I love weekends in Trigny. The champagne, the swimming pool, the long lunches out on the terrace in the shade. And I must admit, having rock bands come and stay at your house isn't so bad, either...
After an amazing concert in Reims with my French brothers and some friends, Julien, who has opened for this band before in Grenoble, invited them to stay over. And so it was that at 1 am, we were welcoming four gorgeous (and talented) musicians into our home. We all stayed up until 4, talking and laughing over a good bottle of wine under the stars. A night to remember.
Originally from Lyon, they have a great style - somewhat like a French version of the Beatles mixed with the Strokes.
And so I present to you my new coup de coeur: Déjà Vu!
On the one year anniversary of the shootings at Virginia Tech, and following the trend of other commemorative notes and recounts from fellow Hokies, I thought I’d take a moment to reflect on the events and repercussions of that day. To all the victims and your families, my thoughts and prayers will be with you always.
4/16/07. I am sitting at my desk, enjoying a morning croissant and coffee amidst small-talk and gossip with fellow interns. My cell phone interrupts and I hurriedly grasp it from my suit jacket, embarrassed not to have silenced the tangy country ringtone before coming to work. Surprised to see the number of my mother’s old college roommate, I pick up. After calmly asking if I’m sitting down, she breaks the news - there’s been a shooting at Virginia Tech.
I admit my initial reaction was curiosity. Not too long ago, an escaped convict had run through campus, shot a university employee and caused a lockdown. In my mind, I imagined a similar and isolated situation - far from anything that would closely affect my friends or former professors. My disillusionment didn’t last long. CNN.com, Washingtonpost.com, YouTube, Facebook... my to-do list and articles I had been working on quickly fell to the background of a desktop now cluttered with a dozen internet news sources. Each time I reloaded a page, the victim count seemed to rise. Two from West Ambler Johnston, ten from Norris Hall, fifteen, twenty, twenty-two...
My coworkers discreetly glanced over before asking timidly if I had indeed transferred from Tech. I nod. Thank God you got out of there in time, they seem to agree in unison. Somewhat numb and unsure of what to think or feel, I spent lunchtime glancing at my cell phone and watching the voicemails accumulate. Distracted, I soon decided to take my boss’s offer to head home for the afternoon. Thus far relatively calm and collected, I left with a smile and a thank-you. I looked forward to taking a quick nap and catching up with old friends, hearing the story from their point of view and making sure everyone was OK.
Only one message stayed in the back of my mind. On my Facebook wall, Ali had told me that most everyone was fine.
Just pray for Stack, she asked. We haven’t heard from him yet.
Stack. The first person I met when I arrived at VT band camp, who greeted me with a high pitched squeel and a hug after finding out I, too, was a “Tone” (Hokie-talk for “baritone”). The new acquaintance who reached out and comforted me after an audition gone horribly wrong. The mentor who forced me to get outside and try the second round anyway. The jokester who kindly made fun of my wrong notes. The slightly-tempered one who became horribly upset for an entire 30-second period after I stole his sunglasses . The friend who got out of bed and crossed the drillfield simply to help me find my way after my sense of direction betrayed me on the endless campus. The listening ear who talked with me and supported my decision to transfer, wishing me good luck as he made a sad-face when I left. The crazy and loveable one-and-only who ran toward me and swept me up in his arms when I came back to visit for a football game, twirling me around and refusing to let me go as if I were the only person he had ever known. Except that I was just one of the thousands of friends Mr.Popularity had on campus, just one of the rookies who had stayed for a year in band and left. That’s just who he is - someone who had the ability to make each person he knew feel like they were the most important person on earth.
Walking home, I kept thinking back to Ali’s message. I remained positively convinced, however, that the crazy guy had simply made it his mission to save and comfort the entire 32,000 student body. He’s probably running back and forth between dorm rooms, I thought, serenading friends with his baritone or cracking a quick joke to make them smile. He’ll call soon. Once at home, I message him on AIM just incase. “I love you, Stack. When you get a moment, let us know you’re OK.” Exhausted by the images of police, wounded students, and news reports, I decided to crawl into bed, ready for the hectic events of early-afternoon to be gone and passed.
Blurry-eyed and confused, I groggily pulled myself out of bed and re-loaded facebook for the latest updates. No longer desperate or worried, calmer, more serene, messages had begun to fill my friend’s wall. “RIP Stack, we love you.” I remember screaming and calling my friends, half-sobbing from the hard-hitting reality of it all while trying to hold back my tears in disbelief. The rest of the evening faded into one large blur, filled with phone calls, messages, words of sympathy, and the same effort of consolation. Thank God you weren’t there.
