Never Had Nobody Like You

Things I like about this amazing past week (end):

--I can't believe I didn't tell you about Tuesday, when I went to Uppsala and had one of my Swedish Experience Dreams realized...I sat out in the Park with three handsome, well-dressed Swedish boys and drank (wayyyyyyy too much) rosé! They have a pretty amazing sound system (called The System) of two old speakers strapped to a dolly and connected to whomever's iPod, and we listened to lots of great music, including many "traditional Swedish Socialist" songs.

--Another dinner at Blå Porten, and then an AWESOME M. Ward show at Debaser Medis, like I told you about before. Check out his MySpace (I know) www.myspace.com/mward. I was sort of on the fence about him before this show, and now I can't stop listening to it, I think he puts on a great show, personally, not that I have tons to compare it to. On the way home we had one more beer at one of the other Debasers (Slussen), which was great, because I've passed it so many times but never had a chance to go in....it's very....hip, and I've been told sometimes a little prohibitively exclusive, but we had a great time, I think.


--Just another typical Friday: going on a beer run with the boss after lunch to prepare for the sauna in the afternoon, kanelbulle Friday fika provided by the museum, a full bastu followed by a towels-only showing of a marine archeology video project by another researcher with traditional Half-Naket Theater refreshments--moose sausage (älgkorv) and beer, then a ferry trip to Gamla Stan for a beer, and white wine with Erik on Sankt Erik before heading out to a klubb called Strand (http://hornstullstrand.se/), which is kind of on the water, not like Lido Lugano, but definitely an experience I didn't think I would get to have here. Right as we were getting off the subway we were invited to go to Debaser Slussen again, but since it was 230, we said Nej, tack. Plus, it was already getting light out, so....



--Shopping Day Saturday, AGAIN something I probably wouldn't have done by myself--or, not these stores, anyways. These: http://shop.acnestudios.com/system/search/product.asp?id=1855 were bought at Acne and a blue cardigan and a beautiful dark emerald shirt were bought at Whyred (http://www.whyred.se/website1/1.0.1.0/174/1/), none of them by me (obviously?). Beautifully made clothing, both very famous Swedish Brands. We had had a picnic breakfast at Karlaplan by the fountain, but after shopping we were hungry again and met Erik's Swedish and British friends (from Boulder, obviously) at the Brit's apartment, had a few beers, and went back to the boat to freshen up from the disgustingly hot days we've been having. We drank some wine on the boat while deciding what to do that night, and finally ended up with those boys again at a punk show in what I guess would be considered Vasastaden? I don't know, it was on Odenplan, and it was AWESOME. We hated what the lead singer girl was wearing, but I loved it at the same time for the obvious intentional disarray and mismatching that punk kids seem to favor. Seriously, even punks are cleaner in Sweden, it was rather funny. After that we went to a small bar that was playing music loud and appropriate only for clubs, and we went home around 1ish, I think, rode the subway for free. I guess you can get in serious trouble for that, even though the girl let us through? Silly Sweden.



--Sunday we spent in Waldemarsudde eating another picnic lunch and drinking the last of that wine, and were joined by those same kids, which was rather nice. It was interesting to talk to another non-Swede essentially my age about his experience here. He actually worked for the Major League Soccer camps, one of the offices of which is on Water St....in Mystic....which is where my dad's shop is. I love that you're so tiny, world. But anyways, we just all had a really nice chat, and then I went to Uppsala for dinner and delicious drinks on the porch. We watched Man of Aran, rereleased with a new "soundtrack", as it were, by British Sea Power, which was...good, but I disagreed with a few of their dramatic musical choices, especially since music is so integral to how you view what you're watching. Anyone else seen it? I had a beautiful last walk through Uppsala at 630 this morning, through the beautiful cemetary and along the river to catch the train to come to work.

Fired.

I should be fired from my blogging position.



Here are things that I've been doing that preclude me writing this damn thing:



--freaking out about leaving

--helping edit the English Audio Guide for the museum as the only native speaker that was in the building at the time, then being invited to a "little art opening" at the Moderna Museet, which is essentially the Museum of Modern Art. One of the people who works at the museum has been taking pictures on his way "till och från" work on his bike (well, I assume he gets off the bike when taking pictures?), and this was a little miniexhibit of his work. We ate pepparkakor (ginger cookies) that might have been left over from Christmas with blue cheese from a tube, which were DELICIOUS, and drank port...and then white wine, and more white wine, and more white wine, and before we knew it, we were taking stupid pictures with priceless pieces of Swedish Modern Art. See: my facebook picture, although most of you already have and HATE IT.

--finding new knäckebröd toppings, like butter, chevre, apricot jelly, and radishes. So much better than it sounds.

--Visiting Västervik. My perennial favorites, Tommy and Odd, plus SO MANY other Bergstöms, hosted me for a weekend a little while ago in their town of Västervik. It was amazing, obviously, for so many reasons. I got there late on Saturday, and they fed me müseli with 50% fruit and nuts, and then...bread with about just as much...apparently everything in Västervik is 50% nuts, HAH (Odd's joke, not mine)! We went out for a drink or three, and I got to sleep on the Vega! As I think I've talked about a little before, Sunday was an öppet skepp, an open ship, and we just sat around in the sunshine on the beautiful boat. I got a tour of Linnéa, helped Kerstin decorate cakes, and mainly just drank coffee on deck and pretended I was being helpful. Late in the afternoon I got to visit Odd and Annika's beautiful house, built in the...18th century I think? Maybe 19th. You'd think I could tell. I was chauffered on the back of a bike, which requires way more leg muscle than I would have thought. Their house is just so....there's not really a word. It's just exactly what I want when I own a house. We had a big barbeque with both families, and I got to listen to SO MUCH SWEDISH. I've made this really funny joke about 100 times already, but it's like I'm practicing to be 90 years old when no one remembers to speak loudly enough for Grandma to hear...I've gotten so much good daydreaming in. Monday, before I took the FOUR HOUR bus home to Stockholm, Egil, the patriarch, gave me a tour of their boatyard, which I loved. It's in Gamleby, which is about a 15 minute drive through beautiful, beautiful countryside from Västervik. It's so wonderful to know that they do almost everything themselves, and that all these techniques and all this knowledge is being preserved and passed down. Did I mention the FOUR HOUR BUS?

