The Mediterranean: I swam there!  (It was so warm and beautiful you guys, no joke)This weekend I went with some friends to Marseille, France's second largest city, the most ethnically diverse city in the country, and one of the oldest ports in Europe. It was amazing. I wasn't planning to write this entry about this trip, but it was such an overwhelming experience I just really feel the need to share some of it. The first day we were there, we took a ferry to the Ile d'If, where the Chateau D'If, the prison featured prominently in the Count of Monte Cristo and the Man in the Iron Mask. The prison is enormous, winding, easy to lose yourself in - terrifying to imagine being locked up in. But it's also beautiful, a true chateau, and the island even at this time of year is warm and almost tropical. The ferry ride there, knowing that we were on the body of water which touched the coast of Africa, Italy, and Greece, this body of water where Odysseus and Aeneas in legend once sailed, to be there now was thrilling.

The next day we took a long hike through these enormous rocky foothills. The views from the top were absolutely breath-taking. After over an hour of hiking we finally descended to a pebble beach on the other side, where we swam in the Meditteranean. The water was incredibly clear, green, warm and comfortable even in February, and the sun shone done and glistened on the surface of the water. Those are just two huge highlights of the trip. Honestly, it was what I might describe as a life changing experience. I can't say why. I just have been replaying every minute of it in my mind since I've got back to Paris, and having been gone and returned I feel so profoundly renewed, so much more prepared and confident to explore Paris and try to gain deeper insight into it. I've talked to my parents and several friends over the course of the day, and have been shocked at my own inability to adequently explain how great it was and what was so great about it.

I've become used to spending my days struggling to express myself in French and knowing that a lot of what I want to say isn't coming out right, but English has been my refuge, where my thoughts come quickly and easily. Now, for whatever reason, I am finding English wanting - this is the most intense case of "you had to be there" I've ever had. Part of me thinks the reason this was so impactful for me is that for the first time since I left the states I just let myself be a tourist. I spoke French, but I also walked around with my map out and did all the touristy things and didn't worry about apeaking Englishly loudly in restaurants - I was on vacation! But for some reason my vacation has given me a renewed sense of security about my status as a visitor, about my ability to adapt and adjust and learn and change without having to give up my identity. So, if I were to offer a piece of advice, it would be this: if you haven't yet, take a night away if that's available to you. I didn't realize how much I'm enjoying Paris until I left and let myself get excited to come home.

A Paris metro car

Don’t get me wrong. There are times when I am thrilled to be in Paris. Nights when, after a glass or two of wine, I get wholly wrapped up in a conversation and forget I’m having it in French. Walking to yoga class through the charming, cobblestone streets of the 5th arrondissement. Chilly, scarf-wrapped autumn mornings that feel so Parisian. It’s a feeling of luckiness, of knowing I’ll never feel quite like this again.

But much of the time, to be perfectly candid, I feel tense, isolated, or just plain irritated with Paris. For just this one entry, I’m going to let the indignation and negativity run their course… after all, Paris gets enough good press, right?!

As I went about my day today—rushing to class, transferring in the metro, waiting on line at the supermarket—I became aware that I was bracing myself. My shoulders felt tensed, my hand gripped my shoulder bag tightly, and I tried to take up as little space in the crowded metro car as possible. It seems, now that I’m accustomed to the thorny manner of many Parisians, I expect to be met with it wherever I go.

In public settings, I notice especially the lack of physical accommodation (like allowing someone to pass on the sidewalk), and the habit of staring without smiling. When I’m not with friends, I find myself turning much more inward than usual: focusing on my iPod or my book, staring into space, or scrutinizing my shoes (bag/jeans/etc.) Contrary to what I expected, my increasing fluency doesn’t bring with it an equal sense of cultural ease. My language skills may be a good disguise, and even fool a store clerk into thinking I’m French, but they don’t change the other-ness I perceive on the inside. The real differences between myself and Parisians, I’m finding, have more to do with attitude than with language.

