Carole mentioned “du Scotch”, which is actually what they call it. It’s like inadvertent product placement}. Somehow, after that and saying goodbye to the ladies of the house, it was already 7:30. I hopped into Olivier’s car, and he said that we weren’t really early, but it wouldn’t be a problem.

Flash forward an hour and forty-five minutes; my train is set to leave in two minutes, and we’re still not at the station. As it turns out, they even have traffic jams in Switzerland – who knew? So, at 9:17, when we arrived and I was sure my train had already pulled away, Olivier parked very illegally outside the front door of the train station in the pouring rain, and we ran like never before. The trains for France? All the way at the back. Fabulous. They didn’t even stop me at customs, pointing us in the direction of the train, which they thought was still at the platform…but they weren’t sure. Then came the real running – up two long ramps with one heavy suitcase each. Just as I reached the first ramp, I noticed that my backpack had come unzipped, so I must have looked absolutely ridiculous – panting, one arm lugging a rolling suitcase, one behind my back attempting to keep my laptop, journal, camera, and essential documents from flying off and taking up residence on Platform 8 of the Gare de Genève.

Then {Brenna, you’ll be so proud}, I had a perfect movie moment; we threw my suitcases into the nearest car, Olivier kissed me on the cheek, and I jumped up onto the train, waving goodbye as the doors closed, Olivier shouted “Give us a call!” and the train pulled away. All that it lacked were cameras, a glamorous protagonist, and a white lace handkerchief. I’m pretty sure I used up all of my good karma for quite some time on this particular moment of good fortune.

Now came the less miraculous feat of getting my bearings on the train; I somehow got my suitcases on to a shelf and plopped down, panting and grinning, into a seat, which a few minutes later turned out not to be mine. I’m actually certain that this is not even my car, so I’m now in an individual seat, trying to make myself inconspicuous, a task which is rendered virtually impossible by the fact that a. I’m wearing my long multicolored skirt, b. I have a huge backpack, c. I seem to be much younger than everyone here save one girl, professionally dressed and with an elegant accent and d. I’m pretty sure that I’m in first class. Oops. I’m hoping this luck will last; my only real issue now is that this is a four-hour train ride, and I haven’t exchanged any money for food. The adventure continues :)

As for yesterday, which was hectic but somewhat less so, it went well. I managed to find a lovely watch, which Isabella absolutely refused to let me pay for. If I’d fought her any harder, I’d have had to pry the wallet from her hands. Then we all had a delicious lunch while Virgil was taking his first economics exam, which he said was the hardest exam of his life. Yikes.

After Marie’s violin lesson, she, Isabella and I drove out to Sophie’s house in the farmlands, where we saw her goats, rabbits {Pomme, Prune, Myrtille and Melone}, bees, and springer spaniels. Unfortunately, we left a bit later than we wanted to, so we only stayed there for 15 minutes before having to rush back to drop me off at the bus station to meet Carole.

This is where my favorite part of the day commences. Carole, her very nice friend Amina, and I went to the bus station and paid about $14 for a bus ticket {yikes} to go to Fribourg where they both take a theatre class at a conservatory. The hour-long bus ride consisted of chatting, music, and their English homework {including John Lennon’s family tree}; by the way, to all my PHS chorus kids, they totally knew about “Where is Brian? Brian is in the kitchen. Oh! It is raining out! I forgot my umbrella!” They even finished the story, in which he asks his sister where his umbrella is, because it is raining. Once in Fribourg, we had about 45 minutes to kill, so we wandered around the huge Manor superstore which is like Target-meets-the-grocery-store, then walked to the conservatory. Having not done anything theatrical in quite some time, I was a little bit nervous, but I convinced myself that I could always sit in the corner and play the shy, quiet foreigner who doesn’t understand what’s going on.

Carole introduced me to everyone waiting outside, who clearly already thought I didn’t know much, because they didn’t even try to do les bises with me, and said, “‘ello, ‘ow are yoo?” upon hearing that I was American. Even the teacher, when she arrived, tried to speak English with me. Bummer, but at least it meant that the expectations were low. Once inside, everyone had to fill out a form because it was the first class of the year, and they all goofed off because everyone already knows each other from previous years. I sat silently in my chair, wishing I’d stayed at the Rozumeks’ house.

