Interlude

Wow - Those ten days off went by really quickly. Our schedules for next semester finally appeared online like a reality punch right in the face. Although my experience is removed by a few years, the feeling is something akin to my college days in super-fast motion - jumping into the sophomore year feeling slightly less excited than in those naive freshman days when I thought that I was going to conquer the world only to discover that it was an uphill battle.

[In case any of you were wondering, I did pass both basic pastry and cuisine.  Ironically, I barely passed the pastry final exam (52%) although I thought that one was in the bag, and I did relatively well on the cuisine final (78%) even though I feared that I had failed.]

Proof

While I'm a bit more wary upon entering the intermediate stage, I do arrive with renewed hope. The good thing about a rather chaotic semester is that I learned several valuable lessons (aside from cooking and pastry) - how to study, how to prepare better for practicums and exams, how to manage my time - stuff that I was starting to figure out (mostly from my mistakes) late in game during the basic stage.  Thanks to a thoughtful friend from the States, I also have some contraband college-ruled spiral notebooks and cute little note cards on a ring to make flashcards.  Of course, during my college days I also believed that I would develop better habits with each new semester... but I'm older and mature now so it shouldn't be a problem, right??

Speaking of friends, my friend Leslie flew into town last Sunday bringing me the joy of a familiar face, fun times catching up and reminiscing over the good ol' days, a sightseeing companion, and perhaps best of all, the wonderful sound of a southern accent. Her introduction to Paris was delayed by a day thanks to some incompetent airline issues, so she arrived somewhat disheveled after two days in planes and airports and spending a night in New Jersey.

Leslie's introduction to the Paris metro after I met her at the airport wasn't much  better. The train started then quickly sped up while she wasn't holding onto anything, forcing her into, as she called it, a "Godzilla walk" down the aisle with nothing to grab onto before her upper body momentum won over her legs. Her forehead bouncing off of a seat somewhat broke her fall but her knee took most of the impact. She had a goose egg growing on her head and what appeared to be a second knee developing on her left leg, so we headed back to my studio where she could freshen up before her first introduction to a French restaurant and "customer service."

We tried a little place nearby that unbeknownst to us didn't serve lunch until sometime after 12:00 (it was around 11:30).  Nobody told us that they weren't serving lunch - they simply ignored us for about 15 minutes before we got up and moved down the street to another café.  The staff there was more welcoming in the sense that they brought us menus and eventually food.  From there we hopped the metro again to take Leslie to her hotel where the desk clerk, after explaining about the free "wee-fee," agreed to bring up an ice pack for Leslie's knee.  He appeared at the door a few minutes later with a bag of ice about the size of a golf ball, probably all of the ice on the entire premises (the French are ice Nazis).  I left Les to recover for the rest the afternoon and evening, hopeful that tomorrow would be more promising.

Monday morning I introduced Les to pain au chocolat at a little pastry shop near Notre Dame Cathedral before we did our tour. At some point during our breakfast the conversation wandered off into, "Just think, you're living in Paris!"  Replying that the fascination was wearing off - had worn off shortly after my arrival - I explained how the big city and even the amazing old historical sites get old to me while things like the Carolinas in the fall or road trips through the Blue Ridge Parkway (actually, the freedom to hop in the car and go anywhere whenever I feel like it) or just the pleasure of simple family gatherings never gets old. Before I knew it I was in tears which quickly changed to the two of laughing over the ridiculousness of my emotions and how splendidly Leslie's trip was going so far.  It was one of the best laughs that I've had in about three months.

Carl Sandburg's home last fall. Seriously, could it ever get old?

After touring Notre Dame we made our way through the Luxembourg Gardens despite the sporadic rain showers, but the cold, damp weather soon had us looking for a metro station.  As we were studying the map at a bus stop a little boy about ten or eleven years of age appeared beside me, asking if we would like some help.  My first inclination was to shoo him off and grasp my purse a little tighter, but he was completely adorable with rosy cheeks and a wavy brown mop of hair, more of an Oliver Twist than Artful Dodger character.  We still kept a tight hold on our purses, but when I told him that we were looking for the closest metro station he pointed in the general direction, then ran ahead of us in the rain, looking back to make sure that we were following. I began to fumble for my wallet to give him a euro for helping us, but he ran off with a wave and "Have a nice day!"  Seriously, if he were wearing an adoption sign I would have a son right now.

