Ok so 31 days in January.  Here are the first 31 things that come to mind corresponding to the numbers 1-31.  Let’s see if this works.

1 – number of whole lizards found in the bottle of some Chinese drink being served at a Slovakian birthday party in Paris I went to

2 days – time after the marathon required before I could descend stairs properly again

3 dirhams – cost of a glass of fresh-squeezed Moroccan orange juice (25 cents)

4 hours, 14 minutes, 27 seconds – my time at the Marathon of Marrakesh

5 pairs of skis – crammed into a tiny two-door hatchback already questionably overloaded with five passengers and their gear for the New Years trip in the mountains, an hour+ drive from Grenoble.

6 – number of large French fries André and I ate for free at the French fastfood joint « Quality Burger » in one sitting

7 – number of peanut butter Clif Bars consumed before and after the marathon that may have been contaminated with salmonella

8 hours – approximately how long my Grenoble friends and I were marching in deep snow in the mountains after dark on New Year’s Eve searching for a cabin – the same day I returned to France from the States

9,000 vertical feet of off-piste skiing I did in one afternoon in the high Alps

10.25 out of 20 – the grade I got on a paper for my French class that I wrote frantically after New Years in Grenoble (10 is passing)

11th of February – date of my departure back to Middlebury

12 camels seen during the marathon

13 number of times Amanda, Eirik, and I jumped off of beds in our hostel before we managed to get a picture with the three of us in the air

14 lbs of Käsespätzle(*) I could have eaten by myself when the Germans girls cooked in Grenoble

15 minutes – time spent being pursued by a Moroccan guy who really wanted us to eat at his restaurant

16h00 – time you should leave Eirik’s appartment in Grenoble if you want to run the Bastille in time for the sunset

17 – French 911, which I called for the first time after being harassed verbally and physically by a shady Parisian character in the street in front of my apartment as I said goodbye to Andy for the last time.  The guy asked me if I had a lighter, I said no, and somehow things escalated from there… don’t ask me.

18 degrees Celsius - typical high in Marrakech during January (68 Fahrenheit?)

19% – my comprehension rate when my English friend Andy is speaking (in English)

20 drunk French students – what we found in our cabin deep in the mountains where we celebrated New Years

21 pages – of French I had to write for final papers at Sciences Po in less than a week

22 days since I started wearing glasses

23h00 – time we arrived at the cabin for New Years – yep almost missed it.

24 – number of times I ate it hard while descending a mountain on XC skis after New Years

25 minutes I spent laughing while watching Andy eat a cow’s foot in Morocco

26.2 miles / 42.195 km = MARATHON

27 member states in the EU – ok I good, I’ve learned something in my EU class this semester.

28 leashed monkeys running around the main square in Marrakesh that are trying to jump on your shoulders while you’re not looking. 

29% – my comprehension rate when my Norwegian friend Eirik is speaking (in Norwegian)

30cm of snow in Indiana that I am missing out on (1 ft?)

31 cars – probably close to the number which quite nearly hit Andy, Eirik, and me as we tried to cross the roundabout at the Arch de Triomph

January photos

The party cabin, burried in New Year’s snow.

REAL skiing!!!

Marathon of Marrakesh (Morocco) at the 20km / 12.4 mile marker – Halfway there… still smiling at this point.

First good snow in Paris! 2 Feb

I exaggerate a little.  But essentially thats what happened.  My French bank sends me a text every Tuesday afternoon with my balance, which is totally overkill because I never put any money in it besides the 70 Euro reward for opening the account, and don’t plan on putting anymore in there.  Its always 70 Euros.  However, the past several SMS have had numbers such as « 150″, « 180″, and « 205″ Euros as my present balance.  The first couple times, it was kind of exciting to think I was receiving mysterious but handsome sums in my pocket.  Money in the bank!  But since I clearly had not been making deposits like that, I started to get a little concerned that perhaps I actually owed these amounts and had been misinterpreting the messages (was it a positive or negative balance?), or that someone else had control of my account or something.  Each time the amount got bigger, and I became more and more confused, and a little paranoid.  So I went to the bank to verify the facts.  As it turns out, it was an error on the banks part, and they were just systematically giving me cash every week by mistake (how kind of them!).  It was reassuring to know that I was not in the red by 200 Euros and that my financial French vocab was solid afterall, but I was kicking myself for voluntarily handing over all that free money!  Looks like I made the bigger mistake by pointing it out.

