Rambouillet

Last Sunday I had an educational trip with the family to Rambouillet. Here are the basics (more pictures on Facebook).

This is le chateau (castle) at the Rambouillet Estate from the side of the French jardin (neat and orderly garden). Louis XVI loved this estate for the good hunting, bought it in 1783, and had la laiterie and a sheep farm built before the Revolution. There are canals and a long green behind the castle, along with a lake and many statues--two form the 19th century are, Brotherly Charity by Julien Edouard Conny and Death of Procris by Jean Escoula. The tour (tower), where Francois I (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francois_I) died in 1547, is the only remaining part of the original castle, built in 1345.

Besides Louis XVI, Napoleon I and Francois I lived at Rambouillet. This castle is important because the current Presidents of France are allowed to use it for personal and diplomatic purposes. In 1975 the first G7 summit was held here, in 1996 Nelson Mandela visited (I'm trying to figure out which century-style furniture he chose for the l'appartement of the visiting chefs d'Etat (heads of state)), and in 1999 the Kosovo peace conference was held here.

Le laiterie de la Reine, is a dairy built for Queen Marie Antoinette because she was bored with the Rambouillet estate--Eloge de la nature (In praise of nature). This is a view of the marble rotunda where the Queen sampled her dairy products (only once or twice before being beheaded!). In the back, you can see the cooling room, where bowls of milk were kept cool in a spring of water. The statue is Jupiter and Amathea's goat. Marie Antoinette (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Antoinette) liked to pretend to be a farmer and controversially changed many fashions during the Enlightenment.

On the estate was also an English garden. The English garden was in the style of a more natural landscape, exotic trees strewn about and rivers crossed by bridges. The English-style garden separated the le chateau, its French jardin, the canals, and the green carpet from la laiteria, the ferme (farm), and the bergerie nationale (national sheep farm). We were told that vast channels of underground tunnels were dug all over the estate so that the servants could travel without being seen and the Queen could stay out of the rain. There were also hidden servant entrances to all the buildings on the estate.

In the English garden, there is a shell cottage, rustic on the outside and covered wall to wall (and ceiling!) in fancy sea and fresh water shells on the inside. It only took 6-8 months to complete--http://drupal02.nypl.org/files/62/shell_cottage.jpg--crazy! It was built in 1779 by Claude-Martin Goupy before Louis XVI bought the estate and is still in perfect condition. I really liked the farm and surrounding area. I couldn't imagine anyone disliking having to live there. Sarkozy has apparently not visited yet. I hope Obama is invited this year.

The pigeon house at the farm.

Dix Jours!

It's been ten days since my last post. Wowza. And not for lack of material. I think things have turned around here for the better. Instead of hugely annoying things happening every day to delay the process so often called "settling in", subtly better things have been happening every other day.

It all started last Wednesday when a man left his mail on the roof of his car and drove off. I was behind him, watching papers fly. The childrens and I decided that following him was smarter than stopping to pick up the papers. He wouldn't know where he lost them even if I collected them and handed them into a nearby business. The oldest one immediately concluded they were his passport papers. We literally had a bit of a car chase, caught him at a light two miles down the street, told him where he'd lost them, then circled around to make sure he found them. Ok, so not magical or anything, but it felt sorta like something that could only happen in France. And chasing him in the car was honestly thrilling.

Either that day or the next, I got my Swiss passport in the mail. I mean. Come on! Talk about exciting. And this thing is tricked o-u-t! I can't wait to use it, and I have a vacation coming up at the end of October. The sister, Sarah, and I are gonna figure out where to go. Switzerland maybe? Belgium? What's good in October?

Last Friday, I spent an hour or so in St Germain en Laye, and I checked out the chateau, the gardens, and the sweet view of Paris from the hillside. The sun did that thing where it rays from inside the clouds. The perfect fall day, spoiling my eyes with beauty. I also got my mobile that day. I also made a friend last week.

Saturday, I went to a techno parade through the streets of Paris. This is more or less how I described it to Daina earlier (I don't feel like typing these days):

"oh daina. i wish you could have been there... it was like.... the maddest people on earth. those you want to make fun of. those you want to hug. those you just know didn't come on purpose but dig it anyway... and the other day i realized something. techno is the new disco!
Daina: what is a techno parade exactly

me: k. think... dave yarus gets ten ice cream trucks the size of 18-wheelers....
and every person in the paris area between the ages of 15 and 25, and 20% of everyone else too ,on the perfect sunny day. and we all march, er rather, rave from a campus-y area of paris to the bastille, drinking in public, smoking in public, wearing absolutely anything, following these trucks that are blaring techno music, each sponsored by a different company or radio station... with people dancing on them and old important men in suits dancing on them, and people dressed as pimps dancing on them, and of course. DJ's

oh!
and then these idiots on the column at the bastille started throwing glass bottles into the crowd below! it was like some crazy horror movie until we figured out what was goin on and the gendarme or whatever came with their helmets and those shield thingies. imagine panic opening up on the other side of the column.... people running in drones away from that side in your direction, and it turns out to be because someone without a cause is drunk and throwing glass bottles

oh. and some woman during the parade was knocked down and started gushing blood from her head and i gave this dredded (dreds) boy my water to help her.
i have to admit to being nauseous."