--I've tried three different kinds of fish, can you believe it? The first was at a nice company get-together. I had had a glass or two of champagne, followed by almost literally covering myself in alkoholfri champagne, which smells SO BAD, somehow worse than regular champagne, which I guess I haven't spilled on myself enough to make accurate stench comparisons, but ugh. I guess I reeked of...non-alcohol. But then there was dinner at the new Titanic Exhibit, which was delightful. I saw the salmon, passed over it, had another sip of my Pripps Blå 2.2% alcohol beer (almost alkoholfri....something about being at work, blah blah blah), and decided to go for it. I was told it was very good salmon, so it was a good fish to try if I was going to at all....and....I actually had four or five bites! Now that I've written that, I feel like an absolute child, but if I could get a little congratulations, that would be great. Then when I was at Odd's house for the barbeque, they grilled some fish...but sort of as a filler, to make sure we had enough food for everyone. I had made up my mind to try some of that as well, even though Annika told me NOT TO DO IT....and she was obviously right. No offense meant to her choice of frozen fish filets, but it was not something I would ever eat again, let's say.

The third was trying herring on Midsommarafton (Midsummer's Eve)!!! Herring! Luckily, Erik's preferred quick herring fix is senapsill, or herring in mustard, which actually SOUNDS delicious to me, even though I know I won't like it. We had svensk farskpotatis, which are essentially new potatoes. They are super cheap and super delicious. You have to wash a ton of dirt off them, which I think is wonderful, although most Swedes consider it this everyday danger because of the CRAZY BACTERIA that live in the dirt. Do we have different dirt? I don't disbelieve them, but that's from a girl who washes very few of the fruits and vegetables she gets from the store. Have I been lulled into bacterial complacency by the supermarkets of America? On the other hand, I never get sick, so....

anyways, HERRING. We had darling little farskpotatis cooked with dill, and I tried half a tiny herring filet with lots of delicious mustard. And....could eat it, but chose not to continue. What did help was flädersnaps, which, now that I look it up, is elderberry flavored schnapps. So good. Apparently considered on the "girly" side of the schnapps scale, but that was enough for me.

--Some of you might know/remember Cresa, my "RA" when I was a freshman and she was a senior. I randomly talked to her a few weeks ago, and she's in Thailand, obviously. Last I had spoken to her we were both Managers in Training at different Anthropologies, which sucked equally for both of us. I always called the Nashville store hoping to hear her voice, and she always crossed her fingers that when she called any Connecticut store I would pick up. She was in Boulder, I was in Boston. I think that really sums up our relationship. Also, I say "she's in Thailand" like it's a ridiculous thing, but here I am in Stockholm so....

She mentioned that she had a friend in Uppsala, and, thanks to the wonders of Facebook, I've been hanging out with him a few times over the past weeks. He is the one who actually convinced me to try the senapsill, and also gustavskorv, which is HORSE MEAT SAUSAGE. It took a little getting used to, but with a little butter and bread, it's really very good. But I thought of Mother when I tried the herring, since she always wanted me to, and Father when I tried the gustavskorv because of that time in Lugano when he chickened out and still is kicking himself.

--The rest of midsommarafton and that weekend were amazing. Midsommarafton was rainy and awful, which was disappointing. We also missed them putting up the midsommar poles around town, since breakfast ended up being at about 1100...whoops. We did wander around Uppsala trying to find festivities, since they do last through the afternoon...but by the time we got there they were pretty much closing down due to the weather. After that, sill, snaps, och röd vin! The weather turned sunny, and we had dinner on his darling porch, veal with horseradish butter, more wine. We then headed over to his friend's apartment where they were finishing their midsommar dinner, and we had drinks with them. More Swedish, Swedish, Swedish, but this was different, since even though I can't tell what they're saying, there is a huge difference (obviously?) between 40-something conversation and 20-something conversation. We had wine and wine and wine, and went out in the wilderness of Uppsala to find seven different wildflowers to put under our pillows in order to dream about the person we will marry. Mine never ended up under my pillow, so now I'LL NEVER KNOW. But that's as traditionally midsommar-y as we got, which was just fine with me. Next year, which is what I keep telling myself.

I'm sure I'll think of more things, but that will be it for now.

Oh! And this afternoon we celebrated Vasamuseet being nominated (one of?) the area's best tourist attraction! Hooray! Like we didn't know that already. We had delicious cake (tårta), of course.

Tonight we are going to dinner at Blå Porten (www.blaporten.com, if i haven't given you the link yet) before going to the M. Ward show at a well-known Stockholm klubb called Debaser (http://www.debaser.se/hyr/medis/) I don't know if I could ask for a more perfect evening.

See you all so freaking soon,
Arianna

I'M FAMOUS

http://www.vt.se/nyheter/artikel.aspx?articleid=4961380

How funny is that picture of me? I was really that overly happy. I'll try to post about the wonderful, marvellous past 5 or so days I've had, but there's so much to do here!

Förlåt, I'm sorry.

Bless You!

So, I just wanted to address something that makes me absolutely giggle, and hopefully it will translate to the internet.

I have sneezed here in public quite a few times without anyone saying anything to me. Which is funny coming from a country where two or three people will say "bless you" or whatever if you're in a crowd when it happens. I guess here it's just not a concern of the general public whether my soul is in danger or not when I have involuntary spasms in reaction to the air conditions around me.

Although I don't know what I expected them to say, or that I would understand it when they did, or know that they were talking to me...unless, fortuitously, they spoke that universal language, German: gesundheit!

But I had to ask, and did like a month and a half ago, I don't know why this just came to me.

It's really not something they bother to do a lot, but in situations like this Monday's staff meeting, it shouldn't go ignored.

So because I just had to navigate through WAYYY too much of the Swedish Disney Fairy Princess Wonderland Classic Movies site, in Swedish, to figure out how to spell this, be impressed and thankful when I tell you they say:

Prosit.

Pro-see-it.

Which is one of the seven dwarves (Snövit och de Sju Dvärgarna), Sneezy of course.

Now, this is sounding less and less funny to me the more I explain it, but it really just makes me laugh thinking of people in America saying, "Sneezy!" every time....it's like an accusation.

And we were wondering, what about before like 1938, did they just not say anything? When the movie came out did they say, this is so much more appropriate! Or, maybe more likely, this is secular! Also, who do I think this "they" is?

Did no one sneeze in Sweden before 1938?

la deuxième partie

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

onsdag 10 juni 2009

So, THE TENTH OF JUNE?

