Although the radio blared loud and clear over my coffee and deep into my ears, I understood only snippets of the rapid French accelerated by the desire to cram as much information as possible into every second aired. In slower, simpler statements, Elisabet informed me that the salon de l'agriculture had begun, using phrases like les grandes vaches, toutes les régions, and les familles to describe it. Hesitating only long enough to brush my teeth and to attempt to persuade Avard (the Swedish student who now lives in Thais' room) from his piles of homework, I headed off toute seule to what I soon discovered is France's equivalent to Texas' state fair.

des petites vaches

des poulets

It rained but everything was inside the large pavilions of the Paris Expo at Porte de Versailles. Elisabet laughingly—yet forgivingly—said that every year, groups of tourists appear at Paris' expo center looking for the Palace of Versailles which is actually located an hour outside Paris in a place called "Versailles." There were so many wonderful photography opportunities of French culture, French children, and French animals that my camera died within two hours. I then wandered, sometimes lost, through the two cluttered levels of Pavilion 7 which held booths from every edge and territory of France showcasing wines, cheeses, and other defining characteristics. Though I stayed 'till the crowds poured out at 19h00, it was too much to absorb in one visit. I would like to go back before the week ends and further examine the different regions of France.

Even though my rendez-vous was scheduled for 14h00 the next afternoon, I informed my professor that I might be late for her 16h00 class. It would be the third after two unsuccessful attempts with the prefecture de police. I hoped it was the last. She voiced her doubts.

The line outside the offices for visa renewals was packed with foreign students but the only audible voices came from the desk at the front where students with insufficient paperwork fought desperately to avoid that inconvenient paper marked with a future appointment and the missing documents while the lucky few hurriedly passed into the next room. Momentarily horrified, I noticed the same terse man who had scrutinized my documents two weeks ago. I crossed my fingers for one of the others. As the line in front of me thinned, I realized the only other employee at the desk was the stalwart woman whose disinterest could have brought even Giselle to tears. With a surrendering sigh, I relaxed my entwind fingers.

Although I dont think he approved of the cluttered state of my portfolio and the hesitation that inhibited my every move, he let me pass. When 32 hopeful foreigners later my number was called, I found myself sitting before one of those rare government employees who knew how to smile.
…et voila. It will function just like your other carte de sejour.
This one is bigger.
Well désolé, eh? [accompanying chuckle]

View from Trocadéro

Returned to the Paris apartment at 6:3o Wednesday night and noticed my well-stuffed Container Store travel bag finally exhibited marks of mortality. Still, I think it is impervious to dirt, even magical metro dust.
The Maunoury's 30 year old son and Elena, a Stanford grad, joined us for dinner that night. Elena spent a semester two years ago with Elisabet and since graduation, has returned to the Paris area to teach English. As we sat at the table to a new record, 9:23 pm!, she asked me if it would be hard to leave Europe, to leave Paris. I don't remember what I babbled in reply; I was suddenly overcome by too many feelings and thoughts to respond coherently, even to myself.

Waiting for the bus to take us
into Bern.

Reformation wall in Geneva

We (Mrs Masters, Grace and Caleb Masters, Seth, who arrived that morning from Asheville, North Carolina and happens to be related to one of my best friends, and I) took the large white van into Bern, Switzerland. There is a bear pit there (berne means "bear" in German or an old form of Swiss-German) but Grace and I never made it further than the vintage store, a chocolate shop, and a cup of coffee. Unlike my trips to Italy and England, I have not spent copious amounts of time around monuments and museums despite the rich, history of the Reformation in Geneva. The full days of walking or climbing have been refreshing and the long days sitting next to the radiator have been relaxing. A true vacation.

Walking back to the house along lake Geneva. They sent out a rescue party to find me for dinner.

I went skiing in the Swiss Alps.

Doesn't that take your breath away?

How about this,

I went snow-shoeing on the fringe of the French Alps.

The first statement has a better ring to it but the second one is the truth. 

Yesterday I took raquettes (not to be confused with raclette, which was dinner afterwards) up to Le Calvaire de Miribal with a group of Genevois. That morning we gathered, as all good Christian youth organizations seem to do…in a grocery store parking lot. We piled our layers, snow shoes, backpacks, and ski poles into as few cars as possible then drove an hour up and into France.