also, i was hit on by a hippie backpacker, a Tunisian guy who spoke no English helped me skip an RER meter to get on the right train (I feel bad for not giving him my mobile number), and some guy let me on his meat truck , which was actually really gross (and not metaphorical at all). After a full day of mad people, dancing, and wine, my head was about to explode, but I met another really cool au pair who'd like to find an NGO in Africa to work with over the summer. Sounds like a plan. Techno Parades: great one-time experiences. Emphasis on ONE-TIME.

Gah. I just can't keep blogging. I'll try to do one about my educational Sunday trip to the President's castle and about this week... maybe tomorrow.

lundi, lundi, lundi

Today was a Monday if there ever was one. It was my first day of French class, and it felt like the first day of school all over again. OK, not really. Just slightly. I'm proud of myself for bringing a journal and a pen... and taking a shower. In Europe, you can wear clothes two days in a row, and blowing water every day on a shower just feels selfish. And the washing machines are small. Now, I know it's not bathing in salt water, suffering through cold showers, or washing from a bucket, but it feels nice to be in a place where the standards are different.

Class went well. There are two other au pairs in the group and six wives of ex-pats (though one was absent). No men. My teacher's name is Florence. It was a very easy first day, but there are a few other women who seem like they'll help push the pace along. Countries represented: Canada, USA, Holland, Finland, Scotland, Ireland, The UK, and Turkey ought to be there Thursday. I'm trying to remind myself that learning French is my most major goal for the year. I feel guilty whenever I use English.

I was going to have a picnic in the town center, but I sort of let all the air out of the bike tire and couldn't get the air pump to work. This was frustrating because I've used an air pump plenty of times before--I blame it on this little strange piece of metal that sticks out of the nob-hole on the tire. My bike at home does not have this.I couldn't find French music videos today, but Friends was on in French, so I watched some of that while I ate my "picnic". I didn't want to risk being late to get the kids, so I'll save the trip into town for a day when I don't spend an hour fussing around with the bike tire.

The kids were tres, tres mal today. Tres. The little one wanted his mother after school and screamed all the way home. The two others were good for about 30 minutes--then homework started. From 5:30 to 7:45, they did their homework, complaining all the way. Did they have 2 hours-worth of homework? Nuh uh. I started dinner late, burned it slightly, and barely had any of my own before heading out the door for my danse class, late. Danse class, you ask? OUI!

This, I fully enjoyed. I couldn't understand a word that was said, but I followed along well-enough. The music was good, the teacher was friendly and helpful, and the other girls were giggly and thankfully not super professional or anything. What I'll lack in technique since I haven't taken a class in a while, I'll make up for in style and attitude. Some girls had none. The steps loosened me up, weren't too difficult to catch, and were easy to funk up a little bit. Of course, I might feel differently tomorrow when I find out which muscles I've pulled.

But oh, how I missed structured dance classes! It will be worth being broke. Haha, get it? Broke. Monetarily or otherwise. Gee, that was a Monday-rated joke, eh? Those kids better be good tomorrow. Or I'll have to get my Tuesday on them. Mondays are somehow both fresh and lame, but Tuesdays are for the blues. I don't know. I'm making stuff up now. I need to read a French lullaby and go to bed. Bon-nuit!

Une Bon Jour

Today was a good day. I woke up and looked over at the clock on my nightstand. One o'clock? As I love sleeping til all hours of the afternoon, I figured this was very possible. Then I realized I had missed the boat on going to church with the family like I said I would. I forgot to set the alarm. Then a small child knocked on my door and asked me if I'd like to attend the English-speaking church with them. "Hmmm. What time are we going?" "I do-en't know." "Yeah, sure. I'll just get ready."

Turns out, it was ten in the morning--my clock was wrong. I attended church but didn't sing or take commune. I'm pretty sure that the people in attendance at this church had the best singing voices in all of France. I sat next to this cool old dude with an awesome low voice and a lady with a really nice high voice who actually knew how all the hymns went. The church was right near a castle that had sold its grounds for incredible houses to be built in their place. I think that's where the Real World house was. Probably not.

I won't get into how I feel about religion, but I'm proud that I'm at a place now where I'm comfortable going to a church service. I get some good thinking done, and of course the singing is just plain therapeutic. I share something with the family and meet a community of people. I'm pretty sure I also get some good karma points for going.