Today was just marvelous. I starting writing some preliminary stuff for the chapter, which is so exciting, and nerve wracking, but mainly exciting. As Fred and I have talked about, this isn't a costume history paper, and as I've been telling myself, it's also not a blog. Not that I started it, "hej hej everyone" or anything, but the only long writing I've done in, well, probably the last two years since I graduated from Bates has been this...so....I've got to switch my mind over from such a colloquial style. Actually, I had been a little nervous while collecting all my information but once I started writing...it kind of flowed. Of course, I'm only a few paragraphs into the FACTUAL, not expository, bit of it. I really wanted to say expostulatory, but that's a whole different chapter.

I just kind of can't believe that I'm getting the opportunity to write for this book! There's a possibility that my chapter will be mixed into the one about the clothing, appropriately, but I will still have my own credits...and I'm happy with anything!

I'm emailing to try to collection information; contemporary button information from other countries, clothing and button information about mariners of the period from anywhere, stuff like that. If any of you know anyone? And don't say Penny, girl's done been emailed. But all suggestions are welcomed!

Also, this morning, I codified the button types. They tend to be of fewer different shapes than it seemed when first surveying the collection as a whole, but even when they're cast buttons there is slight variation. It's enough in some cases for me to have written things like, "rounded cone" and "very rounded cone"...which is sort-of helpful, but not really. If "rounded cone", which has been changed to "blunt cone", I'll have you know, is the type, that "very" belongs in a different descriptive phrase, or maybe more in specific comparisons than on the description sheet. In any case, it was nice to have that be set.

I have two and a half weeks left, I need to keep reminding myself for so many reasons.

Then at 1700, bastu! But when I went home at 1630, I found there were no people-sized towels left, and I almost missed out--thanks David for finding me the extra. It was especially pleasant, with beers I forget the names of and it felt as great as ever--my skin is so soft!!! I actually sat outside to read the rest of the short stories in the book I was sent (The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God and Other Stories by Etgar Keret, very good in a way I will not get into here, I'm sure I'll tell each of you about it at least a few times later), even though it was gray and nasty all today--I needed to cool down my core temperature. I love that weather, but it makes it hard to get out of bed, especially when you have to jump down.

I really don't feel like explaining the rest of Marseille, so I'm going to do a photomontage, and I'm sure words will come. Plus, I'm pretty sure I only took pictures of things I liked, and everyone likes pictures. I'll probably even post all sorts of crazy photos in a post right after this one since I now can get them all off my phone and onto the internets!

So I took the train out to the hotel, and I already felt better, it was just a little...lighter where the second hotel was. It was a little further east and outside of the city, and literally down the street (well, a long one, but a big, easily recognizable one with bus service) from the beach.

I found it easily enough and as I went to reach for the door I heard a huge screech and crash behind me, which was as close as I've come to witnessing a vehicle crash...because it was a Vespa that, I think, ran into a car somehow. It was...suprising, but not exactly sad or scary, since everyone on the entire street was just so efficient and helpful and stabilized him and moved his Vespa out of the street, and directed traffic, all that. So that was really nice to see...well, you know what I mean.

But the door to the hotel was locked, and I called the number and they didn't answer, so I walked down to the end of the block where I had seen a cafe that I liked for whatever reason, screwed up my courage, and sat down. Swear to god, the waiter thought I was French, AWESOME. He was also, contrary to that popular thought about French waiters, one of the nicest waiters I've had in a long time. I had a Chinese salad, obviously...and it was actually exactly perfect. I read my book while waiting, wrote some fond Marseillian memories down, and drank my carafe of water. I kind of wanted a beer but didn't want to spend the money.

I checked in, and it is like budget of budget, but it was fine, all I'm doing is sleeping there.

By sleeping there I mean getting bugbites there, but oh well.

I decided to walk to the beach, because, hey, I'm in the South of France!

On the way, I saw this house, which reminded me of Baveno or Stresa, or maybe both, and I thought of my little Grandad that I love:

Not especially beautiful or exciting, but the style just made me think of our trip to see that house in Italy.

So, I got to the beach, and....it was a disappointment. Plus it was cloudy, so I'm sure there are usually more people, or whatever...and there are many beaches, so maybe I was just at the wrong one. But looking east, you can see these beautiful mountains, which I will have better pictures of later:

See how grey?

So I said, screw it, I'll go back to town and FIND THAT MUSEUM.

And I got to town, and it was boiling hot and sunny. Thanks, Marseille.

I guess I just walked around a bunch, I got another one of those Carïbos Guava drinks, and taught the man how to say "straw" in English, since he taught me it in French, even wrote it down for him on his newspaper. I still could not find that museum.

But I did walk through this market a few times, and was called to to try all these fruits and stuff, but I just was not in the mood, since I kind of wanted to be back at the beach since it was nice out.

But that was neat to see, and I wished that I had a stove or something to make good use of that market! On either side of the street it inhabits are other big fruit and vegetable stands, usually targeting specific cultural communities with ethnic ingredients, which were so packed I just couldn't go in to take a look.

I had tried to get on a 1700 tour of des Calanques, which I am taking to mean the precious, photogenic little inlets that the Côte Sud is so famous for, but there were not enough people. There were not enough people to take a boat ride in the sun on a Friday late afternoon. Marseille, come ON, self promote, baby! But they told me to come back tomorrow, and I checked out the boat trips to the "archipelago" where the Chateau D'If is located and some nice short hiking trails, a few beaches. Mostly it's sharp rocks, though, because why would there be nice places to sit?

When I turned around, there was a bus at the bus stop whose destination was "Pont de Prado", which was incredibly close to where I was staying, and thank god I had bought that Métro ticket, and I just hopped right on! I figured I could always hop off and catch it again, the beauty of that three-full-day-ticket thing, and would see where it would go. That was probably the best idea I had all weekend. We passed all the beautiful hotels, came up on a park, turned the corner, and stopped soon after, so I hopped off and nearly ran to the park....GREEN SPACES! It turned out to be not as big and lush as I thought, but it was a welcome change. I found out by walking around that I was just a little bit past the OTHER fort at the mouth of the river, and could see the spot where I had sat the evening before:

I had been sitting right behind where that catamaran is on the left...but a little closer to that big tower.

So that's beautiful. But I walked around, sat and read for a while, because what else would I do, and walked back to the bus stop. I waited longer than I normally will put up with, but since I didn't know the bus route, I didn't want to get lost trying to walk to the next one.

We drove along what I believe is JFK Street, or something, and it was a beautiful beach-side road, like California's Scenic Highway, but not at all. I had wanted to go back to the beach, since I had seen a supermarket and wanted to get something to eat for dinner on the beach, not so bad, right? This seems to be a trend, like even if the day was kind of a bust, just eat some nice food, and for goodness' sake have some wine, and it will all work out.

