Day 4.5, or Why the Term “Sleeper Car” is Misleading

On the train to Italy, I ended up having a sleeper car all to myself. That is, until my new friend Cambio discovered I was all alone, took pity on me, and proceeded to move into my car. This particular Italian gentleman didn’t know a word of English, so we were quite a pair: me stumbling through my limited Italian vocabulary, him offering me food every five minutes.

He was very nice. Very. Fortunately, I was able to keep his niceness at bay by telling him all about my boyfriend, Sean. (Oh, so you’re my boyfriend now, Sean. Also, you’re living Charlotte’s life and you look like a bearded Jim Halpert. I just thought you should hear it from me first.)

I tried to go to bed nice and early so I would be perky when I met my host family for the first time (at 5:12 in the morning). But sleep evaded me just as I evaded Cambio … by making up a fake boyfriend – your tricks don’t fool me, sleep!

The beds weren’t uncomfortable, but I was too hyped up by my imminent arrival in Italy. For the last hour, I watched the lights of Italian cities out the window of the train. And then, finally!, 45 minutes behind schedule, I saw the sign for Parma. It was an exuberant moment! …and then I remembered that I had to get my bags down off the storage racks.

Welcome to Italy, Lindsey. Welcome to Lindsey, Italy.

Day Four, or Why I Burnt My Luggage with Glee

Travel guru Rick Steves has a saying: “There are two types of travelers – those who pack light and those who wish they had.”

Now, I recognize that I am moving to Italy for a year, and that only filling two bags is rather impressive for me. However, had I known what hell Charlotte and I would endure lugging my bags throughout France, I would have traveled naked, carried my toothbrush behind my ear, and bought all new possessions in Italy.

The day started great – a visit to H&M, a little coffee,

some sunshine – but things went downhill quickly … or shall I

say, uphill. And up stairs. My train was to leave Paris for Parma that evening and I had to get myself and my stuff to that train station. So Charlotte and I lugged my baggage (50lbs each) to the Orleans train station and shoved ourselves into a tiny, packed seat-car. It was in this car that I learned that there is a miniscule pronunciation difference between the French phrases “thank you very much” and “thank you nice ass.” (Personally, I’d be happy with either expression of gratitude).

Look! I'm holding a train!!

The next few hours in summary: hauling my luggage through countless train stations, on and off many trains, and over paved sidewalks. It doesn’t sound so bad all smushed into one sentence, unless you factor in the fact that the bag Charlotte carried was two-thirds her size and my antique bag – which I affectionately dubbed “Grammy” after the former owner – kept overturning.

“Uh oh – Grammy’s fallen and she can’t get up!”

“Come on, Grammy, you can do it.”

“I hate you, Grammy. I hate you with every fiber of my being.”

[Nothing personal, Grams]

By the time we made it to the target train station, I owed Charlotte my first two children and a chocolate sculpture of James Franco.

The original plan was to drop off my stuff in a train-station locker and explore Paris for a couple hours. This plan was thoroughly foiled when the station did not have the promised lockers. (Update your Web site!) The dude at the information desk said there were lockers at the train station that Charlotte and I had just left, but at that point we just laughed; our arms were jelly, our backs were aching, and we desperately needed milkshake frais. So instead of exploring France, I discovered the exotic wonders of staying with my luggage in a train station while Charlotte adventurously went to find us a McDonalds. (Such is the only situation that two young swashbucklers would

spend their time in Paris seeking out a McDonalds: stuck in the city of love with the baggage from hell).

When the ubiquitous McDonalds was nowhere to be found, we bought a bunch of European snack foods [pictured right], and played Yahtzee for a couple hours. I can’t say that I regret being stuck in the train station – with Charlotte, you can’t avoid having a fantastic time (no matter how hard you try). Furthermore, the dice rolled true – we had the some good Paris mojo.

After one last haul to my train, I bid my wonderful, wonderful friend arrivederci and headed off to Italy! But first, the train ride….

