tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54803983891781484142024-03-12T20:08:51.233-07:00Rue en RoseRuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-18369482378043381412015-11-15T19:05:00.000-08:002015-11-15T19:06:51.274-08:00Grieving for Paris<br />
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<span class="s1">What to write. With so many voices flaring up, in anguish, anger, anxiety… what to write when people are praying for Paris, condemning people for praying for Paris, warring over the media, warring over the world. What can I say that will make any difference. Although my heart and mind are full of many things, what will it matter, I wonder. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was catching up on work-stuff and blaring Sara Bareilles at the office when I found out. I’m glad I was the only one there. I fell into shock as I watched the BBC coverage play out, words tumbling into a traffic jam in my brain. Paris? Blood bath? Terrorists? It couldn’t be happening. Not again.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was there in January when Paris was first attacked, mere days after New Year celebrations. I looked into the eyes of fellow commuters on the metro the day after, ghoulish with grief and fear. I felt the tremor in the breath of a city known for its ease of living. Paris had clenched her fists tight around the joie de vivre, choking it a little while trying to keep it alive. I didn’t stay inside, I walked the streets. I marched in the solidarity march of 1.5 million people. I prayed ceaselessly. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, standing beside the ones I had learned to love so deeply. Eventually, her hands eased open and music began to waft through the streets of Paris again. “We cannot hide,” they said, “we won’t be afraid.” They were inspiring the way they stood. I know a lot of Americans like to joke (or not joke) about the French being cowards, but in that moment, in the moment it mattered very much, they were the embodiment of bravery. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I left in September, those terrible events in January were remembered for their rallying marches and “Je suis Charlie” graffiti at the Place de Republique. We had risen above the terror. Life restored.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And then Friday night. This time not against a specific religion or media faction. Just indiscriminate carnage. Thank God no one I knew was hurt. Thank God my friends in Paris responded quickly on social media to tell me they were safe. I did not have to hold my breath for hours as some did, only 20 minutes or so. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Messages from friends and family flooded in––<i>so glad you are back home, you left at the right time, etc</i>. But I didn’t want to be stateside. I don’t want safety and comfort right now. I want to be there, in the thick of it. I want to wrap the city in my arms, I want to hold her hands now battered and tighter than ever. As I fell asleep Friday night, I kept begging God to make me wake up in France. Transport me. Do a miracle, something please. I closed my eyes tight, mustering every ounce of faith I could. Please, let me go to them, my heart ached. Just let me go.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Saturday morning came, and I was still in Columbus. I numbly worked my weekend morning shift at the little French bakery in town, which had to this point been a happy reminder of days gone by. That day, it was fortress. Local support was immense. The local news came. People expressed their condolences. We all stapled little white cards with the Paris peace symbol to our aprons. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Then I went home and sat very still for a long time. I don’t know how long. I robotically scrolled through my newsfeed as the death toll climbed. I wanted to stop, but bad news is a drug. Finally exhausted, I fell asleep at 6pm. I would wake every so often, check my phone for messages from friends still MIA in Paris, see the new death toll, and cry myself back to sleep. Sleep was an escape. I slept for 14 hours. Every time I woke up, I believed I would wake up in Paris to run downstairs and hug and kiss my beloved host family. Every time, I would wake up in Columbus and feel the aftermath of a heart breaking. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Sunday, and I am still here. Now the blogs are flaring up. People exploiting pain for platforms. People righteously condemning things they know little about. People who suddenly become world experts. People trying to make sense of senseless violence. People hurting. I know so well the walk down Canal Saint Martin, a mere block from restaurants now peppered with blood and bullet holes. Can’t you see, it is my love who has been blown up and attacked and murdered. Perhaps there is a place for that. But here, in this little space of internet, I want to make room for grief. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Paris is not just a beautiful city or the City of Light or Love or one of the world’s top travel destinations. Not to me. She is the home I dedicated the last year of my life learning to love, studying with unadulterated attention. She taught me to admire the waft of a well-ripened cheese and the clack of stilettos on cobblestone. She opened her secret gardens and historic treasure troves to me. She invited me to behind the curtain of the tourist trail, to know her most intimate places. She is Paris. Can’t you see, it is my love who has been blown up and attacked and murdered. She is what I had when I was alone last year: her streets, her concert halls, her restaurants, the very ones now peppered in blood and bullet holes. How do you lose your love not once but twice? First to distance, then to violence. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I know the French. They will not cower to threats. They will retaliate (and already have). They will continue sitting in restaurants and attending concerts and cheering on Paris Saint Germaine. I saw it in their eyes in January. And I see it even now. I want to launch into a call to action here, to tell you that we must stand with them (of course we must), that we must support our oldest ally (of course we must). But there are so many voices already telling us what we must do. So instead, I simply invite you to grieve with me. Because while everyone is waving around guns and peace signs and soapboxes, there is power in stillness and silence. There is power in simply looking the tragedy in its face, seeing it for what it is, and embracing its pain. Because I believe God works through pain, through tragedy, through loss, through violence, to bring us into a higher level of unity than before. So say a prayer for Paris, and say a prayer for me and my host family over there. And let’s move through this tragedy together.</span></div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-5501764110185152062015-11-11T06:42:00.000-08:002015-11-11T14:47:22.569-08:00Making My New Life<div style="text-align: justify;">
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I was prepared for a hard time coming back from Paris. When I made the decision to follow my dream to move to Paris, I had subconsciously accepted the fact that life after Paris would likely (excuse my French) suck. If I was cashing in on a dream like Paris now, that basically bankrupted me in terms of dreams-come-true for––well, quite a while. I had set my reentry expectations low. Probably living in my parents' basement for a year, trying to find a job that paid enough to cover my students loans, a job I would by no means enjoy but do because I had to. such was the price I was willing to pay. But who said there was a price to pay for following your dreams anyway? As far as God is concerned, there is no maximum balance in the dream bank. </div>
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So as the finish line crept closer in Paris, thoughts turned to what kind of life I was going to make for myself when I came home. I was starting over, clean slate. I could go anywhere, be anything. Well, not really. All the big exciting cities were crossed out after one look at the rent rates. (Since when did an apartment cost $3K a month?!) Then I came around to the fact that trying to break into a job market in a new, big city where I had no previous contacts whilst living abroad working a job not related to my field did not exactly highlight me as a feature candidate for any job. And besides all this, I had this nagging feeling I was supposed to go back to Columbus.<br />
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Back to Columbus? It did feel like a little bit of a defeat. Going so far and then ending up right back where I started. But one thing I learned in Paris is that the city is only a jumble of buildings without the beating hearts to give it warmth and spirit. The people are really what make a place great. And I know some pretty incredible people in Columbus. So after snacking on some humble pie, I opened myself up to the possibility of moving anywhere, even Columbus. I decided I would pursue all avenues, and follow whichever one seemed to open up to me. The first step was finding a job.</div>
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There was a film company I had volunteered with a handful of times before leaving Columbus for Paris. Their talent, creativity, work philosophy––everything sang to me. I had secretly been stalking their website for years waiting for a job opening, but the timing was never right. Then, during my time in Paris, the owner of the company reached out to me because he was planning a surprise anniversary trip with his wife to the world's most romantic city and had read my blog about my travels and favorite spots in Paris. As you know, sharing my City of Lights is a passion, so I was only to eager to answer his request for tips on where to go and what to see in four days in Paris. During their trip there, they asked me to dinner and we enjoyed 6 hours of fine food, wine, and conversation. The natural turn of discussion led to future plans and what I was planning to do next in my career. To make a long story short, months later these discussions turned into a job offer that encompassed everything I described that night in Paris as my dream job. I knew when I returned to the States wherever I worked next I would have to really believe in the company, not just love the job. Somehow I ended up with the luxury of both. I was going to call Columbus home again... but where exactly in Columbus would I call home?</div>
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I had found the open house posted on Craigslist a week before coming home, and had immediately messaged Hannah (Italy travel conspirator and now roommate!) about checking it out. It was an adorable little brick townhouse with wood floors and a little backyard garden. Located right in the Short North, the most happening district in Columbus right now, it was a little real estate slice of heaven! Hannah met with the landlords the day of the open house, and gave me a little virtual tour via Facetime (modern technology, right?!). We were approved for the apartment, so long as we could make it in to sign the lease before the landlord couple left for a two week trip to Italy. Shall we call it a sign? And that meant stepping off the plane and speeding off to their neighborhood European cafe to sign the papers. My poor parents, tossed from one uncertainty to the next. Job, check! Apartment, check! One last miracle to go.</div>
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After a year of amazing public transportation in Paris, it was like pulling teeth to merge back onto automobile highway. I wanted to walk everywhere, but Google Maps gave me a big fat slap of reality: three hour commute by foot to work. We're not in Europe anymore, Toto. Next option: public transport. Despite there being a direct bus from my front door to the front door of my office, Columbus' bus system is notoriously inconsistent, unreliable, and not exactly safe. So I was on the hunt for a new car.<br />
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A year living on an au pair salary taught me frugality as much as a year living in Paris taught me expensive taste. After zipping through Paris rues all year in a tiny Peuguot, the thought of buying anything bigger than a subcompact car was outlandish. With little money to spare for a car, the options were limited. My real dream car was a Honda Fit: tiny, entertaining handling, and amazing gas mileage. But even the used options were outside my price range. So I scoured Craigslist for the cheapest dependable options I could. I became obsessed. Perhaps because I had no other project to work on at the time. I found a Honda Civic Coup that I really liked, but the seller never called me back. I found a basic of basic Honda Civic Sedan whose handsome owner made a convincing case, but it would have meant an enormous sacrifice of taste (no offense, Angelo). Then there were the two Toyota Yaris's that looked like they had been through gang fights. My hope for a stylish affordable car had died long ago in the dreams junkyard. Then, in the last minute, just days before starting my new job, I found him... a 2007 Honda Fit waiting in a far away town barely visible on a map. In a day he was mine. His name is Francesco, meaning "French" in Italian. He's a little confused between countries, just like me.<br />
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I'm now a month into my job, and still in disbelief at how quickly life can change. I still have moments where I'm back in Paris, when I hear French in a movie or the other night when I saw a crane out of the corner of my eye and thought it was my girl Eiffel. But my world is patching up together nicely, and I am happy to say with full conviction, the dream truly never ends.<br />
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Bisous, readers!</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-22529622739424983782015-10-14T13:42:00.001-07:002015-10-14T13:42:42.731-07:00A Month after Paris<div style="text-align: justify;">
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My dear devoted readers, here we are again, another one of those milestone posts. I have been MIA on the blogosphere for a while because I've had a few things going on:</div>
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<li style="text-align: justify;">2 week train adventure all over Italy (pictures and stories coming, and trust me, they are worth the wait!)</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">last days in Paris</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">stopover in Iceland on the flight home (Blue Lagoon, anyone?)</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">2 weeks at home putting together my new life</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">starting my new job</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">moving to a new apartment</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">buying a new car</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">relearning a new city</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">connecting with old friends</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">the list could go on and on!</li>
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So in summary, here's what's happened these past two weeks!</div>
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After amazing adventures with Hannah in Italy and reveling in the last few days with Paris to myself, I finally boarded myself and all 150 lbs of my luggage onto a flight bound for... Iceland! I cashed in on the Icelandair freestopover offer and took a few hours to relax and reset at the Blue Lagoon, a mineral spa nestled into the open air on a bed of lava rock, before continuing my long journey home, which became all the longer when I was not permitted to board my last flight a half hour before takeoff in Toronto. I'm usually pretty calm about things like this, but after 24 hours of travel, lugging around those 150 lbs of luggage all over the enormous YYZ airport, and being refused entrance to see my family whom I hadn't seen for over a year, I was hysterical. Like, the "ugly sobs to the random airport attendant" kind of hysterical. After chasing down multiple airport personnel trying to find help and being misdirected multiple times, I finally located the right people and after two hours, I collapsed in the only available hotel room for miles for a few nights sleep before my rebooked flight early the next morning. </div>
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I was honestly nervous to come back home, most of all nervous to see my family. They are the people who know me the best, and I had just lived the greatest adventure of my life... without them. Sure there were video chats and phone calls, but after such a long time... would our relationships still work the same way?<br />
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It seemed a silly kind of fear, especially for anyone who knows my parents, who may be two of the most living, accepting people the world has ever known. But I had it all the same. It's just a reality of coming home, I guess. But as soon as I fell into their arms and touched their faces and heard their voices, I knew: this kind of love does not change with distance or time. It is constant and accepting and gentle and understanding and flexible and firm. It's a love not so very common, unfortunately, but it's the real love we all are seeking. It makes me realize how different my life is because my parents have made learning and inhabiting this love Jesus demonstrated for us their lives' work. Love as a choice and not a feeling. My perspectives and experiences and tastes and clothes and opinions may have changed, but at my core remained something that will always anchor my spirit to theirs: a relationship with Jesus. I don't want to get all preachy, but I'm just trying to be open and share my relief of coming home realizing the security felt in relationships built on such a strong foundation.</div>
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I've spent these first weeks back in America taking my time and easing into everything. No big welcome home parties or big reunion bashes. Coming home, I wanted to sneak in the back door, tap people on the shoulder and whisper, "I'm back!" For good reason. The shock has been simultaneously enormous and subtle, most of it happening below the surface so that I'm not even aware of it, but I can feel it. I've lost weight since moving home; I never can eat much when I'm grieving, and I am grieving. The loss of a place and people and an existence so wonderfully free and lovely and magical... and fragile.<br />
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When people ask me, do you wish you were still there, I can't really say yes because "there" is a world that no longer exists. I can't go back to my friends or my apartment or my job or my lifestyle because all of these have moved on. The world I loved so much no longer exists, which makes it feel all the more like a dream. I'll always have Paris, but as I learned so deeply in those last few weeks alone in the city, it's the people that make the place. I can't go back to the world I had, so it becomes all the more precious to me. And as I tell everyone my stories from Europe over and over again, and they become immortalized in sepia-colored vignettes, and hang like memories on a wall, I will still have that special place in my heart where the 6th floor sisterhood lives on, in a secret place I will go to visit if ever I am sad, to live again in the year the world was mine. </div>