After five minutes of raquetting up the mountain, we began shedding layers. By the time we'd reached our destination and were settling into the snow for lunch, my long-johns were soaked. Fortunately, we sat only long enough to eat our sandwiches before turning back down. 

My scarf and snot encrusted
gloves are frozen solid at this point.
Soon after, the 10 person sled-chain
takes a tumble and my cap rips off a
chunk of hair that had bound to it.

When the incline was flat or the snow too powdery to sled down (Alexis had carried up small plastic sleds), the descent was enlivened by tripping one another and shoving fallen faces into the snow—or snow into the fallen faces. Because I was a stranger, no one crossed me until the final plateau. We ended our battle sitting in heavy breaths with red, ice-encrusted faces, silently agreeing that each had received as much as had been given.

It's been a while since I've gone into an evening so exhaustedly satisfied.

Maybe -5°C isn't cold enough or maybe it's because it's Paris. Either way, the city expects us to dress fashionably for winter, submitting thinly clad legs and exposed faces to discomforting temperatures whenever we dare to exit our confining apartments.

Upon arriving in Geneva, Switzerland yesterday, I happily discovered that the weather has reached the "whatever makes you warm" stage. As a result, I've reveled in walks through the frigid air and glittering trees in miss-matched accessories and anything and everything that keeps the cold out.

I went out to dinner with Emilie last week. Hmm, pasta and something in a wine sauce. Sure, we'll take two of those. Thirty minutes later, the waiter served us…something brown—with a red sheen—rubbery, and tossed onto our plates like too many deformed tubes. Sometime between the second and third bite, I gave up and committed to the little bowl of pasta, brainstorming on how to conduct a legal escape from offending and the offensive. Emilie valiantly crunched and chewed her way through half of hers before we excused ourselves to catch our train. After waiting the night for our food to pass the regurgitation stage, I checked the unknown word from the menu; cow kidney.


Today, I spent the afternoon with an old friend from home. After wearing out our brains staring into the shallow depths of modern painting at Beaubourg, we walked towards Notre Dame, stopping at a café for lunch. I chose an incomprehensible description just below the Risotto, which was Ryan's sensible choice. Why not be a little adventurous? In short time, the waiter brought a modest mound of golden risotto and a pretty plate of greens, cheese, and…meat? As I hesitated, Ryan bent over his plate and commented through a mouth of satisfaction, "I think that's foie gras." I pretended not to be convinced but when we left, a large portion remained behind.

***there are no photos of these events because my camera was not working. HOWEVER, when I carelessly pushed the power button tonight, it fully responded to my hopeless wishes.

Back in business.

photo courtesy of Thais

photo courtesy of Thais

I casually followed her around like a puppy the two days before she left. We visited some of her favorite spots like le Mosque and le Tour Eiffel. The night before returning to San Paulo after we finished dinner, she began to say her goodbyes. I hugged her then left the kitchen to fight off the tender shock and unexpected tears. Although our conversations never went deeper or more personal than our love for Paris and mild aversion towards our own cities, Thais' independence, pretty smile, and easy ways have been a quiet comfort and my pleasant companions since my second week in Paris. The morning she left was my first adieu. 
Things that were not loved are never missed.
I am happy to miss you, Thais.

Thais

dans les Tuileries
(photo courtesy of Thais)

Eating raclette
(photo courtesy of Thais)

Unless living in one of those wonderfully warm climates, every winter eventually brings negative temperatures in which people cast off the fashion canon and disappear beneath deforming layers. That day has come…I thought. Strangely, as I hurried down Boulevard Saint-Germain in a borrowed, oversized ski jacket, I regarded with disbelief the heels and hosiery of persisting Parisians (who in turn, wondered what kind of scarf enveloped head would think to go out in such an array of bad taste, never mind the weather). Time to buy a new coat.

The next morning, pressed by stares and cold, I nearly ran to the store where I had discovered a fabulous juxtaposition between warmth and fashion. Now is the best time to shop in Paris because the mandatory month long sales have lowered clothing and accessory prices from absurd, to just plain expensive.