There’s something to be said for the old saying that God must be a Hokie. Why else would the leaves turn maroon and orange in the fall? Driving back down to VT in the following hours felt like a blessed break from Washington. I wasn’t taking a trip to the scene of a tragedy. Rather, I drove down I-66 to revisit a community that had defined and inspired me. Not ever did I think Thank God I left in time. Actually, I asked myself why I had been so insistant on leaving in the first place.
Before leaving, I had gotten back in touch with professors who had a profound impact on the first year of college. I e-mailed my Genetics professor, the mentor who had taken me under his wing exactly one year ago as the sole liberal arts major in his class. I learned that it was indeed his students who were captured on the news, staring out the glass doors of McBride Hall as the University went into lockdown. I watched Nikki Giovanni on TV as she united Blacksburg and the World with her meticulous delivery of We ARE Virginia Tech. I couldn’t help but wonder what it might have been like, anyway, to take her poetry class as I would have had I not left that fall.
I met with the Tones for lunch at Ghillies, feeling at home amid Blackburg’s outdoor, vegetarian, liberal crowd. It was there I had discovered to-die-for Bahama Walnut French Toast, brunching on a sunny Saturday morning with friends over the background noise of LET’S GO HOKIES cheers echoing from the pre-game rally outdoors.
I found myself back in Dave’s office, our MV Band Director who always went by his first name, the one who had had regularly made us laugh with his lucky game-day pajama pants and kept us coming back enthusiastically to regular evening rehearsals. He took one look at me entering his office and told me to stop right there. “I’ve never hugged a Georgetown girl before!” he exclaimed, before embracing me warmly and handing me a cuddly stuffed animal for comfort. I laughed through my tears. Though I had left without saying goodbye and hadn’t written for almost a year, the man still remembered my name and the path I had chosen.
I returned to the French table that evening, comforted by the familiar dim lights, intellectual conversation and the presence of my fellow francophiles. The absence of our Thursday-night regulars was in and of itself an indication of the tragedy. Our professors who had sat and chatted with us over a good glass of red wine nearly every week for who-knows-how-many-years were home mourning the loss of one of their own.
I took an evening stroll around campus, crossing the drillfield with my friend Carl. I quietly wished I had said “hi” to that girl down my hall more often as I passed by her picture on a make-shift memorial. So often I was in a hurry. This time my steps were slow and determined, hesitant to continue and yet so desperate to reconnect with the dozens of other students who stood surrounding me, passing from one memorial to another, leaving messages, flowers, holding each other’s hands and crying tears that blended in with the evening rain. After returning emotionally exhausted to my friend Patrick’s apartment, I rinsed off my muddy VT flip-flops in the shower as he went to the kitchen to fetch a warm tea. Despite the circumstances, I slept deeply that night, feeling more secure and at-home than I had in a long while.
That weekend I sat among fellow VT Band Members in Stack’s old Georgia high school, getting ready to brush off my Euphonium again and play for the first time in quite awhile. We must have been at least 20 Tones to have made the trip down, outnumbering by far any other section and probably producing a horribly unbalanced sound as a result. Of course Dave hadn’t turned any of us away, and afterall the imbalance didn’t matter - we knew that it would have made Stack smile.
I concentrated on our Drum Major as he fought back tears, struggling to calmly make it through the same pep songs we had played a million times before. And as hokie as it may seem, I suddenly felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have known Stack, the first to have greeted me into this community, epitomized by the brightness of his smile, the strength of his embrace, and everything he stood for and represented.
My Mom had bought me a cute gift from a road-side country store when she picked me up for vacation the year before. “What if the Hokie Pokie really IS what it’s all about?” it read.
Looking back then, I realized, I think it really is.
France has not only replaced its First Lady with a supermodel. The well-educated, elegant, and gorgeous "hate them but would kill to be them" brand is making its way into higher education, as well.
First day of class. Somehow Sciences Po has me placed in Level 3. "Je m'appelle... je suis d'origine ... j'aime jouer au foot...." Frustrated, I make my way to the Secretariat during my 30 minute break and endure a long and complicated argument with the director. Yes, I understand that in France we usually don't change anything. But yes, Madame, it is possible to make mistakes during the registration process, and if her highness would permit it, I might enjoy taking courses at a slightly more challenging level. Très bien, she replies, go talk to so-and-so and so-and-so and so-and-so, démerde-toi and come back demain.