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But it is surely not the last adventure, for the next has already begun...</div>
<br />Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-74228296400414222242015-09-11T07:15:00.000-07:002015-09-11T07:15:02.653-07:00The French Riviera: Meet Me in Monaco<span style="background-color: white; color: #505050; font-family: Rosario; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.8819999694824px; text-align: justify;">Photo Journal: Monaco | July 2015</span><br />
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As a silver screen baby, we watched more black-and-white films at our house than ones in color. My mother always made sure we knew the stars of the old black-and-white films. And no one had more effortless class than the princess herself, Grace Kelly. Naturally I was thrilled to be able to visit the princess's domaine, also called known to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Monaco was our last destination in our little three day excursion to the French Riviera. But I have to tell you something...the whole thing was a bit, well, a bit strange. We arrived at the train station fit for a movie star with our bags after a heart-warming farewell to our more-than-generous hosts in Le Rouret. I was excited. But stepping outside, I was a bit bewildered. There didn't seem to be any clear direction pointing us to where we wanted to go. So we just picked a highway that seemed right by our map and set out, only to end up in a beautiful but reclusive residential area––not what we had in mind. We tried again, this time finding our way to the Exotic Gardens, which turned out to be no more "exotic" than a mini golf course and a playground. Stumped again, we sat and reevaluated our plan. We need to go down the mountain. Monaco has a number of free elevators to transport people from one street to another, as the country is basically built along a steep cliffside. We haphazardly discovered this system only after the hottest part of the day, but managed to reach the main historic center near the sea. After lunching on the second seafood pizza of the trip, we again climbed uphill to the castle. (Note to self: do not eat a whole seafood pizza in 100° heat before climbing up a massive hill). The royal castle wasn't open to visitors, but the cathedral containing the graves of many Monaco royals was, and we got to pass by Grace's grave. The rest of the historic part was a nest of twisting pastel streets, lovely but a bit charmless when bursting with tourists. We didn't stay long before heading back to Nice to catch our train home. In short, Monaco was a lovely place to see, but not a very interesting place to be. Still, it was a dazzling finish to our intoxicating journey through the French Riviera. And Grace, you are still as classic as ever.<br />
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<br />Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-41527344152987786402015-09-07T14:00:00.000-07:002015-09-07T14:00:00.639-07:00The French Riviera: Antibes the Secret OneI didn't even know about Antibes when planning our travels to the south of France. But our marvelous host Sara suggested that it had a great historic district and restaurants, so we decided to go check it out for an evening. Oh how glad I am that we did, as Antibes ended up being my favorite city we visited in the French Riviera. We arrived in the afternoon, just in time to be saved by some gelato and air conditioned shopping the cutest store specializing in coffee and teas. Raymonde, the kind saleswoman, even fetched us some cold water from the back when we entered. We had a lovely conversation about the town, the store, and the region. I had lost my voice the day before, so she probably thought I had a severe smoking problem as I wheezed out French verb conjugations. We bought some gifts for our mom, the one to blame behind our caffeine addiction before moving on to the rest of the downtown. Sally found an adorable coffee shop with air conditioning and wifi to catch up with her hubs while I continued to explore and melt in the sweltering streets. But how glad I am I did! I always end up discovering the soul of a city when I least expect it. And as I stepped out of that cool cafe into the heat, something changed I can only describe as magical. The light was golden, no more than golden. Flowers leant their petals to my feet and sweet aromas to my nose. I found myself winding through quiet streets where the only sounds were of babes crying behind wooden slatted windows or pots clanging as the sweet smell of cooking meats wafted into the streets. The enormous plumes of vines and flowers that twisted along the walls beckoned me come in deeper, and at one moment I was utterly lost to world. Eventually I rejoined my sister and we took a turn on the other sie of town, ending on the restaurant street where we met Sara for a scrumptious dinner that was so delightful I forgot to note the name of the restaurant. The long cool drive home through the whispering calm of night that enveloped the French countryside was the perfect ending to our adventures in Cannes and Antibes. The only thing left to do was rummage up a tiara and go play the Princess of Monaco the next morning.<br />
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-52022311105350084082015-09-03T09:29:00.000-07:002015-09-03T10:07:53.305-07:00Happy One Year in Paris<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XcB9RJzgjBJrXAe7UkYlztthfuqGfo3RDNIS3O6dSO9j8MoifvIxbbK0BU8w5b0jwIPHawvSPhyeOzHEKGqtyEJ2Usgu9c0KwQNyDueGhoRZoEyR1ZEI2KPcMGATMmr5rVX7n1gW9ic/s640/blogger-image--492886242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XcB9RJzgjBJrXAe7UkYlztthfuqGfo3RDNIS3O6dSO9j8MoifvIxbbK0BU8w5b0jwIPHawvSPhyeOzHEKGqtyEJ2Usgu9c0KwQNyDueGhoRZoEyR1ZEI2KPcMGATMmr5rVX7n1gW9ic/s640/blogger-image--492886242.jpg"></a></div></div><div><br></div>I remember looking out the tiny American Airlines window, seeing the runway at CDG, and thinking, <i>That's foreign ground. And I'm a foreigner now.</i> I was in such unchartered territory, I didn't even know what I was feeling. But it was big, whatever it was. And now I know it was the beautiful wonderment of a person's first exposure to the world, unique to first time travelers and children. Packing my bags (well, my one suitcase) and moving to Paris for a year was the craziest, best thing I have ever done. And a year later, I still find myself getting lost in the streets and giggling to myself: I can't believe I live here.<div>
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Living in Paris is one of this bucketlist items that was way <i>way</i> out on the "will never happen but nice to think about" categories. Like owning a pet elephant. Or marrying Chris Pine. It just doesn't happen to us normal people who aren't graced enough to play characters in best-selling novels. And here I stand at the end of the year, still a little mystified that it happened to me.</div>
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I've spent this last week wandering the streets I now know so well, reading <u><i>Paris to the Moon</i></u> about another American expat's affair with Paris, and trying to journal out some sort of "what I learned from my year abroad" or "my favorite memories of Paris" summary of the year. How do you summarize a year like this? </div>
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I recently found and read through my journal from a year ago, as I was preparing to make this big leap. The goodbye parties and final traditions and waving goodbye to my parents at the airport. Anyone moving abroad faces natural fears about speaking a new language or finding friends. But my biggest fears during this transition wasn't about those external things; it was an internal battle for self. <i>Who will I become?</i> I wondered. <i>Will I even like myself a year from now? Will I recognize her?</i> Reading those fears scribbled out from the sleepless night before my flight, I want to wrap my arms around that scared, naive girl and whisper, "It's still me, Ruth. You are gonna be alright. And this will be the best year of your life yet."</div>
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There are ways I have changed enormously since I have arrived here. Politics and world views that have taken a half-step to the left or scuttled to the right or just laid down and given up, exhausted. There are also the not-so-obvious changes I will discover over time as I reacclimate to American culture. Little ways of doing things I no longer see the point of, or a longing to taste French home cooking one more time, or realizing one morning I have completely forgotten something wonderfully convenient in the State that didn't exist in France. I want to tell myself, "Yes you have changed in ways you would never have dreamed. You have stretched your wings and shocked yourself by how far they carried you. You are not the same. But you are truer now than you've ever been." Living in a new country unlocks parts of you that you never would have otherwise known were there, let alone how to unlock.</div>
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I'm beginning to pack my bags. The new au pair will be here next week, and tables will turn as I train her to be me. I am making my last visits to my favorite places, eating one last one of my favorite dishes. And of course the fear is there. I worry about going back, the culture shock, the people shock. This year has already brought many surprises to my relationships, ones I didn't expect to follow me to France, others I can't believe finally let me go. I don't have a car or a bed or a job. It's blank slate once again. And then also not. I'm taking the person I've become this year with me.</div>
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That's why I am not so worried about heading home. Because after you live in Paris, you begin to believe that the adventure doesn't end here, that there is even more beauty out there to discover, even more countries waiting to unlock hidden gardens of my soul. And maybe, just maybe... A date with Chris Pine ending with a ride on my pet elephant. We are made to live big beautiful lives my friends. Go live them.</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-43018093670825088102015-08-28T15:28:00.000-07:002015-08-28T15:41:06.115-07:00The French Riviera: The Starlet Called Cannes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #505050; font-family: Rosario; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.8819999694824px;">Photo Journal: Cannes, France | July 2015</span></div>
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Cannes, the city of stars. We only had a half-day there, but everyone we talked to was right. That's really all you need. We had eaten a beautiful breakfast at the country home supplied by our hosts on their veranda overlooking the loping hills and gardens leading up the mountains that lay far beyond. It was just the sort of morning you know is going to lead to a good day. Arriving in Cannes just before noon, we immediately found the <i>Palais des Festivals et des Congrès</i>, the main hub for the annual Cannes Film Festival in May, amongst other things. I made sure to get a picture there as my before shot. Ya know, before I become famous. Then we strolled the beaches, which were very nice and very nude. No one told us! We tried to have lunch at an adorable side road restaurant, only to find out that they were out of everything but omelets and salads. And by that I mean eggs and lettuce. It was my mistake for once again falling into that American habit of 24/7 service. We found a little buffet place with a menu to go instead, perfect as we could eat on the train to Antibes. Cannes thus was ironically much like the Hollywood starlets it hosts: beautiful, empty, and glittering for only a moment before being passed by for the next big thing. And the next big thing was Antibes.</div>
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Check out my other adventures in the French Riviera in <a href="http://rueenrose.blogspot.fr/2015/08/the-french-riviera-nice-is-nice.html" target="_blank">Nice</a>!</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-48919640045046284342015-08-26T11:00:00.000-07:002015-08-26T11:02:09.979-07:00The French Riviera: Nice is Nice<div style="text-align: justify;">
Photo Journal: Nice, France | July 2015</div>
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I am talking about the city, of course, which as it turns out, <i>is</i> very, very nice. I had the chance to spend a day there with my sister during our mini getaway to the French Riviera, and while our stay was short, we were hooked immediately. I don't know what got me most: the breathtaking seaside views, the pastel-painted passages, or the bronzy boys in banana-hammocks (just kidding, Dad). It was 100° F during our entire trip, so my sister was more than gracious with me when I dragged her and her suitcase up a small mountain for the best views in the city, but it was totally worth it. We tracked down the famous ice creamery, Fenocchi, which was so very average, We went to a little seaside restaurant called La Loraine for dinner. Sally picked it because it had happy purple chairs and tables everywhere. Color-picking seems to be the way to go for restaurants, as we had the most mouthwatering fresh seafood pizza––definitely one of the best meals I have had during my year in France. Stomachs full, we caught a bus out to the countryside where we were staying with a friend of a friend in their home nestled in the hills of the South of France. We fell asleep to crickets singing us a French lullaby. This was going to be a good trip.</div>
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Have you ever been to Nice? What were favorite sights? We had such a short time there that I'm bound to go back, and I'd love to hear your ideas on what to do when we aren't melting into the sand. </div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-48750033527600500872015-08-23T04:41:00.001-07:002015-08-23T04:41:06.272-07:00And Then There Was One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As most of you know, I have been all over the map this summer and with the best of company, leaving me very little time to write or update on all the adventures and misadventures I have been getting into. Then like the silence after a storm, this week settled in on me, and I am alone in Paris, watching the storm clouds roll in and wondering where the last year has gone. Time to write.</div>
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I've already told you about my adventures in <a href="http://rueenrose.blogspot.fr/2015/07/the-best-four-foods-to-eat-in-brussels.html" target="_blank">Belgium</a> and Paris <a href="http://rueenrose.blogspot.fr/2015/07/bastille-day-2015-cousin-stories.html" target="_blank">with my cousin Caity</a>.</div>
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Still to come, the French Riviera and Paris with my sister Sally (better known in the blogosphere as The Quirky Peach).</div>
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And last but not least, my two-week trip through the country and kitchens of Italy with my good friend Hannah. </div>
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Meanwhile I have said goodbye to the last of the 6th floor sisterhood as one by one each of my friends in Paris left their au pair duties behind to begin the next chapter in their lives. Grad school. Big girl jobs. New countries. Old cities. It's a mix and a blur and hard to keep up with. And it somehow feels appropriate that I should be the last one standing in the end, like a guardian of a memory saluting off the final vigil. The one who sees Paris after the party leaves, who sees her for who she really is. </div>
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The past two days, alone in Paris, has been a <i>déjà vu</i> experience, a strange almost out-of-body experience, like walking through a museum of your life, the life that you just had yesterday. The places are all the same, but the voices, the laughter, the memories drift through the air like thin paper ghosts. Paris is a shell of itself in August, emptied of locals fleeing the summer heat to holiday houses by the seaside. I am blown about in the herds of tourists, watching them watch my city with glassy-eyed looks, not knowing this is where I ate my favorite croissant with a friend just a few weeks ago, not knowing how many nights we spent sipping cheap, delicious French wine and talking about the purpose of life on the Left Bank near Pont Alexandre III. There is something particularly strange about watching the life you built over the past year unravel one character at a time. Each goodbye froze another frame in time, put another block of the city into wax for me to later walk by and remember. After a year of wandering the museums of Paris, the last one I expected to walk through was my own––the former life of a Parisian au pair.</div>
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I have three weeks left in Paris, three weeks of precious time I know will fly away before I want it to. I am eager to go back to the States, and yet afraid of losing everything I have gained. I am afraid of how I will fit into my old world, when I love my new one so much. I am afraid of how people will accept me, and afraid of changing so they will accept me.</div>
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But I'm learning that home is not a place, because a place without your people is just a jumble of buildings and streets. They say home is where the heart is, but now my heart has been scattered all over the world... </div>
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It's a precious time, this week especially. Alone in Paris, with no one to answer to, no expectations to meet or agenda to keep. This will likely be the last time in my life where I find myself so wholly independent, without responsibility. I should relish in the days. But somehow I can't find whole satisfaction in this state of existing to myself. I think there is an integral part of our human being that needs to exist for others. That while it might be nice to have a break from responsibility and people for a while, it is the people that gives us a reason to live. It's the ones we love that make us get up in the morning and stay up all night. That bring us home again after a year abroad. So while I am afraid and willful and independent and going home sometimes feel like defeat, I am listening also to stronger longing to be amongst my own again, and a longing to be home, where my heart is, where my people are.</div>
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Look for my posts coming up on my summer travels, and in the meanwhile, know that you are someone's reason for getting up, whether you know it or not. Blessings and joy to you my readers, on this Sunday morning.</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-59968442185443215642015-07-30T10:04:00.000-07:002015-07-30T10:04:03.296-07:00The Best Four Foods to Eat in Brussels (and where to get them!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: center;">There are four major food groups in Belgium as far as tourists are concerned:</span></div>
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Waffles</div>
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If you leave Belgium without eating each and every one of these foods, you have not been to Belgium. Simple as that. I had other reasons for wanting to visit Brussels: the convenient proximity to Paris, the chance to see Manneken Pis (a little peeing boy statue that has become a national symbol–oh, Beligum), and to experience the charm and friendliness of the Belgian people, whom even Parisians tend to dote on in weak moments. But if I am being honest, my goal for the trip was to eat as many waffles as possible in the 30 hours we were there. </div>
