les poissons les poissons Hehehe HawHawHaw

Friday, 19 Jan 2007


Dear family and friends,

I write today bearing unfortunate news. A part of our world has died. Even thinking about it, I have to wipe a tear away as it drifts down my cheek in a pool of melancholy. Please take a moment of silence for... my computer. After a mere two and a half years, HP nc4000 ceased working, went kaput, kicked the can, started pushing up daisies. I feel lke Strong Bad from
Homestarrunner.com: I try to write emails and suddenly, bang there dies my laptop (albeit the fact that he types a lot better with boxing gloves than I ever will.) I caress, I cajole, I abuse, all to no avail. HP nc4000 turns on and refuses to go beyond a screen that begins by saying... "We apologize, your computer is having problems functioning." Tell me something I dont know!

Moving on (hard to do, I know)...

Last Saturday I took a trip to Dijon, home of 'la moutarde'. I arose after 4 hours of sleep at a bleary 6:45AM and dragged myself down to Gare de Lyon. Upon arrival, I was surprised to see that Emma, my travel buddy, was not there. I boarded the train expecting to see her sleep-laden face poke through the door of the wagon any minute. When the train started lazily rolling down the tracks and the seat next to me remained emptier than Pamela Anderson's
head, I got worried. The train streamed by the picturesque countryside - green hills that looked soft as moss, trickling creeks that wound their way through fog strewn fields, quaint bundles of villages that nestled cozily into the dawn- and I prepared for unexpected alone time. An hour and a half later, Dijon. I wandered out of the train station feeling dismal as the gray skies above. One must make the best of such situations, so I padded on down the street and found my way
to a church.

Churches are everywhere in France: in this village, on that corner, even in your bowl of soup at the local brasserie. Wavering tiredly in the Dijon morning air, I looked around this church. Decidedly, a church is a church is a church. I have seen far too many here in Europe, but broke down to pay the 1 Euro admission for a peek at their crypt. I spoke the the woman at the desk who sported a eyebrow-penciled-on mole on her cheek. She explained to me all about how St.B-whoever, the church martyr was martyred. Those martyring meanies cemented his feet in a block, pierced him with arrows, put painful looking brass things on his fingers and to top it all off (like the cherry on your ice cream sundae) stuck an axe in his head. Lovely. She told me to come back at 2:45 for a live reenactment. Haha noooot... it was just a tour.

Soon after those holy moments, I got a call from Emma who was all in an upset. She'd slept through her alarm. Cock-a-doodle-don't. She informed me, however, that she had bought a new ticket for the next train out. After browsing markets and the Musée de Beaux Arts, I found Emma at the train station. It was much nicer touristing with someone, and at 2:45 we went to the aforementioned church tour, or rather tour DE FORCE. This tour was INCREDIBLE.

First, in our homey group of 3+guide, we spiraled up the stairs to the organ, a monstrosity of pipes and wood. We got to stare inside the organ at the factory of silver tubes. Then, up we went to the "carillion" or bell tower. There, 70-some different sized bells hung in the air like bats in a cave. The guide played them for us so we could see how they worked. Ohhh that ding ding dong.

Next, we were lead up into the area in between the roof of the nave and the ceiling. This unfinished space resembled the skeleton of a viking ship. A path of pigeon-refuse encrusted planks led the way across the top of the "arcs des ogives" to the other side. When does one actually get to see this part of a church? Never sounds about it. I felt more special than a kid with a new backpack.

We exited onto the precarious roof where our eyes could feast upon a birds' (quail to be exact.. mmm) eye view of Dijon. The roof was patterned with tiles glazed in sundry soft colors. You will never be allowed to do something equivalent to this roof visit in the US, not because they forgot to build gothic churches there, but because of liability issues. You guys are no fun over there. Can't have people falling off rooves, noooo.

Anyhow, the tour ended in the highest bell tower of 'l'eglise,' home to the T-Rexes of bells, those over 10 tons. All these monsters were named with monikers such as Bernard or Marie-France or Howard Stern. The guide rung the biggest for us by swaying back and forth multiple times with the pendulum (the dinging part of the bell). I think hearing loss might have been involved if I hadn't covered my ears. I could feel the vibration course through my body like caffeine as it buzzed my organs with the strength of a million wasps. According to the guide, bells like this, if rung hard enough, can kill the person aside the bell with their vibrations. The Beach Boys must have been unaware of such bells with they wrote 'Good vibrations', cause those vibrations sure would not be good.

And of course, I bought some mustard in Dijon. Dijon mustard... ever heard of it? They have more flavors of mustard there than Willy Wonka has candy in his chocolate factory. Think tomato basil, curry, black current, some kind of liqueur, tarragon, 3 fruits, gingerbread, etc.

Other news:
I tried out an internship with a woman who buys and sells art. Though she was nice to me, her personality was insufferable. She might have been Marie Antionette in a past life. Let them eat cake! She has this guy Paul who works for her. Picture this: She'll be sitting in the living room. Paul is downstairs cleaning. The phone is on a table 10 paces away from her. It rings. She yells (and you must shriek this in a shrill, high-pitched voice with a French accent...) "PAAAAUUUULLLL, bring me my phoooone!" Not only was she unenjoyable, but so was the mundane secretarial work she was having me do. Needless to say I told her Tuesday that I decided the internship "wasn't for me". Then I got a call yesterday AND today from Paul who was instructed by her to ask when I was coming. AHHH

I'm saying hello again to my creative side, picking up piano once a week at my cousin's and taking a oil painting class with the Musée des Arts Decoratifs. I'm rustier than beat-up truck with both things and oh its sad, but with a bit o' practice...

Tuesday eve I went to a concert of the kid I met on the plane to Germany. Antoine. Really a good show and he must have been quite surprised to see me there. He has a brother who
lives in Paris who said he'd give me a call sometime.

Fun fact: You know the stereotype that French people are dirty? I'll tell you why their dirty... their toilettrees are EXPENSIVE! (Though I do not wish to propogate this stereotype.... it's not really true). I will have to buy shampoo soon, but have not done it yet as I find it hard to bring myself to spend the equivalent of $4 on the cheapest option. Don't worry, however, I wont let the future dread of my ponytail become too long before I break down and buy something.

Alright time for me to jet like the concord. No pictures and fewer individual responses
(sorry) until I get a new computer, but don't let that deter you from communicating.

Oh and, it's official, I'm getting married! Ok ok, I'm pulling your leg on that one. But I am going to Italy for April break! Got another 0.01 euro ticket, this one to Venise. Not sure how I'm getting back yet, but I will find something flying out of Rome. Starting sending along info on places I should see and free beds to sleep in and fun friends to meet.

Love and french pastries,
Hannah