We circled up and had little introductions: “My name is Manon, I am sixteen, I go to such-and-such a school, I live in Fribourg, and I like theatre and don’t like math” {the last part was a common theme}. Not only did I feel awkward being at least 3 years older {usually 4 or 5} than everyone else; I also felt self-conscious about my speaking abilities, and there was a hobo peering in the window. No, really. He wouldn’t go away; it was really creepy.

Warm-ups helped; we played the game where you pass the clap to the next person, but you can reverse direction or skip people as you please, as long as you keep up the rhythm. Then we had one individual walk up to another and make a sound, which the second person had to repeat back before doing the same to someone else, with another sound; it was clear that, even without words, people were reluctant to approach me. Great. I’m the American leper.

Isabella, the teacher, then handed out a poem for diction practice, called “La balade de chalclintlicuc} {“The ballad of [completely made-up word]”}. I was reassured by the fact that no one else knew how to pronounce this word, but intimidated by phrases such as “De pernanbouc au Potomac/L’antique Inca lègue aux métèques” and “Maintes statues en stuc d’azteques/Maints masques de caciques en stuc”. Diction practice, indeed. We were given some time to practice, then individually read the poem to the class. When my turn came, Isabelle said kindly, “Caroline, tu veux essayer?” {“Caroline, would you like to try?”} I nodded and stood up, feeling like a kindergartener. “La balade de chalclintlicuc,” I began, but Isabelle quickly interjected, “Tu es de langue maternelle française ou anglaise?” {Is your native language French or English?”} How could she not know that? Hmm. Timidly, I replied, “Anglaise”, cleared my throat, and started to read. “‘La balade de chalclintlicuc…avec un grand accent américain” {“‘The ballad of chalclintlicuc’…with a thick American accent”}. Here we go.

Three stanzas and two or three small mistakes later, everyone was cheering. No way. I turned bright red, took a small bow, and walked back to my seat. “Merci,” I said sheepishly, “Pas mal pour une Américaine” {“Not bad for an American”}. Whew. Alright, the hard part’s over, I thought, watching the rest of the class read. What a relief. That is, until everyone else was done and Isabelle handed out monologues. She said to read it through, practice, and think about how you would act it out.

Just one little paragraph. Not bad. Someone debating which of two chairs to sit in, and the character’s name was even “L’angoissé” {“the anguished person”}, so not too much characterization required. I went third, and got through it just fine. Yann, sitting next to me {who spent a good deal of his time singing the line “I love to love you, baby” in mocking falsetto}, said, “Bravo. Très bien fait” {“Very well done”}, which was encouraging. After each individual performance, the student received a card. Mine said, “fier” {proud}. This time, I had to practice in my head while others were reading, because we wouldn’t be given more time than that. But by this point, I was really excited, really enjoying the performances, and really glad to have come along. It was especially fun guessing the adjectives that other people had on their cards, like “polite”, “curious”, “careful”, etc. Yann got “gaffeur” {blundering}, and turned out a perfect piece of melodrama that ended with the improv’d addition of “Oh, desespoir!” {“Oh, despair!”} with his hand to his forehead. Fantastic. I snapped a quick group photo before leaving, the full weight of my imminent departure now settling on me.

Clockwise from top left: Yann, Isabelle, Carole, Léticia, Benoît, Amina, Manon.
Middle: Leyla

Olivier picked up Carole, Amina, and I, and Amina spent a few minutes of the car ride boosting my ego.

Amina: Tu m’as vraiment choquée; j’aurais dû filmer, mais j’étais là, bouche bée. [to Carole] Elle a des talents cachés {You really shocked me. I should have been filming, but I was sitting there openmouthed. She has hidden talents}.
Carole: Tu ne la connais que depuis quatre ou cinq heures! {You’ve only known her for four or five hours!}
Amina: Alors, ils étaient cachés pendant quatre heures! {Well, they were hidden for four hours!}

We discussed her coming to visit me back home or in Wisconsin, and as she left, she said to me, “Si je peux te dire une chose, c’est ça: fais du théâtre” {“If I can tell you one thing, it’s this: do theatre”}. Needless to say, I was exhilarated.

