La Vie En Rose.

Yes. La Vie En Rose, baby.

While in transit today I decided to listen to some old-ecole Edith Piaf on my iPod instead of the usual Wilco and Billy Bragg (okay fine, Akon and T.Pain.) Metro-creepin' with some great classic French music coming out of those earbuds is so much better.

But a walk-to-class song can barely define my progress of blending in and feeling more comfortable in a city that was entirely new to me just a month ago.

I have yet to leave France, so that month should be plenty of time for me to obtain a certain amount of Frenchiness, right?  

Well how about we change up the pace of this petite blog and write up a little score sheet of the supposed...

 

Transformation of Jenna Bean to 

L'Haricot Parisien.  

This is totally stolen from a column introduced to me by Miss Atassi. Furthermore, the following bullet points may or may not be filled with stereotypes, sweeping generalizations, and cliches.  And yes, that Photoshopping was heinous.  Just play along, please.

• Post-class picnic on the Seine with, yes, a baguette and cheese = +1
• Getting annoyed with loud American blowing her nose during my Friday afternoon alone time at a museum = +2
• Reading a French newspaper on the way to class in the morning = +2
• Reading a French newspaper on the way to class in the morning with a French-English Dictionary in my lap = -2
  
• Smiling awkwardly and saying "oui... uh.. oui, bonjour.. I mean bonsoir?" everytime my Madame introduces me to, well, anyone = -1
• Falling asleep on my Metro ride home but timing it perfectly with the intercom voice and waking up two stops before my own = +3
• Getting up and leaving immediately after paying the bill at a restaurant = -2
• Being a single lady = -a billion?
• Going on a 20 Euro budget week (no food or fun) because of a bea-utiful dress purchase at Palais Royal = +5
• Being smoke-free = -5
• Not owning a leather jacket = -2
• Cutting down on electricity usage = +2
• Absolutely freaking out whenever a pigeon flies straight at me  = -2
• Drinking tea, and drinking it from a UW Journalism mug = -1
• Being fully caught up on Gossip Girl and LOST but still never having watched any French TV = -2
• Taking a beloved, visiting friend to a highly praised French restaurant by Republique = +2
• Finally making it to said restaurant at 5:00 p.m. when it, and everything else, is closed = -1
• Sitting outside at a cafe, under a heater, on a rainy day after a trip to Musee d'Orsay = +2
• Weighing over 100 pounds = -3
• Dodging doggie-droppings on the street like it's my job = +4
• Making my French teacher laugh = +2
• Learning something new every day about Parisian history, culture and language = +5
• Spending my time with some wonderful Wisconsin folk reminiscing, in English, about State Street and The Terrace = -2
• Eating falafel sandwiches in the Marais on the steps of the St. Paul Cathedral = +3
• Not snarling/puckering my lips while speaking (Dana knows. Correction.. Leel knows.) = -3
• Crepes in the morning, Crepes in the evening, Crepes at supper time (when you have banana and nutella you can eat Crepes anytime) = +2
• Not making out with someone in between bites of my sandwich (because in what world would I ever interrupt sandwich time for such a thing?) = -4
• Stressing about when to book the ideal trip to Italy = +3
• Being chronically late.  All the time.  = +1

Ooh, but wait, we've got a bonus section!  Let's not be racially exclusive here.  Yes, the French locals and American students are abundant in Paris, but what about the Arabs?  I may have been born in Hinsdale and my Arabic-speaking skills are a little... shotty. But this girl seems to be going back to her roots in this country.  So I absolutely must present to you Evidence That Jenna Bean Is Slightly Foreign After All. 

• Beginning a strange amount of sentences with "This one time in Syria..." = +1
• Delighting in the discovery of markets selling pita bread = +3
• Having small talk with a man, who could be my cousin, at the kebob shop about the complexity of the Palestinian identity = +4
• Getting my haircut, having my Arab-dar go off, and totally calling that my coiffeur is Lebanese = +2

Our standings?

