New Year's and Zombies

Brandenburg Tor (Personal Photo)

Hello again. 

 I know it’s been a long time since my last post. Ever since New Year’s, I feel like I’ve been on the go and running, and it’s only now—April--that I’ve been able to catch a proper breather. Between exams, planning more trips, choosing courses, editing (for work) with the workload of three, applying for jobs, doing schoolwork/midterms and completing the biggest French project/giving the longest presentation of my entire life...  

Well, “zombie” doesn’t even begin to cover it.  

It was sheer determination not to miss class that dragged me out of bed in the morning. It was by sheer necessity that took care of myself, if you can call it that. It was by sheer force of will—and the need to present a strong front of chipper strength—that I attended karaoke, soirées, expeditions... that I left my apartment at all. All I wanted to do was lie in bed, stare up at the ceiling and cry for no reason at all. I stayed up late working, spent forever falling asleep due to a buzzing mind, and woke up half an hour before my alarm leaping out of bed, heart racing to work some more. I couldn’t even sit still enough to read in bed, my usual wind-down ritual. I slept when I was exhausted; I woke up exhausted. Even the Riviera sun did little to cheer me up.  

The Berlin Wall (Personal Photo)

In the middle of January, during my trip to Paris, I also dealt with the death of a friend, and it hit me harder than I expected. Guilt plagued me for several weeks, and I think it left me emotionally weak and vulnerable, which led to a never-ending cycle of work in February and March. It is April, and it is spring, and I am hoping for a new beginning. I apologize for the overall bleakness of this post. If I am going to post about depressing subjects, I might as well only dampen my keyboard once. 

In case you didn’t know, Berlin hosts one of the largest free outdoors New Year’s Eve bashes in the world. Live music, midnight fireworks, and so many bodies that you could be celebrating in a t-shirt without freezing. Better get there early: Brandenburger Gate gets packed tighter than a frosh’s suitcase and once it’s “full” (i.e. 200% full), nobody else can enter.  

I confess, part of my reason for choosing Berlin for New Year’s because I found an inexpensive hostel when so many other cities were already booked solid. However, I came across a cozy place a bit out of the way that was an absolute steal, provided I stay for a week. No problemo. It was nice to have a home base for such a long time instead of constantly checking in and out in city hops. And there were no shortage of activities, sights, or day trips. I also wanted to take Berlin more slowly—for many of my trips, I’ve been on the go and running (think: Italy).

Mmmm! Expensive hot cocoa (Personal Photo)

 New Year’s was great, although since I am not someone who likes to party all night, I guess you could consider my celebrations tame. I bumped into a trio of Brazilians en route and spent the evening with them. We found out the hard way that the closest U-Bahn station was inaccessible, and even when we got to the party at 7pm, it was jam packed. We squeezed and excuse-meed our way to a spot about 75metres from the stage. Yet, well before midnight, my feet ached; the last twenty minutes were torture, a dance of shifting weight from heel to toe, toe to heel. The fireworks were lovely; the swarm of bodies that followed them was not. It was crazy. The streets were foggy with smoke, the air thick with the bitter odour of gunpowder. Firecrackers exploded out of nowhere as people set them off in the middle of the street. One of them burst only a meter from me and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Broken bottles and bits of cardboard littered the road, orange powder blowing in the breeze. And the crowd surged forward like a scene from The Walking Dead. I was glad when, at a mere 1am in the morning, I could collapse on my hostel bed and sleep.

 

The following day was a more solemn one: I went on a tour of Sachsenhausen, a concentration camp near Oranienburg, a 45-minute S-Bahn ride from Berlin. Although at the time I didn’t feel emotion, by the end of the visit and well into the evening I was on the verge of tears. Even typing this now, months later, tugs at my heart strings. As it should. I won’t describe. It is hard to imagine that so many innocent people were murdered and buried in this spot. The horror, the horror.

Holocaust Memorial (Personal Photo)

That night at the hostel, a group of people from Wales was drinking. Not a lot, they said, but they got to that point where they were loud without realizing they were loud. For some, inexplicable reason it bothered me. More than it should have. All the noise, every slurp, every mouthful chewed bothered me. I wanted to scream; I felt like choking. I actually had a small panic attack. Perhaps it was my delicate state of mind from the emotional day trip, perhaps my fatigue from New Year’s. 