At this point it was about 9 PM, and we returned to the chalet one last time, famished and fatigued, and feasted on seven pies from the pizzeria down the street {including one with capers and anchovies, and “The Tunisian”, which has eggs on it. Whoa}. I said goodbye to the gosses and the boys, and went to bed, i.e. ran around my room putting the finishing touches on packing, and finally collapsed in Carole’s bed.

My Conquest

{Wednesday, September 3}

It's my last day, so we're now trying to cram in every little thing possible. Because of the kids {first, unable to stay home alone and now needing to be fed lunch and picked up from school}, we didn't get to venture too far, like to Zurich or Bern, but I feel quite fulfilled and satisfied with my time in Switzerland. Today, we will attempt to find a watch, go see Sophie's goats, join Carole for her theatre class at the conservatory, and eat pizza all together. It may not sound ambitious, but knowing this family, it is.

Yesterday, after a nice lunch, Isabella decided to take me to Le Moléson {"Mo-lay-son"; Shin, if you got your postcard, that's what the picture is of}. Having seen this postcard and pictures, I thought "Cool, more cows. Alright." We hopped in Virgil's car and drove to Moléson-Village, which seems to have very few buildings...besides one labeled "Funiculaire", which sits on the side of a mountain. Isabella had pointed out a Funiculaire in Fribourg. It looked like this.

Sure. Let's go. Let's take the Funiculaire up a mountain. The guy at the counter asked if we wanted an aller-retour {round-trip ticket}. "Euh...j'espère que oui!" {"I certainly hope so!"} I joked with nervous laughter {the ticket itself was very cute; it even says ":-) Bonne journée! :-)" {"Have a good day!"}. Le Moléson, Isabella explained, is where people come to ski {hence the potential need for a one-way ticket only. Quite a relief}. We took our seats on the little tram, which faced backwards, because I really needed to be reminded of how far off the ground I was going to be. It wasn't too bad, though, I think because I concentrated on the side windows rather than the very large, very transparent front window.

We arrived at a place called "Plan-Francey", which got me wondering where exactly "Le Moléson" itself was. Hmm. Probably just a general term for the whole area. I stepped off the tram and had a look around. The scenery wasn't bad - nice view of the towns below, sloping fields of grass, car on thin black cables leading to very high precipice...oh.

Oh.

Oh.

I think I found Le Moléson.

Isabella grabbed my wrist and urged me to hurry toward the cable car {and what seemed to be my imminent death}. I can't believe people actually pay money to do this. I reluctantly stepped in and held on to the pole in the center for dear life. There was a redhead with her husband who looked just as nervous as I was, and we exchanged nervous glances - an international language if ever there was one. The best part was when the car got to the support beam, where it changes angles witha large clank; Mme Redhead's and my eyes got about ten times wider.

We reached the top. I stepped out of the swinging car and onto the platform, a metal grate with large, hexagonal holes. How sadistic. I tried to be as light on my feet as possible - as if it would have made a difference - and took a look around. Incredible. I was at a loss for words {in French, anyway}, so I'll supply the view, and you can fill in the blanks.

Look, Grandpa, they have a weather station! It measures rain, sunlight, temperature, wind speed, and lots more; very cool.

There are also hiking trails all over, for the more intrepid visitors {and those who don't have to leave to pick up the kids at school}. But we did get to spend some time sitting on a bench, enjoying the view, and chatting; Isabella told me about fromage d'alpage {alpine cheese}, which comes from the cows that graze on the sides of the mountain, and is apparently really strong and salty. They bring the cows up in June, and back down in September; cows can't walk down stairs, but they can apparently walk down mountains. She also told me that she has a degree in engineering, which increases my respect for her that much more. We ran to catch the Téléphérique {cable car} as it went back down, but decided to stop for a minute in Plan-Francey to check out the view, forgetting that the Funiculaire was about to leave. thus it was that we missed our passage down and were stuck in the middle of the mountain for another 20 minutes until the next one came. We sat down, watched the cows, talked...when we heard the tram arrive, we laughed and said that we'd better hurry, so as not to miss it again. We paused to look at map, pointing out Le Pâquier and Gruyères and Moléson-Village, the second tram in a row to which we therefore missed. Yes, again. Really. But we did make the third tram and arrive home, late though we were, safe and sound.

All in all, a nice and {mostly} successful trip.