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First, let me make a clarification: there are Belgian waffles, which most Americans know as enormous puffy light waffles pooling in whipped creme and strawberries. They are basically the same thing in Belgium (only not quite enormous--is anything as enormous as it is in America?). But let me introduce to you a far higher echelon of taste bud heaven that awaits the curious and craving traveler: the Liège waffle. Liège is actually a little town just north of Brussels for which this legendary waffle is named. The dough is denser and with a delightful hint of crunch, the sugar baked right into batter so that you never forget for one moment you are eating the most delicious breakfast (or lunch and dinner, too, in my case) on the planet. The Liège waffle is so delectable, it's best not to interrupt its glorious flavors with superfluous whipped cream or overbearing Nutella. Just a humble sprinkling of brown sugar, and you are ready to experience crunchy, yeasty, melt-in-your-mouth waffle heaven. (now wipe the drool off your keyboard and buy your plane ticket.)</div>
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As soon as my cousin Caity and I hit the bus stop in Brussels, we made a beeline for Maison Dandoy. This boutique and tea salon is to waffles in Belgium what Angelina's is to hot chocolate in Paris. It's the real deal, the full treatment, the crème de la crème of waffle world. We settled into a table on the outdoor patio and ordered a Belgian waffle with strawberry sauce and ice cream and Liège waffle with brown sugar. Best. Lunch. Ever.</div>
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I planned my entire trip in Brussels around eating waffles for every meal. And I am proud to say that other than the dinner our wonderfully hospitable hosts cooked for us on the first night, I succeeded magnificently. Our eating habits basically followed the same order: Waffle, fries, chocolate, beer. Repeat. </div>
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I made some interesting discoveries about Belgian food along the way:</div>
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<li style="text-align: justify;">Walking waffles are nearly as good as sit down ones. Paying more than 3€ for a waffle is a scam (other than Maison Dandoy, of course. And in this case, only the Liege.)</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">French fries are not at all French; they originated in Belgium. Let's start the movement. Belgium fries. (Sounds way better than "freedom fries," let's be honest.)</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">All fries are not created equal. You want crispy dark ones with a fun spicy sauce, not the boring yellow fries with a dab of normal mayo. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Some chocolatiers will hand out samples, so if you are tasting for the day, it can be free!</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">But buying individual chocolates isn't too expensive, and they are so rich that just one or two is enough to satisfy.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Beer in Belgium is superior to all others. I hate beer, I have tried it many times to try to like it, and I hate it. But Belgian beers can be fun and are far tastier than others. Some don't even taste like beer. I tried my first beer in Disney World at Epcot, and you better bet it was Belgium beer. Explains why all beers since then til now have been a failure.</li>
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So where to go to get the best of each of the essential food groups in Brussels? Thankfully we had a tour guide who gave us the inside scoop on where to get the best waffles, fries, beer, and chocolate in Brussels, and we tested them out, just to make sure. You're welcome; the pleasure was ours.</div>
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<u>Waffles:</u></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiToxhCuKI2b-dheMAg1sB2rFmKG4UJGx5eAkeavLiApMj0jviJ3isHjsNR-fNVD5aSb9dvsgu-VtpZM8Gh0Z3GikZFowTKsMMozg6YlRcJ5grtMcynvZpwoix0wtiOjVbdL7PotauGfXg/s1600/IMG_3510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiToxhCuKI2b-dheMAg1sB2rFmKG4UJGx5eAkeavLiApMj0jviJ3isHjsNR-fNVD5aSb9dvsgu-VtpZM8Gh0Z3GikZFowTKsMMozg6YlRcJ5grtMcynvZpwoix0wtiOjVbdL7PotauGfXg/s640/IMG_3510.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.maisondandoy.com/en/home/" target="_blank">Maison Dandoy</a></b></div>
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Karel Bulsstraat 14</div>
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1000 Brussel</div>
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Belgium</div>
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<i>Have we established this already? There is a boutique location, and also a restaurant and boutique location. Also, buy the Pain au Grecque (aptly nicknamed "crack bread" by my sister.) Get the Liege waffle with brown sugar and brace yourself for a foodgasm.</i></div>
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<u>Fries: </u></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.cafegeorgette.be/" target="_blank">Café Georgette</a></b></div>
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Rue de la Fourche 37</div>
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1000 Bruxelles</div>
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Belgium</div>
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<i>We were unable to visit this esteemed cafe as they are closed on Sundays, but it was highly recommended to us by our guide who pretty much nailed every other recommendation, so I would go for it.</i></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55TDlyty29e1k666q5qm3XwyfAxAs4O4C5SoOsXg1_eMgXU2dyKMqgr22keudRbkDA6IBznLjLhwv_8_a1vcVdjKUpGXZax8Web5_TvJNLtNtqRfnRofrHuFq4a1Iq0WmgLnGmQBEV4k/s1600/IMG_3522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55TDlyty29e1k666q5qm3XwyfAxAs4O4C5SoOsXg1_eMgXU2dyKMqgr22keudRbkDA6IBznLjLhwv_8_a1vcVdjKUpGXZax8Web5_TvJNLtNtqRfnRofrHuFq4a1Iq0WmgLnGmQBEV4k/s640/IMG_3522.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First round of slightly lesser fries... we went to Friterie Tabora by round 2!</td></tr>
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<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Friterie-Tabora/470973376270532" target="_blank">Friterie Tabora</a></b></div>
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Taborastraat 2</div>
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1000 Brussel</div>
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Belgium</div>
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<i>The fries place we went to and LOVED! where I would order the American sauce drizzled over some delectably golden </i>pommes frites.<i> A spicier kick than its boring normal mayo cousin.</i></div>
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<u>Beer:</u></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzCpu5Z7MYv2nnSyDg7fvZa1wCVzlIiciOCfeNCzDpoDU4y-TBemvIfrPf8DDKGbnV3tlYWc8tbjtpejUwOp_nPWf_pHRgZDH6Kpy0nt-Xm7ioBfUKAEbeKInPf3jpIY060pTn8TesBE/s1600/brussels_0715-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzCpu5Z7MYv2nnSyDg7fvZa1wCVzlIiciOCfeNCzDpoDU4y-TBemvIfrPf8DDKGbnV3tlYWc8tbjtpejUwOp_nPWf_pHRgZDH6Kpy0nt-Xm7ioBfUKAEbeKInPf3jpIY060pTn8TesBE/s1600/brussels_0715-6.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUS2mYBUf1-3ryQUYPlCDvw27bgm9jkQ_o43NPQEgzEd6ONn7ocxGQ0EBTBgwTmpHRKgCwLQJFhJq5qcFGDz284PLGMsSkbnAAC5UmADS3cScO4Lp0J-urVO4Nm81lb1baWSiKQ8PO70/s1600/brussels_0715-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUS2mYBUf1-3ryQUYPlCDvw27bgm9jkQ_o43NPQEgzEd6ONn7ocxGQ0EBTBgwTmpHRKgCwLQJFhJq5qcFGDz284PLGMsSkbnAAC5UmADS3cScO4Lp0J-urVO4Nm81lb1baWSiKQ8PO70/s1600/brussels_0715-5.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><a href="http://deliriumcafe.be/" target="_blank">Delirium Café</a></b></div>
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Impasse de la Fidélité 4A</div>
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1000 Bruxelles</div>
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Belgium</div>
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<i>The holder of the Guinness World Record for the most beers sold under one roof, this place is a must visit for even most persnickety beer drinker, with 2400+ beers to choose from. I'm just saying, I got an exotic frothy coconut beer that was served with a half coconut as the glass and it was delicious.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hqpHrSQqRv3SL5rSYeDCoWsk2Q-rl0T-Qe9kUNzv9ZLJBhsKQDECBpOlbJL2Cbhx9uWSjoJr3cab10XmSZRQ8lPVHoDWp30evzPUoxUEVzF3vIisAZpsFp2JP3mchlqWZQXqnFFyhxI/s1600/brussels_0715-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hqpHrSQqRv3SL5rSYeDCoWsk2Q-rl0T-Qe9kUNzv9ZLJBhsKQDECBpOlbJL2Cbhx9uWSjoJr3cab10XmSZRQ8lPVHoDWp30evzPUoxUEVzF3vIisAZpsFp2JP3mchlqWZQXqnFFyhxI/s640/brussels_0715-4.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<u>Chocolate:</u></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghI-OT7CxDZUit0tPCBqxJHrjVj2Xsh5CcH7W2Bjrbes7nemAsd13T-v9ahET9xVKMQGNkdQyUPkq-HOx5K9KKnR0rjogkbQ85Lh9ZBf1kLH8VSfX-WR6pMDVPk-8m-Kzi8dJ-x-glMR8/s1600/brussels_0715-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghI-OT7CxDZUit0tPCBqxJHrjVj2Xsh5CcH7W2Bjrbes7nemAsd13T-v9ahET9xVKMQGNkdQyUPkq-HOx5K9KKnR0rjogkbQ85Lh9ZBf1kLH8VSfX-WR6pMDVPk-8m-Kzi8dJ-x-glMR8/s1600/brussels_0715-2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.mary.be/en/" target="_blank">Mary</a></b></div>
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Koninklijke Sint-Hubertusgalerijen</div>
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Koninginnegalerij 36</div>
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1000 Brussel</div>
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Belgium</div>
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<i>Instead of going to one the brands that has become a global chain, go with one of the local legends. Also prescribed to us by our excellent guide Charlie, we bought a half dozen of these little treasures that lasted us over 5 days of sharing. Reasonably priced for some of the best chocolate and service you will receive in your life. May I personally recommend the pink champagne truffles.</i></div>
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Also to be recommended is the four-hour tour of Brussels and all its major sights. It was one of the most comprehensive and hilarious tours I have ever been on, and if you can, tour with Charlie. Plus it's FREE! Tips only, and you will see why–outstanding presentation! See website for details. <a href="http://www.newbrusselstours.com/">http://www.newbrusselstours.com</a>. We met three other American guys during our tour, and I wish so badly we had a Go-Pro video of the five of us making a mad dash for waffles and fries during the 20 minute break in our four-hour tour. Americans let loose in foodie heaven.</div>
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Brussels can easily be done in a day or two, making it the perfect weekend getaway from Paris or Amsterdam. Booking a bus through Megabus made our trip extremely affordable (~30€ roundtrip), and the bus was not only clean and air-conditioned, but also had free wifi and USB chargers in each seat for your smart phone. It was around a 4 hour drive (advertised at 4.5) and only an hour less than by train, which was around 100€ roundtrip. Megabus gets a thumbs-up from me!</div>
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It's a beautiful city, especially in the rain, and I would recommend going to the flower market in the Grand Place on Sunday mornings. It makes for some beautiful photos and lovely fragrances. So do your stomach and your taste buds a favor, and book a trip to Brussels. You won't regret it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42YWYmc5iou7qllBc5Z-iKoaDPnjLlEOAhwuf_JiIrdjofhnPK7JOXEyLCFRaCygvlrho2PEKBv8dCXWs7qPgxMUgoyNTqEXSe6jX8Iam1hPn_2nbo2C01l77e9ZJZ4Q9ttdmC2tk93k/s1600/brussels_0715-3-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42YWYmc5iou7qllBc5Z-iKoaDPnjLlEOAhwuf_JiIrdjofhnPK7JOXEyLCFRaCygvlrho2PEKBv8dCXWs7qPgxMUgoyNTqEXSe6jX8Iam1hPn_2nbo2C01l77e9ZJZ4Q9ttdmC2tk93k/s1600/brussels_0715-3-2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Note: None of the businesses I have endorsed have compensated me in any way for including them in my blog. This is simply me sharing with you my best experiences so you can have them too! But if Maison Dandoy wants to send me some more "crack bread," I wouldn't be upset...</i></div>
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-56710102397931248722015-07-29T13:09:00.000-07:002015-07-29T13:21:06.234-07:00Bastille Day, Cousin Caity, and Other Short Stories<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hello blogger world, my name is Ruth, you probably don't remember me, but I'm that small town Ohio girl hanging out in Paris?</div>
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I know you haven't seen me for a while. I've been MIA for the past month playing hostess in Paris and knocking a few bucketlist destinations off my list. July was my big hosting month, with my cousin Caitlin coming for a week, followed immediately by my sister Sally for 10 days. Now I have a little pocket of rest before the adventures recommence and I head off to Italy for two weeks. So I am taking these precious moments of rest to get my life in order and try to tell you about all the silly mischief I've been up to during my leave of absence. </div>
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Where to begin?</div>
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Let's start with my cousin Caity coming to Paris! Caity and I are the same age, so we've always been natural playmates at family gatherings. It wasn't until recently that we really started hanging out outside of holiday events, and wow! What a delight to find out that the family you are stuck with happens to be amazing and people you would want to be friends with anyway. Both fresh out of school and unattached, we share that "anything could happen" light in our eyes and are determined to make the most of our 20s. </div>
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So you can imagine my excitement when I got a last minute call that she had a week before starting her new job and wanted to spend it in Paris with me! Planning and preparations began, and before we knew it, July 10th had arrived. It gives me a chuckle that when receiving guests from the States to my apartment in Paris, it never feels strange or surreal, like, I can't believe you are in Paris! It feels as natural as it did having the same people over when we lived in the same city. I guess that's because Paris is my home now, and I've lived here long enough I forget it takes a flight for these people to get here. </div>
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After an explosion of American-style squealing and squeezing on the demure sidewalks of the sixteenth arrondissement, we made our way up those dreaded 6 flights of stairs to my chambre de bonne on the top floor. I always warn people about the climb before they come. Without fail they shrug it off, "That's okay, it will be no problem!" Without fail, after the first climb they are stunned. After the fourth of fifth climb they are enraged. By the end of the stay, they are too exhausted to care. Does it ever get easier? they often ask. Well, some nights yes. Some nights, no.</div>
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We spent the daylight hours trouncing around Paris in a whirl of touristy activity. Our nights were spent lazily on the River Seine, sharing bottles of wine and drinking in the atmosphere. Thursday nights are for <i>le Pont Alexandre-III</i>, the most beautiful bridge in Paris, where the business men and women of the right bank venture over to the left to loosen their ties and let down their hair at the bumping quai-side bar scene. Its the perfect place for a riverside picnic and people watching.</div>
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Friday nights are for the summertime tradition of the guinguette; our favorite is La Javelle in the 15th arrondissement, and outdoor riverside party on the docks where local food trucks bring different fare from all around the world every night, and live band music warms up the dancefloor before a DJ drives home the party til midnight. The best part of La Javelle is the "fishbowl" as we named it, which is too wonderful and weird to describe to the world of Internet, and can only be experienced by visiting the guinguette and experiencing it for yourself. Look for the restrooms.</div>
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This particular night we met a swarthy Mexican named Edgar who was fluent in French and salsa dancing. And we were offered a midnight tour of Paris by a private speedboat. But while my friends were jumping up and down with excitement, I kept replaying scenes from Taken in my mind and took the role of Liam Neeson. We politely declined.</div>
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Saturday we spent at the Chateau de Vaux le Vicomte, my favorite secret chateau in Paris. After hopping the train to Melun (it wouldn't be a complete trip unless I made you break the law at some point), we arrived on a perfectly sunny day for a tour of the chateau and a picnic in the shaded hill overlooking the estate. </div>
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Saturday night we got ready for our weekend getaway in Brussels! That trip deserves a separate post.</div>
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We returned to Paris just in time for the national holiday, the 14th of July, or as Americans call it, Bastille Day (no one in France knows what you are talking about if you say this). We got a late start to the morning and missed the fighter jets painting the sky a patriotic blue, white and red. But we did ride Velibs down to the Arc de Triomphe in time to see all the handsome French soldiers in uniform posing with kids by massive tanks. Heart. Melting. Oh, I guess there was a parade too, but we got a bit distracted.... </div>
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After riding down to Musee d'Orsay for a quick hit of some of Paris' best art, it was time to celebrate. We cornered a patch of grass on the Champs de Mars and staked out a five hour picnic that ended in a magnificent fireworks display. When we arrived at 5:30pm, the grassy area was completely packed; there would be half a million people filling the space by the end of the night. </div>
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There was a free concert for the loungers; in true Paris style, it was opera with a full orchestra. At the end of the night it was a mad dash for home as all the metros were shut and some streets blockaded. Some of our group peeled off for the Firemen Balls, the after-parties that boasts dancing with half naked French firemen. But I was asleep before I hit my pillow, and we still had a few more days in Paris to go.</div>
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Our last couple of days in Paris were spent in dozing along the Canal Saint Martin, hunting down the best eclaires in Paris (L’éclair de Génie in the Marais), and seeking shade in the sweltering heat. Thank God for gelato. As a thank you for hosting, Caity treated me to a goodbye dinner at a beautiful candlelit bistro overlooking the magnificent Place des Vogues, where we dined on roast duck and chicken marinated in ancient wine. We met a lovely elderly American couple sitting adjacent to us; she was a retired French teacher returning to France after all these years on a tour with her husband and other similar couples. We swapped secrets over the best places to visit in Paris, hers old, mine new, and marveled at the beauty of Paris over a delightful light tiramisu with raspberry filling. </div>