One more thing.  Last week I went to Madrid with a couple friends from Middlebury to visit other friends from Middlebury studying there.  It was such a CRAZY city!  First of all, the weather was like early fall in Paris, in the low 60s F.  Secondly, the place was decked out for Christmas, making an already beautiful city look like a (warm) winter wonderland.  But most importantly, I learned that even though Spain is within the same time zone as France, they actually operate at least 3 hours behind.  Restaurants don’t start service until 8 or 9 PM and are rarely busy until 10.  Bars are open until 3 on weeknights, unlike Paris where they all mostly close at 1, and I don’t think they even try to close on the weekends.  Spaniards are nocturnal creatures I guess. 

And of course, being on a budget, we ate at MacDonalds several times (daily?).  And to make things even more fun, they had the Monopoly promotion going with famous addresses of Madrid.  By the time we left, I had a backpack full of Monopoly pieces, only two among them being winners (for El BigMacs).

I also got groped by a prostitute in the street, drank Spanish ‘hot chocolate’ (which is literally a glass of melted solid chocolate), and slept at the Madrid airport from 5AM to 3PM Sunday afternoon.

As for the holiday dinner, I actually had three.  The first was hosted by the Middlebury School in Paris at a bistro on the Seine, which included a lot of wine and not a lot of turkey (none actually).  That was Tuesday.  Wednesday night, my host-parents served a pot of raw oysters and cooked up a feasant for me. I was honestly under the impression that it was just a small turkey, up until the point where he told me he had shot it during his feasant hunt in Normandy over the weekend.  I should have known from the oysters that it was going to be an unorthodox Thanksgiving dinner.  Thursday, the big day, I cooked for myself.  That meant pasta.  Not a trace of Thanksgiving spirit in my cuisine.  I did eat peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies for dessert in true American fashion though. 

So last week I had to explain to our house maid what Thanksgiving consisted of back in the States, since she wasn’t exactly sure.  Then today she greeted me with a really confused look and told me about the Wal-Mart employee that was killed in a mad rush Friday morning at the opening of his store.  « Your holiday is strange. »  I guess I forgot to include the part about Black Friday. 

Today I did something really brave.  I took the bus to school instead of the metro.  It was a huge step for me, and I’m so glad I finally had the courage to do it.  You wouldn’t believe how much nicer the view is.

And I can not claim to be the artist behind this shot, but my friend from Middlebury is.  I like it.

Over and out from the office (I refer to McDonalds as ‘the office’ now).

The day preceding winter’s arrival, however, was the occasion for a great reunion of Middlebury students from far and wide: a handful studying from Paris, one from Madrid, and two from the real deal all the way in Vermont.  We wandered around the streets of Montmartre searching for a pizza place that we were supposed to be able to smell from the metro station, but that was false.  Instead we discovered cobbled streets where if you stopped and held your breath, you could actually hear nothing.  Nothing at all.  Complete silence.  Of all the priceless works of art and diverse treasures found in Parisian museums, the sensation of silence in the middle of the city was far more beautiful and in my opinion more prized.  I’m clearly not a museum goer.

If anyone sees a package from the US addressed to « Nathan Williams » postmarked October 1st floating around, please seize it immediately and let me know where you are so that I can buy a plane ticket and retrieve it from you.  Thanks!

This happy-go-lucky Frenchmen goes State-side with a camera attached to his shoulder to « meet Americans » and « share their life ».  And he succeeds.