So, the weather was kind of just ok, cloudy, but that was actually wonderful by this point, since I wasn't trying to get a tan anymore, and there were few people on the beach, including the three Russian guys I had seen on the bus, whose bathing suits were smaller than mine.

But this is what I saw when I looked down:

That's burgundy (2 euros, 350 ml, awesome), serrano, minibaguette, mozz, peach, incredible. And that's the J.Crew dress I had yet to wear and really loved, so that was another plus.

But this was to the right:

And this was looking up:

so I can't be too mad.

This is when that young boulangère decided to be my friend. If I had been having this great fantastic time being alone I would have probably told him to beat it, but we ended up having a nice conversation, actually, even though he told me all sorts of weird lies that were probably just miscommunications, like that no one lived on the islands I was going to visit, when there were apartment buildings all over...whatever. It was nice to be able to have a full CONVERSATION in French, too, and he really spoke no English. I said, "pas de tout?" and he said no, and then I said "Not at all?" and he just looked at me. "Not one word?" I said, thinking that most people can at least recognize numbers, and again, nothing. Then he told me he knew two words, "tek oo"...which turned out to be thank you, and we worked on the aspirated "th". He really likes rap and wants to go to L.A. He said he's 20, but I swear he can't have been older than like 17. He kind of reminded me of Twiggy (the kid in Mystic, not the supermodel), for those of you who know who that is, which is probably part of why I let him hang out for a bit.

We went our separate ways, me back to my hotel, him further down the beach. I tried to call to him to get his name, but he didn't hear me, or something. Maybe that's better, if he had had some boring name I would have been disappointed. Maybe I should have asked if he has a rap name.

But I went to bed, woke up with tons of bugbites, awesome, kind of early to catch the bus into town. I couldn't decide if I wanted to go to the islands first or do the boat tour of des Calanques first...but the bus sort of decided for me, since the hourly island ferry left at 9 and I got there a few minutes after. Luckily, the boat tour had a 930 trip, so I bought my ticket and waited in line. The most OBNOXIOUS guy came up to me, trying to sell newspapers. I just did the "no, merci" thing, but he was like those stupid greenpeace kids on Boylston who try to make you feel bad about not giving them a donation. He was like fuming with rage that I wouldn't buy a newspaper, since it was for THE HOMELESS. He was so aggressive and mad that I didn't even feel bad about telling him I had no paper money or change, only cards, which was a lie, but worked.

But I did see this, which is really interesting, but will be less interesting to all of you, since for some reason the photo is upside down...I just thought I'd share it anyways...there are a bunch of little old fishing boats tied up, selling the fish they just caught (yeah, right, but we'll give them the benefit of the doubt, since I wasn't buying any) in darling like stands...and that big yacht that has special hardware built into it for the crew to harness themselves to in order to clean the boat all day.

Sorry, that's kind of stupid to include on here, an upside down photo. but...just turn your laptops over for a second.

But I might have been inspired by a post Greg did about the poor monkey and the Lamborghini, you can click on the link to the right and read it!

It might be too tiny to see, but if you look at that boat's ensign, which that person so kindly is pointing to for you...it's Swedish! Yay! That big Eastern European structure is some sort of Cathedral, pretty, nice, blah blah blah.

Take me to Des Calanques!

We know I pretend to like doing touristy things for the experience but secretly hate it...and this wasn't THAT bad, but guys, I'm SO SICK of people's photo habits. First of all, I know this isn't fair, but I hate when people get their picture taken in front of everything. I can tell you were there by the existence of the photo, and if I'm not interested in the subject matter, you with a stupid smile on will not make it more palatable. And then on this trip, oh my god, people literally were falling all over each other, I witnessed COLLISIONS because people were trying to take as many pictures as they possibly could of....only things that the narrator described. Like once he pointed something out to the left, everyone raced over there with cameras at arm's length to avoid the rest of the crowd's heads. It was...fascinating, and kind of disgusting, but tolerable since it didn't really affect my experience of these beautiful rock formations and sweet little inlets.

That's pretty awesome.

I could have sworn I took a picture of another one where there were these two beautiful sailboats, probably 40 feetish, moored next to eachother with a bunch of young people on them, swimming and picnicking in this incredible setting. It made me realize how excited I am to find some Swedish sambol who can't wait to take me and our beautiful, blonde babies with Swedish names sailing there in our old wooden boat, where we will just read and swim all day...since this:

if I am not mistaken, is Cassis, where I should have stayed if I had any sense. When we reached that little town, after seeing so many people hiking and trailrunning and rockclimbing in parts of des Calanques that I realized I should have done more research into making that happen for me. Well, hiking, since neither of those other things are appealing to me. But what I realized, as well, is that I probably could have gotten to Cassis just as easily from the airport (maybe not, but let's go with it), and it would have been a totally different experience. Simpler, maybe, but it's not like I achieved anything of note in Marseille, just kind of wasted a lot of time.

Au revoir, Calanques! Je ne reviendrai jamais! I was burning the whole time, seriously unwittingly, I just didn't even think about sunscreen, but I'd like to blame this part, where I was sitting on the stairs looking aft, watching des Calanques disappear and watching lucky lucky sailboats headed out there.

We got back into port, I walked around trying to find that quiche place again, but found another little café à emporter, and got what I believe was a fried-brie sandwich and an orangina. Pretty mediocre, even when she warmed it up, but whatever.

Then I caught one of the boats to the island where the Chateau D'If is. It was used as a prison pretty much from the time it was built, the mid 16th c, I think, up until the 1840s. It was opened to the public as a tourist attraction in the 1890s. The island in itself is very cool, but at first it looks kind of barren and disgusting, and makes you think the museum itself will be rather second-rate. Trying to put off potential disappointment, I went to look at the gardens first, which made a difference, and came on this kind of creepy old shed. It LOOKS like it's staged, like a prison-guard's quarters from a while ago, or something...but since everyone else had gone right into the structure, and everything had gone kind of quiet, it was eerie and I felt like I was trespassing. I learned about the animals that inhabit the Marseille coast, which was blah, and saw a lizard, woohoo!

I went into the main building, and found out that a tour was taking place, why do I always miss that? Or, it wasn't a tour, it was this really cool talk that I only understood some of, but enough to know that he was trying to get everyone to forget what they've read about it being associated with the Count of Monte Cristo and to let it stand on its own (which is funny, considering a big part of their exhibit space is taken up by things related to Dumas and the CoMC...but it was an inspiring start to my experience there, something different). I really enjoyed seeing it, so that made me feel better. From this experiment I can say with assurity, which blogger is telling me is not a word, that museums make me just as happy as food and wine, which confirms my suspicions.