I apologize again for the depressing subject material this post—but this is reality. I am not going to paint a false picture, to post only the happy times. This is part of living abroad, of life. The good times and the bad. Moods surge and ebb like tidal waters, negativity sneaks in unwanted, and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace. You can’t be strong all the time.

When in Rome...

Colosseum (Personal Photo)

My Italy trip would not be an adventure without further misadventures, would it? By the time I arrived in Rome, it was late, so I headed straight to my B&B.

Small problem: it didn’t exist.

I found the building described by my directions, but there was no sign. No name plaque. I buzzed the only occupant with a name and was told no B&B existed in the building, that it was mostly for psychologist and doctors' practices (later, I tried emailing and calling, but never received a response).

I was stranded in a foreign city with sore feet and nowhere to sleep.

Roman Forum (Personal Photo)

I heard singing from a nearby building and entered it, thinking it was a youth centre. Regardless of what it was (I later learned it was a photography studio), the man there took pity on me and gave me water and access to their computer so I could seek accommodation. I eventually found a place to stay. With all the excitement and anxiety, I slept fitfully—even though I was exhausted.

(I also got my ass groped on a crowded subway train on the way to my new hostel... nothing like forward Italian men.)

* * *

My first day was relaxed. I did a hop-on-hop-off bus tour around the city, which was a fun way to orient myself. I sat on the top of the open-air double decker bus and let the Italian wind whip through my hair. I visited a few churches, ate at a nice Italian restaurant, and saw the outside of all Rome’s fabled tourist attractions.

* * *

Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele (Personal Photo)

My second day was action-packed. First I hit the Colosseum, which was definitely worth seeing, although the cloudy weather was not ideal for snapping beautiful photos. As I was meandering over to the Roman Forum, I asked a group of American girls to snap a photo of me in front of it. They thought I was really brave for travelling by myself. (I suppose I was).

When we noticed a Japanese lady standing beside us, looking like she wanted her own picture of the Colosseum, we courteously stepped away. She gestured for us to come back. Apparently she wanted us in the photo, too!

Uh, sure?

The Roman Forum was one of my favourite places in Rome, and I ended up touring it with those American girls (read: conversation buddies and convenient photographers). I love Greek and Roman mythology, and the architecture was a feast for my eyes. I took so many photos that my camera’s battery was half-dead by the time we parted ways (they were headed to the Colosseum, which I had already seen).

Pantheon (Personal Photo)

So I decided to visit the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele (pictured). It is, according to the outside signs, a sacred place. You are not allowed to sit on the steps: security will whistle at you if you do. At the top there are two bowls that emit flames. Up a few more steps are two soldiers in uniform whose job, I suppose, is to stand there.

Another highlight that day was the Pantheon. Unfortunately, it was crowded, although it was awe-inspiring. Its dome was so huge that I couldn’t get a picture that included the oculus (the hole in the ceiling) and the floor! 

On my way to the Trevi Fountain, I noticed a girl who seemed disoriented. She was looking for the Pantheon, and so (rather than try to give her directions in an area filled with tiny streets), I detoured and walked her there. She asked me where I was from and I proudly said I was Canadian. (Canada represent!). 
 

Getting lost is no problem for me—I have two maps, and since I am familiar with how streets are signed in Nice, I know where to look here (i.e on the sides of buildings). To check my bearings I will ask people in tourist shops. Our conversations often go like this:

- Mi scusi...
- Si? 
- Parla inglese? 

Trevi Fountain (Personal Photo)

If I get “si,” I proceed in English. If I get “non,” I can say “Dové ____?” and point on the map. Graztie is something I use often, to which I hear “Preggo” in response. I feel like a tourist (as opposed to in France) because I am forced to rely on my English, but I am proud of what Italian I can say. However, I find myself slipping into French.

The Trevi Fountain, albeit pretty, was so crowded that it was hard for me to snap a picture of it, let alone with me in it! I noticed rose petals floating on top of the water and men selling flowers—as well as a bride in a wedding dress, lifting the bottom of her gown while descending the steps.  