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The perfect end to a perfect week of adventure and misadventure in Paris and beyond, I highly recommend traveling the world with your cousin. Especially if she happens to love walking and food as much as you do. Here's to our future adventures together, Caitlin!</div>
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And my adventures with my sister Sally waited only a day away.</div>
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-18303261421110453062015-07-02T13:37:00.000-07:002015-07-02T13:37:29.754-07:00Les Soldes: How to Own the Summer Sales in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I packed my bags one suitcase for Paris, I decided to pack bare minimum. Because, ya know, I would just buy more clothes in Paris. Now we can all join together in collective laughter at my naivety. The truth is, shopping for clothing in Paris is expensive. When I decided I wanted to make this year about travel, I had to get over my shopping addiction and chain store snobbery. I measured every clothing purchase against a travel adventure. New pair of booties vs. dinner out Vienna. New trench coat vs. plane ticket to Barcelona. Instead of a new Christmas dress this year, I bought gifts for my host families in England. Choices became pretty clear.</div>
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I behaved during the winter sales in February (okay, okay, so I was in Austria and Germany most of those weeks). Then last week, summer hit, and a heatwave with temperatures the 100s rushed in with it. And I quickly, soggily realized that my closet was in desperate need of some breathable fabrics.</div>
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What luck, as it coincides perfectly with France's biannual country-wide regulated seasonal sale. Twice a year, the government allows sales of up to 75% off. Yes, the government. We can blame the minimal European wardrobe on socialism. But it's not just clothing. This is a stores opportunity to lay a discount sticker on anything from dish towels to drill bits. But let's not get carried away, Ruth. And if you think Walmart is bad on Black Friday, you've never stood between a French woman and bargain Chanel. </div>
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So as with any real shopping, you need a strategy. And one of the best is to go in and try things on before the <i>soldes</i> begin. Because the lines for the dressing rooms get insane and trust me you do not want to deal with that mess. It's better to go in a few days before, try on sizes and outfits and know what fits you so that come the Day of Reckoning, you can rush in, grab what you need, and rush out. Some women swear by going in and setting clothes on hold until the sale date begins, but my French is not smooth enough in either sense of the word to attempt this level of bargain-hunting.</div>
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Don't have time for the pre-game strategy? Just Buy what you like and return it later. Sometimes they will allow you to return it at a later time in the <i>soldes</i> and buy it back at the further reduced price. Stores will often take a second and third discount, so if you are a gambler you could wait it out to see if you could get the lower price. But keep in mind sizes. For girls on the curvier end like me, stores tend not to stock too highly in our sizes, so weigh the consequences of saving a few euros versus not finding anything at all down the line. The truth is, the stuff that is left at the end of the <i>soldes</i> is left for a reason. It is the lowest of lows, so you may want to bite the bullet and pay the marginal difference for something that fits well. </div>
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So what did I come away with from this summer <i>soldes</i>?</div>
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1 fabulous Trench coat (50€)</div>
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2 tank tops (35€)</div>
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1 summer bra (7€)</div>
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1 pair of earrings (5€)</div>
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1 pair of sunglasses (15€)</div>
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1 pair of print satin pants (10€)</div>
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I'm still waiting to try out the price drop on the trench.</div>
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-33047929364262522092015-07-01T08:01:00.001-07:002015-07-02T09:21:22.576-07:00A Morning in the Mansion<div>
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I'm getting to the point now in Paris where I've done everything. Well, not everything. But if feels that way sometimes. That paired with this oppressive summer heat wave has absolutely wrecked my motivation to join the civilized world. July is here, and with it some blazing hot weather that will make you forget Parisian fashion decorum and reach for your pair of shorts. But time is ticking away on my countdown to my U.S. return. And since I either be hosting or traveling during my last two months in Paris, I need to really take advantage of every spare moment I have!<br />
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Initiate: Plan Get Motivated to Go Explore Paris Even Though You Think You've Done Everything. (It's a working title...)</div>
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Step 1: Live on the top floor of a non-air conditioned building during 100^ heat in a room with one window facing the sun all day. Can't stay in bed past 9 am or I am sticking to my sheets. Check.</div>
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Step 2: Get a good breakfast. Lately I have been obsessed with toasting whole grain bread loaded with seeds and topping it with fresh goat cheese and prune jam. Giving up coffee for a few days and sipping on some iced mint tea instead. All fresh points, taken!</div>
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Step 3: Have a plan. Every Sunday I make a list of all the places I still haven't been or want to see that week and make a point of scheduling them with other people to keep me accountable. I find having a schedule in place keeps me on track and motivated versus waking up and randomly picking a place. My list is majorly dwindling lately, so I have been turning to Timeout Paris a lot for ideas. Today's schedule only allowed me two hours in the morning, which isn't much, but I was determined! I picked Musée Nissim de Camando, a mansion belonging to Les Arts Decoratifs collections of Paris. It was close (in the 8th arrondisement) so I knew getting there and back would be quick and no-hassle (versus Luxembourg Gardens, which I love but is virtually a dead zone in regards to buses and metros from the west side of Paris). I guess a millionaire mansion with one of the greatest collections of interior arts in Paris would do.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqRsNomUvudO4cEVO_gvHn5KWZhUDq9kYaCxT7MRB7H9c1A9Kq5uAwhtohsNpnIWepXLSAXXFF1vwEKRJ8S15mftAQc2pp0aEuR8w0toCLTEoIPaYrbaasxo9wMsla49aMeSbiXLH-Bk/s640/blogger-image--302564876.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="Musee Nissim de Camando" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqRsNomUvudO4cEVO_gvHn5KWZhUDq9kYaCxT7MRB7H9c1A9Kq5uAwhtohsNpnIWepXLSAXXFF1vwEKRJ8S15mftAQc2pp0aEuR8w0toCLTEoIPaYrbaasxo9wMsla49aMeSbiXLH-Bk/s640/blogger-image--302564876.jpg" title="Musee Nissim de Camando" /></a></div>
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Step 4: Research. This morning I was feeling the heat and thinking, maybe it's best if I just don't go. I only have two hours anyway. Is it really worth it? That's when I pulled out my best friend, Google Images, to breeze through some photos of the museum. This may not work everywhere, but in Paris seeing these gorgeous places online and knowing you are literally right beside them... There is no way to stay home now. Just look at this place! (My photos, not the internet's...)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZ89QcXvW2FP-a1sHccwHqbtpTstmf6FTu9uoa5DKKEwdjbotXmVYMuoc8mUPgoev0ND8cAQf-P7hkTwH5eYSeIToNw9M4ikJM8FFHwWKrb0f9_4scvMjPlKqUHx3TX0-dww8u0QgcCU/s640/blogger-image--952577459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Musee Nissim de Camando: Interior Decorative Arts" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZ89QcXvW2FP-a1sHccwHqbtpTstmf6FTu9uoa5DKKEwdjbotXmVYMuoc8mUPgoev0ND8cAQf-P7hkTwH5eYSeIToNw9M4ikJM8FFHwWKrb0f9_4scvMjPlKqUHx3TX0-dww8u0QgcCU/s640/blogger-image--952577459.jpg" title="Musee Nissim de Camando: Interior Decorative Arts" /></a></div>
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Step 5: Get there, already. I love biking in the city. Sometimes it's the fastest route. This morning, it was in the 90s by 10am, and I knew I would melt away if I tried biking. So I have myself a break and rode the bus there, metro back. Normally I would scold myself for being a wimp, but better to get there fast and enjoy then arrive irritable and soaked.</div>
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Step 6: Lose yourself. Set a timer on your phone for when you have to leave, and then lose yourself in the scene. It wasn't hard at Musee Nissim de Camando. Note: free for those under 26 living in the EU! The audio guide was great at setting the scene, and there was a moment I almost believed I was a houseguest floating through the halls in 1930.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-7zV3ffRRhEHGDNaMLsEs6IC-qJ6nW-z72BZM38WKa0ecTQhxH-FODSOy3vRhPcl1rUsEG-hhb1fMveyprdNapCDaihpyNvqk6rz8AtLM3W4wjPQ_tr5Taw0-cuqmacoLwHhBderMhk/s640/blogger-image--182885671.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Musee Nissim de Camando: mansion staircase" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-7zV3ffRRhEHGDNaMLsEs6IC-qJ6nW-z72BZM38WKa0ecTQhxH-FODSOy3vRhPcl1rUsEG-hhb1fMveyprdNapCDaihpyNvqk6rz8AtLM3W4wjPQ_tr5Taw0-cuqmacoLwHhBderMhk/s640/blogger-image--182885671.jpg" title="Musee Nissim de Camando: mansion staircase" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mmy6SRYlGcvAItz2lEVdv7WtalGkTwjJZnIkfRzGcjYQ6_MtzeAcv_w-Gho6LERW9owbVwQzfExuX4SzhS4mmji6zWGLmnrySMmK0ViDHlGVMjh5_dYNiEgKvKxF_DG6k12SQtMF4tI/s640/blogger-image-354549498.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="Old Parisian Elevator" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mmy6SRYlGcvAItz2lEVdv7WtalGkTwjJZnIkfRzGcjYQ6_MtzeAcv_w-Gho6LERW9owbVwQzfExuX4SzhS4mmji6zWGLmnrySMmK0ViDHlGVMjh5_dYNiEgKvKxF_DG6k12SQtMF4tI/s640/blogger-image-354549498.jpg" title="Old Parisian Elevator" /></a></div>
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Julia Child would have died happy in this kitchen. The copperware! I have decided my dream kitchen would look exactly like this. Black,white, and copper, and huge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdmeTl1t0cKlStshRzUcfno_Zj8JMBjdqc77ZnqbuVgUUJ6AkDMWXa31-jk8dIkanNGTP2Nhk89PAVejxu34fWL8HlAp0v2JWQne_Yzh5I4sfJkhqrzsl2MplPHaC8_n4EZ5SGi0F5nvI/s1600/IMG_3038.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img alt="Paris 1930s Kitchen: stove" border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdmeTl1t0cKlStshRzUcfno_Zj8JMBjdqc77ZnqbuVgUUJ6AkDMWXa31-jk8dIkanNGTP2Nhk89PAVejxu34fWL8HlAp0v2JWQne_Yzh5I4sfJkhqrzsl2MplPHaC8_n4EZ5SGi0F5nvI/s640/IMG_3038.JPG" title="Paris 1930s Kitchen: stove" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oCe8PAxLjgvTft3YLdX9Aq0vtda53-jzfrK0X9Rb8j7-KVRsI66kXDpOt_xj0vHNlt0JSjneRIFe3etqICKlYK_oEOjhIqNy1fC5Lg5AqGRwwVVhL8JcJ5hpBiIKGt1H1tq-nJDjcvU/s1600/IMG_3039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Paris 1930s Kitchen: copper pots" border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oCe8PAxLjgvTft3YLdX9Aq0vtda53-jzfrK0X9Rb8j7-KVRsI66kXDpOt_xj0vHNlt0JSjneRIFe3etqICKlYK_oEOjhIqNy1fC5Lg5AqGRwwVVhL8JcJ5hpBiIKGt1H1tq-nJDjcvU/s640/IMG_3039.JPG" title="Paris 1930s Kitchen: copper pots" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJFHZ2ip-BM6WpQR4DvkKxqFIHjXW57cPilnP2es_2knblilbohLm0JgOiYG7f5zHCPTCaFCYoFcjaQGOFY_KOHMldnUgFZv3EhMw_9fqNN_6LjzCY989fPVTRJJTOiHBUc4qduCfLgw/s1600/IMG_3040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Paris 1930s Kitchen copper and tiles" border="0" height="513" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJFHZ2ip-BM6WpQR4DvkKxqFIHjXW57cPilnP2es_2knblilbohLm0JgOiYG7f5zHCPTCaFCYoFcjaQGOFY_KOHMldnUgFZv3EhMw_9fqNN_6LjzCY989fPVTRJJTOiHBUc4qduCfLgw/s640/IMG_3040.JPG" title="Paris 1930s Kitchen copper and tiles" width="640" /></a></div>
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After the museum, I had a bit of time left over, so I walked to the nearby florist to smell all the blooms and enjoy some AC. Then I took a shortcut through the ever fabulous Parc Monceau to my metro. Maybe it was the heat, but something set me in a heady daze after my museum visit. I remembered: I live in Paris. </div>
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Everything was beautiful. Everything was worth shooting, everything begged to be adored, and I happily complied. Paris will do that to you, make you fall in love, even on 100^ days in July, if you only give her the chance.</div>
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-80842933481428462112015-06-25T13:07:00.000-07:002015-06-25T13:49:07.758-07:00"What's Next?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDy4GyR-_7j-JrgCEzqTxZavqhj0tUMqz3EEDp6cu4v5IOW4_-SQG28lbCIK38tpvLvLf2f56i0dVweZ7Vmrr5agTnYBtJ6fw27AI0rHyZ-b1d9sMXQoFoi0ln_49-qvkBREZQqogvPYE/s1600/whats_next.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDy4GyR-_7j-JrgCEzqTxZavqhj0tUMqz3EEDp6cu4v5IOW4_-SQG28lbCIK38tpvLvLf2f56i0dVweZ7Vmrr5agTnYBtJ6fw27AI0rHyZ-b1d9sMXQoFoi0ln_49-qvkBREZQqogvPYE/s1600/whats_next.jpg" /></a></div>
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I've had a lot of people asking me lately about what I'm going to do after my year abroad. In fact, people asked me that the moment I told them I was leaving. It almost felt like they immediately deleted this year from their database, and were wanting to know the next line of code to insert. But I understand, if traveling abroad isn't on your radar, you probably don't really know what to do with news like "Hey, I'm moving to France, see you in a year!" You want to be able to know what's ahead, and feel like you know where you're going. I get it. Me too.</div>
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I've learned a lot of things this year, and one of them is how to be there for yourself in the future. You see, up to this point, I've really been living in the now moment. In high school, in college, even my first big girl job. Most of my decisions had a year or less expiration date. I was driven by what I wanted for my life now. And I don't think that's completely wrong. But I can't do that anymore.</div>
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See, I want to stay in France. I love France more than I ever dreamed I would. You know when you wake up somewhere and it's like you've been there all the time? You don't have to think about whether you should be there or not, how you got there, how you are going to get out. That's how I think a lot of people wake up, sadly. But in France, it's not that at all. It's like all these parts of me that were strange to the American way of life slip right into their trench coat and ballet flats and peer over <i>Le Monde</i> paper at me like, chérie, what took you so long? I belong in France.</div>
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But I also belong in America. My family and friends are there. My heritage is there. The whole foundation of my outlook on life is there. How do you reconcile to completely different beings that coexist but cannot cohabitate? Only until I return home will I know how much the other me was me, and how much I am returning to more of myself, also. The truth is, I knew this could happen when I chose to move abroad. I knew I would fall in love with Europe. And I knew I would have to come back and it would break my heart.</div>
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But this is where I get to grow up a little. This is where I get to face facts. Like that last year Paris ranked as the <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/cities/2014/mar/05/singapore-most-expensive-cities-2014-list-paris" target="_blank">2nd most expensive city</a> <i>in the world</i>. Or that it is nearly impossible to find a company to sponsor a visa for an American. Or that if you do get that visa, the cost of relocating to a different continent permanently is an enormous expense that you have to provide upfront (security deposit on apartments, bank accounts, medical records, etc). And the truth is–I hate to burst the bubble out there–but the truth is if you want to make a kind of move like that, a permanent move as an American to Europe, you have to have a lot of patience and money. And if you are my age, you have to have family in town or be a trust fund baby. There it is, now you know.</div>
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The other option could be to come back as an au pair, or a waitress at a cafe or go back to school at one of the universities here in Paris. And then I have to ask myself, do I want that for myself. To live like a student for another year. To put off what I really want to do for another year. To deny myself the satisfaction of work that speaks directly to my career and calling. And the answer is, no.</div>
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I'm ready for the next phase, I'm ready to embrace the life of a young professional. I'm ready to invest myself in my work, to know I am really making a difference with my career, to be surrounded by talented people in my field who can mentor me and mold me so I can do the same down the road. And maybe right now a lot of you are thinking, that's about as realistic as moving to Europe. But there was a time when moving to Paris seemed like a dream, too.</div>
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That's not to say I'm giving up on being a world traveler or living for the moment or staying young at heart. Because if I work hard now, it will give me choices later. To move back to France, or Italy, or China if I feel like it. Or not. Maybe I will like it in the States. Who knows?</div>
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I know that for me in some ways to go back home after Paris feels like a failure. I imagine all those important people I'd like to impress in my life saying, "You traveled Europe, and now you're settling for this again?" It brings about good questions, though. Am I going home because it's easy? Because I want to? Because I don't have any choice? The truth is, I love Columbus. I wrote <a href="http://rueenrose.blogspot.fr/2014/09/when-god-gives-you-city.html" target="_blank">a whole post</a> about it when I moved here. But is that my next step, or a step backwards? There is a part of my brain, the big bad career woman, who is telling me that if I don't land a job in a big city like D.C. or San Fran or Chicago, then I'm settling into a lifetime of settling. She is screaming in my face, "IF YOU DON'T MAKE THE JUMP NOW YOU NEVER WILL!!!!"</div>
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There is always a good cop to every bad cop. My sweet, insatiable curiosity sidles up beside me, squeezes my hand and whispers, "But what else is out there? Sure you could move back home, but what else could you explore? What other cities could you see? What new subcultures could you discover, languages you could learn, foods you could taste, music you could hear? What about that?"</div>