La Parisienne Jen-na Iiindi = +39

Jenna Arab-not-Hindi = +9

Same ol' Jenna Bean = +1,000,000,028

Well, well, well. It turns out that I still have a ways to go before becoming Little Miss Paris. But if that transformation means having to sacrifice bits of myself for a more-chic-but-kinda-scary French identity, I'll do without.  (Queue music played when Uncle Jessie reveals his softer side, please.) 

For now I can live with walking the cultural fence and eating this baguette in my Badger sweatpants.

99 Problems.

My first paper of the semester is due on April 1st.  

I haven't written... anything... since my non-finals week last December. My Wisconsin friends will actually be already back from their spring break by the time I need to finish the essay.

The six-pager is for my Art History class, and I basically have to analyze any French painting that is displayed in a Parisian museum and dates prior to 1900.  I've never taken an Art History class before, so this is a little out of my element.  Still, I'm ready for it.  Any suggestions?

Every Wednesday our class meets at the Louvre (we move to Musee D'Orsay in April) and our professor lectures us in French about certain artists we studied in the classroom the day before.  

It's funny because class at the Louvre is still... class. And we will, without fail, still whine about having to attend.  It falls under the list of Problems Abroad That Aren't Really Problems (This fresh baguette hurts the top of my mouth, my homestay neighborhood is too safe, everyone can and will speak English to me, French men are too pretty and too well-dressed, I can't decide if I want a salty or sweet crepe, Europeans are so annoyingly relaxed, my legs are sore from walking to the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral at sunset for free, and so on...)  

Even though I am programmed to complain about any assignment given to me, most of them are actually pretty wonderful.  My first composition for French class was to attend a cafe and write a description of all my fellow-tiny-overpriced-coffee-drinkers.  Basically, a people-watcher's dream redaction.  

Last Sunday I met a friend to study and had a text from her that said, "I'm down the Seine at a cafe right across from the Notre Dame."  Other than that it was very Madison-esque considering we pretended to read for about twenty minutes before giving up to go eat a greasy yet delicious sandwich.

Now don't get me wrong, classes are more challenging than you or pre-abroad Jenna might think.  They're all in French, and the shortest class is an hour and a half long.  Three hours of French literature, no matter how many sexual innuendos are in the texts or how many Haribo Gummy Bears you consume to get you through the class, is still a rough three hours.  And I obviously wouldn't trade the Louvre for Humanities, but when you're in the same wing as the Mona Lisa, tourists will always trump your professor.  I literally have to stand close enough to the prof to wipe spit marks from my notes (gross) in order to hear him properly. 

Oh, so remember my list of Problems Abroad That Aren't Really Problems?  Here's a great one.  A grève, or Metro Strike, will be taking place all day tomorrow.  This means a slow down of my usually dependable and beloved public transportation.  

And why isn't this really a problem?

Well, as a solution, my French teacher decided to cancel our morning class on Thursday.  

Any UW student can agree that cancelled classes are to be absolutely cherished.  Because even if you can't leave your Madison residence because a) the snow pile-up is the same height as the front door or b) the door hinges are frozen in place, we Badgers know better than to expect a snow day and are ready to put on our three pairs of pants and shimmy out the window to make it to Van Vleck at 8:55 a.m.  But here in Paris there may or may not be a slight delay on the subway and Poof!      Class is gone.

But of course we have to make up for a missing class somehow, right? Well now we have to wander around a rich, non-touristy neighborhood where we'll fill out a couple questions and order the plat du jour at a local bistro.  I'd say that definitely beats three hours of comparing future simple with future anteri-something.  

I should probably end this post here because with any reading assignment given to yours truly comes hours upon hours of procrastination.  And well, I'm late.  

If you need me you can find me on Facebook.  

P.S.- For those concerned, Attempt #2 at the Parisian elementary school went much smoother. All I had to do was make them do, "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" and threaten to call the real teacher a couple times.  Success!  

Passenger Side.

It's a common struggle for American students studying in European cities to break away from the "Study Abroad Bubble" and actually integrate themselves into that particular culture.  