Speaking of steps, I then headed toward the Spanish Steps, which were also super-crowded. I couldn’t get a decent picture. Considering all the other gorgeous sites in Rome, I didn’t understand why it was so popular. By that time, my feet were getting sore, so I returned to my hostel. Nobody else had booked for that night, so I ended up having the six-person dorm all to myself!

 * * *

St. Peter's Square (view from the dome) (Personal Photo)

The third (and final) day began with a tour of the Vatican museums, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s Basilica. I avoided bringing a backpack, since they make you check it, and managed to fit everything into my fanny pack—my water bottle conveniently fit into the knee pocket of my purple scrubs. Some advice for would-be visitors of the Vatican: book in advance. The line is enormous. (I booked and smugly entered right as the museums opened.) At the end of the tour, I climbed the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and had a wonderful view of St. Peter’s Square... which is a circle, but whatever.  

I bussed (HOHO) to Circus Maximus and wandered around a bit, finding two interesting churches. While asking for directions, I met a girl named Flavia who showed me to the Roman baths (which had unfortunately closed) and walked me along Circus Maximus to the Mouth of Truth. The legend goes that slaves were made to out their hand in the slot and if they didn't tell the truth, their hand would be bitten off.

 It reminds me of the trials for witches. 

At night, Rome looks completely different, so my bus ride back was spectacular, even if most of my photos did not turn out. Every time I ride this bus, however, it seems to take a slightly different route. I’m not sure if I was crazy or whether there was simply construction or heavy traffic the bus driver was trying to avoid.  

Anyway, there were other things I could have seen, but ran out of time as energy for. I have no idea how you could do Rome in a day. Two, I imagine, would be pushing it.
 

Pisa and Pizza

After conducting research, reserving trains, and booking hostels all month, I was all set to go to Italy for Toussaint, the week-long holiday at the end of October. The morning before I left, butterflies pressed at the inside of my stomach, fluttering up my throat and bursting through my lips in a series of half-nervous, half-excited giggles.

If we didn't hold up the tower,
it would have fallen already (Personal Photo)

My journey began with a locksmith.  

Since I had an early train (read: 5:30am) the following morning, I crashed on the couch of one of my classmates, who had the apartment to herself. I live about half an hour from the train station by speed walking, whereas she lives only ten minutes. Considering buses don’t run at 4am, taxis are expensive, and solo strolls in the dark often merit unwanted attention from men, I thought it was a smart move. Plus, she was having some other guests over for dinner, and it would be a good time. 

 I arrived, and lo and behold, I discover that my hostess has locked herself out of her apartment (oops!). While she called the locksmith, her other guest and I attempted to pick the lock with two hairpins. Neither of us had done it before. While I read from tutorials online, he followed my impromptu tutelage and wiggled the pins. 

The Baptistery at Pisa (Personal Photo)

An hour later, just as the locksmith is coming up the stairs, he successfully opens the door (Murphy’s law!). His triumphant cry was (almost) worth the 30 euros it cost just for him showing up. “Achievement unlocked,” I quipped, before proceeding to enjoy a fantastic evening of wine, food, and laughter.

Nothing exciting happened the next morning until the ticket machine ate my Carte Bleue (debit card).

The security guard said a guy could come open it at 7:30am. Since I had a train to catch in 20 minutes, and since I also had my Canadian credit card and plenty of cash, I figured I'd plough on ahead and notify my bank when I had wifi. (More on this subplot later.)

I was on the train, reviewing my itinerary and my next steps:

1) arrive in Ventimiglia,
2) get my Eurail pass stamped, and
3) board my reserved train to Pisa.

I would have eighteen minutes. Plenty of time, right?

Wrong.

It's really heavy, trust me (Personal Photo)

Partway to Ventimiglia, the train stopped. My heart crashed against my ribcage with anxiety, thinking that every passing second was one fewer I would have to do the aforementioned tasks. It was only when I saw another train pass by that I realized why we had stopped. 

(I would later learn, after several more train trips, that Italian trains have an unhealthy habit of being late, much like university students.)