Firstly, I’m taking a class called ‘French and foreign prisons’ which is taught by a former prison manager and present UMP representative (major right-wing political party in France), so he’s an interesting guy.  Anyhow, we got to take a field trip to a prison in the suburbs of Paris a few weeks ago.  It was such an eye opener!  After studying the French carceral system for half a semester, we’d learned a lot.  But seeing the actual context of all the statistics and stories was pretty terrifying.  For example, France, like most countries, has a real problem with overpopulation in its prisons.  This year there are an estimated 65,000 detainees occupying space sufficient for just 50,000.  For the prison we visited, which is the second largest in the country, that means operating at 114% capacity.  Frightening.  The incarceration rate continues to climb, and sits around 75 inmates per 100,000 people.  While that poses a pretty legitimate problem, I’ve also learned that in the US that figure is over 700/100,000.  Yikes America. 

Another interesting bit about the French prison system: they don’t sort detainees between prisons by their potential security risk like in the States and Canada (minimum, medium, maximum, super maximum security).  I’m 95% sure I heard our professor say, in all seriousness, that they are sorted between the institutions alphabetically by last name.  But thankfully, they do take risk into consideration at the institutional level with a similar ranking system to ours, corresponding to different parts of the prison.  They also sort by geographical region of origin.  We took special note of the wing designated for those who « have not quite mastered the French language », according to our host.  I guess you could say it is my double mission then to not someday wind up in such a cell, firstly because I’d rather not be in prison, but also because I would really like to master the French language.  There were also fine paintings adorning the walls, like in the Louvre.  And of course we saw rats. 

Next stop, the Stadium of France.  Several Middlebury friends and I joined over 60,000 chearing fans (an interesting visual since that also corresponds to the number of inmates in French prisons) to support the French soccer team take on Uraguay.  Such a spectacle!  I’m pretty sure the security checkpoints we passed through were more stringent than European airport security standards.  It was a great, and chilly, game to watch, but it ended rather anticlimactically 0-0 without shoutouts or anything. 

So picture your average American sports spectator, probably wearing a jersey, baseball cap, or t-shirt or his favorite player or team.  Well in France, that token of team loyalty takes the form of a scarf.  A scarf!  If it weren’t for the history of pretty intense riots and violence associated with ‘football’ games, I’d call them a bunch of sissies.

Did you know Uraguay is only 3 hours different from France?  Meaning 2 hours from London?  Crazy.

In other news, the intrepid travelling duo of Amanda Quinlan and HKay Merrimen (friends from Middlebury) came to Paris last weekend.  Seeing as the two of them really wanted to see Versailles, I had never been there myself; and that we’re ambitious and fearless Americans, we decided to go there by foot.  Running, that is.  Google maps layed out a nice 15km route from my doorstep to that of the late King Louiss (how do you make Louis plural?). The one I ended up leading us on was pushing more like 25.  Bonus 10km through forests and suburbs!  See Amandas blog for details. 

Then in the middle of the week, another friend (Jean) and I took off on Ryanair to the village of Nottingham, England, where we met up with two other friends from Midd studying there (Alex and Chris).  We spent less than 24 hours on the ground with them, but seeing as the place is not as colorful or enchanting as the Disney Robin Hood film might have you convinced, we weren’t missing out on much by leaving so soon.  My lasting impressions of Nottingham: English accents are funny.

A week ago today I started my journey to Corsica.  I say journey because that is exactly the word to describe what it was.  Trains, subways, planes, buses, hitch hikes, real hikes, ferries, taxis, you name it, and I probably utilized it to get around at some point.  And yet during this five day travelling frenzy across mountains, seas, and pastoral countrysides, my friends and I trained ourselves in the art of aesthetic appreciation.  To slow down and take it all in. Life is so fast paced that it does not come naturally to press the pause button and allow yourself a moment to soak up your surroundings and the sensations that they excite.  However by the end of the trip, we seemed to have had that skill pretty well figured out.  Moments like that came as regularly as the metro in Paris, being every 2-3 minutes.  Basically, Corsica is a transforming place.  And one of the most vivid before and after examples of its transformative power is the pair of pants I wore the entire time.  Yeah, enough with the canned Hallmark reflections on life and appreciating beauty.  Lets talk about what happened to my pants on this trip.      