In New York, women on the subway have told me they like my earrings. Stretching at the gym, inquisitive strangers have asked me, “Are you by any chance a dancer?” I have watched people help each other with directions. In my first few days in Paris, I smiled at those who met my eye in the metro, only to receive a puzzled look or a quick aversion. An employee at my local grocery store took my familiar pleasantries as a sign of other motives, and promptly asked me out. God forbid I should stop and offer help to a lost-looking person: they’d probably assume I was a scam artist.

I know this all may sound extreme. And there are, without a doubt, kind people in Paris. I met a half-Tunisian boy from the suburbs the other night who told me he feels the Parisian coldness is a real shame; he purposely gives people on the street a huge smile, just to get a rise out of them. And the Parisians friends I have, as well as those I’ve met through them, have been inclusive and eager to get to know me. But the fact of the matter is, human beings spend just as much—if not more—of their time on their own, going about their tasks and traveling to and from places. In those times, when we are apart from our friends, families, and institutions, we are surrounded by those we don’t know, and will likely never see again. But does that mean we need to treat them that way? Does it mean that, since they are unknown, they may be dangerous or unpleasant to interact with?

When I feel someone on the metro scanning me from top to bottom, judging by my expression and what I’m carrying who I might be, I feel like turning to them and saying, “Hi, I’m Aniella. What’s your name?” (En français, bien sûr!) And that’s the funny part about it… I’m not even the friendliest person I know. I’m a New Yorker. I’m kind of reserved. God knows I never won the prize for team spirit (errr, back in 8th grade, the last time I was even on a team…!) But here, surrounded by a level of aloofness that I’ve never experienced, I long for a cheery smile or an innocuous compliment—things that would have felt quotidian and unremarkable at home.

Ile-Saint-Louis

I’ve lived in New York, or near to New York, for the larger part of my life. Admittedly, I have a significant aversion to small towns, suburbia, and nature. However, in the last year I’ve been yearning to be part of a smaller community and to escape the sometimes-overwhelming urban sprawl. I’ve always loved the fast pace of cities and their inherent vibrancy, but I find my self in search of something different.

Earlier in the week, I left my apartment and took a walk in a direction I don’t normally walk in. I crossed over a bridge and stumbled upon the beautiful, quiet, and tranquil Ile-Saint-Louis. The little sister to Ile-de-la-Cité, Ile-Saint-Louis is a little piece of paradise in the middle of the Seine. It was amazing to me to stumble upon this beautiful and different locale, as things like this simply don’t exist in New York. In any case, this tiny island helped me find my center.

As I walked along the main road that runs through the island, I passed tiny flower shops, privately owned clothing stores, and restaurants that smelled like home. It was what I had always imagined Paris to be like. I am very lucky to live in the Marais, which has a certain charm, but as it’s becoming overwhelmingly commercial, it is hard to find those little pockets of “Vrai Paris.”

For the first time since arriving, I feel like I’ve found something really special and authentic. It’s a place that is truly untouched by the forces of commercialism. It doesn’t quite feel like home, but its comfortable, vibrant, and a wonderful escape from the more urban side of Paris. With views of Notre Dame and the Latin Quarter, it reminds you of where you are and just how lucky you are to be there. 