Medicis Fountain at Luxembourg Gardens

Later that evening we stopped off to buy a case of water and had dinner near Leslie's hotel at Quick, a fast food hamburger place. Towards the end of the meal a young man, heavily intoxicated, came in and stood by us, pointing across our table and slurring something in French (he seemed to want our drink cups for a refill or he might have been asking for a water bottle from the case).  Another guy came in and seemed to be trying to reason with him while Les and I exchanged nervous glances with each other.  Finally, the drunk and his friend left and we made our escape, Leslie going to her hotel and me heading to the metro.

While waiting for the train, a man standing next to me (he was from Sarajevo on business, as it turned out) asked in English if I needed help holding my case of water.  It was small and non-problematic so I smiled politely and said, "No thanks." Out of my peripheral vision I could see him still watching me and a moment later he asked, "Are you sure that you don't need help?"  I refused again, but not to be easily deterred, he was soon asking where I was from and if I lived alone and if I was in a hurry to get home. Without exactly lying I gave him the impression that I had a friend staying with me.  Still undeterred, he then asked my age and I, feeling quite confident that it would finally get rid of him (he looked to be about 32), said that I was 40.  He acted surprised but not discouraged, so I began to play up just how old I was ("Yep, 40! Feeling every day of it, too.  I'll be 41 in two months!").

Apparently a fan of older woman (and a little tipsy?), he continued talking to me after we boarded the train, trying to convince me to have dinner with him the next evening, to bring my friend for dinner, or to find a French boyfriend for my friend and we could tell him about American culture and he could teach us about Sarajevo culture, which he followed with an elbow nudge and wink-wink that completely creeped me out.  Finally as we neared his stop, he lamented over what bad timing it was that we had met at such an inconvenient time ("I hope if your friend had not been here you would've said, 'Yes'"), as if we were two star-crossed lovers.

Because the the night hadn't yet been bizarre/scary enough, when I finally reached my studio and stood punching in the gate code I heard shouts of "Madame! Madame!" behind me.  After the gate opened agonizingly slow I walked briskly through the courtyard to the lobby door and, unable to get out my key with the water bottles in my arm, began punching in the door code as speedily as the fat, heavy buttons would allow while the voice and footsteps quickly grew closer.  The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I had dropped something on my way and I finally dared to turn around. A man stood inside the gate babbling at me in French but, not wanting to take the time to try and understand what he was saying or asking, I just blurted out, "I don't speak French!" and finally got into the door, scurrying up to my studio and double bolting the locks.

On Tuesday morning Leslie and I boarded the train to Versailles. Some online research the day before warned that Tuesday could be busy because other points of interest such as the Louvre and Fountainebleu were closed, and indeed it was.  We stood in an entry line for almost two hours in the rain before joining the swell of people inside the palace where we pushed our way from room to room, making a game of "Versailles vs. Biltmore." By this point Leslie's injured knee was ready to call it a day although we still had an overwhelmingly vast expanse of gardens before us. Fortunately, we noticed a golf cart rental stand and soon we were zipping around the property at a brisk 10 mph, stopping to snap pictures of the Fountain of Apollo or to get yelled at by workers when we tried entering areas that required a special ticket.

Versailles (and the crowds)

View from the back of Versailles

Apollo's Fountain

Hungry and tired, we left the palace in search of a restaurant only to discover that most food service stops between 2 and 7 PM (it was 3 PM), but we finally found a tea room selling pre-made sandwiches from some bygone era and managed temporarily to assuage our hunger. Determined to find a good restaurant for dinner, I did some more research back at the apartment and discovered a pizza place close by that had rave reviews; however, when we got there a sign on the door said that it was closed until September 5 because many restaurants in Paris, in addition to not serving dinner until 7, close down for the month of August.  Research thrown out the window, we hit the first open restaurant that we passed. It wasn't too bad, and I had my first pizza with an egg on top because if there's one thing that the French like as much or more than butter, it is eggs.  Strangely, though, it works.

Wednesday was our day to visit the Louvre where another long line awaited us - probably all of the people who had visited Versailles the day before - but at least the rain was holding off.  Having been around the outside of the museum several times I knew that it was big, but the enormity of it didn't strike me until we started looking for the Mona Lisa after meandering through the first few wings. In our naivety we thought that maybe we had already passed the painting and missed it, but when we finally found the signs pointing the way to her (the one wing that we hadn't come close to) the location was fairly obvious just from the hoards of people surrounding her as if she were there in person.