My favorite part was that the cells on the first floor were palatial, with fireplaces and everything, I think that's so funny.

I bought the book. I know, I know, I've already bought so many, but it has a Chateau D'If stamp on it, I'll have to read it at some point, anyways, and why not get it from the place that inspired the setting of the story! I also bought a postcard of a rendering of a rhinoceros by a famous artist to commemorate the king at that time's regifting of the huge animal never seen before in Europe. Speaking of never been seen, it's assumed that the artist had never seen a rhino, and especially not that one, and that's actually mostly why I bought it. Remember what I was saying before (probably circa Uppsala) about loving the evolution of understanding the world? This is totally that. He's not that far off, and, of course, I haven't seen that specific rhino either, so I guess I can't judge.

Oh! My second favorite part is the graffiti from the twenties and thirties, it's all over the place! It seems like 1926 was like Write On Monuments year, that date was all over. At first I thought they were jokes or fakes, since when you see graffiti that old? But the style of writing seemed to fit...and then I saw more of the same years, and then into the 50s and 60s, and I realized it's probably real, and that's so cool!

Maybe THIS was subconsciously inspired by Penny's love of graffiti, to keep with the blogging-friends-reference theme of this post, click at right!

I JUST missed the boat to the other island, of course, but that gave me time to read my little Passion Simple book, yay!

I don't mean to keep being so negative, but that looks so much more beautiful than it felt.

I walked around the other island for a while, nothing terribly special. I mean, obviously stunning, if tiny, beaches and interesting flora and fauna I had just learned about at the Chateau D'If, but I just kind of wanted to lie down. And I did, on some rocks, since that was the only place left.

Ok, so now that I've really looked at these pictures, I feel like a real brat complaining about this trip. But see that bugbite on my leg? SEE IT? I know, I know, that sunbathing was pretty incredible, with the sailboats and the sun on the water, etc etc. So I wasn't miserable the whole time, it just took until the last day for things to start looking up and that's so frustrating.

I walked around a little more, to the top of that rise on the left, and then back to wait for the boat. I walked up and down the docks, looking at the pretty boats, and ran back to get in line when I saw the ferry come in.

I went the predictable route and had dinner on the beach again:

I mean, of course I ate more than that, but those cookies were all that was worth photographing. They're like waffles with honey inside, and the leftovers are here in Sweden with me, waiting in the freezer, they're SO GOOD.

And that, my friends, is the end.

Except for the next day, when I looked at the subway map and realized, oh, right, I'm not in America, the transportation system here is awesome, and I probably could have gone to des Calanques by subway. And I saw all these young backpackers and thought, why don't I meet these people at places I stay? Regrets, regrets. But not really. I don't regret the trip, I just wish it had gone a little differently.

But on the bus back to Stockholm, I just couldn't stop smiling, I'm so happy to be here. And although I say it all the time, I feel like it's so important to repeat how lucky I feel.

Beautiful people, clean, green spaces everywhere, those dulcet tones of Swedish, my darling boat and amazing internship....plus I love a casual loafer, which the Swedes are also fans of, and I really couldn't bear to see another pair of the Birkenstocks which apparently are the craze in Marseille right now.

Thanks for taking me back, Sweden, it was only a weekend, and it meant nothing to me.

god nätt,

a

maintenant j'habite à Stockholm, mais je suis américaine

Which was really nice to say, but what I really wanted to say was, "Where do I come from? THANKFULLY NOT HERE IN MARSEILLE."

Ugh, I don't even want to write about Marseille, for so many reasons.  Firstly, I try so hard not to write about towns that smell like urine.  Secondly, I just want to read the book that was sent to me (JON = AWESOME, Arianna = I totally owe you 13 USD in postage).  Thirdly, I'm really angry because that money (not the postage) could have been used for the ridiculously expensive flight to Amsterdam I probably won't take now, THANKS A LOT MARSEILLE, I HATE YOU.

I just...didn't know.  And it was one of those great negative learning experiences, and stuff, but why?  Why can't I only learn from positive, inexpensive experiences?

On the upside, I did get to see the place that inspired the prison in The Count of Monte Cristo; meet a 20-year-old boulangère who wants to go to L.A. for its amazing rap scene (he really likes Flo Rida.  omg my favorite toosies!) and told me lies about Marseille; practice how to refuse shameless flattery in French; and got a crazy sunburn and EIGHT HUNDRED BUGBITES (number subject to change with each retelling).  Only one of those is really the upside, although the sunburn can be a half-upside because it will turn into a tan, but maybe it should be a 1/4-upside because of the nice pale sunglasses mark between my eyes, and the fact that it doesn't extend past the neckline of the shirt I was wearing, even better.

Also, I just realized that now that I know how to use my computer (USB cord?  What is this, Bates c. 2005?  Remember when Bates didn't have WiFi all over?  Ah, the goode olde dayes, when we had a key to the outside of the dorm and people actually used the keypad to call their friends' room phone.  Remember when people used real phones?  Neither do I.)....oh, right...now that I know how to use My Computer, I CAN HAZ FOTOZ.  So get ready for some stimulation visuelle, or, as we say in English, visual stimulation.

Writing about it will make me angry, but for posterity:

I was running a teensy bit late (sorry, Dad) to catch the bus to the airport, although I was running late for one that was way early for my flight (you're welcome, Dad), so I wasn't worried, but didn't want to wait an hour in the Central Station, so I hopped on...a bus, which was 30 kr, which is like almost 4 dollars, which was just a sign of the accidental overspending to come.  I made it just in time, but got stuck in the weirdo Regulation Chambers that lead you from the station to...the outside of the station...where everyone is just getting all mixed up from their order in line to put their baggage in the bottom anyways so....whatever.

So RyanAir actually sucks A LOT, which I'm sure comes as a complete surprise to anyone like myself who makes the most of cheap things, like getting exercise from walking to work by being too cheap to pay 60 dollars a month for the bus in Boston (so I can buy things "on sale" at Whole Foods), or buying only cashmere sweaters and vintage Pendleton and Anne Klein skirts from thrift stores (careful, your WASP is showing!).

But I just expect too much.  The flight was out of Skavsta, which is AN HOUR AND A HALF BY BUS from Stockholm, in Nyköping.  Mmm, everyone loves the bus.  Although, it was a Swedish bus, so it was shiny and clean and probably had innovative aspects to the seats like on SAS airplanes, but I didn't think to check.