Well today, I did it.  I was let into a very exclusive part of Parisian life.

A group of about ten of us were discussing literature, and I thought I was leading a pretty good conversation until one of the participants became overly distracted by a sponge.  I had to grab the sponge and pretend to eat it in order to regain her attention and make the group laugh.    

Oh yeah, she was five years old, and I was reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?  

Shall I backtrack?

My UW program offers an extra 3 credit internship at the local schools in Paris working with English teachers.  I requested working with younger kids, convincing myself that kids are the best way to learn a language with their combination of no patience and simple sentences and vocabulary.  And I was going to be doing arts and crafts with a bunch of adorable French children, how could it not be fun?  Can I work with five-year-olds, too?  Sure can!

I am an idiot.

I showed up at the elementary school for my first day (late, naturally) and as soon as I walked into a room of five-year-olds doing army crawls on the floor (I have no idea) the teacher handed me a box of books and chose ten kids to sit in some small closet with me as I read to them about animals and colors.  

It sounds simple, but when you have one kid scrubbing your foot with a sponge while his buddy is throwing the couch cushion over his head and the third punk is making up gibberish words when I ask Comment dit-on 'chien' en Anglais? it gets a bit tricky.  And let's be real here, my "stern" French words made them laugh a lot more than my sponge-eating stint.  

Now listen, in my defense, I thought I'd be able to handle a bunch of monstrous children speaking a language I half understood because it is for sure not my first time in such a situation.  Exhibit A and Exhibit B.  After spending months in Syria with my cousins' Arabic-speaking kids, I assumed these French suckers would be a piece of pie.  

But fine, hand me the white flag, I am more than ready to wave it.  

I eventually moved to the 3rd grade class with a teacher who was a pretty yet just as scary version of Miss Trunchbull.  After recess, she lectured the class on how they need to respect the American student teacher (moi) and then said something I didn't understand but all 25 kids gasped at once, so it must have been pretty awful.  She was perfectly kind to me, but the class ended when she dragged a sobbing child kicking and screaming (Note: not a cliché, the boy was le-git kicking and screaming) out of the class where she pried a notebook from his hands.  

Part of me wanted to sprint right out of L'École Trinite and e-mail in my no-weeks-notice.  Those brats can be monolingual like the rest of us for all I care.  But then right after I helped the girl who addressed me as Maîtresse Jen-na zip her coat, I walked outside and literally saw un petit écolier eat Le Petit Écolier.  (Translation: A little schoolboy eating a cookie, not another little schoolboy.)  My heart melted, and I had to remind myself that it was my first day...

My first day in my freshman dorm I was convinced my only friends would be Joey, Ross and Phoebe.  My first day at the Badger Herald I was redesigning the front page until 3 a.m. and vowed never to return to that office.  And my first day in Paris I was dragging my luggage in circles looking for an internet cafe to book the next flight home.  

Okay, I digress but the point is this: All of these aforementioned experiences carried on pretty well and produced (slash are still producing) some mighty fine friends and memories.  

So I just have to man up and not let those French midgets push me around, because if I can handle Dre, I can handle anything.

Until next time,

Maîtresse Jenna

P.S - If you have some universal child education tips, POST them.

P.P.S - Dre, if by some strange chance you read this.. I'm totally kidding and it's nothing but love.

Ageless Beauty.

I had a very luxurious and frivolous afternoon on Friday.

First, I went to the new Chanel store at the Champs-Elysees and bought black pumps and a very beautiful over the shoulder bag.

Just kidding, Mom.  (Breathe...)

My chic day really only cost me 6,50 Euro at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs.  (I actually tried to make it cheaper by lying to the cashier and saying I was 18.  She believed me, but it's free for 17 and under only.  C'mon, Hindi!)

So imagine your Wisconsin-born best friend at Brett Favre's birthday party at the Dells where Bucky the Badger serves you home-brewed beer and Erin Andrews feeds you Jin's Chicken (free and without the line) and big screens everywhere are showing every Chicago Cubs loss and there's a live performance by, I don't know, Dierks Bentley.  