Then we had lunch, I did some reading on Vegetarianism, I played with children, and then I drove over to St. Nom for the annual um... yard sale. The main street in the center of town was completely blocked off from one end to the other with tables of people's old French stuff. St. Nom has a reputation of affluence (the town refuses to build low-income housing like they're supposed to), so people come from all over to buy and sell old stuff. There were traveling creperies and a merry-go-round. Books, shoes, purses, type-writers, records, cups, pens, furniture, trinkets, doo-dads, buttons, an old hand grenade, jewelery, hand-made journals, etc. etc. etc.

I don't think there could ever be any single better way to get an idea of the inside lives of French people than to walk around this fair for a few hours. I spent a euro total on five French books (was told by my French father that I "should have bargained!") from this young couple who likely just got out of university, wanting to get rid of the memory of Kant, and luckily spoke wonderful English. I now wish I had asked them to be my friends.

But anyway, I came back and had tea, did some more playing, worked on some French-learnin, had black olive, artichoke, tuna, and red pepper pizza for dinner, read the children their night-time stories, finally got in a much-needed conversation with Krista, and headed upstairs for bed. I think I'll read my tarot cards, try to read a story called "pour tous les soirs" (for every night), and go to bed. I am so excited--my French classes start tomorrow morning! Bon-nuit!!

A few pictures

2010 is going to be the best year ever

Last night I had another confusing dream. Not a bad one or a nightmare, but it was wild. I didn't like it. Tonight, I think I'll go to bed early--I've been up long enough.

This afternoon, someone hit the back corner of my car while it was parked on the side of the road. Now, I know that my horoscope for the year only included three "decent" months and no really good ones, but at this point I'm thinking that next year owes me big time. I can't seem to recall any major karmic disaster I've committed recently. I'm trying to enjoy this phenomenal place, ok? I think I'm being a good sport about it all, and I want this blog to be a positive thing--however, the inspiration and beauty can only flow from a muse, my words aren't as wonderful when they stem from woes.

I know I can't just sit here, waiting, waiting, waiting for the adjustment period to pass, for happy things to start settling in, for the delays in quiet fulfillment to subside. Everything that happens TO me won't always seem like an interruption of this blissful love affair I'm trying to have with the Île-de-France (or the Région Parisienne). Maybe the problem is I don't feel bad enough--that I should feel kicked to the curb instead of just irked and annoyed. Is that why I took that acting class? To start acting sad enough that people take pity on me? ew! Kerouac's journey is taking a mad zooming turn for the better in the book I'm working on--I think I'll just keep reading.

You know what. I've kept most of this week's upsets to myself; that is, I haven't told the family. I'm always so afraid of complaining too much that I don't think I share the right worries or confessions with the right people. That's how I'll be proactive--I will open myself a bit more to the people who've opened their house to me. Without acting. Without expectations. Keeping it in doesn't make me stronger around here. I feel good about this decision. Bonnuit.

worstmare

so my nightmare. there was a serial rapist/murderer loose in the babson area. and bodies were buried everywhere, so the grass panels had to be taken up in rows in order to see the skulls sticking up. it wasn't safe to sleep anywhere and it turned into mass chaos, people switching rooms daily to throw the rapist off the scent. i don't know why they didn't close the school. there were numerous deaths every night. this went on for most of the dream. the worst feeling of loss and terror. so it turned out that the girls in sigma kappa were helping to let the killer into dorms in the night. and those brats (no offense, i'm just jealous of this next part) had a ballroom-sized room for fabulous shoes! k. that was the worst part.

so i'm in bryant, and the killer is let in by the sorority girls, and it turns out to be these two guys from my acting class. one of whom played the part of a psychotic homicidal/suicidal maniac in his final scene for class. and because i don't think they were the bad guys, they convince me to run away from the "killer" with them through the maze-like dorm. and i hide in a closet and then they evilly turn on me. and i don't remember but probably i end up killing them because that's always what happens in my bad dreams. i kill people. and the moral of the story is that babson feels traumatized at the end of the dream and will never be the same... even though at one point, i'm pretty sure i was ducking under some lacy throw pillows while a parade was going on outside the white-wood, thin-framed, ceiling-high windows.

normally when i have a bad dream, it's not actually a nightmare. my nightmares (usually when chasing and knives are involved) are actually kinda humorous, or at least not convincing. but the tone of this one was daunting. they can happen at any time and i usually don't know where they come from. they're more curious than worrisome. and my bad dreams usually consist of me killing people and strange, strange oddities. these, i've recently been all too aware of their patterns of occurrence. i think this was the first time, in as long as i've defined nightmares this way, since i had a bad dream and a nightmare in one. i did not like it. i was actually scared. not cool.