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And then there is the reasonable one, the one with glasses and her button-down and her brown straight hair pulled back in a modest low ponytail. She doesn't look me in the eye when she speaks because she is sure she's right, but she knows I never like what she has to say. It's always just so... realistic. <i>Sigh</i>. But she persists. "Wouldn't it be nice to grow some roots," she says. "Wouldn't it be nice for once to stay put. To be around family and friends. To work with people you know and you know will make you better? Is it so bad to take the more familiar path? Even for a season."</div>
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"YEEEEESSSSS!!" scream the good cop and bad cop in unison. And here we go again.</div>
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It's the same conversation I have been having most my life. Boastful Ambition, Insatiable Curiosity, and Responsible Reason, always present, always the same lines. My three companions. I can't divorce one of them, they are all a part of me, and to lose one would be like losing an arm. I must balance them with each other. So I continue to reach out in all three directions, and see which direction takes flight this time. Sometimes one wins, sometimes another. (Recently Insatiable Curiosity has been racking up the points.)</div>
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Paris will always have my heart. Like a first love. Rarely the one you end up with in the end. But it's a love full of passion and fire and memories that never grow dull. We'll always have Paris, my three amigos. No matter what happens in the future, we'll always have Paris.<br />
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So what's next after Paris. Darling, I don't know. But I will find out soon enough. We all will. And in the meanwhile, I'll work hard to find out. And I will work hard to enjoy these last special weeks abroad. And maybe instead of asking me what's next, send me some light and love, and ask me about what is going on <b>now</b>. I'm already talking enough about the future with myself.</div>
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<i>I recently redesigned my professional portfolio. Check it out at <a href="http://ruthpayne.weebly.com/" target="_blank">ruthpayne.weebly.com </a>and pass it on if you know someone who might like it!</i></div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-84614032985873955392015-06-23T05:42:00.000-07:002015-06-23T06:25:04.275-07:0010 Habits I Kicked in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RLPK4zpUFQMAS7LM0sUnupuXm0f4y_w0b1B7BRahwjBaYTHyPVpe3KaVln_AlQHMGwY59dSkY0JNv2MqQjV5pSYHK3hPc8W4HSwTOIxt_WJWXLs0WS8hEbbPoudxVTZ1QTpo0bh6PHc/s1600/IMG_2672-min.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="10 habits I kicked in Paris text on large French wooden door" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RLPK4zpUFQMAS7LM0sUnupuXm0f4y_w0b1B7BRahwjBaYTHyPVpe3KaVln_AlQHMGwY59dSkY0JNv2MqQjV5pSYHK3hPc8W4HSwTOIxt_WJWXLs0WS8hEbbPoudxVTZ1QTpo0bh6PHc/s640/IMG_2672-min.JPG" title="10 habits I kicked in Paris" width="800" /></a></div>
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It's inevitable when you move somewhere new that your habits will change and you will take on a bit of the personality of your new home. But moving to Paris, France has had more of an impact on me than I would have imagined. It's taken me a while to recognize them, since some have come on gradually and others I didn't realize were habits until someone pointed them out. Here are the 10 habits I kicked since moving to the City of Lights.<br />
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1. Buying fast food.<br />
I know, I know, this is one you would probably expect. Even before I came here, if I went to fast food joints, I usually tried to go for a healthier option. But now when you are surrounded with fresh markets and storefronts overflowing with fresh produce, a grease-soaked burger and fries lose all appeal. I have definitely joined team "non-processed."<br />
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2. Chewing gum. I didn't realize how very American this habit looks until I noticed only American tourists are the ones here chewing gum. And to be honest, I didn't even mean to kick this habit; I really blame it on my brand loyalty to Orbit gum, which is hard to find in France. A few months of being off the chew, and I didn't miss it. That and being told how disgusting it looks when a girl resembles a cow chewing her cud. Oh, you honest French people....<br />
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3. Snacking.<br />
In Paris, snacking is for <i>les enfants</i>. Adults limit themselves to three meals a day, and maybe an espresso or two to tide them over. This is still hard for my American brain (or stomach) to understand, but since my job is to watch children, I try not to be mistaken for one by partaking in the <i>gouter </i>(the official name for the children's afternoon snack in France).<br />
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4. Wearing sweats in public.<br />
There used to be days when I would roll into a supermarket sporting the season's latest look of lazy-and-didn't-feel-like-changing. But when everyone else dresses to respect both themselves and others, it makes you feel like a slob. A basic rule of thumb is, if you would sleep in it, then don't leave the house in your PJs.<br />
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5. Smiling at strangers<br />
How I knew I had made the transition from small town Midwest girl to a cold, aloof Parisienne: when an fresh-faced teenager American tourist walked by and proffered one of those starry-eyed smiles only Paris can cultivate. And I wrinkled my nose and thought, <i>Why are you smiling at me? There's nothing to happy about. You don't know me.</i> I hope this is not a lasting impression, since I love smiling! But now I'm more a fan of smiling for a reason.<br />
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6. Leaving room between cars while driving.<br />
I used to be so crazy about leaving that one car's length between cars that you learn about in drivers ed. Now if there is any inching room, I'm liable to lay the horn on you. Because free real estate is lacking in Europe, and you just cost me an extra 20 minutes in traffic. Besides, everyone drives like that here.<br />
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7. Driving at all.<br />
With Paris' fantastic metro system, bus system, shared bike system, and completely walkable layout, who thinks of driving anymore. The traffic, the cost of parking, the insurance. Living in Europe has completely revolutionized how I look at getting from point A to point B, and let me tell you, none of it involves the pride of car ownership.<br />
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8. Caring about salmonella.<br />
When the grocery stores leave eggs and milk on the shelves, and last night's dinner could be sitting out for a few days, you realize food poisoning isn't really a big deal anymore. Besides, a stomach flu may be the only thing standing between you and your goal weight. (Kidding! Kind of...)<br />
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9. Being loud in public<br />
Seriously, my fellow Americans, we are loud to begin with in the States. But set us next to the docile murmur of the French language, and we are absolutely earsplitting. If you can hear someone two cars away on the metro, they are hands down American. I love us, I really do. But seriously, shut up. You are setting yourself up to be pick-pocketed or worse. And plus, it's just not very considerate.<br />
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10. Styling my hair.<br />
Of course, I gotta be a girl for a moment and ring in on this miracle of miracles. Thank God for the French blasé attitude toward hair, where frizz is actually a good thing. I rarely touch my hair with heat or even products anymore. Not only is it healthier, cheaper, and easier, but truly makes you feel sexier. As one very stylish Parisian friend of mine said, "The concept of a 'bad hair day' doesn't exist in the French language."<br />
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What habits have you kicked since moving to France? Or if you are States-side, which ones do you think you could never give up?<br />
Tell me in the comments below, I love comments! Or if you have a question about the French culture, email me through the link above, I read and answer each and every email from you!<br />
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-18103121116162752412015-06-22T14:07:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:07:21.092-07:00World Music Day, Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's one of the only days a year where Paris shrugs off her chic trench coat in exchange for cut-off jeans and a fringed t-shirt. This weekend, to welcome the Summer Solstice, Paris joined hundreds of cities worldwide in a little festival called World Music Day aka Make Music Day, aka Fête de la Musique. All across the city, free concerts celebrate the simple beauty of music. From jazz to electronic, from rock to African, calypso to marching bands. Solo acts set up shop alongside riverbanks and from balcony windows. The whole city lets her hair down and sways to the beat.</div>
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I spent my night along Canal Saint Martin and République, which I would argue is really the heart and soul of Paris nowadays. This is the grittier side of Paris, only recently cleaned up enough for the adventuring tourist. But this is where you can amble through streets of graffiti and find good coffee for under 5€. It's considered the common people's place, with blue collared prices. I love it. I feel at ease here, not worrying about being judged for not sporting a pair of Gucci sunglasses. It also promises to have the most varied and lively concerts.</div>
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A group of friends and I gather together along the crowded banks for a long evening, the longest evening of the year, in fact. Recently the sun has been setting around 10pm, while twilight lingers until nearly 11. We spread out our fixings of baguettes and cheeses, chips and chocolates, and a few cheap bottles of wine. There are seven countries represented in our little group, but everyone is united under the French language. The sun and food slowly disappear, and we can hear the hum of distant bands drumming up a crowd. It soon becomes too much, and I disappear with my Macedonian friend Olgitsa into the masses.</div>
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We encounter a marching band dresses a myriad of different countries, a big brass band of young men wearing sheepskin vests, a huge calypso band, and finally an African dance group. I try to take a picture with the beret-ed and Breton striped trumpeter, but, although I'm no psychologist, his body language tells me he was not interested in a photo.<br />
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My favorite by far was the African dance group, set up right along the banks of the canal and shadowed by the overhanging trees like a jungle. The beat was furious and then non existent, and we all tried to dance to the beat, but it flew away and was gone and left us all to our own measure. We were all mad and glad for it. The man who was leading the band had black shiny skin that shone in the dusk lights, so as the night wore on, only his cheeks that stuck out from his smiling face like fat summer cherries, his gleaming teeth, and his twinkling eyes were visible. I think I have never seen a man more happy to give people something to dance to.</div>
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When our heads were spinning from the rhythm and the smoke, we left and rejoined the group, still dawdling by the riverside. Perhaps it was the American in me, but the thought of just sitting there while musicians filled the streets made me cringe. The Spaniard in the group was the slowest, guzzling a wine bottle all by herself and happy to stay right where she was for the night. Finally, we split up, me unable to swallow the idea of staying and staying and staying. We waded through trash and crowds. A group gathered on the corner by a DJ stand jiving to "Twist and Shout."<br />
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We continued to République, detouring though a massive rave party a block from the square. Everyone was jumping to some French rap, which frankly is too beautiful to be considered rap. We then snaked into the heart of République and quickly were swallowed into the mob enveloping the rock concert stage (see above). There were thousands of people gathered and being trampled was not an impossibility as bodies crushed against each other. A fight broke out right next to us and the sea of bodies swelled and pushed to both get out of the way and see what would happen. It always surprises me how fast people move when a fight breaks out, like they are instantaneously transformed into wild African cats. In the end it quieted down, and we finally broke free and wandered further towards Oberkampf. Trying to get our bearings outside a McDonalds, we were drawn like a moth to flame to an outdoor club that was playing all the hits from when I was in high school. No better way to end the night of making music than dancing to the songs that sent you back to your teenage dream years. </div>
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I think this was one of nights you always dream of having when you go abroad. Picnicking by the canal, partying with the locals, and forgetting for a moment that you are the foreigner. For a moment, we are all just little humans getting lost in the music and riding the heat of the summer solstice.</div>
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Peace and love, everyone.</div>
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-61830022373175365082015-06-19T06:39:00.000-07:002015-06-19T08:18:30.656-07:00I am Not a Blogger... Yet<div>
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I'd like to tell you a little story about a girl in 8th grade who was given an assignment to write a report on a career she might like to pursue in her future. She threw herself into the report, spending hours of research on job market trends and salary projections. At the end of the day, she turned in 32-page report on being an obstetrician and gynecology in the early 2000s. Everyone else followed the 8-10 page guidelines. But she got an A+, and no one told her that writing too much could be a bad thing. </div>
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That same little girl grew up writing novels in her spare time. Surprise, surprise. Gobs of them. Mostly unfinished. But she loved writing about the little details no one saw, the character flaws others missed. She never write with an end in mind, she just wrote.</div>
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Imagine the rude awakening she had when she went to school for journalism, or began to dally in the world of blogging. Turns out, people don't go online to read novels; they go to the library (or Amazon Prime, if we're being honest). And so the little grew up and decided to be a writer. </div>
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The end.</div>
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If you didn't catch on, this is a little autobiography of my writing career to date. And I just had a major breakthrough. I realized I've been doing this whole blogging thing wrong. It's taken me about 10 months to figure that out. But here I am, sitting in some sort of stupid stupor realizing how miserably I have miffed my first blog.</div>
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When I first created this blog, I was doing it as some kind of experiment, both to have an online journal of sorts, but since I already keep a personal journal regularly, this "web log" of my day-to-day felt a little redundant. Truth be told, I think I was craving a creative outlet, and to learn new things that related to my field. I wanted to give myself something to do while I went abroad, a way to continue to hone my career during my gap year. How very American of me.</div>
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As things wore on, I blogged less, learned less, thought less about it. Until I realized I would only blog once a month, perhaps twice. I would feel so bogged down by the build up of events over that past month that I wouldn't even want to write about it, because it was too much and wasn't even current anyway. (That's why you still haven't heard anything about Istanbul.)</div>
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But with a little extra time on my hands lately, I decided it was time to brush up on my skills as I begin to look for jobs when I return to the States (there's that career motivating me again). I decided, against all my political beliefs, to read <u><i>The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging</i></u>. And I realized my major pitfall as a blogger was trying to make my blog perfect.</div>
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<li style="text-align: justify;">I need to edit these 200 photos from the trip before I can post anything.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I can't post now, all my readers are still in bed.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I should do more research so I can have some fun stats to share.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Nobody cares about this, it's too personal.</li>
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And so forth. And while struggling through the grotesque bulkiness of political innuendo of a book about blogging, I made perhaps my most important discovery:</div>
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<i>Perfect</i> is the enemy of <i>done</i>.</div>
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This whole time, I've been a perfectionist about my blog and burying the punctuality under punctation. I haven't trusted my own voice. I've been working very hard to be someone I am not. I am not a world traveler. I am not a fashion blogger. I am not a trust fund baby. I am not an angry expat. I'm just me. And I don't know who that is exactly, but instead of trying to be someone, I'm just going to let my someone be, and trust there is something, no someone, good inside waiting for me. </div>
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So things might change a bit on here. I might post a lot more. I might not form complete sentences. But I can tell that this is important because my eyes just welled up a bit thinking for the first time in maybe my entire life I am going public with my imperfection, and I'm going there boldly. I hope you'll stick out the journey with me.</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-365983926979666342015-06-16T01:45:00.001-07:002016-08-16T20:13:00.118-07:00Au Pair Paris 101: Letter of Motivation<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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If you are applying to be an au pair in France, you will be required to submit a motivation letter in French as part of your paperwork to be approved for your visa. It is required that this entire letter be written in French and explain your reasons for wanting to be an au pair in France. Now if you are anything like me, I freaked out a lot when it came to writing a legal document in French... when at the time I really only knew how to order a baguette and say I'm not interested to creepy Frenchmen. So how in the world was I going to write a letter convincing the French government to let me stay in their government and live expense-free?<br />