You can essentially interpret the stains and smudges on my pants like a catalogue of places and events across the island, with corresponding moments of « ahhhhh wow life is awesome » for each.  Yeah, its all there on my corduroys.  Let’s start with the dark crusty smear across my left shin.  That was a s’more at one point.  I woke up in my tent one morning, stumbled out into the bright light of day, sat down in the warm sand (we were camping in some dunes right on the coast), and realized I had an entire marshmallow grafted to my leg.  Pretty gross, but it brings me back to the amazing night before when we cooked locally caught fish over the fire, made s’mores, sang songs round my friend’s guitar, and drank Corsican wine, all in the pouring rain, listening to the waves breaking on the beach, all night long.  I can live with a sandy carmelized sugary blob on my leg after a night like that.

Next we have the smelly fish juice stain.  Actually, thats part of the same memory as the marshmallow.  As fire master, I was charged with the task of handling the fish in and out of the fire.  No surprise then, I ended up with a good dose of fish juice on my thighs. 

The general muddiness one can see from my knees down came about on day one.  Day one started with my  arrival by overnight ferry from the south of France, hitchhiking up the coast of the island to meet my friends, and embarking on an all day hike up and over Monte Scello (1300m, think a little bigger than Camel’s Hump for those of you that know Vermont) on the north cape.  The coolest part about this hike was that we could look both east and west from the summit and see the ocean.  Such a sight!  Anyhow, as per tradition, my friend Eirik and I finished the last stretch to the summit by running. Quite fast. And thanks to the rain, I got a little sloppy around the puddles.   

The mud from the summit should not be confused with the boar poop on my right heel, however.  Corsica is full of these wild, ferocious, untamed pig beasts.  While instinctively elusive, they are not so discrete when it comes to taking a poop.  There were cow-pie sized boar poops everywhere, and although I’m not exactly sure that the darker-than-mud stain is actually boar poop, we can be certain that I stepped in plenty of it during the hike.  One more thing about the boars.  The first night of camping, long after the girls had gone to their tents, the four guys remained around the fire, burning the remaining logs, listening to the waves on the beach, and playing some last tunes on guitar and harmonica.  As my friend Andre wandered off into the dark to gather a few last branches to toss on the fire, the rest of us heard heavy and hurried footsteps on the rocks coming straight for us from the darkness.  I was like, calm down guys, its just Andre.  But when we heard Andre reply « what? » after hearing his name from some 20 meters in the opposite direction, it clearly was not just Andre.  Turns out, it was a boar.  It had emerged from the forest and crossed 100 meters of rocky beach to come investigate our fire by the sea.  This is the most dangerous animal in Europe we are talking about, up to 300lbs of angry pig.  And it charged us in the night, unrattled by our fire and lousy singing.  Needless to say, there was no reason to tell the girls about that event or else the camping on the beach aspect of our trip was sure to come to an abrupt end.  Sorry girls if you are hearing about this for the first time here.

Brown splotch near my left pocket.  Coke.  After hitchhiking to another coastal village, our drivers joined us at a cafe for some afternoon caffeine.  The couple, by the way, were the most fascinating people I’ve ever met.  They were actually eco-militants taking a vacation around Corsica in their awesome 80′s beater caravan.  Check out their website: http://www.apiborie.fr/ There should be an English link.  They are actually beekeepers in their little eco-friendly village in southern France.   Yeah, you can read more about them there.  But we had wild conversations (in French) about the dawn of ecological revolutions, the fall of capitalism, tales of being attacked by French police at environmental rallies and protests, and the day-to-day life of an anarchist family.  And at some very ordinary moment of the conversation, I’m sure, a gulp of coke escaped my glass and landed on my lap.  It might have also had to do with the fact that my hands were a little shaky from excitement after I had made an incredibly spontaneous decision to miss my ferry (and corresponding train) home to Paris and buy a plane ticket over the phone for several days later.  I was having so much fun I did not want to leave, or perhaps it that I was so inspired by the free-minded, spontaneous, don’t let anything stop you from doing what you want to do in life speech we were getting from the beekeepers.  I don’t know, but it was exciting, and again, I got a little sloppy.

When I stepped onto the Corse Air flight to Paris, I was getting lots of looks.. in the direction of my pants. But maybe since they were all coming from Corsica, they had been transformed into pensive, beauty seeking aesthetes as well, and saw my trousers as a still life of a long and arduous journey, captured on corduroy.  One thing is for sure though: I have lots of laundry to do.