Okay so multiply that disgusting euphoria by about a million and you've got me wandering around a museum filled with over the top jewelry, intricate interior design, an exhibit of wall-to-wall graphic design, another room playing famous French advertisements and two floors of fashion sketches, dresses, etc.  I swear I half expected Justin Timberlake and Leslie Feist to be my tour guides.  

The most breathtaking exhibit for me was Sonia Rykiel's collection.  When you first walk into the room there's an entire wall of letters sent to her from Vogue, Michael Kors, God, etc.  I felt like I was playing the best game ever when I discovered another wall of sketches sent to Rykiel from every and any designer you can think of, and then trying to find those same designs in their actuality around the room.  (I think I've lost any male reader of this post when I stopped talking about Erin Andrews.)

I am lucky that this was a museum, not a department store, where I'm not allowed to touch anything, let alone make some "When in Paris!" purchase.  Sidestepped that land mine...  But really it was such an impressive exhibit and so well laid-out (and we know I love me a good lay-out.)

Perfect segway into Funky Graphic Design Exhibit of Antoine and Manuel.  I don't really understand what I was walking through, but it was literally seven rooms of wall-to-wall graphic design that all had a common style of clean lines and cool fonts.  Mmm.. Hinders Heaven...  Some of the stuff was a little quirky for me, but for the most part I was a fan.

The last exhibit Aussi Rouge Que Possible was a collection of red objects ranging in date from Medieval to Present day divided into different categories.  They had a room of Politics displaying propaganda posters from all over the world with the common theme of "red."  Another room of fashion compared things like a haute-couture evening gown to a soldier's uniform.  I should've submitted my high school yearbook.. [red.] holler!

I could go on forever, but no one wants that.  A picture says a thousand words and I have a thousand pictures, so I'll let the next million words take shape in some sort of online album in the near future.  

Time To Pretend.

Although it's a description I have tried to fight off my whole life, I think it's safe to say that here in Paris, I am straight up spoiled.

I was initially upset that I had to abandon my romantic idea of living in a single apartment in Paris and choose the homestay option instead. But then I had to use the same logic I use for most things here and question- when else in my life would I be able to live with a French family with both luxury and ease?

Still, the first few days were tough. The language barrier was a bit thicker than I anticipated, and my normal social life routine had to be very different. With about 25 students in my program and only four living in the dorms, meeting up before doing anything can be annoying. But really, I have another year waiting for me back in Madison of house parties and just bumming around the apartment with my roommates.

So I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started to actually see what I get to come home to every night. I live with a posh, older woman (who has sexier brown boots than I do) in a very classic, beautiful apartment supplied with antique pieces and six bedrooms and my own little fireplace and my own huge armoire (where I can store all my unsexy boots.)

I gave my "Madame" a photo book of Chicago and two UW mugs. The first night we went through the entire book together and she was so impressed by the skyline (my heart strings were pulled, twisted, and snapped right off.) She asked how many floors were in the Sears Tower, and I didn't know, but I looked online and tried to bring it up the next day at breakfast. I thought my French was somewhat coherent considering I translated every word ahead of time. But after I said, "I researched on the Internet and found out that the Sears Tower has 108 stories," she replied with, "Oh wow! Did this happen today?"

But my Madame is a great lady with five kids (all moved out) and sixteen grandkids. She won't let me put dishes in the dishwasher, and there's even a cleaning lady who comes once a week (don't you dare judge my abroad life.) My Madame's son and his two kids were over one night, and I loved them. Well I actually hardly interacted with them, but they could piece together my broken French, so I wish they were around more.

I live walking distance from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysees. I pass a market on my way to the Metro in the mornings, and today I will hopefully (but doubtfully) venture on my first Parisian jog down Avenue Foch.

In case you are rolling your eyes at this post, remember that I am not bragging about my life, because this is not actually my life.