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The motivation letter is not actually as scary as it seems. First of all, they don't expect your French to be perfect, because part of the whole idea of being an au pair in the first place is to go to a different country to learn the language. So don't be afraid of making mistakes. Secondly, the French treasure their culture, and want to know that you will, too. So if you are coming to au pair in Paris, they want you to be interested in the art and museums and food and music––which shouldn't be too hard, right?<br />
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When writing your motivation letter, use the formal letter format with the name of your family and their address in the the top left hand corner. Address your letter, "Chérie Famille."<br />
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I'm going to have a moment of truth with you. I used Google translate like it was my job to write the next three paragraphs outlining why I was interested in coming to France and why I chose to come as an au pair. I asked my host mom about this, and she said it wasn't a problem, since I was coming to France to learn the language, anyway. So your letter of motivation does not need to be professionally translated.<br />
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Some topics you might want to speak to:<br />
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<li>which parts of the French culture interest you</li>
<li>how you became interested in moving to France</li>
<li>why you decided to come as an au pair</li>
<li>why you want to learn the French language</li>
<li>what past history you have with French culture</li>
<li>how you will use this experience to help you in the future</li>
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Sign the letter "<i>Cordialement</i>" which is "Regards" or "Sincèrement" which is "Sincerely," then your name and contact info. It is likely that your host family will need an electronic copy of the letter, so be sure to email them a copy as well as print one for your visa application. </div>
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Happy writing adventures, <i>mes au pairs futures</i>!</div>
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<br />Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-32008509233086143352015-06-10T11:22:00.002-07:002015-06-10T11:22:19.643-07:0021 Questions to Ask Before You Move to Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When you are getting ready to pick up your life and move across seas for a year, it's kind of a good idea to know what you are getting into. A lot of girls are too timid to ask the questions to their host families that in the end could make or break their experience. I was the queen of question-asking (blame it on my journalism background) and my host mom graciously suffered through (thank you!), Keep in mind, some of these questions might be more appropriate to ask the au pair you are replacing if you have her contacts available. And it's best not to go overboard all in one email; space the questions out on a need-to-know basis. You don't want to come off as more of a hassle than a help. That said, here are 21 questions you should ask your host family before moving to Paris:<br />
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<b>Schedule:</b><br />
1. What will (child's name)'s typical schedule be?<br />
2. (If driving to and from school,) what is the drive time? (This will affect your hours.)<br />
3. Does (child's name) have any particular interests in art or reading or music or sports that I can learn about before I come? (Remember you are there for the kids, not just sipping espressos by the Seine.)<br />
4. How often will you (the parents) be out of town for work?<br />
5. Will I go on holidays/vacations with the family?<br />
6. How often will I be taking (child's name) to do things like a museum or a show, etc.? And how do the expenses of those trips get handled?<br />
7. Will I be free to travel on weekends should I choose to do so?<br />
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<b>Apartment:</b><br />
8. Am I free to have guests stay at my apartment (family, fellow APs, etc.)?<br />
9. Does the apartment I will be living in have wifi?<br />
10. Do I need to bring or buy bedding/utensils/toiletries for the apartment?<br />
11. Will I have separate/private access to my apartment?<br />
12. Do you have any photos of the apartment? (A totally reasonable question. This is your home for the next 12 months.)<br />
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<b>Money/Benefits:</b><br />
13. Am I going to be paid in cash or through a bank? (Important to know if you need to open a foreign bank account and how to do that.)<br />
14. How do you handle pay over holidays?<br />
15. If I go over 30 hours in a week, what are the wages for extra hours/babysitting?<br />
16. Will I need to pay for my transportation card/Navigo? (They should pay for a way for you to get around, if they don't, take that extra cost–70€/month–into consideration.)<br />
17. Will your family cover me in health insurance? (They have to as part of French law, but some families will try to skirt by this one.)<br />
18. How much are French classes and how do I register? (If you are paying for them, better to know before so you can budget accordingly because they can be expensive! Mine are 335€ a trimester, and that's the cheapest option.)<br />
19. What will I usually do for breakfast and lunch? (Often you eat dinner with the kids, but you need to know if you are free to eat at the families for the other two meals or if they will give you grocery money.)<br />
20. How will my phone service be handled? (SIM card, internet, carrier costs, etc.)<br />
21. Will you finance my flight to or from my home country? (Some families will, some will say it's out of the question. Don't take offense if it's the latter, this is a new perk that most families haven't heard about yet.)<br />
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These may seem like intrusive or blunt questions, but they are things you need to know and part of job anyway... remember, you are interviewing them as much as they are interviewing you. Just try to phrase them considerately. Your tone shouldn't be "What are you gonna give me" but instead, "How can we make this work for the both of us?"<br />
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I'm so glad I asked all these questions (over a series of several emails) rather than showing up and getting an unhappy surprise or worse, getting in a situation where I was being taken advantage of and could have avoided had I asked in advance. Trust me you will be, too.<br />
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Are there any other questions you could add to the list? Any questions you wish you would have asked before you came? Leave them in the comments below!<br />
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-26377109693230624782015-06-03T15:07:00.000-07:002015-08-24T12:23:43.399-07:00Hey Ya'll, from Texas<div>
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Now listen up, ya'll. There is a new tumbleweed twirlin', coffee bean buckin' sheriff in town. Maybe not exactly new–Folks and Sparrow will be celebrating its one year anniversary this month. And it's not exactly Texan; its other two chains are in New York and Woodstock, Georgia. But still, trust me, this friendly concept-coffee-and-specialty-foods shop will make you want to trade in your beret for a ten-gallon Stetson. Folks and Sparrow, the laid-back, tobacco chewing southern drawl brother of the cafe lot found in the Republique-Oberkampf area. At first glance, F&S seems like a regular mix of table space and wifi with some light lunch faire and frothy coffees. But the second that Marshall radio whines out a wispy drag of country hits from yesteryear, your synapses snap to attention like the crack of a bullwhip: this little pocket of Paris is not so Parisian. </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> </span>Maybe it's the Texas longhorn cattle skull framing the back wall that gives it away. Or the Navajo style rugs, the prairie grass bouquets, the... socks made in Italy?<br />
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Well, maybe this place is suffering from a bit of global disorientation... it is an American country boy trying to make its place in Paris, after all. And to make things worse, I ordered an Italian cappuccino when I visited... Now my internal world compass is spinning pirouettes. But my mischievous heart is happy having found a bit of Texas twang kicking up dust amongst all these highfalutin dandies and Parisian cafes. </div>
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Be sure to stop by for a glass. Maybe if we petition, they'll add sarsaparilla to the carte des boissons.</div>
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14 rue Saint Sebastien, 75011 Paris, France</div>
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-24418401877079392972015-05-27T09:25:00.000-07:002015-05-29T11:04:50.463-07:00Learn to Love the Food You Hate<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnRXQUlCEPaISP7eES0_052Ay4Ur0Rdl64rDve9e0QN0tiv_VSfdwQ2leaHOI5YBe_1Klvs-VIdpvY0zfB_Q6Vc1kQY7WmUEshjnkiA45lt7LowWw1rhc6_fahcsaoivkLawuavf0g_fg/s640/blogger-image--748166755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnRXQUlCEPaISP7eES0_052Ay4Ur0Rdl64rDve9e0QN0tiv_VSfdwQ2leaHOI5YBe_1Klvs-VIdpvY0zfB_Q6Vc1kQY7WmUEshjnkiA45lt7LowWw1rhc6_fahcsaoivkLawuavf0g_fg/s640/blogger-image--748166755.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>There it sat, spikey spines boring into me. If it had grown legs and walked off my plate, I would have been more relieved than surprised. But it just sat there, mocking me. <i>You don't even know where to start, do you</i>, it sneered. <i>Go ahead, just try to take a bite</i>. You know it's bad when your food starts talking to you. I should have known better. Here I was, my first meal with my new host family in France. It had to be an artichoke. I had specifically prayed, please God, I'll eat anything, but don't make them feed me artichoke.<br>God sure has a sense of humour.<div><br></div><div>Picky eaters don't last long in a life abroad. Whether moving across the globe to a new country, or just trying to expand your options for Friday night dinner with friends, learning to like new foods is essential to not only your health but also your social life. Nothing kills the dinner party vibe like someone saying, "Wait. What is that. I don't eat that." When you opt to live with a family in a foreign country for a year, keeping your taste buds flexible is more important than ever.<br>
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We Americans are used to our as-you-like-it, customizable habits where the customer has free reign to create entirely new dishes from the bare bones of what's on the menu. The French, however, are of the opinion (and I am too) that if a chef whose entire job is to masterfully match flavors with textures makes a dish with roasted artichoke, you eat it. <i>Sans alteration</i>.<br>
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But sometimes you just really hate a certain food and can't get past the taste of it. Then what? That's where my method comes in. It's a two-punch approach to helping you learn to like the foods you really can't stand.<br>
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First, find something that pairs well with what you don't like that will initially mask the taste. This may be a dressing or a sauce or an entirely different food. Whenever you eat that food, add a little less of your masking element and try to taste a bit more of the food you don't like. Your goal is to eventually wean yourself off the mask entirely. You will need the second step to help you with this.<br>
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Your second punch is to determine what makes that taste unique. If you don't like a certain food, you are tasting something different than other foods you already like. At first you see that difference as a negative, but you have to turn it into a positive. Determine what specific flavor and/or texture you can find in that food you can't find in other foods. What makes it unique will make it worth eating.<br>
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I have used this method for a lot of foods here in France that I didn't like when I first arrived and now have since learned to love! Artichoke of course was the first to join, but then mushrooms and plain yogurt and raw fish joined my palette. With artichoke, for example, I used a spicy mustard vinaigrette. Or for the plain yogurt (which has since become my favorite snack), I added a spoonful of jam or honey. And the best part is all of the new foods is discovering the worlds of taste behind, in, and through them.<br>
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I think the most important thing is to be curious. If you are curious, you will want to discover what tastes you are missing out on, what foods you haven't quite discovered the flavors of yet. If you are curious, you continue to expand your taste buds so that you can begin enjoying a huge variety of foods in no time.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, be a dear and pass the artichoke, please.</div>Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-53431120432067986432015-05-14T15:54:00.004-07:002015-08-24T12:26:52.873-07:00How to Become an Au Pair in Paris<div>
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It's that time of year, when the sun finally escapes the cloudy blanket of winter, and people begin to dream of traveling to far off places. That's how it began for me, anyway. Frustrated with my first job out of college and ridden with wanderlust, I began to research options for traveling the world on the cheap. Of course, it was kind of a joke at first, just wishful thinking. Then wishful thinking turned into obsessive research, which turned into me packing a suitcase and flying to France for a year abroad.</div>
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Spring is also the time of year when host families begin to look for their au pair for the next school year, so I thought it would be an appropriate time to do a little FAQ on being an au pair in Paris. I discovered there aren't many resources out there on becoming an au pair, so I hope this post will shed some light on the subject and hopefully inspire some of you to take the big leap of faith and go for it! If you still have more questions about being an au pair,<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> post it in the comments section, and I will answer as best I can!</span></div>
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Note: This article is aimed at Americans looking to au pair in France. If you are European, congratulations! Your life is enormously easier in regards to paperwork and travel. So disregard the bit about consulates and visas.</div>
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<i>First, let's start with the obvious: should you be an au pair?</i></div>
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Do you want an immersive cultural experience, or are you just craving a really great vacation? Do you need a change of scene or a change of country? Do you enjoy spending time with children? All important factors to consider before committing to move abroad for a year. An au pair job is not like backpacking around Europe, which is not like cruising through the Mediterranean, which is not like working on an organic farm in Australia. I chose to be an au pair firstly because I wanted to learn French, secondly because I wanted to live abroad <i>as a local,</i> and thirdly because I wanted a regular place to come home to, and regular people to share life with. I have worked with kids throughout my life, and while I'm not planning to make a career of it, I knew I could handle hanging with a few kiddos for a year. Being an au pair is a common and reasonable gap year choice if you've just finished high school or university and aren't quite ready to jump into the "real world" yet or need some time to figure out what to do with that shiny new diploma.<br />
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<i>Do you fit the specific legal au pair requirements for your chosen country?</i></div>
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In France, for example, you must be between 18-30 years old. You also must have a basic knowledge of French (kind of...more on this later). And you must have finished at least a high school level education.</div>
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<i>How do I find a job?</i><br />
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There are two camps of au pairs: agency and independent. Some au pairs prefer to pay a fee and let an agency find a family for them and handle the paperwork process. Other au pairs (like me) would rather use that agency fee on a trip to (fill in dream country here) and choose to find a family and do the paperwork themselves. Trust me, it's not as daunting as it seems.</div>
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Agency options:</div>
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<a href="http://www.aupairparis.com/">www.aupairparis.com</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.goaupair.com/">www.goaupair.com</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.interexchange.org/">www.interexchange.org</a></div>
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Note: I cannot personally vouch for these agencies, as I did not use them. But they are the most popular amongst my friends here who went through agencies.</div>
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Independent websites:</div>
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<a href="https://www.aupair-world.net/">www.aupair-world.net</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.greataupair.com/">www.greataupair.com</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.easyaupair.com/">www.easyaupair.com</a></div>
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Most of my friends and I found our jobs using Aupair World. It was the least dodgy and is the easiest to navigate. Plus lots of great resources to walk you step-by-step through the process. A note on writing your profile: my host mom (who has had 15 au pairs) told me that she never considers anyone whose application is not written in a professional tone. Remember that not only are the French more formal, but these are parents entrusting their children to a foreigner whom they've never met. So make an effort and write your profile with some class.</div>
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<i>What kind of job should you look for?</i></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In the au pair world, there is an idea that every job is a triangle of benefits: location, family, and perks. Pick your top two, because getting all three is rare. For me, I knew if I hated my family, the other two wouldn't matter. And I wanted to live in central Paris, not in the suburbs or a small town in France. (Most au pairs who live outside the Preferique--the circle of highway that defines central Paris--make fewer friends and see less of the city then other au pairs.) Lastly, I happened to also get some great perks, but that's what you get with a seasoned au pair family. If you are the family's first au pair, your expectations should be more flexible.</span></div>
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Your ideal job should be along these guidelines: </div>
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One child, age 6-9</div>
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Speaking English or French with child, French with parents</div>