However, the delay meant that I only had six minute to make my connection, not eighteen. Eek! Thankfully, I am well-trained at running to catch trains, planes, and buses, so I made it.

As I wandered around, looking for a seat, I bumped into a Brazilian guy named Diego. As luck would have it, he was my seatmate and was also going to Pisa. We became travel buddies for the day, snapping touristy photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and splitting a pizza. He even carried my travel foodstuffs in his backpack. Diego was a gentleman, the kind of man who helped people with their luggage and offered to take pictures of people without being asked. We parted ways when it was time for me to climb the tower (that's right, I climbed it, warped steps and all!), and then I caught the train to Rome.

Warped steps from tourists (Personal Photo)

View from the top of the tower (Personal Photo)

Grâce aux “Sens”-ations

View from Grasse (Personal Photo)

Photographs never do a city justice. It is an attempt to capture a moment in time, although time never stands still, never poses for cameras to click-click-click the shutter buttons. A photograph captures sight, but not sound. Even video, which can record movement and sound, only appeals to two dimensions of the sensory experience.

But what is missing is touch, caress of the wind as you walk along the promenade, the warm tickle of sunlight on your cheeks. And smells, good and bad: baking aromas that drift by as you pass a patisserie; the brush of a passer-by’s perfume; the sweet, smokey odour of a fresh cigarette; gasoline from idling cars; and the occasional whiff of dog shit. And feelings: the excitement that resurfaces over and over when you realize that you are in France.

At the parfumerie Molinard (Personal Photo)

By you, of course, I mean me. Unless you’re one of my classmates, you are reading this, perhaps wishing you were here, but only capable of reading my words and viewing the photos I post. I can attempt to paint a picture with words, but I fear they cannot do justice to my actual experience here.

Let me return to the topic of senses—smell, in particular. On October 10th I visited Grasse, a small town that challenged my olfactory organs. Situated 1.5 hours from Nice by bus, Grasse is the perfumecapital of the world.

After touring the premises, I decided to join four of my classmates in a perfume workshop. It was pricey, but I enjoyed myself, so from that respect it was worth every centime. We learned about the smell pyramid: perfume is not simply one scent sprayed onto your skin. It is complex, a layering of complementary essences. It starts with the head note, your initial impression of a perfume upon scenting it. It is short-lived, lasting between five and ten minutes, before giving way to the heart note. The heart note is the theme of the perfume, often fruity or floral in nature. The five of us had the opportunity to create our own unique scent of perfume by blending smells from each of the three layers of a perfume. Before actually mixing it, we used scent sticks dipped into the bottles and mixed and matched. We then got to keep a 50ml bottle of it; if we ever want to, we can order more from the perfumery. 

Atelier de parfum (Personal Photo)

Ah, how to describe mine? I called it Maeve’s Kiss—for those who know who “Maeve” is. In addition to being a character from my writing, the name “Maeve” belongs to the Fairy Queen (think Romeo and Juliet’s “Mahb”), and it means intoxication. It’s light and floral at the beginning, then moves into a fruitier heart note, and lingers on the skin with rich sweetness. (I’ll tell you now—there’s no chocolate in it. As much as I love the flavour on my tongue, the odour did not agree with my nose.)

In another parfumerie, we learned that perfume is put in opaque, rather than transparent bottles for a good reason: sunlight breaks down the perfume and changes its smell. Makes sense, right? And the difference between eau de toilette and perfume is the concentration of the essence. Eau de toilette has about half as much essence and is better for spraying on your hair and clothes, whereas perfume is better used directly on your skin (wrist, elbows, behind the ear, behind the knee). Professional perfume experts are called “noses” and can spend over seven years of training honing their olfactory senses.

Eiffel Tower-shaped perfume (Personal Photo)

I splurged and purchased my honorary Eiffel Tower souvenir—in the form of eau de toilette. It has a lighter musk than my perfume. I can’t describe its smell because, at present, every exposed inch of my skin is saturated with a different perfume. We were able to test perfumes before purchasing them, and since perfume smells differently on the skin than in the air, I had to resort to desperate measures.

After seeing a museum and a small cathedral, we caught the bus back to Nice. We even saw a rainbow on the way back. No matter how many times I see a rainbow, it is never any less beautiful a sight. 

