I feel like I JUST posted last week's photography assignment. How strange.

This week was on food. This is the crepe man whose stand I visit quite often. He always gets very excited to see me and asks how I am. He usually tries to guess which kind of crepe I want as well. He's been right a few times.

My Post:

I walked down the Champs-Élysée with a German friend today who is visiting Paris. I told her about Ladurée and convinced her how necessary it would be to go eat macaroons that taste like sea foam sweetened by the finger of the gods. Our minds were changed when we saw the line basically puking all over the sidewalk. My German friend remarked how you would never see a bakery with a line that long in Germany, and I replied that maybe that's why macaroon's were invented in Paris, and not in Munich.

I have insufficient funds to build up a legitimate customer relationship with somewhere like Ladurée, but I consistently visit a crêpe stand right near my metro stop. The relationship started on my birthday, when I ordered egg, ham and cheese, and ate my first crêpe this visit to Paris. I have tried a couple of other stands since then, and somehow they have not lived up to this man on the corner. I have since been discouraged to try anyone else. While he cracks an egg, or cuts bananas, I look around awkwardly, counting my money out for the fourth time. He speaks a little bit of English, I answer him in sometimes almost smooth French. If I haven't been for a week or so, he asks if I have been on vacation, and I tell him the respective place.

I have even almost asked him what his name is a couple of times. Instead I take my food, the warmth seeping into my hands and my mouth, and through the traffic and people handing out flyers, I hear two words: à bientôt!

forgive me for reliving things from last year...

place des vosges

I just realized that it is halloween tomorrow a couple of hours ago. Needless to say, the whole preparation part of halloween has totally passed my by, and I realized how much of the season I have missed! Only today when I was in Place des Vosges (an old square where among other people, Victor Hugo used to live) and saw beautiful fall leaves, and some yellow trees and some barren trees, and heard a wonderful street violinist playing Bach, or some kind of baroque composer, and felt the coldness creep on to my hands and my face, as I looked at a fountain, did I almost start crying with the beauty of the whole thing, and realize how much I really like fall, and how I am quite sad that I don't get to dress up this year and go dancing.

I suppose I could, there are probably plenty of clubs here that I could put on a costume and go dancing, but it would probably not be very funny, and I would probably just get grossed out. I got pretty grossed out last year because although I expected all of the slutty girls, there were so many boys who were not wearing pants. And I was in Provo. And it was gross.

I took a nap tonight because I have been so tired the past couple of days. I think it was just that one art history midterm that sucked away all of my energy. After I woke up from my nap, I all of the sudden remembered that there is a particular fall smell that I have not smelled here. Somehow mixed with pumpkin and leather and cold air and apples and dead leaves. And I remembered a little over a year ago when I was in Oregon, and my sister Cami and my cousin Kate and I went in search for our favorite apple orchard in Eugene that grew probably twenty different kinds of apples. We drove around, listening to fall music, and enjoying being away from school and responsibilities, and the only stress included making all of my mother's most delicious recipes for my sister Jess' mission farewell open house. It ended up that the crazy man who owned our favorite orchard, chopped down all of his trees at the end of the previous season. Who does that? Anyway, we found another orchard, where the apples weren't the type my mom needed for enormous caramel apples dripping with chocolate and caramel and nuts and coconut, but it was smaller and organic, and we bought a lot of apples from her, and walked through her orchard and felt the crisp, cool air, and smelled her small wooden shed where she stored apples and dust and we bought delicious delicious apple cider. The rich, dark apple cider that tastes like you're drinking apples. And then we drove away from her small little shed and old orchard, and big random items made of old wood, like huge wheels and other things that just build up when you have huge plots of land and generations of build-up.

I was also a dog for halloween last year. Possibly my favorite costume of all time. Definitely the most fun. I just got to do one of my favorite things--pretend like Ellie.

These things include sniffing, barking, whining, huffing, nuzzling, and shaking my leg while being scratched on my stomach that I covered with a round piece of white paper. I put my hair really high on my head like ears, and wore mittens for paws. I also colored half of my face brown with one of my markers. I scrubbed my face the next day with soap, and it still didn't come off. Only with using about half of Heidi's bottle of make-up remover did it come off. But I was so proud of myself for finding an animal that I could be and bypass the whole disgusting animal-turned-sexy costume. No one ever dresses up like a sexy dog. But really, right? I think if I dressed up this year, I would be a pidgeon. Not quite sure how, but definitely one with a limp and a messed up foot, and stepped on, and just pecking and eating all over the place. Both my sisters Lauren and Cami were dressed up as nerds. They were funny. I think my family is way too good at acting like nerds. But each in our own, uniquely awkward way.