One of the greatest aspects of living abroad in Buenos Aires is being able to take advantage of its infamous nightlife. “La Vida Nocturna” as it is said in Spanish is the nocturnal life, a time after the sun sets and the fiesta ensues. I will provide a brief guide to some of the best places to waste your time getting inebriated with random Argentine people, bumbling a few phrases in Spanish and ending up watching the sun rise.
“Milon” is hidden from view and almost unable to find unless you know where it is. You enter what looks like an apartment building and you find yourself in the midst of a classic Argentine Mansion. Three floors of strange psychedelic art and a vibe that’s very soho esque makes this place a unique getaway from loud overcrowded clubs. During the week it is a perfect place to go on a date, grab a nice bottle of malbec, and get lost in conversation.
“Asia de Cuba” is the definition of a Buenos Aires club. Located in the Puerto madero district of BA this place is situated right on the river, and when the weather is nice the cabanas outside are perfect to take advantage of. A mixture of hard pumping techno music infused with a little bit of American pop makes it a great place to wile the night away. Most patrons find themselves leaving the club just in time to see the sun rise. Try not to get burnt by cigarettes from drunken people waving them around in all out rave mode.
“El Alamo” is essentially an ex-pat haven but there is more to it than meets the eye. On Mondays there is an open mic night and occasionally you might here some amazing guitar players. Though a lot of Americans hang out and work at the Alamo, beautiful Argentine men and women flock there almost every day to engage in all out drunken insanity. It is famous for being a place that Argentine’s go to in order to pray on Americans of both sexes. If your looking to have a great time during the week and occasionally on the weekends this is the place to be.
“Godoy” is a truly unique location with a classier vibe. With an amazing outside deck where great Dj’s spin records to the wee hours of the morning, you will find yourself going here over and over again. The design within is quintessentially modern, strewn with a lot of right angles and strange art-try not to run into one of the waterfalls that are nearly hidden from view.
“Lavantar” is the place to go when every other place in the city is shut down. Get there at 6 am and you will probably be waiting in line for at least 20 minutes. Even as it begins to get light outside people are fighting to get back into the dark depths of this strange club/bar. Vegetation inside gives the place a nice utopian feel, and it is the perfect place for people watching, as those who stay out till 12 o clock in the afternoon are bound to be interesting.
“Konex” is the place to be on a Monday night. The infamous group “Bomba de tiempo” or Time Bomb blasts there amazing percussive grooves here inciting an all out dance party. Any trip to Buenos Aires isn’t complete without hearing the improvisational sounds of this truly unique band.
This is just a sampling of what Buenos Aires has to offer for a night out. There are hundreds of great places and new locations are popping up weekly as the city becomes hipper and hipper. The nightlife in Buenos Aires is what makes the city a wonderful place to spend a semester abroad.

Practicing with my camera last spring in Brooklyn (photo by Cory Stambler)Today I went out to take pictures. I have a beautiful old camera that I’m still learning how to use, and, having spent the morning inside while plumbers fixed a leak in my bathroom sink, I had a free afternoon, so I took the metro up to Montmartre. I had never been to that area of Paris before, nor did I know much about it, except that it was a neighborhood for artists about a century ago, and that it features the only funicular in Paris. A friend had told me that west of Sacre-Cœur, Montmartre is very touristy, so I loaded a new roll of film into my camera and headed northeast.

I got out at Château Rouge and walked in the opposite direction of the sign pointing towards Sacre-Cœur, into a sort of ramshackle street market. The neighborhood, I realized, is mostly West Indian—a few stores had Haïti in their names—and the produce booths sold wrinkled little peppers (red or light green) and large brown root-ish vegetables (or fruits? starches?) that I’ve seen before only at ethnic produce markets in Belleville, another area with a large immigrant population. There were men selling roasted corn in the streets, and shops selling African fabrics. This still being Paris, there were also bakeries and tabacs, which sell cigarettes and phone cards and have little bars inside. I took a few photos of people on the street, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable about doing that: what if they notice? Should I ask first? If I do, will they pose unnaturally? And how do I choose what I want to photograph, anyway? I noticed that I was drawn to the unfamiliar—corn sellers, a young black woman in an African-print dress and turban—and that made me a bit uneasy. The whole idea of taking a photo of something foreign seemed both voyeuristic (which I suppose photography always is, to an extent) and like an expression of power over a subject, as though the taken photograph takes something from whoever is in it. I was too nervous, or uneasy, to actually take many of the photographs I had considered. On a quieter corner, though, I asked one of the men selling roasted corn from a shopping cart if i could take his picture. He happily agreed, and posed holding an ear of corn.