At this point, I'm still excited, since Skavsta is a darling little airport, set in the beautiful Swedish countryside.  I did pay some exorbitant amount for kaffe and a kanelbulle, but since I don't travel much, I chalked it up to Travel Expenses.  Thank goodness I saved so much on my flight...NOT, since it was still expensive for what professes to be a budget airline.

I think I flew RyanAir from Milan to Vienna in 2004, but it didn't leave the same awful impression this one did.  I mean, whatever, it was fine, but the flight attendants looked like they wanted to tighten the lifevests they were displaying a little bit tighter around their necks, not so that they died, but so that they could claim accidental semi-asphyxiation and NOT have to work (or fly to some hellhole on the Côte Sud) and potentially get workman's comp.

So I get there, and it's a gross Gross GROSS little airport, but I don't think I specifically noted that until the flight back.  It's called MP2, which, if a riff on MP3, will force me to contact the Marseille Tourism Board directly and let them know that it is neither new, hip, or clean, none of which an MP3 is, either, I suppose, but...anyway.  MP2 is only for RyanAir and EasyJet, another budget website/airline/whatever.  And it was built in 2006, but is already filthy with cracks in the concrete floor.  If they intentionally made it a little shabby to increase Hipness, The MTB is getting a second, equally irate letter.  Ewies.

But I'm still like, "Wahoo, the idea of a Vieux Port (Old Port) makes me happy, and think of Portland, ME, which is a town I enjoy, but with more palm trees and Mediterranean-style roofs!"  

But apparently none of my cards work in France, I found out throughout the duration of the trip, and I couldn't buy a ticket from the machine, which was difficult to use anyways, even with a good working knowledge of French.  In a case of Being Immediately Frustrated And Not Seeking Easy Solutions Or Exploring My Options, which happened to me almost consistently while there, I didn't TURN THE CORNER of the ticket boothy thing and find the real ticket counter, I walked back into the terminal and asked the help desk woman, who didn't know anything except that my French was very good for An American, which I got a lot and will DEFINITELY take as a compliment, especially within the first few minutes of being in France.

But I bought a ticket, blah blah blah, the bus ride was like half an hour (wtf!!!) to the actual town.  The first views you get are just darling, right outside the airport are some sweet little Mediterranean houses, stucco with those curved tile roofs, you know.  And then pretty much the rest of the trip there are condemned buildings with the windows blown out.  So...that should have given me a clue, but I thought to myself, Hey, it's probably like going through Allston to get to Boston!  Or maybe more like going through Dorchester to get to Boston, but who does that?  Also, Sweden was already warning me, too, to come back soon, by putting an IKEA right on the side of the highway near the airport.  Sweden always knows what's best for me.

So...it's not.  The walk from the train station (yo, what is WITH travel!) was actually kind of nice in the multicultural aspect of the area, and the heat was exciting, which I can't believe I felt but I really did.  I actually kind of enjoyed the heat for once in my life (ok, twice, the sauna was awesome too), probably because I assumed everyone else was sweating too, unlike in New England in the winter, when it's just me.

Let it be known that, due to poor planning (another theme of this trip), I didn't have a hotel for this night, which was fine with me, but meant that was my main target.  It's already like 1500 by this point, which kind of was a downer, but whatever, right, you're in the South of France!  So what if every place you've been so far smells like urine, it's probably because you've been in public transportation places (it's not, I later found out)!  

I saw so many little hotels that, at this point, I was thinking were probably adorable but maybe not in the BEST part of town, and that I should keep looking.  I walked around and around and around, not sitting, really, ever, since there are NO BENCHES.  None.  Literally.  No nothing.  What I love so much about Stockholm is its focus on a capacity for the public.  But maybe that's because, for the most part, the Stockholm public does not include crazies and homeless people (there are government-subsidized programs for those people, obviously).  But all I wanted to do was sit down and look at the map I had been given.  Instead, in a fit of what I viewed as ingenuity, I walked to the tourism center and said I was looking for somewhere to stay.  And he handed me a pamphlet.  And....that's it.  I wanted to be like, Hey, can you recommend me a place that's cheap but not creepy, but he looked like he wished a RyanAir flight attendant would slightly suffocate him with one of the fake oxygen masks they were demonstrating, so I just walked outside and picked one that was littoral, which is a word I really enjoy using for "seaside", and apparently is the same in English and French.  But I vastly underestimated the distance it would take to walk to the only ones I could locate on the map, and since I'm such a big fan of walking to explore a new place, I hadn't even looked at a subway or bus map, which is what I consider one of my biggest mistakes on this trip.  I will later pass the hotels, which look REALLY COOL and are ON THE WATER, on that very bus.

I saw a really great place to eat, and I was so hungry having eaten nothing but a huge bag of pistachios on the plane (obviously), and went in with excitement only to find out that this is France, not Sweden, and they're closed from 1400 until dinner starts at like 1900 or something annoyingly French, and the waiter was handsome and I got intimidated and embarassed, and should have gone back for dinner, but didn't.

When I got back to town, I bought a ridiculously expensive Diet Coke (I'm sorry, Coca Lite) from McDo, which I'm not proud of, but boy did it taste amazing.  When...ahem...dehydrated, there is nothing I crave more than Diet Coke, or iced tea and a salt bagel with cream cheese from Kiskadee, but that's a post from 8 months ago.

So sitting on this really gross cement thing, looking at the map, I should have seen it coming, but an old man missing most of his bottom teeth asked if I wanted help--or rather, if I "needed advice".  No, I didn't, but thanks.  And he left.  But then, once I got back up and was looking at postcards at the Tabac, HE CAME BACK and asked if I wanted to have coffee with him.  And, like, wouldn't take no for an answer, as if "Oh, come on, just one coffee, really, are you sure?" would make me think more deeply about his offer, and realize that, hey, he's right, he probably is just a really nice dirty middle-aged French guy and probably has some really good advice to give me about tourist destinations in Marseille.  Ugh, THE SIGNS, THE SIGNS, why didn't I see them? But if you say, "Non, merci, non, merci" and smile, they'll go away after at least a minute.