Result - 10 minutes late for class. I open the door sweaty, frustrated, and out of breath, ready to excuse myself before a strict and traditional master of higher education for my tardiness. Only to find myself flustered and lost for words before what must be a young doctoral candidate. I excuse myself, take my seat, and look around. The guy has easily grasped the attention of the 20 something girls in the class. Nobody dares pass a note or whisper a word sideways, all are too intensely concentrated on preparing their entrance into this prestigious and impressive university. If they've featured his picture on any of the admissions brochures, it seems no wonder to me now that the selectivity for 27 Rue St Guillaume has risen to a cut-throat 9%.
Oral presentation time. One girl makes the mistake of using "tu" to address our professor rather than the more formal "vous". Oops. Corrected, Mademoiselle. Just one more reminder as to how unattainable he truly is.
My turn.
- You're sure that you should be in Niveau 3 mademoiselle? I think you're slightly more advanced.
- No se what tu want dire. Je parle no French. Help me, s'il vous plait!!!
Too late. My complaining during lunch paid off. The next morning, I find myself in front of a traditional professor, as she details with perfect handwriting on the blackboard the essential components of a Philosophical Dissertation.
ok so this whole time I was thinking you had a cute picture of you and your boyfriend up on facebook because that makes sense. but really, it's a picture of you with a sketchy but brilliant french blogger. and so then I was like, well that also kind of makes sense.
Love is in the air. Five days from now, people will be dining in overpriced restaurants and dressing up in their prettiest Valentine's Day attire. Others will be protesting, going to work in all black and cursing anything Cupid-related.
Children will be making last-minute trips to CVS for Valentine's Day candy and Barbie cards to distribute to their classmates. Susy will make her best card with pink and orange construction paper for Johnny, who will declare the super-glue as cootie infested and throw it away when he gets home.
With Valentine's Day so fast approaching, I have been reflecting on the meaning of the holiday. As I was sitting in my friend's apartment on Sunday evening, tucked away in my little 15 square meters next to Sacré Coeur, I started thinking about those three little words - "I love you". When do you say it? And what are the rules in Paris, the city of love and lights?
Judging from the responses of my fellow Seesmicers, it seems the French "je t'aime" is much stronger than our American "I love you." In America, those three magic words are sometimes "overused" to the point of becoming banal (or so they might say). In France, it's rare to end a telephone conversation with "Love you, Mom" or "I love you baby". Je t'aime is much more vague - requiring extensive reflection and representing a significantly higher level of commitment. You might want to write a philosophical dissertation addressing the implications and potential undertones of your statement before you decide to pronounce those words to a significant other.
As one Frenchman put it, the girl should wait until the guy's first major paycheck. And after the guy's first major paycheck, he should really reflect before responding. Even then, he probably won't get it right until his mid-30s or even 40's - with his first mistress. ;)
The English are much more spontaneous and romantic, I find. Say it when the feelings are bursting inside of you and you just can't take it anymore - when you feel it so much that it doesn't matter what the other person will say back. Fellow Seesmic user Deek posted a response that gives the Corinthians a run for its money.
Americans are much more casual. Say it when you've realllly screwed up. Say it when you want the damn girl to kiss you, already. Say it when your girlfriend buys you beer and cooks you steak. Say it after your sweetheart spends his last $75 for a Super 8 Motel and Shoney's Pancakes, and then steals those fancy rocking chairs from Cracker Barrel, so that you might rock together into your golden years. I first said it to Billy Ray Cyrus, sobbing desperately in front of my television as he wedded the lady who is now Hannah Montana's mom.
Whatever the correct response may be, I'm delighted that the topic served as a basis for VinVin's latest song - sure to be the #1 Chart Topper by February 14th. Did I ever mention how much I love this guy?
And for those of you who are still unfamiliar with Seesmic, here's the latest Seesmic du Jour with the other love of my life, Loic Le Meur. As invitations are now being delivered in 24 hours, I suggest that all of you out there come join the party. :)
Finally, don't mistake Seesmic for a fun or slightly geeky distraction. With love all around and Valentine's Day coming up, the site is quite useful. You get instantaneous feedback to major dilemmas. Credits for this last video go to blogger and podcaster Documentally whom I met at our last Seesmic Paris Meetup. I want the whole world to know right here how much I love him. ;) Thanks for the advice, Christian, I know my boyfriend is going to love his Valentine's Day Gift.