Louvre

Thar' she blows

That afternoon Les and I popped into a few shops along my street to get some items for a picnic at the Eiffel Tower that evening.  From the boucherie we got chicken wings (they were actually labeled "chicken wings"), at Maison Gosselin we picked up some grapes and bananas, from Eric Kayser we grabbed a baguette and macaroons, and at the fromagerie I purchased two types of cheese, asking the clerk for something not too strong for my American friend (although I'm not sure that he understood).  Leslie lasted approximately one second in the fromagerie before making a quick exit - just long enough to understand why we refer to it as the "stinky cheese" store.

Walking from the studio to the Eiffel Tower with our purchases and a block of butter, we parked ourselves at a bench on the Champ de Mars in front of the tower.  The evening was overcast but dry and just cool enough to be comfortable in a hoodie - perfect weather for relaxing and people-watching (and there were a LOT of people to watch). Les learned firsthand about the magic of French butter although she left the cheese to me after braving a few bites.  Two policemen stopped by our bench, sending me into a momentary panic attack as I tried to think about what French law we were breaking, but they just began chatting with us in English about French cheese and butter before walking away in yet another random act of Parisian adorableness for the week.

Our picnic view

Packing up our dinner, we once again found ourselves in another endless line to get on the elevator going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I managed to get through two bag security checks without the checkers seeing the two butter knives that I was brandishing in spite of the multiple signs forbidding any knives, and after cramming ourselves into the elevator we successfully reached the top.  The view was well worth the crowds and wait, though - not quite the amazing sunset that we hoped to catch thanks to the heavy clouds, but lovely nonetheless.

Bird's-eye view of Paris

Thursday morning we met at the Bastille to try Café des Phares which supposedly had the best croque madame sandwiches in Paris (according to one journalist's opinion).  They were indeed amazing - thin slices of ham atop country bread and coated in toasted gruyère cheese with, of course, a fried egg on top. The crispy duck fat fries on the side only added to the awesomeness.  Our happy little brunch was interrupted when the woman seated at the table next to us got into a fight with a man at a table in front of us before he stormed away, at which point about three tables began chattering angrily about the man who had left.  The French may stereotype Americans as being loud, but when they get into arguments in public it's quite a thing to witness.

Our view at the Bastille for brunch

The last Parisian monument that Leslie wanted to see was the Arc de Triomphe, so we took the metro over, getting a few pictures and avoiding a creepy clown whose only talent was whistling and twirling young children by the hand before their parents would snap a photo and give him some money to make him leave.  We relaxed at the studio that afternoon before having dinner at a café close to Leslie's hotel where I had another pizza... topped with an egg.

Arc de Triomphe (and my eyes)

Friday morning I accompanied Leslie back to the airport, feeling not only sad to see her go but also a little bummed that I wasn't getting on the plane as well. The reason isn't because I regret my decision to come to Le Cordon Bleu, but there is a lot to be said for going back to "normal" life - the comfort of home, a paycheck, a routine, familiar faces, restaurants that will serve you at all hours of the day - and my time in Paris often feels like a vacation that has gone on a little too long. But then the realization strikes me anew that I don't have a normal life to go back to - I quit my job and blew most of my savings - or even a house - it's all gone, minus a little 5x5 storage closet that's probably infested with spiders by now.

At times this thought causes me to weep for hours while I listen to Dolly Parton sing "Eagle When She Flies," but then I remind myself that I intentionally cut those ties for this very reason - because I predicted these days long before I ever came to Paris, and if I had made quitting a plausible option then I would have done it a hundred times over by now. It's as if a sort of Marty McFly or Bill and Ted saw future Kerry sitting on her sofa bed having a pity party and stuffing her face with leftover pastries, and they came back and warn me on that Father's Day Eve in June 2013 that if I paid for only one semester at a time or if I waited until I would have enough money to pay the tuition without selling my house, then I would have been on that plane with Leslie and ten years down the road still working as a data analyst and talking about how one day I'd finish that diploma.  Of course, God is the one who was actually controlling every step, but He does provide moments of clarity and foresight.

My only vision now of future Kerry extends only to about six months and it looks a lot like the last three months (and who knows for sure what will happen even tomorrow?). That said, I do actually look forward to the new semester being underway, not because I want to get it over with but because I'm ready to make changes and become a better student - ready to make it a more rewarding and less chaotic experience by the grace of God.  And yes, there will still be plenty of chaos, but just starting out with that expectation and awareness puts me a little more at ease.  Sometimes I even feel downright invigorated - 33% of the way finished!