And to be honest, the best part of it all is having the company of someone who, before I leave, will always wish me a bonne journée.

Lost Girls.

I am a bad person and here's why.

As mentioned in my previous post, I came to France with preconceived notions of being surrounded by Parisian beauties. And fine, I wasn't entirely wrong.

It is not unusual to see a tall, thin woman with a beautiful haircut and dangerously high-heeled boots walking hand-in-hand with a taller, thinner man with a more beautiful haircut and a complementing outfit. I, however, am walking hand-in-hand with my over-sized map of Paris while trying to push through some not-so-automatic doors I had mistaken for the Metro exit.

But after figuring out exactly which underground path to take, my alone time on the Metro has become a favorite daily activity. Most of the time I have to put in my headphones once French eavesdropping starts to make my head spin. But fortunately for me, you can people watch in any language.

On my way home around midnight the other night, a Parisian girl who fit my previous general description got on to my car. All of her hair was pulled up into her hat making her look even more model-chic. I stopped staring so that she wouldn't catch the American envy in my eye. But a couple minutes later she caught my attention again for a different reason. Get this... she was completely bent over in her seat, head between her designer boots, puking into a plastic bag.

Vomming.
In.
Paris.

I didn't think it was possible!! I thought public hurling was reserved for college campus game days, not for a city where people don't even spill crumbs from their baguettes. But man did it feel great to be wrong.

During the whole performance I was nudging elbows with the old French man sitting next to me, chuckling as he offered her "un autre sac."

So maybe delighting in the misery of the flawless makes me a bad person. But after a week of stumbling French phrases and wrong, very, very wrong turns, I earned this one.

Now At Last

Paris, for a while, seemed to be a make believe fairy land. Everywhere I looked eager couples and independent women were planning their extravagant escape to Paris to start a new life of glamor and love. But without fail, no one ever seems to make it that far.

Well, this girl did, suckaaaas.

No Ross Gellars or Mr. Bigs or Laguna Jasons or unexpected suburban fetuses or revelations of transexuality could keep J.Hindi behind. (If you understand all of these references... I am embarrassed for/love you.)

Anyway, let's get out of the 2D world.

I am a girl who really tries to not hold expectations of the unknown for fear of being disappointed. But when you're at home for an extra month waiting to go abroad, it's hard not to daydream.

I expected Paris' population to be exclusively tall, thin and beautiful people who look like they just came out of some hipster photoblogger site.
I expected Parisians and their babies to be clad in horizontal stripes, scarves and looks of disdain.
I expected to get spit on by every waiter, cashier and passerby.
And I expected to think the Eiffel Tower was over hyped.

Lucky for me, I was wrong on all accounts.

Instead, I see a mix of people like any other ginormous city. People are young, old, black, white, circle, square, etc. My waiter was jumpy and jovial and the man at the cell phone store gave me a discount and even remembered my name when I went in the next day with some friends... "Iiiindi! Ca va!?!"

And the tourist trap?

Well first off, I didn't spot the Tour d'Eiffel until about 35 hours after I landed. (Yeah, only I could lose the Eiffel Tower in Paris.) I was in the back of the cab driving from my student center to my new homestay. For some reason, the sight of it made me so absolutely excited and emotional. If it weren't for the scary roundabout intersection we were driving on, I probably would've grabbed my cab driver by the shoulders and girlishly shrieked, "Oh my Gaaad it's Paaaa-ris, Monsieur Cabby! It's so pretty eeek! I luff ittt!" And I was just seeing it through awkward angles out a taxi window, so I can kind of understand why a thousand billion tourists get giddy and take leaping pictures in front of it.

Okay well, I've rambled on more than I swore I ever would on a silly blog. So I'll just leave you with my two favorite parts of my homestay thus far.

1- I have a sink and mirror in my room sectioned off, so I don't need to be worried about obsessing about my curly hair or dragging my lazy ass to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

2- Every morning on my walk to the Metro, I get to just stare at the Arc de Triomphe.

I think I can live with that.