So I'm STILL looking for somewhere to stay.  I found a book store, Henri Gilbert, which reminds me of Gil and makes me want to say his name "gil-bear" for the rest of our lives, but also was selling old used books outside, which is Arianna Heaven, so I bought a book called Passion Simple by Annie Ermeaux, which starts off way more racy than I had bargained for, but ended up being really interesting, and a book written in 1989 about "les eighties", which I'm really glad was adopted by the French because I've always hated that they called 80 four-twenty, and 90 four-twenty-ten, etc, etc, DUMB.  It's good, too, but the witty Frenchisms about fashion I don't understand because I barely was alive in the 80s and didn't live in Paris and didn't wear what even then was ironic, hip couture, are a little over my head.

But, thus energized, I walked with a vengeance toward the nearest hotel, and...they were fully booked.  Awesome.

I finally found a room at this pretty ok hotel in the middle of a busy square, and this is what the room looked like:

Not so terribly awful!  That, by the way, is the only bag I took.  Which I'm proud of, and is awesome, at first, with no baggage claim and no extra fees for checking even ONE BAG, but then is really un-awesome when you're carrying around Everything You Need For A Four-day Weekend for a whole day trying to find a hotel, or when you're carrying it around with you all day waiting to check into your next hotel, that hilarity to ensue in a few paragraphs.

Here is my view.  I wish I had gotten a picture to the right, because there was this great little sketchy cafe that had all sorts of interesting goings-on around it.  And yes, that was a huge window with huge blue shutters that I could sit in and watch the...weird little square that this hotel was in.

To the right was also a really cool hotel with balconies, which if I had literally turned my head to the left as I was walking toward THIS hotel, I would have seen, but probably not had a balcony room, so I'll just tell myself that.  Anyways, this room was really just fine.  Also, in the hotel room I looked at the pamphlet again, and found out that if I had just looked a little further I would have found the listing for the HOTEL L'ARIANA, which they spelled wrong (I wonder if they know?).

I went out to explore the town, but it was pretty late, so I just really walked around and around...I'm sure I'm missing some parts, here, but I've already killed you with details, I'm sure.  I hope this is interesting to read, because I'm not getting any less wordy.

So it's 1700.  So...Thursday's gone.  But not quite!  I walked around a little more, got the hang of the town, which is not hard, and looked, for the first of many times, for the Musée de Vieux Marseille, the Museum of Old Marseille, which was open until something like 1900, later than all the rest.  This, along with the public spaces thing, is another frustrating part of Marseille--the self-promotion seems limited to tourist shops and half-price drink specials, not monuments and museums.  All I want to do is go to museums, and here I am in the town where museums are sent when they're in the witness protection program.  Right there, under your nose, with limited, confusing signage.  I never found the MVM.  I did find, however, a bodega, and, still not having eaten, I settled for a Carïbos Guava drink, which had me at the umlautes, however you spell that I'm not looking it up.  The man asked me if I wanted a straw, so I learned the word for straw, which I definitely did, because if there's one thing I like, and there is, it's drinking with a straw.  No joke, it's kind of something I enjoy very seriously.

Anyways, that was delicious, but since that's the best thing that had happened so far, I decided to just BE BY THE WATER, since that always makes me feel better.  I walked all the way down one side of the quai (which is so much more disgusting than but sounds similar to a Swedish kaj) to one of the two forts at the entrance to Marseille port and sat for a bit to enjoy being close to the water and maybe read a little bit of Passion Simple.  Which would be fine, if I was in Stockholm.  And for a while, in Marseille, it was.  The sun and the water were just perfect and sparking, and I could see out to the ocean, as well as watch all the boats come in from their day of sailing.  Tons of people swimming despite the No Swimming or Fishing signs, happy families, etc, etc, blah blah blah.

And then I hear, "Madame?"  Oh, this is going to be good.  I look up FROM INTENTLY READING may I add, and he says, "Madame, ou mademoiselle?"  Which doesn't really make sense in English, since asking if someone is married or not as a pickup line doesn't translate well, as well it shouldn't (Missus or miss doesn't have that same oomph, you know?).  So obviously I CAN NEVER LIE in these situations, like how I actually told that Creepy Guy at the Boylston Starbucks that I lived in Allston, but had the "good sense" to tell him I worked "around here" instead of "next door".  Do I think they'll find out I was lying and be disappointed in me or something?  But even with rings on both my ring fingers I can't just say, "Madame", because I don't feel old enough to be married, great logic.  So he goes, "Puis-je rester ici avec vous un moment?"  Like can I sit next to you a moment?  And, much like the other guy, when I say, "um, no merci" he says POURQUOI PAS, which I find a little ridiculous, as if I need to give him a reason why not.  Even better is that non-lying issue I have where I literally thought after I told him, "parce que je lis", because I'm reading, THANK GOD I WAS READING SO I HAVE AN EXCUSE.  I feel like this story makes me out to be like the most naïve person in all of Europe, but whatever, I guess I'm trying to not hurt feelings?  Ugh.  But that was apparently a good enough reason, and as he was leaving he was like, "ah, pas de chance!", ah, no luck!

So, awesome, loving Marseille.  P.s., Mom, please don't be worried.

I figured I should head back, and on my way needed something to eat, but I was so not interested in all the crazy, expensive cafes, and, just as I was cursing not going back to that restaurant I had found earlier, I happened upon a little cafe à emporter, like a deli kind of thing...but with quiche and baguettes and pastries.  So I got a piece of tarte au jambon fromage (which to me is missing a word but I'm not fluent) and a piece of tarte aux fruits rouges, and forgot to tell you that I had gotten a bottle of wine, so really all I needed was a beret and a striped shirt.

I got back to the hotel, really excited to read more of Passion Simple, since I was actually understanding it (!!!), and eat some quiche and drink some wine, when I realized that I DIDN'T HAVE A WINE KEY.  I almost cried, since I was hot and tired and alone and in a shitty hotel in a disgusting town with a bottle of wine and no way to open it.  I want to say it was like "my version" of that Twilight Zone where (spoiler alert!) his glasses get broken and he can't read and he's all alone, although that exact situation would be my personal hell, so...it's the wine-version of that.

Anyways, I was seriously ready to go buy a wine key, which I wouldn't have been able to take on the plane, I'm sure, when I realized that in this, as in most situations in my life, I was making it way harder than it needed to be, and just asked the concierge for it.  I learned and promptly forgot the word for wine key in French, and happily poured into the plastic cup from the bathroom.

I sat in the window and read my French Book and watched the people in the sketchy cafe talk and talk, watched the people in the hotel with the balconies discover how happy they were to have balconies, and the fishmongers who really randomly set up shop in this square go about their icing of fish.  And I was in a very good mood, that sort of situation was exactly what I was looking for out of this vacation.