Sunset over Prague Castle: Image borrowed from http://www.picturecorner.org.ukThis story was inspired by a pair of old worn out shoes standing against the wall of a building near my dorm one morning, when I happened to be up surprisingly early to get on a bus. I jotted it down in my notebook and this is what came out. Prague, I have found, is a city especially conducive to writing. The way I describe it is a comparison. New York is a place of frenetic energy, kinetic energy. If you never wanted to, you would never have to stop and reflect. Coming here has made me realize that it is also a new city, a place of completely open possibilities, not weighed down by the passage of time the way that this city is. This city is subject to its own age, to its thousand-year-old churches and cobbled streets and malls with house foundations dating from the 12th Century in its basement. It gives everything and everyone a sense of melancholy weight that I have never felt, but have found is perfectly suited to my mood when I am possessed by the impulse to write a story or letter or academic reflection. Here is the result of my musings:

He stood, a dark shadow against the grey dawn, unfiltered cigarette dangling from his lips. His worn black shoes tapped the sidewalk as he waited, impatient. His dark skin was crusted with the dust of the streets and sweat, paling him into old age. His once sharp tux cuffs were curling in at the ends, and his cufflinks glinted with the dull golden gleam of brass that had been in the salt sea air. When she appeared at the end of the block, he hurriedly arranged the collar of moth-eaten pea coat, lifting his left leg and propping his foot against the wall while leaning his head back to keep the collar up properly.
She came, flaming away the fog in her pink dress, stomping down the grey in her orange pumps, blond hair surrounding her face in a cloud that blasted away the viewer,
He was glad his head was already against the wall. As she approached, he lifted his hand to his cap in a mock salute. When she didn’t even slow down a beat, he called out, “Hey darlin’. Can you spare an old man a ‘Good mornin’’? It’s been a long night.”
She saw him then. Stopping short, she gave him the once over and said,
“It’s always a long night with you.”
But she did it with the faint upturning of her lips that he knew meant she wasn’t mad at him.
“Can you give me a kiss?” he asked, “I could use it right about now.”
She smiled then, laughed maybe, he couldn’t tell, cause the world went blind and deaf and dumb with white. And when next he could see, she had kissed him and moved on down the street, red scarf trailing her steps.
He sighed, and the cigarette dropped between now empty shoes, smoke curling up into the new day.

She stood, a pale beam of light against the purple of dusk, tamping the pack of her pipe. Her thick clogs were planted firmly on either side of her bicycle seat as she waited, patient. Her tanned skinned was lined, the dust of the roads filling the seams and darkening them into marks of the elderly. Her dress, once beautifully bright and tight against her body had been patched and mended and used for many tasks, and her gray hair streamed out behind her in frizzy waves in the twilight breeze. When he appeared on the horizon, she straightened, puffed on her pipe, and hauled her shawl about her hair, tucking its ends into her armpits so that she waited with proper matronly sternness.
He came, slicing through the dust of the country road on his black motorcycle, blanketing the countryside with his fierce black leather jacket. His long black hair whipped around him as he rode, leading to a face that brought the viewer out among the stars.
She felt the bicycle slide backwards an inch or two and was glad she was firmly planted. As he approached, she tilted her chin upwards at him in greeting. The motorcycle sputtered out and he coasted, head yet to turn. She began the ritual,
“Hello stranger. Fancy a trade?”

Why French Women Don't Get Fat

When I think about Paris, one of the first things that comes to mind are the chic women who call this city home. They have an air about them that is almost inexplicable. Impeccable style, impossibly thin, and looks that could kill… there are numerous books written which aim to answer the question: how do French women do it?

When I set out for Paris, one of the topics on my list of things to investigate was the phenomenon of French women. I wanted to see first hand what it is that makes these women stand out from all the other women in this world and of course try to emulate, to the best of my ability, whatever it is that I discover. While I hope that over the course of the semester I will be able to investigate all aspects of the life of French women, for now I can answer one question: “How do the stay so thin?” And trust me, the answer is not exercising.

When walking down the street in Paris, you almost never come across anyone overweight, and if you do, you can be almost positive that they are from elsewhere. I have come up with three explanations as to how they manage to stay so svelte.