Is that Orangina? you ask.

Why yes, yes it is.

Observations on the French

1.They do shave. I don’t know this first-hand, but Charlotte has been living among the French for almost a year and attests to their lack of leg and armpit hair. (This was a rather tragic discovery, seeing as I stopped shaving two months ago in preparation for my visit).

2.When it comes to fashion, anything goes. Black with Brown? Sure, why not. I saw one lady decked out completely in black (if it were night, she would have appeared as a head floating around France), except for her big brown purse. Hey, no big deal. Crazy Darth Vader boots and a cape? Well, if she was going to go there, she might as well have gone all the way. Men in women’s clothes? That was so five years ago for the Americans.

I love the flexibility of French (European?) fashion; I threw on all kinds of outfit combinations with nary a glance in the mirror. I think I wore Charlotte’s tablecloth at one point, and if memory serves, I got a compliment from the local barista.

3. They drive small cars and they park wherever they can/want. This might also be a European thing – I wouldn’t know, I’ve only been to one country in Europe.

4. They have windfarms, which are both majestic and terrifying. Yes, Charlotte, like dragons.

5. They have moving walkways that descend. No, not down-escalators … down walkways. They’re awesome. Totally worth note.

6. Cool signs I saw in France:


This was the bathroom sign in a French bar.

This is the French don't-walk sign.

Day Deux, Part Deux

Chateaux Meung-sur-Loire: just as cool as it sounds. Which means, really awesome in the beginning and then just kind of awkward. Charlotte and I walked into this 11^th century soldier’s chamber, resplendent in its old crumbliness and fully loaded with ancient weapons and a rare Y-shaped warhead (special kind of castle ceiling. Consult Lindsey for more details). And then, after a delightfully medieval chapel and front hall, the chateaux warped into a set for a bad 18^th century period movie. Charlotte and I were both a bit nonplussed as we gazed but-did-not-touch the costumed mannequins and tried to avoid the photographs of the current owner and her childrens’ baby pictures. Though the castle was a might underwhelming, I had a blast. We explored the moat (which lacked both crocodiles and water) and the dungeon (which included bats and creepy mood music). The dungeon was undeniably awesome.

After emerging from Chateaux di Anachronism, my beautiful companion and I wound our way through the French streets to the train station. (The French designed their streets and roads to zig zag so as to slow down the speed-demon French drivers.)

Here's an old, French building in Meung that I thought lean-worthy.

We hung out for a couple hours, because French restaurants do not open until 8pm, which just blows my mind. Is that how Europeans stay so trim? They don’t eat for chunks of eight hours?

As the day moved towards bedtime, Charlotte took me out for traditional French cuisine at the nicest restaurant I have ever been in ever. I mean, the waiter spoke fluent French! Do you get more upscale than that?! The restaurant was just a hole in the wall, with the candlelit tables pushed close together. I ordered the duck and it was succulent and wonderful and distinctly edible. After dinner, the waiter served us a digestif, which was a little shot-glass of sweet syrup that tasted dead-on like cough medicine. I can’t say whether it helped my digestion, but it certainly … was…a liquid…that I drank.

After dinner, we headed to Charlotte’s favorite bar, where we ran into an acquaintance of hers – Marina. With her I had my first bisou (the welcome and goodbye kisses on the cheeks)! She and her friends all hail from Italy, and we discussed the country and culture and language. I hesitantly tried out some of rusty language skills on the patient girls, and they in turn taught me dirty Italian words. The best moment was when they found out I was from Cincinnati. “CINCINNATI!” they all cried. I was certainly surprised that they would react with such enthusiasm to a city I would have guessed they had never heard of. Well, it seems that the city is so much fun to say that it has wiggled its way into some Italians’ hearts. (Good thing Italians aren’t big into American football).

Speaking with the Italians really revved me up for moving to Italy. I’m intensely excited. Charlotte is also very excited for me, and her enthusiasm has buttressed – maybe even flying buttressed? – me greatly.