I just might be able to start buying Peanut Butter! Imagine!

There are a lot of things that Middlebury and Sciences Po have in common.  For example, they are both universities.  Actually, beyond that, there’s not much else to say.  They are actually very, very different.  One of the characteristics at Sciences Po that really diverges from what I am accustomed to is its method of assessment.  The homework.  There is hardly any written work to be done during the semester.  Textbooks are more or less optional, so there isn’t any assigned reading.  There really isn’t a lot to do in preparation for class each day.  UNLESS you are lucky enough to be giving an exposé.  Essentially, an exposé boils down to a 10-minute oral presentation.  For me this is an enormous task.  So naturally, I get stressed, confused, and make hilarious mistakes.  For example:

My first exposé was two weeks ago on the subject of wine production.  Mistake number one, pulling an all nighter to prepare the thing from start to finish the night before.  Mistake number two, distributing my presentation outline to the class and forgetting to keep one for myself.  Yeah, I did that.  I started talking and realized I had no outline to go off of.  I improvised a really solid introduction, followed my powerpoint for the development, but when it came to the conclusion, man it was an attrocity. I started talking about all sorts of irrelevant, vague things, like the financial crisis? I don’t know what I was thinking.  You could probably also call it a mistake to have not rehearsed the thing until I got on the metro to head to class. 

Second example of my sheer brilliance: European Union class.  This time I had a debate.  My partner, also an international student, and I decided to just determine the positions at a whim.  I would be Pro, she would be Con.  We each did lots of research, compared ideas, and even rehearsed this time.  Things were looking good.  Then we got to class, nervous as all get out, but prepared.  The professor announced the subject of the first debate which would precede ours, and asked for a sheet of paper from a fellow student on which he wrote « oui » and « non », tore in half, and placed in a hat.  The two students then drew their sides from the hat and immediately launched the debate. A moment of contained PANIC ensued between me and my partner.  How were we supposed to know the professor assigned the sides right there on the spot?  What would we do if we drew the wrong side? (There’s some great irony here, you will soon see.) Surely it would be the end of us.  So after the first debate, we explained our little predicament to the professor, and no big surprise here, he had no sympathy whatsoever for us and even seemed rather amused by our situation.  He agreed though to move on to the exposés and return to our debate afterwards.  By some stroke of luck, time ran out and we were spared until next week (class only meets once a week).  Next week arrived, and my partner and I had thoroughly exchanged positions and learned them by heart.  We were ready for a solid debate.  We drew our sides, and sure enough, I got Con and she got Pro, the combination that would have most certainly spelled disaster for us both the week before.  10 minutes went by and we each delivered compelling arguments in typical debate fashion, slamming our fists on the table, appearing agitated by the other’s ignorance, all the requisite drama.  We were content.  Then the professor smiled and proceeded to explain that we had misinterpreted the question and argued the opposite sides.  WHAT?!  Somehow it was true.  We had not properly understood the question and approached the debate entirely backwards. My arguments indeed supported my partners side and undermined my own, and likewise with hers.  You have to be wondering how we pulled that off, and I assure you, it bewilders me too.  It must have been some issue with the French that tripped us up.  I’m not sure.  Nonetheless, we will probably be the only debate all semester after which it is fantastically clear that both sides LOST.  Game, set, match, Sciences Po. 

Yesterday I had not one but two exposes, so needless to say it was one of the most stressful days of my life here so far.  Fortunately, there is not much to report in the way of erroneous methodological maneuvers.   

So, in order to decompress after a month of exposes and projects gone mostly wrong, I’m fleeing Paris tomorrow after class for Corsica, an island belonging to France in the Mediterranean Sea.  I was thinking sunshine, blue skies, and lemonade.  Well, here’s the forecast for the next few days:

Wednesday

orageux = stormy

Thursday

quelques éclaircies et violents orages = scattered lightning and violent storms

Friday

orageux once again.

Saturday

très nuageux et fortes pluies orageuses = very cloudy et strong thundershowers.

Camping on the beach is going to be such a delight in a thunderstorm!