Smell you later!

Crazy Little Thing Called Course Registration

(For your viewing pleasure, I have included some photos from my exploration of the area around the Museum of Contemporary art, although they have little connection to my post. Enjoy!)

Entrance to the Museum of Contemporary Art (Personal Photo)

Class registration was... interesting. And chaotic. 

At UWO, we register for our courses entirely online. If a class is full, we can register for another class and then swap when there’s a spot. Then there is an add/drop period, after which you’re stuck in the courses you’ve signed up for. For the most part, you then attend lectures on the first day of classes.

At the University of Nice, tutorials and electives are separate from lectures, at least in terms of registration. The entire campus signs up for those courses in the same room, regardless of year or program. For lectures, you just show up during the first week of class. Essentially, you audit your courses until sometime in October, when you register for exams. This is in place of an add/drop period, for if you decide to drop a course, you simply stop attending class and don’t sign up for the exam.

The hour before this sign-up session, my classmates and I were being told about course registration in general. From our chairs, we could see the crowd amassing outside the room, pressing against the sides of the doors and occasionally creeping a toe over the threshold. 

La Tête Carrée (Personal Photo)

At some unseen signal, they swarmed into the room like ants and filled up every available seat. Then the professors then filed in and sat in the front rows. One of them announced where each year would be registering, but because of the acoustics of the room, I couldn’t hear much more than echos. Still, I managed to successfully manoeuvre my way around the room, pushing and shoving and saying “Excusez-moi” more times than I can count. There must be an art to it, since some people were weaving their way through the mass of bodies with seeming ease.

On another note, marks are given out of 20, and phantom whispers have told me, to my inner perfectionist’s horror, that it is incredibly difficult to do well in school here. I’m trying not to think about that—I have more pressing issues at the moment [such as getting my Carte de séjour]. 

 

The Acropolis (Personal Photo)

The credit system is also different. From my understanding, courses are valued in terms of “ECTS,” which seem to translate as: 1 hour of class = 2 ECTS. Most courses are 4 ECTS. Students require 30 ECTS per semester. Thankfully, as an exchange student, I don’t have to worry too much about this. I simply pick three courses worth 4 ECTS. At this moment in time, I’m planning on taking Phonology, Medieval French and Translation (although I’m going to check out the Sociolinguistics course and a Philology courses, too).

This semester, I will only have twelve hours of class per week... a welcome reprieve from my previous semester, which was twenty-two hours per week! Plus—wait for it, wait for it!—my weekend will begin Wednesday afternoon!

We likes that, doesn’t we, Preciousss?

Ready, Get Set, Fly!

The idea of living in another country is exciting. And terrifying.

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

I never thought I was one to go on an academic exchange. The travel bug has tread outside my bedroom door, but never before has it crawled over the threshold to sneak into my bed and bite me. I saw the opportunity of a lifetime, and some impulsive force compelled me to seize it, clutch it to my heart with both hands, and not let go.

Completing paperwork and hunting down documents was not how I planned spending my free time in the summer, nor making difficult phone calls with insurance companies and banks. People idealise the process, envy that you’re going abroad and they’re staying behind. Little do they know the stress of it all.

In September, I will be flying to Nice, France. It will be my first flight alone; although I am a seasoned traveller, I am still nervous.

In my lifelong dream of going to France, I’ve always thought of Paris, the City of Lights. I hear it is a beautiful city. The weather promises to be mild, for Nice is on the coast of the Mediterranean sea; I may come to miss the Canadian winters I have grown up with, but I will never miss shovelling snow. It will be my home for the next nine months.

I leave tomorrow. I can hardly believe it.

My heart quivers whenever I think of my approaching flight, as though moths have taken residence beneath my skin, gnawing at me like I am made of cotton. These past nights have brought me poor sleep; troubled dreams of flying and getting lost haunt me, ghosts that do not trouble me as much during my waking moments. My bags are packed, but a nagging voice at the back of my mind whispers that I’ve forgotten something critical, sowing seeds of doubt that I do not need.

Likely as not, I will not believe that I am actually going to be spending the year in France until I wake up in the morning in my apartment, breathing in the sea air.