Charlotte had warned me before we went to the bar that men liked to come up to American women and practice their English – and their romance skills. So I was ready when a Frenchman approached me:

“I need to practice my English,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, I don’t speak any English,” I replied.

*Incredulous look from the Frenchman*

Me: “I only know that one phrase.”

Charlotte enjoyed my method of evasion, so I thought I’d immortalize it in my soon-to-be wildly popular blog.

Day Deux

Today was a perfect French day!

[Scene: lights up on a French street, morning. Accordion player on one side of paved road]

Lindsey: I'm walking down a French road to the strains of an accordion. Could it get more French?

Charlotte: Living the Dream.

[End scene]

We were on our way to Charlotte's bank to exchange my US dollars for Euros. Unfortunately, the only place that would exchange the money was the post office on the other side of town. Well, we go to the post office with my two $100 bills and a $20. We wait for our number to be called, taking the opportunity to further remark on the flexibility of European fashion (more on that later). After all that walking and waiting in line, when our number is called, this is what we get: "French jumble buffet croissant oui ooh la la french words." (Apparently, speaking French is all the craze in France). Well, it ends up that my two $100 bills were both printed in 1996, and in that year, the US had a big problem with $100 bill forgeries. So, the French post office would have to send my bills away to exchange them! What are the chances that the two bills I had were from the one year of forgery hullabaloo? I sure hope they aren’t forgeries, but more I hope that I can get them exchanged in Italy. The story ends with my walking out of the post office with 15.40 in Euros and $200 USDs. Charlotte was wonderful and paid for everything …

… Everything, that is, except for milkshake frais and train tickets to the chateau! Yes, you read it right – strawberry milkshakes and a castle. After the slightly successful money exchange, we grabbed milkshakes for the train trip to Meung-sur-Loire (where the castle is!). The milkshake tasted like Nestle strawberry syrup mixed in soft-serve icecream and it was wonderful. (I ordered it myself: “Doo milkshake frez, see voo play.”) Then Charlotte and I did our traditional Lindsey-holds-out-her-Euro-coins-in-her-palm-and-Charlotte-picks-out-the-appropriate-amount.

Milkshakes in hand, we hopped a train and headed to the Chateau Meung-sur-Loire. (Pronounced Mung, it’s assuredly the most romantic-sounding city in France). It was not yet opened, so we took a quick stroll through the church [pictured at left]. The thing to know about churches in France is that the ceilings are at least 18 meters tall, roughly 3 stories (I’m assuming anything less would be an offense to God). This particular church was built approximately a-freaking-long-time-ago, and featured flying buttresses and frescoes.

We stopped in this cute little French restaurant for lunch, where we got pizza. But this was not the same pizza I served at Uno’s Chicago Grill. The crust was like Texas toast, the sauce was a cheese cream, and it was topped with slices of brie, chunks of potatoes, and sausage straight off the pig. It was in this cute little restaurant that I learned how lobsters mate. Also of note, at the table behind us was a man with a mullet. Fantastic.

After lunch, we headed off to the castle! And here, I will leave in horrible suspense – come back tomorrow for Day Deux, Part Deux.

Day Un

My first views of Paris from the plane this morning were somewhat underwhelming. But I knew that somewhere under the swathes of fog was Europe, and that made those swathes European, which rendered them exotic. From the plane, I could see rows of exotic, ant-sized cars driving in their exotic, Parisian way. (Imagine how disappointed I was to find that the exotic cars drove on the mundane right-side of the rode).

Besides the automobile habits, the first thing I noticed about the French was that they book it; their walking is comparable to a moderate sprint. I was in the Charles De Gaulle Airport when I made this discovery – I could have been running and it would have appeared as an amble! (Charlotte backs me up on this).

Speaking of Charlotte, she was at the airport waiting for me!! [For those of you who don’t know this Charlotte character, she is one of my best friends, whom I met at Ohio University. She’s been teaching English in France for almost a year now, and I flew into France particularly to visit with her. She’s incredibly fun and we have all sorts of travel plans, so expect to see her name crop up often in future posts.]