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Family living in central Paris<br />
**Separate apartment or bedroom with access to a bathroom and kitchen**</div>
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Open access to family's apartment</div>
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Groceries provided</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">85€ a week in pocket money</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Working only weekday afternoons (4:30-7:30pm) plus the normal full Wednesday (children in France have either a half day or no school on Wednesdays)</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Babysitting wage for more than 30 hours a week (10€+/hour)</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">2 weeks paid vacation for Christmas</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">1-2 weeks paid vacation in spring and fall</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">No work on the weekends</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">**When deciding whether to be a live out or live-in nanny, consider your former or current rooming situation. If you have never lived on your own, living with a family can be a great comfort for living far from home, as well as great practice for speaking in French on a regular basis. If you've already lived on your own, moving back into a family environment may feel too restrictive or cramped. Having a separate apartment will give you the independence you need. From my experience, most au pairs who are finishing high school or are in college prefer live-in situations, and au pairs who are postgrad prefer live-out housing. Again, it's personal preference.**</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Other things you should ask if the family pays for:</span></div>
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French classes (required for au pairs, so if they aren't footing the bill, you are, and the classes can get expensive)</div>
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Phone plan with Internet</div>
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Wifi in apartment</div>
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Navigo or independent transportation</div>
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Sound too good to be true? I found a job like this, and I know other who have too. You won't get everything on this list, but see how closely you can negotiate. Maybe you babysit one weekend a month, in exchange for Internet on your phone. Always stay flexible, but know what you need and what you don't.</div>
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<i>What paperwork do I need?</i></div>
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Right now, you will want to square away all your official documents. Birth certificate, passport, drivers license, school transcript. You won't want to be waiting around for this later on in the process.</div>
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Basically there are two essential elements of your au pair application. The au pair contract and the au pair visa. Do not accept an au pair job without signing a contract with the family. Every au pair I know who has started without a contract has gotten royally screwed over. You and your host family must both sign it. Your family then gets t<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">his contract registered and approved by the French immigration office. This has to happen before you can apply for your visa.</span></div>
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The au pair visa allows you to work and stay legally in France. You must apply for this in person at your regional French consulate. This requires a dossier (file) of paperwork that isn't too hard to figure out. But it's important to have it all right to make the approval go as quickly as possible. See your specific consulate website for the dossier details.</div>
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<i>What's a reasonable timeline for all of this to take place?</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">April is when host families begin to look for au pairs, and au pairs create profiles with an agency or online. May is for interviewing and drawing up a contract. Since the contract must be signed by hand, copies must be mailed to France with your signature, signed by the host parents, then and signed and stamped by the French immigration office. (Signatures are a big thing in France, apparently.) The contract is then mailed back</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> to you for your visa application. This mailing back and forth could take weeks, so allow the full month of June for this. Next, you need to make an appointment with your regional French consulate in the beginning of July for your visa to definitely get back to you by August. The consulate's policy is 3 weeks, but if there are problems, you will want time to sort it out. Most au pair jobs begin mid-to-late August. Mine didn't begin until September, which gave me time to put in my two weeks at work after I had my approved visa and then have two more weeks to spend moving out of my apartment and spending some last moments with friends and family. Those few extra weeks made the whole process so much easier, so get ahead of the deadline if you can.</span></div>
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<i>How much will it cost?</i></div>
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The question I researched the most and found the fewest answers on. This all sounds great, but what's the bottom line? Here's my best breakdown.</div>
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Since you will be living with free room and board and have your weekly pocket money, you will have virtually no living expenses during your time abroad. Sound amazing? It is. But you will also want to go travel and eat fancy French food and buy pretty French clothes and don't get me started on the French flea markets; this might exceed your weekly stipend (okay, it definitely will). So it is wise to have money put away for spending on special trips or celebratory nights out with friends. This totally depends on your spending habits. I personally committed to saving my weekly stipend and using that for all my trips, which usually come out to around 300-400€ per trip (international flight). A nice dinner out in Paris will run you 40€ with three courses and wine. But those are just estimates.</div>
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You must pay for your plane ticket to and from your home country. I bought a one-way ticket from Columbus to Paris for $635 in the first week of September from American Airlines. I bought it just a month before I left because I wanted to wait until I had my French visa and my travel rewards credit card. So if you can plan further ahead, you could possibly get an even better deal. Something to consider: baggage fees. I got a great ticket price, but it limited me to one 50 lbs suitcase and a carry-on for moving abroad for a year, or a $100 fee for a single ounce more. So if you will be bringing a lot, choose an airline with a good baggage deal.</div>
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You must also pay for your trip to your consulate, which may mean a short plane ride and overnight hotel depending on how far it is. My sister happens to live in Chicago where my regional French consulate is, so... ROAD TRIP! If you aren't so fortunate, plan that expense too.</div>
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Then there is the expense of the visa itself, which I believe ran me a solid $150. </div>
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And don't forget the little stuff that adds up, like new luggage, express mailing something to France, stocking up on essentials and foods you will miss, shoes for traveling, etc.</div>
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All in all, it might be wise to have a couple thousand dollars laid away to cover the expenses of the entire transition.</div>
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<i>Do I have to know French?</i></div>
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The requirements for an aupair in France are that you have a basic working knowledge of French before you work as an au pair. Now I will admit, I didn't have a basic working knowledge; I didn't have any knowledge! I had tried Rosetta Stone, podcasts, phrase books. But I was still limited to <i>bonjo</i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>ur</i>, <i>au revoir</i>, <i>merci</i>, and <i>je suis célibataire</i>. I even met with the French professor of my old university to have him analyze my language skills in case I needed paperwork authorizing my level of French, which he kindly exaggerated was "barely survivable" at best. But there is, in fact, no "proof of language skills" test or anything like that. In fact, the only reason that is a requirement is for the au pair's own sanity as she begins her French courses or speaking with the family (some au pairs only speak French with the family). </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I found a bilingual family, so the language barrier was no detrimental problem to my time in Paris, despite me having never taken a French language course. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>Won't my career path suffer?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I have so much to say on this that it would require a completely different post, but know that, in brief, spending a year abroad adds incredible worth to your whole personhood. The people who see and recognize that worth are the people you want to work for. And about those people who think you wasted a year, do they really align with your work philosophy anyway? It is becoming ever more common to see a gap year on a resume after university for travel or volunteer work around the world. Don't be afraid to jump off the treadmill. I repeat, DO NOT BE AFRAID.</span></div>
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<i>What will I be missing out on if I go?</i></div>
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You will realize, several times, how everyone's life goes on without you. You will miss weddings and births and deaths. You will miss out on being in those crazy photobooth shots from the Fourth of July party. You will miss out on big national events like the Super Bowl and Voting Day. You will miss out on traditions with family during the holidays. You will miss out on knowing exactly what is going to happen from one day to the next.</div>
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<i>What will I be missing out on if I don't go?</i></div>
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You will miss this narrow window of opportunity to see the world while you are young and healthy and free of responsibility. You will miss the chance to learn a new language that will open doors to a whole new group of people worldwide. You will not travel the world so inexpensively ever again (there are tons of benefits for young travelers in Europe under the age of 26). You will not taste weird foods and hear strange sounds that eventually work their way into your daily routine. You will miss the opportunity to see your world and yourself from the outside. You will miss out on having an international posse of friends. But most of all, you will miss out on discovering a new version of yourself you never knew existed, someone waiting on the other side of the gorge, waiting for you to have faith enough to jump, waiting to introduce you to who you were meant to be all along.<br />
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(No wait, most importantly, you will miss out on French pastries. Duh.)</div>
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I hope this FAQ has been helpful, and I will be adding to it as I receive more of your questions. In closing, this year as an au pair in France has been the best decision I have ever made, and I hope if this opportunity speaks to you, you will not hesitate a moment to seize it.</div>
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"The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page."</div>
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St. Augustine</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-7788348316148560752015-05-06T15:59:00.000-07:002015-05-06T15:59:29.982-07:00April in Barcelona<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Isn't it usually the other way around? Everyone wants to go to Paris in April. But not me. As soon as I knew I was headed to Paris, I made plans to visit Barcelona. It was right up there with London on my must-see list for my first round of sight-seeing in Europe. I had major sticker shock when I tried to find transportation from Paris to Barcelona... who knew this route was so expensive?! So when I found a 100€ RT ticket on Ryan Air, I jumped at the chance to finally get to see that sparkling, sultry, spirited sister city. (Say that five times fast!)</div>
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As most of you know by now, when I travel to a new city, I jump head first into being immersed in its culture. I want to learn the language, dance to the music, talk to the locals, and eat the food. No chain fast food or Holiday Express hotels for me. I want the unadulterated experience. So I was very blessed to be traveling to Barcelona with my beautiful Spanish friend, Sara, who is also an au pair in Paris. We stayed at one of her friend's apartments for our visit, located in the hip, youthful, and affordable Gracia neighborhood.</div>
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We walked a total of 45 miles in Barcelona, covering all the major sites and making many laps on Las Ramblas--the crowded main street that makes the city feel like a small town all dressed up. I think it is so important to walk in the cities you go to visit, to avoid subways and buses and taxi and actually see the little details that make a city what it is. Hear the buzzing of locals in action, feel the rhythm of their feet hitting the sidewalk along with your own. It's the only way to be swallowed up in such a short amount of time.</div>
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Our first day route took us past Casa Milà, Casa Batlló, Plaça de Catalunya, La Boqueria Market, Plaça Reial, El Gotic, Columbus Monument, and finally Barceloneta Beach. We ended up going to La Boqueria market twice a day while we were there, it was so good and inexpensive. We tasted cured hams and cheeses and chocolates and Spanish strawberries and fruit juices called zumos. Following the advise of other bloggers, we stuck to the booths in the back and found the prices wonderful. I had a pumpkin, cheese and nut empanada that was to die for. It's also where I tasted my first ever paella, the traditional Spanish dish everyone has to try when they come to Spain. Now that I've had it, I can see why. Plaça Reial was my favorite square to people watch in. And El Gotic reminded me much of Le Marais in Paris, with its tiny streets and tucked away boutiques and eateries. But for more affordable shopping, I would stick to Garcia.</div>
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Our second day, we were abruptly awoken at 8:30am by the sound of someone running a jack-hammer into the bedroom wall beside us. Nothing so disconcerting as feeling like you've been placed in the middle of bank robbery heist first thing in the morning. It turned out to be construction on the roof that somehow carried all the way down to our apartment. Our hostess told us it had been going on for a year. <i>Face to palm.</i></div>
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Not deterred at all, we finished our breakfast (bowl of milky coffee with cereal poured over), and headed out to that famous view of Barcelona from Park Guell. The lines for tickets was a half an hour, and we couldn't get in for a few hours anyway, so we booked our tickets and headed up for a must lesser-known view. Now, I will have to say, this was by far my favorite part of the trip. Taking winding stairs into ghost-town streets, no road signs to help, asking directions from these three amigos on the way.... all worth it at the top.</div>
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I could have spent all day gazing on this glorious city. But at last we headed back down for a quick bocadillo (sandwich) before climbing back up to Park Guell. After paying 8€ to get into the tiny park, we were surrounded by the incredible Modernist art of Antoni Gaudí. The intricacy of the mosaic pieces, the spattering of expression in needless places, the unapologetic energy of the colors, the groovy curves of his rooftops... I think they call it falling head over heels. My gypsy soul leapt awake from dormancy living amongst the stunning but predictable Haussmannian apartments in Paris.</div>
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After this we walked down to the famous church, La Sagrada Familia, which I admit I found a bit disappointing, so wrapped up in construction as it was. I would need to make a return visit once the building was complete. Obviously.</div>
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That night we went out for tapas, little tasting dishes common in Spain in place of a three course dinner. We had pan con tomate (bread with olive oil and freshly crushed tomatoes), croquetas (spinach, mushrooms, and heavenly cod deep fried and oozing with bechamel sauce), stuffed peppers, two kinds of tortillas (more like a quiche than a tortilla as Americans know it), and my favorite-- patatas bravas (fried potatoes drizzled in two creams, one like ranch and the other, something sweet and spicy). We rounded out dinner splitting a cheesecake topped with raspberry sauce and rich dark chocolate brownie served with a puff of whipped cream. Is your mouth watering? Mine is just remembering.</div>
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The next day, Sara left for a few days at home in another part of Spain, so Barcelona had me all to herself. We started the day at La Boqueria, of course. The rest of my day I dedicated to El Gotic and Barceloneta. Nothing gets me like boutiques and beaches. Perhaps most of my time was spent meandering and taking photos. Those kind of days are my favorites.</div>
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I meant to be adventurous and try something new, since I despise double dipping restaurants on the same trip. But when I finally got home at 10pm to unload shopping bags, shake off sand, and grab something to eat, those patatas bravas were calling my name again. I'm not even sorry. Sitting alone in a tapas bar off to one side afforded me an incredible view of local life, and I stayed for a couple hours drinking in the scene of friends kissing and coming and going. I managed a "mucho gusto" when the server asked about the food, very proud of myself until I realized I had just told him it was nice to meet him. Will I never get these languages straight! Thankfully he just smiled and continued clearing the table.</div>
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Now, I had every intention of going salsa dancing during my stay in Barcelona. But as it turns out, Monday-Wednesday nights are not hot salsa nights in this sizzling city (amateurs). I couldn't find a salsa club close enough to dance in before catching a 4am taxi ride to the airport. My parents are probably happy about that. I hailed one of the numerous taxis buzzing around in the dead of night, and watched as the driver whisked my luggage away into the truck, ran to the door, then whisked me away to the airport at 120 kph. I didn't even mind him running a few dead red lights when the taxi ride lasted 17 minutes exactly.</div>