And I miss massive amounts of candy. I can't figure out a way to get massive amounts of candy here without buying it. Last year, we had a halloween dance for our ward, where I dressed up as a tree with tons of leaves all over myself, and then Heidi and I both stole enormous bowls of candy. We figured it was okay because our other roommate Katie was the activities director so it was basically her candy anyway, right? It was gone the next day. And I miss carving pumpkins with my mom, who ended up carving pumpkins by herself last year because Rachel was so busy. I carved pumpkins about two weeks before halloween last year because an apartment of boys invited our apartment over to carve pumpkins. I took a picture of Sara Smith's face and printed it out and carved that on to my pumpkin. Before halloween even arrived, we took the screen out of our window in the living room so Sara could throw her rotting pumpkin out the window. A few days later, I held her pillow out that window, threatening to drop it if she didn't stop sabotaging me while I showered--aka pouring ice and water on me, forcing me to scream, "yes, Sara! You are the Alpha!" and then turning out the light before relocking the door with a butter knife behind her and laughing like a creeper.

That's all. I am just thinking about last year. But today was a beautiful day as well. Just no free candy tomorrow.

Happy Halloween!

a little secret...

about the metro i just figured out a few weeks ago... if this is not a secret and you all know it already, or it is obvious in every underground transportation (carly, you may need to pretend you didn't know this, probably katie hatch as well...) then don't tell me, and i'll just live in ignorance of my stupidity:

I have edited this picture so you can more easily see the difference in the white mounting area of the platform:

it was a fine early autumn evening, when i thought to myself, i wonder if there is a way to tell where the doors on the cars of the train will stop along the platform? i wonder if it is more worn, if it is dirtier. then i thought, perhaps it doesn't stop at the exact same spot every time. and just as i began to doubt, i spotted that the white is dirtier all along the platform where it is the most used. Isn't that great??! isn't that so cool?! so, if you come here, don't be one of those people who pick a door, and walk with it while the train is still moving, and you keep following it looking like an idiot. instead, if the metro is not really busy, you can stand directly in the middle of one of the splotches and wait. if it is rush hour, stand just next to the splotch, because no doubt people will need to exit before you get on to the train.

yeah, just ask me if you need anymore tidbits about looking like you totally know what's going on in the metro.

welcome to class...

a bit of cultural experience...

a bit of lecture...

this was our class yesterday. about a 300 euro picnic, about ten different cheeses, delicious clementines, three different kinds of bread, four different kinds of juice, some carrots and beets, a pastry for each person from Lenôtre, and a bit of frisbee to top it off.

i was jealous of myself while it was happening, and i am jealous of these pictures right now.

I should be studying for art history...why do all of the italian artists from the proto renaissance through the renaissance sound exactly the same?

Anyway...here's what happened on Saturday and Sunday:

You might have read on the post I wrote on Sunday about how Angela, Liz, Laura, and Leslie decided to return on Saturday night to Paris, instead of the planned depart on Monday. So, we parted in Arles, and I went to Avignon, excited at the prospect of traveling by myself in a foreign country for two days by myself. I felt so independent while I waited for my train back to Avignon, felt perfectly content as I looked at the bright blue sky, and the warm air that smelled half fresh and half polluted, and both aromas seemed comforting. I waited at the platform for an hour and a half, before realizing I was waiting at the wrong one, and sprinted into the tunnel and barely made the train. Seriously, what is wrong with me and trains? I don't know. But I tried European skittles, and the grape ones are not grape. They are black currant. And they taste like crap. I like black currant juice, but bitter fruit candy? Not a good combo. Anyway...

Listened to Lump Sum (I have no idea what the footage is, but just play this song while you read), by Bon Iver. It is the perfect train riding song as it gets going and going. Mmm. Love it. I got to Avignon, went to the hostel I had heard about the day before, and found out that the reception desk didn't open until five, so I had about four hours to kill. I asked the lady at the hostel grocery store if there was somewhere to leave my backpack, and so I left it just behind the desk, which made me a bit nervous. Then I went and walked around the Palace of the Popes, and the top of the city on some rocks, and I listened to my sister Cami's songs, and started bawling when I was listening to Black Sheep. (Seriously email me if you want this song. And you want it. Seriously.) So I wrote her a post card while I sat at a cafe and payed too much for some red fruits tea because I was sitting in the square looking at the Palace of the Popes.

the city, and the tables of the cafe I drank at

I emailed a few people to let them know I was alive, and where I should have been if I wasn't where I was supposed to be at some time. Finally I went to the hostel, freaked out because I was afraid my backpack would have something stolen, but everything was there, and I got a dorm room for 12,40 euros. Can you believe that? So cheap. Including a pillow that was underneath a mattress cover, no sheet, and a ratskin blanket. Pretty depressing.

not as inviting as it looks...