A few weeks ago I was in Reims, indulging in my Seesmic obsession. My French bro was lying comfortably on the couch, laughing hysterically as I talked to the computer and making fun of my every move.
- Remember the first time you tried to meet Loic Le Meur? he asked.
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm
And then it came to me. June 2006. I was on vacation in Reims. I passed the days lying lazily by the pool or browsing music in FNAC, waiting for everyone to return from school and work. I would browse the internet with our dial-up connection. I had time to spare, and I didn't mind waiting 10 minutes for my favorite French blogs to load. And then, one evening, I saw it.
Loic Le Meur would be at the Katabar at a set time and place. The series of phone calls began.
Hélène, what would you say to a day trip to Paris? Have to study for the bac... Fanny? Concours de medecine.. Marion? Too much money. Too far. Too Goth.
I gave up for a little while. Yet the following morning, as Joris and I descended from the morning train in La Gare de Reims, I tried my last resort.
Alors Joris Chéri, what would you say to a daytrip to Paris? Right now. You and I, a little brother/sister bonding time?
Pourquoi.
Ummm I thought we could try to meet Loic Le Meur.
Loic le qui?
A blogger. An entrepreneur, comments on politics from time to time. Pretty well known.
Sarko supporter?
Maybe.
Ah Alicia si tu penses que je vais monter à Paris juste pour faire la connaissance d'un prout prout pète cul Sarkozyiste petit bourgeois t'as tort. J'ai mieux que ça à faire.
Sigh. Allez mon frère adoré de mon coeur.
Ca coute cher.
Je te le paye.
J'ai pas envie.
It´ll be the last thing I ask of you all summer. Pleeeeeze???
Putain Alicia tu fais chier.
And I knew he had agreed! My beloved brother, the only one who would skip a day of class prépa to entertain the ridiculous ideas of his favorite American sister. I jumped and screamed for joy and thanked him with a big hug and kiss.
Mais arrête Aliciaaaa les gens nous régarde!
20 minutes and 60 euros later, we were in the train for Paris.
We passed the day just like two kids skipping high school for the first time. We took a tour around the Tour Eiffel and the Jardins de Luxembourg. We played spot the American tourist as we lunched by the Seine. And when 7 pm rolled around, we sat right down at a table in the Katabar. Right on time.
Joris ended up happy as a poisson dans l'eau. The music and the décor were right down his alley. As I sat there watching the minutes pass, routinely emptying my pockets to pay for the drinks I had promised him, we both came to the realization that the Roi des Bloggeurs would not be showing up anytime soon. The clock would soon strike 9 - time to catch the last train back home to Reims.
We ran as fast as we could back to the Métro, getting soaked along the way. We caught the last train home with 30 seconds to spare. As I sat drenched by Parisian rain, smelling of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, mentally calculating how much I had spent on a somewhat ridiculous attempt to casually bump into M. Le Meur, Joris rambled on excitedly about how much that bar déchires.
- Alicia, you might have a weird obsession for bloggers and Paris that I will never understand, but I have to admit, today wasn't so bad after all.
I look back and laugh, now. No, it wasn't. Despite not meeting the end goal, it was one of those spontaneous adventures that will always stay with me. And after all, 18 months and one business-class ticket to Paris later, it all paid off in the end, right?
Last night I succesfully changed my flight reservation over the phone completely in Spanish. Anyone who has studied a foreign language knows that effectively communicating over the phone is completely different from face-to-face interaction.
I never really took beginning Spanish classes. In France, I was thrown into a 5th year class under the presumption that I would survive. And I did.
As a result, I have had conversations regarding the literary symbolism of Gabriel García Marquez. I have debated the advantages and disadvantages of the Spanish monarchy. I have discussed American politics and refuted accusations that Hillary Clinton is a lesbian. I can understand nearly every profanity in the Spanish culture and am aware that a small confusion between Ser and Estar can prove fatal. I could probably pull off a Karaoke performance with any of my favorite Spanish songs.
Give me any verb, and I will conjugate it for you in the presente, futuro, imperfecto, pluscuamperfecto, subjuntivo, imperfecto de subjuntivo or indefinido.
But I never learned my alphabet.
- ¿Reservación por favor?
- Ummm. Ummmmm. VBCMIT
I attempt using French letters with a Spanish accent and assume they´ll be somewhat similar.
- ¿¿¿Qué??? Digame en palabras.
- V como Vino Blanco... B como... como... Banco, C ... C como Cajones, M como.... Mola un Pegote, I como Imbécil y T como... Tinto de Verano, o... tacones
Recent Comments