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It felt like as soon as I got there I left, but such is the life of a traveler. Though I'm not in Barcelona to stay, I'm taking a bit of that boho, rebellious spirit back with me to Paris and now wherever I go. I guess there's a bit of Gaudí in all of us. </div>
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Stay tuned for my upcoming adventures in Istanbul! (Upcoming as in, I'm publishing this post, then getting three hours of sleep before leaving for the airport.)</div>
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P.S.</div>
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Clearing up a couple misconceptions about Barcelona I was told before I came:</div>
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<i>You will get pick-pocketed. </i>I never once felt afraid that I might be pick-pocketed while I was there, even at night or walking alone. True, I'm now accustomed to keeping my bag secure at all times since living in Paris, but I think this is just an overhyped stereotype.</div>
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<i>It's rowdy and unsafe at night.</i> As a female traveling alone, it's inevitable you will have to be out and about in a city by yourself at night. And you should always exercise caution. But like any city, there are good parts and bad parts. And staying in the good parts and sticking to well-lit areas, I had no trouble at all in Barcelona.</div>
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<i>It's full of flamenco dancers and bull-fighters.</i> Okay maybe this was just wishful thinking on my part. But Barcelona's culture is mainly influenced by her region Catalonia more than her country of Spain. In fact, I didn't realize the strength of the revolution taking place in Catalonia for independence from Spain until I went. Exciting times to be around. But while you may see little statuettes and dancing shows in the touristy areas of town, neither bullfighting nor flamenco dancing is true to the Barcelona experience.</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-75172433467482638292015-04-15T12:35:00.000-07:002016-06-14T12:47:48.715-07:00Four Days in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Spring has arrived in Paris, and so has the first wave of tourists. Of course, Paris is always full of tourists, but April marks the beginning of high season. And why not, with the trees in blossom and the golden sunshine melting the frost off even the chilliest Parisian. I've been getting lots of requests about what there is to see in Paris, other than the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, of course. You can't say you've been to Paris without seeing <i>la tour</i> light up with fairy dust every hour on the hour, or exchanging smiles with Mona Lisa. But if there is one thing I have learned during my time as a "local", it's that there is SO MUCH more to Paris than that.<br />
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Last month my college roommate Lauren came to Paris for four glorious days of exploration. We had three goals:</div>
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1. See the famous tourist sights.</div>
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2. Get a sense of the local scene.</div>
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3. Not go broke doing it.</div>
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There were a few contingencies that made this possible. First, I warned her we would have to walk––A LOT. We averaged 7-10 miles a day while she was here. Paris was made for walking, and I think it's so much more enjoyable to see it this way; we arranged our days with as much walking as possible and avoiding public transport when we could.</div>
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We also operated on student-level budgets, so our options as far as food were probably different than those Michelin-seeking stomachs coming to Paris to be wined and dined. But part of the charm of Paris is its markets and picnic culture, popular for locals and tourists alike. If you want other food suggestions, visit <a href="http://www.timeout.com/paris/en/restaurants-cafes" target="_blank">Time Out Paris</a> or <a href="http://parisbymouth.com/" target="_blank">Paris by Mouth</a>, both of which have lists for the specific arrondissements in Paris and make finding a good restaurant choice easy.</div>
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So grab your beret and striped Breton shirt for four fabulous days seeing the best parts of Paris, both famous and local delights:</div>
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<b><i><u>Saturday:</u></i></b></div>
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10:30am<br />
<i>Airport pick-up and travel into Paris</i><br />
Remember, Charles de Gaulle Airport is a good 45 minutes outside of Paris. You can take a taxi, which will run you 50-60€ one way, or ride the RER (regional) train B, where a ticket to Paris costs about 10€.</div>
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12:30pm<br />
<i>Picnic and Photos at the Eiffel Tower</i><br />
There is a large market near Trocadero off Avenue President Wilson where you can buy baguettes, cheeses, sausages, fruit, or anything else you might fancy.<br />
7th arrondissement, Metro: Trocadero, Bir-Hakeim</div>
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<i>Walk to Musee Rodin via Rue Cler and Hotel des Invalides</i></div>
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From the Champs des Mars (the big park behind the Eiffel Tower) take Rue Saint-Dominique east until you come upon adorable little Rue Cler, a great street market for taking photos. Also a great backup option to the picnic idea if it rains. At the end of Rue Cler, turn right on Rue de Grenelle and follow it east to the beautiful golden-domed Hotel des Invalides. This is a truly beautiful little area of town, so enjoy the stroll. Continue to take a right on Boulevard des Invalides, then a left on Rue de Varenne, which will take you right to Musee Rodin.<br />
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2:00pm<br />
<i>Musée Rodin</i><br />
The museum is under construction until September sadly,<b> (update: up and running and more breathtaking than ever!) </b>but the surrounding gardens are still worth the trip, and you'll still see some of his works there, including The Thinker.<br />
7th arrondissement, 79 Rue de Varenne, 75007<br />
<br />
3:00pm<br />
<i>Musée d'Orsay</i><br />
What some consider the lesser Louvre, I think is by far more succinct and attainable. It's by far my favorite museum in Paris. Start on the fifth floor with the impressionists collections and work your way down. </div>
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7th arrondissement, 1 Rue de la Légion d'Honneur, 75007<br />
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5:30pm<br />
<i>La Dernierre Goutte</i><br />
There is a free <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/La-Derni%C3%A8re-Goutte/123012941066837" target="_blank">wine tasting</a> on Saturdays. Also a good time to drop by some of the famous literary sites while you are in the area.<br />
6th arrondissement, 6 rue de Bourbon de Chateau, 75006<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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8:00pm<br />
<i>Latin Quarter </i><br />
Great for inexpensive dinner options and all the night action. Wine caves, salsa clubs, live jazz, you name it, the Latin Quarter has it.<br />
5th arrondissement, Metro: Saint Michel<br />
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<b><i><u>Sunday: </u></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
9:00am<br />
<i>Puces de Vanves</i><br />
This is the best flea market you will find in Paris! I have been to them all, and this one buy far has the best prices and the best set-up. Read my <a href="http://rueenrose.blogspot.fr/2014/10/the-flea-market-parisians-prefer.html" target="_blank">post</a> about it for more details.<br />
14th arrondissement, Metro: Porte de Vanves<br />
<br />
12:00pm<br />
<i>Hillsong Service</i><br />
Even if you aren't a Christian, attending this massive, high-energy bilingual service is a unique and fantastic cultural experience. Hillsong Paris has two morning services in the Bobino Theatre right by Montparnasse, and there is an adorable art market right outside the Edgar Quinet metro with something for everyone. Also, if you can squeeze it in, Des Gateaux et Du Pain is a 15 minutes walk and you will eat the best croissant in Paris. <b>Really</b>.<br />
14th arrondissement, 14-20 Rue de la Gaite, 75014<br />
<br />
2:00pm<br />
<i>Montmartre and Sacre-Ceour</i><br />
Yes, it's touristy. Yes, you will regret it if you don't go. The Sacre-Ceour part only takes about 10 minutes to tour, but the view is incredible. If you wander out of the church doors and take the discrete road to the right, you will wander your way into Place du Tertre, where artists have been painting for centuries. It's a good spot to stock up on postcards (0,20c each!).<br />
18th arrondissement, Metro: Anvers<br />
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8:00pm<br />
<i>Dinner at Chartiers</i><br />
A bustling classic French restaurant with waiters in penguin suits and menu prices that won't give you heartburn. We ordered a three course meal (appetizer, main course, dessert) and split a bottle of wine for under 25€ each. You won't find that very many places in Paris.<br />
9th Arrondissement, 7 Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, 75009<br />
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<b><i><u>Monday:</u></i></b><br />
<br />
10:00am<br />
<i>Breakfast</i><br />
Pick any old cafe and settle in for some people watching. If you really want all the feels, buy today's print of <i>Le Monde</i> and order a croissant and an espresso. Oh-la-la!<br />
<br />
11:00am<br />
<i>Arch de Triomphe and Champs E'lysée</i><br />
You can go through the tunnels to get photos beneath the arch. But you can also wander out in the middle of boulevard at the first crosswalk and get some amazing shots of the Arch as well. Make sure to check out the major brands along the Champs, and be sure to grab some of those scrumptious macarons from Ladurée as well!<br />
8th arrondisement, Place Charles de Gaulle, 75008<br />
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12:00pm<br />
<i>Lunch at Tuileries</i><br />
Either pack your lunch or buy a sandwich from the little stands in the middle of garden. They are overpriced of course, but you won't find anything cheaper in the area. Then pull up a couple of chairs and get in some sunbathing and people watching.<br />
1st arrondissement, Metro: Tuileries<br />
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1:00pm<br />
<i>Angelina's</i><br />
Famous for their hot chocolate and Mont Blanc dessert, I suggest you get one or the other or split the two. These are not your granny's recipes. These are treats so decadent, so naughty, you will need to just put your conscience aside for a moment and indulge.<br />
1st arrondissement, 226 Rue de Rivoli, 75001<br />
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2:00pm<br />
<i>Louvre</i><br />
Of course you have to go see the Mona Lisa. Just don't make it your whole day. Go in the afternoon when the lines are shorter, and go through the Carousel entrance instead of the Pyramid. It's faster.<br />
1st arrondissement, Metro: Louvre-Rivoli<br />
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05:00pm<br />
<i>Notre Dame</i><br />
The entrance line goes fast, so don't be discouraged by the length. The line for the towers, however, is another story, and since your time is limited, it could be better to choose another vantage point to see the Paris skyline (Eiffel Tower, Sacre Ceour, etc)<br />
4th arrondissement, 6 Parvis Notre-Dame - Pl. Jean-Paul II, 75004<br />
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07:30pm<br />
<i>Dinner at Cafe Louis Phillipe</i><br />
Twinkle lights, river view, French cooking. What more could you ask for? It's one of the most picturesque cafes in Paris. If you're lucky, you may be serenaded by a swarthy accordion player.<br />
4th arrondisement, 66 Quai de l'Hôtel de ville, 75004<br />
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<b><i><u>Tuesday:</u></i></b><br />
<br />
10:00am<br />
<i>Breakfast in the Haute Marais</i><br />
While the 4th arrondissement is full of plenty of touristy fun, the 3rd arrondissement is the quieter, chicer neighbor with tiny cafes and concept shops just begging to be explored. Expect streets full of charm and not tourists. See my <a href="http://rueenrose.blogspot.fr/2015/03/falling-in-love-with-3rd-arrondisememt.html" target="_blank">post</a> for where to get a good cup of coffee.<br />
3rd arrondisement, Metro: Temple<br />
<br />
1:00pm<br />
<i>Lunch at Canal Saint-Martin</i><br />
This cool hipster neighborhood is the rebel younger brother of the Marais, with designer glasses and a thrift shop leather jacket. Here you will find the scene a little rougher, a little truer, and so deliciously varied. Everyone gathers along the canal for a picnic at lunch.<br />
10th arrondissement, Metro: République<br />
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4:00pm<br />
<i>Île Saint-Louis</i><br />
For a truly leisurely afternoon, stroll the idyllic tiny island that remains a favorite amongst the local Paris crowd. And be sure to grab a cone of the famous Berthillon's ice cream. Look for the long line.<br />
4th arrondissement, Metro: Pont Marie<br />
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5:00pm<br />
<i>Bike Ride along the Seine</i><br />
Take in the whole Paris scene from the best seat in the city, the Velib! Rent one of these city bikes and take to the quays. (Note: you need a credit card with a chip for the rental stations.)<br />
<br />
8:00pm<br />
<i>Dinner in a Dinner Cruise</i><br />
Nothing will give your last night in Paris that special something like dining like royalty and cruising through the City of Light at twilight. There are plenty of options to be found on Google for every budget.<br />
<i><br /></i><i>Additional planning tips:</i><br />
Public museums are closed Tuesdays.<br />
Most stores are closed Sundays, and sometimes Mondays, too.<br />
Markets are open two days a week, one day usually on the weekends.<br />
Lines for big sites will be smallest two hours before close, not first thing in the morning.<br />
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I hope to be seeing you in Paris soon!</div>
Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5480398389178148414.post-17948560542216341482015-04-13T15:00:00.000-07:002015-04-13T15:00:00.688-07:00What is Your Big Adventure?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Life lately. That's what this post is about. Because I feel like I haven't written anything, yet there is so much that is happening that I should be writing about!<br />
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Paris is in bloom, and spring has hit this city! It's hard to do anything indoors with this gorgeous sunshine and the perfume of lilac and magnolia trees filling the Paris boulevards. With a week 70 degree little suns on my Weather app, I am one happy little expat. What could be more romantic than Paris in April! It's something I've waited to see my whole life. And let me tell you, it's more beautiful than I ever imagined.<br />
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<br />
Here's what I've been up to lately:<br />
<br />
I celebrated my first Passover with a Jewish family.<br />
I visited 5 chateaus in the Ile de France region (the area surrounding Paris).<br />
I started my new French class, which is crazy hard, and felt like I was back to square one.<br />
I made new friends both here and abroad.<br />
I went through a serious reassessment of my faith and relationship with God.<br />
I found some amazing new cafes and boulangeries in Paris.<br />
I learned how to cook some new French dishes.<br />
I got some serious homesickness for grill-outs (is that a real English word? I forget anymore.)<br />
I chopped off 6 inches of my hair for my new Paris cut.<br />
I rediscovered my love for Velib.<br />
I forgave people who hurt me and let go of some toxic relationships.<br />
I hosted three guests in Paris.<br />
I planned three new excited trips that I will tell you all about soon!<br />
I started freaking out about the "after Paris" part of my life.<br />
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No wonder I feel like I haven't gotten anything done lately: I've been busy doing everything else!<br />
<br />
I am also realizing it has been one year exactly since I started this journey to Paris. "You will never believe where you will be a year from now." I would always say this to my college friends to encourage them to go for their dreams... little did I realize how true this would be for me! I have had an overwhelming amount of support along this journey, some from people I haven't heard from in years. People who are telling me how glad they are I did this, that I went for my dreams. And that tells me something pretty important.<br />
<br />
Something not about me, but about you! It shows me that bravery is attractive. Doing something courageous draws people. It shows me that you, yes you, are full of dreams and passions and desires you would not dare whisper to anyone. That when one of us does something crazy like move across an ocean to a country where she doesn't know a soul and doesn't speak the language, it <i>resonates</i> with the rest of us. <i>Why?</i> It's like for a moment we all remember that we could do something like that too. Or, more poignantly, it reminds us that we all <i>want</i> to do something crazy and courageous and memorable with our lives. And you know what? You really can.<br />
<br />
Now stop. Just stop all those negative thoughts that just flooded your brain, those nay-sayers that would keep you chained to a life of being turned off, never letting your sense of adventure be ignited. You stop right now, and put those thoughts to death. They don't serve you or anyone else. And think for a moment, what if I could? Maybe it's starting a business, or changing careers. I think the best hint is whatever immediately came to your mind that you couldn't do. It's most likely what you want to do the most and what you fear the most of doing. And you know, it may not be quite what you think it's going to be, and it may not be delivered in the package you expect, but you have a grand adventure to live. Believe it, you do.<br />
<br />
Now, this isn't some kind of fluff pep talk. I'm not into that stuff, in fact it makes me gag. I'm not saying anything about changing the world or becoming famous or doing something irresponsible. I'm talking about living up to the potential of the person already within you, of winning today for your dreams. Just today. Maybe for you that's just not thinking those negative thoughts. Maybe for you that's beginning to research your options. That's how I started. I didn't wake up one day fearless and decide I was moving to Paris. It was a gradual building of faith that I could do it. That's what I propose to you.<br />
<br />
What are you scheming, dreaming, thinking about? Take your first step and post it in the comments below, or email me! I'd love to hear from you. Sending some love and Paris flowers your way! And as always, thanks for reading these silly little thoughts of mine.<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Bisous!<br />
Rue<br />
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Ruehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09010157737864482731noreply@blogger.com0