For one, Paris is enormous. I always think that New York is big but for some reason, Paris seems much larger. And since it is a walking city, just as New York is, you are constantly trekking across the city, a very good workout!

My second development when trying to answer this question lies in the Elevators. While Parisian buildings are not tall by any means, many of them do not have elevators. If they do have one, it’s not worth trying to squeeze yourself, plus any bags or friends into the lift with you. I think that most women, and men too for that matter, must take the stairs on a daily basis, unlike those of us in New York who will take the elevator to the second floor of our dorm building as long as no one is looking… (You know you’ve done this) As far as fitting in with this aspect of Parisian life, I am definitely doing a good job! I live on the 7th floor (that’s the 8th in the states) and I have to take the stairs every single time.

My third and final note in regards to how French women maintain their graceful figures is the fast that they go on every week. Yes, I said it. A fast. While in the states we are used to stores having different hours on Sundays than they do during the rest of the week, it is almost unheard of for a store to just be closed. Well try having every single store on your block closed for an entire day. This is what happens in Paris on Sundays. While I am half kidding about the fast thing, if you don’t have a well-stocked fridge, forget it, it’s a baguette for you… if you are lucky enough to find that. Many stores also close on Mondays, but it’s not impossible to find things open like it is on Sundays. This is something I am really going to have to adapt to seeing that Sunday is usually my “catch-all” day.

So there you have it… how French women stay thin, in a nutshell.

Looking for Lunch: Tour book said this was the street to be for food. Unfortunately people were not pleased...

"Thus we will not enjoy- we are not able to enjoy-sumptuous tropical gardens and attractive wooden beach huts when a relationship to which we are committed abruptly reveals itself to be suffused with incomprehension and resentment” (Boton 25).

Traveling in and of itself can be quite an ordeal- trying to decide where to go, what to bring, how to best utilize time and money. Add friends to the mix and you’re bound for an adventure. Though this post is open and not meant for Boton, I had to go back and reflect on the above line from the “On Anticipation” chapter. How true it is that you could be in an unknown place, meant to be explored and enjoyed, and have it go completely wrong at the first sign of moodiness, bitterness, inflexibility.

My friends and I took off for Bologna, a small city about an hour away from Florence, ready to visit the fifth largest church in the world, climb one of the famous Two Towers (a grueling, 498 steps), and check out Europe’s oldest continually operating degree-granting university. Little did we know that by the end of the day, we would ask ourselves if it was worth the trip…

Nothing specifically horrible happened; though having to wake up early to catch a train and arriving in an unfamiliar city with empty stomachs might not have been the best way to start the day. The whole day seemed an endless fight with grumpy attitudes and tired moods which ended with a subpar dinner (though Bologna is known for their food). And even though we were able to see all the major sights and were awestruck by the beautiful church, the city view, and the coolest museum of human anatomy I’ve ever seen, the day seemed sour. This made me think, the relationships we have hold such deep implication for our spirits. And the experiences we have in this lifetime are truly enhanced and enriched by the people we can share them with. I definitely still think Bologna is a place worth visiting; but, I will always remember it as that place where moods were low and friendships were tested. Fortunately, we did come away unscathed and as better travelers. I will say though, fall break shall be interesting…