<-- Charlotte and me, being happy to see each other.

So, back to my story: Charlotte met me at the airport, where I had managed to completely bypass baggage claim. (If I had had any idea of what it would be like to haul my two big bags from Paris to Orleans, I would have left them there). As it was, Charlotte used her powers of French-speaking-ness to finagle me back to the baggage claim, and – baggage in hand – we were off!

… in a manner of speaking. The French apparently don’t have a lot of wheelchair-bound citizens because we ran across zero ramps or elevators. That translates into Charlotte and me hauling my bags up and down endless rows of stairs. Fortunately, the French are also an extremely helpful bunch, if quick-footed. No less than three men carried my bags up or down stairs for us when they noticed us struggling.

Finally, with Charlotte’s expertise, we made it to the Orleans-bound train. [Orleans is Charlotte’s city of residence, for the record, about an hour outside of Paris]. It was on the train, when Charlotte handed me my first croissant that I realized,

HOLY CRAP I’M IN FRANCE!!!

The croissant was delicious -->
(While viewing the pictures, please keep in mind that I was incredibly sleep deprived).

The train ride was a blast. I got to catch up with Charlotte, and espy bits of Paris. I was surprised by the vast amounts of concrete and graffiti, as well as it’s vague resemblance to Pittsburgh. Huh.

We arrived in Orleans, and the city is beautiful. It’s so … French looking. I’m sure I’ll write more on it later. I’m so glad to know that Charlotte has been living in such a wonderful city.

For dinner, Charlotte introduced me to the wonderful French cuisine known as Racclete. It’s a cheese prepared in/on a grill made expressly for melting cheese. The grill looks like a trivial pursuit game piece. It has a bunch of removable pie pieces that you put the cheese in, and then stick into the racclete. (Please visit the wikipedia site for a better description). After warming the cheese, we poured it on boiled potatoes and sliced ham in the traditional way of the French. Bon Appetit!

On a completely random note: The French really do wear berets!

T-minus 1 Day

Let’s talk about flying business class. Let’s talk about how I don’t think I can go back to regular ol’ flying. Seriously, that’s the closest I’ve been to being treated like a princess. I’m going to start comparing my relationships with men to my relationship with my flight provider. Oh Delta: you know how to treat a woman.

[Let me just take this second to thank profusely my gorgeous, talented, intelligent cousin, Ria, whose early mornings and laborious job resulted in my seven hours of heaven.]

So I get on the plane, am seated in a luxurious reclining chair, don my fuzzy flight booties, and am immediately offered orange juice and champagne (which I decline because I was only going to have one glass of red wine to help me sleep). Yes, well – the best laid plans of mice and men…. After some heated nuts and a five-course meal, I had to ask the stewardess to stop refilling my glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, but thank you very much, to which she responded, “Would you like a glass of Port?”

All-in-all, the flight was divine – every luxury was available to me: magazines, newspapers, blankets, endless pillows, in-flight movie headsets (to go with my personal movie screen). Seriously folks, next I was expecting them to walk down the aisle with a cart of Puerto Rican masseuses. I did not want the flight to end.

But end it did and it ended in France, so I really can’t complain.

Tune in next time for Lindsey’s Adventures in France!

T-minus 16 Days

Welcome to my blog!

In less than three weeks, I will be heading to -- and, I hope, arriving in-- Italy to work as an au pair. I will be living in the small town of Sala Baganza, in the region of Parma:

I will be flying into Paris Feb. 26 so I can spend a couple days with the unsinkable Charlotte Howell, who has been teaching English in Orleans (the old one). Then, on a train to Parma where my host family, including my 3-year-old charge Fillipo, will meet me and take me to my new home.

With much optimism, I set out to update this blog frequently. Expect anecdotes, pictures, video blogs, and an excessive amount of exclamation marks!!

Watch out, World: I'm on the loose!