Daddy, that's a Wyeth on the cover, I thought of you.

I was also probably happy because I knew I was also going to take a bath and drink wine in the tub, in one of the most icky girly confessions of my life.  What's next, wearing makeup?  Not wearing overalls?  Those don't seem to stick with me as strongly as the urge to drink (moderate amounts of) wine in the tub, which was just as glorious as it sounded, and I had a nice sleep, as we say.  C'est pas si mal, eh?  Tu vas souvivre soyant seule.

I figured I would get up sort of early...but...then I didn't really know what to do with my time, since I'd kind of walked around a lot of the town, and being up at 800 means nothing when museums don't open until 11 and that's your only Must Do for the day, as well as check into the other hotel at 1400, which I'd mistakenly put down as my ETA.

However, the Drugged and Crazy of Marseille answered my call for help.  I didn't need my alarm clock, since one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard woke me up.  The deepest, screechiest voice EVER was screaming at someone over and over, although relatively intermittently, and it seemed to be right below my window (a few stories down).  It turns out she was in front of the hotel with the balconies, and instead of the older overweight woman I was expecting (why?), it was this totally cracked-out middle-aged woman SCREAMING and making ridiculous hand gestures at NO ONE.  She could teach acting at a highschool she was so good at looking into the middle distance.  Smoking, smoking, smoking, and when she ran out of cigarettes, she picked butts out of the potted bushes, and if they were done, she would throw them for effect after screaming at no one.  When those ran out, she starting picking the leaves and gesticulating with them wildly.  Oh, it was actually so fun to watch, even though I actually couldn't understand a word.

In other, more boring Town Square News, I actually had a nice time seeing everyone get ready for the day, the City Noises growing at 900 when the day got started.  And I kind of really enjoyed watching everyone using their balconies for their various toilettes and morning rituals, brushing hair and teeth, stretching your body out of sleep.  Many of them also included a peek down at Mlle. Folle down there, which was so perfect.

Unfortunately, my morning toilette included one of my eyes feeling a little bit funny and looking in the mirror to see this:

Doesn't one totally look more, um, sleepy?  I am totally not a hypochondriac but honestly, what?  It was like all puffy and awful between my eyes and it was literally pushing my eyelid closed.  I thought about going to a doctor, but I guess I figured that if it got worse, fast, it would be worth going, but maybe it would just get better....and it did, gradually, and I forgot about it, and my eyes are just as perfect as they were before, phew.  But that's exactly what I WANTED to wake up to discover, thank you Marseille.  It's when you realize you could risk losing something that you really start to appreciate it, like matching eyes. 

Moving forward: the Marseille Musée de la Marine is equally as difficult to find as the MVM, although I did eventually find it--in the Chamber of Commerce, of course.  When I complained to Fred about how awful the museum was, just a bunch of stuff, like the Paris Maritime Museum I'd seen so long ago, he noted that, on the whole, Maritime Museums are, "ship models, paintings, and stuff people brought back from China".  Um....TOTALLY TRUE.  That's not only exactly what this was, as is the one in Paris, even the one here, although I'm now loathe to admit any faults on the part of Stockholm.  I guess I just have been spoiled by places like MSM (totally biased, but in all the right ways), the Henley Rowing Museum, even the Peabody Essex Museum, which has a pretty serious focus on ships and the sea, and, as I've talked about before, TOTALLY has that Victorian "stuff people brought back from China" thing going on, which I hate to love, but do.

Anyways, sucky Maritime Museum.  The most information and/or history I got from signage there was a timeline that had little or nothing to do with the actual objects, which were paintings and ship models in the first room, and photographs from a trip someone (who?  No indication) took to Africa and the Middle East.  Now, I know that Marseille used to be called the Oriental Port or something similar, and it was an important port between Africa and Europe.  Ok, TELL ME ABOUT THAT, MUSEUM.  Maybe the Musée de Vieux Marseille does, I'll never know.

Next, Musée de la Mode.  Fashion Museum.  This will be my saving grace.  I wonder if it's connected to the museum of the same name in Paris?

I get in, they can't break a 50, so I have to go buy something to get proper change.  At least she lets me put my bag down, which is full of my stuff again, since I've checked out of the hotel already.

And so I do that, blah blah blah, and I come back, totally psyched....and walk up to the first floor, where there is a retrospective of this woman Fred Somethingorother's illustrious last 20 years of work.  I love that this is someone I've never heard of, but it turns out I HATE her aesthetic.  Like am really, really turned off by it.  I do like the set up of the exhibit, many of her stand-alone pieces on mannequins in cordoned-off sections in one room, the hallway between rooms her personal representation of her atelier (since she's also an installation artist) with more pieces hung in plastic bags facing her model cards and extra buttons and sequins and stuff, and then another room with many, many of her pieces.  I learn that she sews them all by hand, which is very cool, and her technique is precise and daring.  But I just can't even explain to you why I had this immediate dislike of her stuff, even with an appreciation for the literal work that went into it.  There were so many paillettes and so much pastel and...I don't know.  I'll find her name when I feel like it and you can look it up, but here's one picture where although I just hate hate hate the color scheme for whatever reason, I loved the piecing in back, and kind of love the high neck, but could really do without the beading, SO MANY THINGS HAPPENING ON ONE COAT:

On to the next floor!!  Which is...a continuation of the retrospective.  More and more and more and more chainmail shirts and sequinned high-collar pastel-tie-dyed cotton overcoats....I don't know.  She was examining construction and deconstruction and getting in touch with the process of creation--how post-modern.  Oh, plus there was crazy music interspersed with what I assume is her voice, which was okay, and although I didn't exactly expect it, it was expected, you know?  Plus she had a video she directed about one of the collections, and it was black and white and really jittery and had more crazy music, and although it wasn't as bad as the exhibit by Carl Phillipe it was getting just as predictable.

The third floor is a conference room and the fourth is a conservation center, which, if I had been a student at Steinhardt already, I might have asked to see, but I just don't feel there yet.

So, move along, move along, nothing more to see here.

I figured now was as good a time as any to get out to my other hotel, which was kind of far away, if you were to walk it, which I was not about to with the heavy bag.  So I broke down and bought a ticket for the métro, which I was obviously thankful for.

Ok, y'all, it's late, so I'm going to leave you with that delicious cliffhanger (Do I lose my métro card?  IS THE TRAIN LATE AND URINE-SCENTED? I know you will all be biting your nails with anticipation (aw, Carly Simon, I can't use that word without thinking of your song.).)

à demain,

a