I had the best view of the river though, and I took a million pictures of the view. I sat and read, and listened to music, and read more, and took more pictures, and watched a man look at me, and then look at the river, and then keep walking, look at the river again, turn around and walk past me again and look at the river. I knew it was only a matter of time before he said something to me, so I packed up and walked away. Why is it that creepy men think that young girls reading or writing want creepy boys to come up and talk to them? Beats me.

There was a spectacular sunset, and then when it was dark, I decided to be safe and stay in my room until the morning. I had accidentally bought tickets for 6:44 the next morning to go to a town called Isle-Sur-La-Sorgue, for the amazing Sunday market that takes place there. Because reception isn't open all the time, I left my backpack at reception the night before, and was planning to pick it back up at 5 on Sunday, when I would check in again and get another room. That is when I started freaking out. My backpack was just in a hallway in the back of reception, which was half reception, half bar, half restaurant, half hang out place, slash there was a door for limited access right next to where my back pack was! I did not feel okay with that. And the ratskin blanket was not warm, and I curled up in my bed, and heard the other girls shush each other when they saw the lump of blanket in the corner that was me when they turned on the light. It was a lonely night.

I woke up at 5:45 the next morning, grabbed my things, dressed in the nasty hostel bathroom, and did an early check out with the security man, and then walked through the town, seeing the early morning trucks cleaning the city, the few harmless homeless men sleeping or yelling, and arrived at the station in time to catch my train to the market. I arrived in the town at 7:10, thinking it would be like Portabello road with a really early start. I wandered around forever taking pictures, writing in my journal, and eating the cookies I had bought the night before for dinner. The market didn't really get going until about 10, and then it was crazy.

The whole town was built along little rivers, and there were water wheels, and the market went through several streets, around the church, and on bridges and near the water. It was really beautiful, and I might have had to go to the atm when I might have ran out of cash... I know I always tell you all what I buy because I'm so excited, but for my own reasons, I cannot disclose what I have bought until December 26th.

This town is also famous for its antiques, and I saw the most beautiful armoires in the antique stores. I was seriously stunned by how gorgeous they were, and am now ruined for the rest of my life.

I started freaking out about my backpack. I got the next train back to Avignon at about noon. I had walked through the market several times, and I wanted to go back to Paris as soon as possible.

And I felt terrible that I was missing sacrament meeting, after having not gone for differing reasons for the three weeks previous. I was feeling absolutely terrible. I spent an hour at the internet cafe, wrote a depressing blog post, and was freaking out about my backpack. I sat near the river by my hostel again, and read my Book of Mormon in French for about an hour and a half, praying that my backpack would still be there. I knew it had been stolen. I just knew it. My keys to my Paris apartment were in there, along with my eurail pass, and my train ticket home, and my metro pass, and things I had bought at the market, and my black skirt I love, and my book, and my passport, and my sketchbook and watercolors, and I just knew all of it was gone. I freaked out. And this is when I decided that I would never again travel alone. I can't handle myself freaking out. I didn't know I freaked out this much. I didn't know I relied on other people to help me not freak out. I promise I'm a great travel companion. I can figure things out, and I know how transportation works most of the time, and I know how to live out of a hostel, but for my own mental well-being, I don't think I can travel alone anymore. I need someone to tell me that I am freaking out and to settle down, because things will be okay.

My backpack was there. I got the same room. I got a bit of candy and some apple juice for dinner. I realized I hadn't eaten a square meal since Friday night when I had the best meal of my life. I had a bit of breakfast on Saturday, some skittles at the train station, half a roll of cookies for dinner, the other half for breakfast on Sunday, a gelato on Sunday when I was having a panic attack, and then half a bottle of apple juice and some haribo candies, which I finished on the train to Paris on Monday morning. That night was triumphant, as I repacked my backpack, talked to the sweetest Polish girl (Ewa! she reminded me so much of you!) who was traveling by herself, told her about Arles and about how my sister had lived in Poland, and how much I loved Krakow, and she was sweet, and she left her bag in our room when she showered, so I left mine in the room when I watched the sunset again and listened to this wonderful wonderful song by Josh Ritter. (It is thy type of song that is so happy, and not puky happy, like I'm happy, happy, and this is a cute song. Listen while you read the rest of this.) And the room wasn't full, so I got two ratskin blankets, and cozied into my sheetless bed.