La Cabrera=Amazing

A few weekends ago, I realized that I hadn’t actually gone out to a nice dinner here in Buenos Aires. Not that I’ve been eating badly, but I’d just been eating almost entirely with my host family. However, since we’re not provided with dinner on Saturday night, some friends and I decided to “splurge” a little bit and go out to a lovely restaurant called “La Cabrera” (big ups to Gabe for finding this spot).We got there at about 10:30 (which is actually not that late to eat dinner on a Saturday here, crazy no?) but had to wait awhile for our table. It was already a pleasant evening, but to make our wait just a little more lovely, they brought us complimentary glasses of beer. Sweet. When we were finally seated (around 11:00ish) they already had a basket of rolls, olive tapenade and roasted garlic laid out on the table. We were informed by our waiter that the portions were rather large and that since we were three, we should split two entrees at the most. We were hungry, so we opted for “the most.” To start with, we split a bottle of Malbec (Argentina’s most popular wine) and some battered, fried olives stuffed with cheese, which came with a marinara-like dipping sauce. Deliciously salty and amazing. For our main course we decided on the “ojo de bife” (rib eye) and “lomitos con verduras” (tenderloin medallions with vegetables) and potatoes with onion confit as a side. When it finally arrived, we were all awe struck. Dwam. Let me preface this by saying that, for those of you who don’t know, Argentina is famous for it’s beef. I had had good beef here, but nothing like this. In fact, I’ve never had a cut of meat like this in my life. The potatoes with onion confit were definitely tasty, as were the vegetables on the side of the lomitos, and while the two dishes came equipped with about 12 different little sauces and sides (all of which I sampled), it was all about the beef. The other things I could imagine getting at another restaurant, somewhere in the states, but the ojo de bife, which was just one FAT slab of steak, was the single biggest, juiciest, and most spectacular piece of meat I’ve ever had the pleasure of consuming.Even though we were all practically bursting at the seams from the massive amounts of beef we had just consumed, our dessert stomachs remained empty and we had to fill those. So, naturally, we ordered some banana flambé. When our dessert arrived, it was accompanied with some complimentary champagne. After we finished our dessert and bubbly, and I didn’t think I could love this place any more, when they brought us the check (around 2:30 am) they also brought some complimentary port wine to top off our unbelievable lavish, extravagant, delicious dinning journey. Total cost per person (including tip): ~ $29 US. Gotta LOVE that exchange rate.

Most of you are probably aware a certain Bavarian traditional festival involving Lederhosen, Bratwurst, pretzels, and of course, beer. That’s right, Oktoberfest is occurring at this very moment in Munich! Why it begins halfway through September is still a mystery to me. Perhaps it actually started in October once upon a time, then as more and more people began flocking to the city, they had to prolong the festivities? Whatever the case is, Oktoberfest is in full swing and I’m lucky enough to have made it to and from Munich, safe and sound.

This post is not going to be simply a defense of the debauchery associated with the great Bavarian golden nectar. The fair grounds, tents and Biergartens were swamped with cultures, costumes and languages from (literally) hundreds (HUNDREDS!) of other countries. The population of Munich rises by almost 6 million people over the course of the festival. When you find yourself seated at a sloppy, rickety wooden table surrounded by complete strangers from unpronounceable cities, friendships are formed easily and plentifully; it is just an unavoidable fact that the common denominator for all of these new encounters is, well, a lot of beer.

My friends and I had finally battled our way to a seating area outdoors when we saw something that, even for this particular day, was out of place. We were getting accustomed to seeing Lederhosen, that was true; but none of us were prepared for who came and sat next to us for the remainder of the night: three women absolutely bedecked in head-to-toe traditional Thai clothing. They were covered in silver and magenta bangles and had jewelry dripping down their heads and necks.

Woman who offered us her son

Needless to say, the poor staggering tourists in their Lederhosen did not stand a chance against this trio. We enjoyed the company of this odd group of friends for at least five hours of the night.

We discovered that all three of them had been working in Zurich and spoke fluent, if not heavily accented, Swiss German. A few beers into the evening, one woman of the group (see caption) informed my friends and me that she had a twenty-five-year-old son in Zurich, and promised us to introduce us all some day. We toasted the supposed marriage of my friend to a Thai-Swiss boy and carried on. We eventually realized that the quiet, well-dressed Swiss man who sat peacefully alongside them was this woman’s husband. I was a little bit disappointed that he was only wearing a plain vest and jacket and not a folk outfit, but then again, he wouldn’t have stood a chance either.

Folk festivals invite people to celebrate a unique culture together, and Oktoberfest is one of the most famous. I was honored and thrilled to have been able to attend (yes, of course, it was one of the best weekends of my life) because it is a rare opportunity to have that many people representing that many cultures in one space… and I have to admit that amongst all the leather pants and busty dresses, these three Thai women pulled off their folk costumes the best, hands down.