I made it back to Paris perfectly fine, and if you looked at this post and only saw the pictures, you would have no idea the amount of (unnecessary) emotional anxiety that occurred in the midst of these calm pictures.

preview for tomorrow's post about saturday and sunday

I'm obsessed.

Friday:

view of Arles from the amphitheatre

I took the train down from Paris to Avignon. I missed the train on Thursday when four of my friends went because I woke up an hour after my train left, much to mine and Cami's confusion; (we had both set our alarms) and after having a wallet-loss freak out when I left my wallet at the ticket counter at the train station when I tried to get another train down to Avignon that day. Thankfully, they still had it, and all one hundred of my recently withdrawn euros were still there.

not embarrassed to say that I really love this picture.

I arrived in Avignon and remembered that the hotel my friends stayed at the night before was only a ten minute walk from the train station. I began to walk, following signs for city center, and historic center, and I walked along the river and could see the pope's palace from a distance. Later, I realized that the hotel was referring to the Avignon Centre station, and not the TGV (fast train) station, which was about a 45 minute or an hour walk to get to the hotel. It was a nice day, and the river looked beautiful. It kind of reminded me of Eugene, it was about the same width as the Willamette with similar plants along the shore.

Arles. And Leslie.

I got to the hotel, and talked to the man who speaks English there. I had told him the night before that I had missed the train, and to please ask my friends to come to the train station to wait for me there so we could finally meet up. He told me that my friends had left about an hour ago, and he didn't know where they were going, but he had given them the message. I thanked him, resigned myself to spending the weekend alone in Avignon, not the worst prospect, and went to the tourist information center to find the cheapest hostel possible.

i think i saw like four stores with dogs in the window like this. so cute, right?

Then I found an internet cafe, ended up calling dear Angela (one of the girls I was supposed to meet up with), and found out that they were catching a train in 15 minutes to go to Arles. "I will be there!" I told her, before dropping a euro in the internet man's hand and running out the door. I was wearing Cami's enormous and totally legit backpacking backpack, so it was heavy, and my skirt was coming up in the back as my pack thumped my back at every step. I was sprinting full out, and I knew there was no way that I could stop before I saw my friends. And they were there, waiting for me, and we didn't miss the train.

lovelies: liz, laura, angela, leslie

Arles is a really cute, beautiful town. It is where most of the windows are that I took pictures of in the post below. There is a colosseum type of amphitheatre thing where they still have bull fights. Apparently they have a type of bull fight where they don't kill the bulls. We didn't get to see one, but we did find out that in the middle ages, the whole amphitheatre was filled with houses and about 200 people lived there, and they used the walls for fortification. Crazy right? All the way until the seventeenth century.

(left) look at us. we've gotten so good at not looking like tourists. this is at the amphitheatre. extra points to anyone who can tell me what book leslie is reading? (right) Angela and I climbed over a railing to take this pic. We felt so h-core. Angela even insisted on putting on my backpack.

We drooled over tablecloths, and then I drooled over the crepe I had for lunch, with asparagus, and cheese and ham in it. It was an absolutely beautiful day, with wonderful blue skies, and fun friends, and lots and lots of jumping pictures I will spare you of.

(left) the cafe Van Gogh painted; (center) his painting; (right) the asian tour group admiring the previous two thing with us

That night, my dinner contended as possibly the best meal I have ever had in my entire life. Fish soup, a veal medallion, and some kind of chocolate souffle/cake.

i don't know why my camera doesn't like taking pictures in dark places...my soup was not orange.

I felt so bad about the veal, especially when I told my mother about it tonight, and she gave me the saddest face ever. It is the only time I have ever ordered veal, and probably the last. But it was probably the best meat I have ever tasted in my life. Tender and juicy and flavorful and wonderful sauce and a few vegetables. Good conversation, a bit of gossip, and without even any wine, we were in total euphoria as we tried not to embarrass ourselves by laughing too much. A man walked around with a guitar singing old, beautiful french songs, and I savored that meal like I have never savored anything. And I splurged. 26 euros. And the American woman next to me made it quite clear to the waiter that she must have the same dessert as I. Really, it was wonderful, and I watched her take a picture of her dessert as we walked out the door. We were content with everything that had ever been slightly amiss in our lives.

the chair in the corner of our hotel room

I shared a bed with Leslie, and she doesn't like to be touched, just to warn you. So I nuzzled my head into her shoulder a few times before Angela and Liz came and jumped into our bed, and Angela and I pretended to be puppies, and Laura talked in her cute baby voice, and Liz talked about how she would rather be a werewolf than a vampire. I agreed. We laughed until about one o'clock in the morning. And Leslie laid there with her arms by her sides.