Snaps

Since being here I've gotten really into using my film camera. One day in sophomore year of high school, I found my mom's old, beaten up film camera in our coat closet. The flash is broken, it's missing a lens cap, and none of the functions on it (except for the focus) work. I have this super nice DSLR that my aunt and grandma gave me for my quinceñera but I still love my mom's camera. Here are some of my favorite pics that I've taken thus far:

Berlin Wall 

Grabbing some currywurst and beer pre-Holocaust Memorial

Sunset at the Holocaust Memorial

Sacré Cœur

Grabbing the tram in Prague

Post night-train delirium in Berlin

Buildings in Vienna

Contraflow

Hey to anyone reading this. Sorry I haven't updated this in a while...I suck, I know.

Haven't really felt the urge to write lately and it feels...weird. I don't know. I've been in kind of a funk lately. Paris is great and I have a big backpacking trip ahead of me in just under a month. Plus my parents and sister are coming to visit me in two short weeks! But still, I feel this overwhelming sense of just "blah". 

Update aside, I've been thinking a lot about the word "contraflow". I was walking one day with my friends Emma and Alex after having booked our hostels for our last backpacking trip (Prague, Vienna, Berlin) and after having gotten lost en route to the metro, Emma suggested we walk contraflow to the traffic of the street we were on. Alex and I immediately were blurted, "wait what the fuck?" because we were almost positive that contraflow wasn't a word. It sounds like the name of some weird chill-wave band that Pitchfork is on the cusp of discovering in a long, pretentious review of their latest EP. Even though I kinda wish contraflow wasn't a word, Google proved me wrong. Emma, you win this one because contraflow is actually a real thing/concept/word.

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Contra

Flow

Contraflow.

So many things are all happening at once and I have a lot to look forward to. A few concerts coming up in Paris, trips across Europe, plans to see more of what Paris has to offer before I leave in a month and a half. And at the same time in my other life back home, I'm dealing with housing for next year, course registration for next semester, internship applications. 

In the moment, I feel like all these things are just happening "at me" though, almost as if I'm not really present as they're unwinding. I have a million thoughts racing at once: Who am I gonna live with when all my oldest or closest friends from college are going abroad by the time I return? Who are my friends at this point in time, anyway? What classes do I even want to take? What will interest me? Inspire me? Gabby, what the fuck do you even want to do with your life anyway?

I'm trying to knock things off my "to do" list without even really being sure of where I stand at the point in which I'm trying to do them. Everything feels kind of disjointed...disconnected. I find myself dozing off in classes, wanting to be alone when I'm surrounded by people's company that I genuinely enjoy and then yearning for interaction once I finally am in solitude. Everything is just...contraflow.

It's exhausting.

Now, I'm no stranger to depression. It was at its peak in high school and resurged in small bouts in college. I became detached at parties, uninterested in movies and books and TV and conversations and boys. I ate too little, sometimes too much. Slept 19 hours in a day just because I could or didn't really feel the need to stay awake. 

The difference between now and then, however, is that I used to think I was beyond repair. I was frustrated with myself. Thought I was a fuck up. A loser with no ambitions or purpose. I refused to attack my problems-head on because I felt as though I'd already lost control. My head was filled with so much noise but at the same time with a nauseating sense of silence. 

Five years, a high school diploma and nine countries visited later, I now know something that I wish I had back then. 

Dealing with depression or just general malaise is a lot like driving on the highway during rush hour. You're stuck in traffic and ready to just about pull all your hair out. You bang on your dashboard, maybe scream a little, sigh, try to switch lanes every once in a while even though every other driver is just as shit out of luck as you are. You see that the other side of the highway contraflow to you is finally starting to pick up speed and you suddenly regret having even decided to attempt to drive at 5pm. Eventually though, after just sitting still for a bit, the traffic subsides and suddenly you're on your way again. Patience.

I now know that yes, I am smart. I am ambitious and witty and interesting and pretty and strong. I am capable. But I'm also sometimes insecure and moody and emotional and sometimes I talk too much or not enough. And you know what? I'm starting to think that just fine.

On le metro

Today marks my five-week anniversary of living in Paris. Oh, how time has flown. In these short fives weeks, I have made new friends, discovered great boutiques and bars, and also managed to get my wallet stolen on the metro! Woohoo! While the last item on my list of accomplishments isn't really a warm fuzzy memory that I'd like to keep forever, I will add that it seriously forced me to grow the fuck up. Let me paint you a picture of how it all went down:

I woke up on a beautiful sunny day vers 11h and wore a super cute dress that I bought at this clothing store called BA&SH and then left my apartment to meet a friend at this super cool falafel place I'd heard about called L'As du Falafel in the Marais. The food was great, the servers were (surprisingly) friendly, and we had just enough time to make it all the way down to the Jardin Luxembourg to meet our class for an excursion to the Pantheon. Things seemed like they were going perfectly well.

Then I arrived at the Pantheon to meet my I-once-studied-philosophy-and-am-French-therefore-I-am-better-than-you professor. He insisted that we show our Reid Hall student ID cards to get into the Pantheon for free EVEN THOUGH I had my Sorbonne ID in my pocket and can still use it to get in for free. I helped up the line at the ticketbooth while trying to find my wallet to get this damned Reid Hall ID and no luck. Eventually the ticketbooth guy was just fed up enough and let me in for free anyways. 

I'm a Leo, therefore inherently stubborn and I was determined to find my wallet anyway after searching in the deepest pits of my purse and still no luck. I turned to my friend who I ate lunch with and said, "This must be a fucking joke". My teacher scolded me for talking during his lecture but also for cursing. I was fed up as hell and was just like "Look, I lost my wallet and I need to leave." He seemed kinda confused but let me leave anyway (even though his permission wouldn't have stopped me from doing so) and I retraced my steps back to the Falafel place. No luck there. It was at this point that I realized some scumbag pick-pocketer stole my wallet on the metro. 

If you don't know me that well, let me just tell you that I rarely cry. In fact, I think I only cry when I'm seriously pissed off beyond belief. And I was THIS close to crying on the metro. 

But alas, big girls don't cry and me crying wouldn't help solve anything. So even amidst all this craziness, I was forced to take control of the situation. I went to a metro window to file a report of theft with the metro police. I cancelled all my credits cards and then after much frustration, finally got them to ship new fucking pieces of plastic to France, which they made a near impossible task. I even went to the fucking FRENCH POLICE to file a report of theft.

After all the headache, I can say that it definitely forced me to really act not only like an adult, but a French adult. Dealing with the police in French was definitely a hard task. I didn't understand everything at first but I eventually was able to communicate what needed to be said. I got over my stupid fear of being ridiculed for having an accent whilst speaking French. And you know what? I'm glad I did. Not only am I more comfortable asking for directions or for menu recommendations in French thanks to this experience, I also realized that these steps were all very necessary!

I'm happy to share that I got a call from the police this morning saying that they found my credit cards on some guy and need to go to the station to pick up my wallet. THANK.THE.FUCKING.LORD.

I'd like to thank the French police for lookin out for ya girl and Alex for lending me 20 euros. 

And most importantly, thank you Bordeaux for your wine and Jack Daniels for your whiskey. Without you, I probably would have had the shitiest weekend ever. You the real MVPs.

With love from Paris,

Gabby

On falling in love in Paris

Before I flew across the Atlantic Ocean, my abuelita asked me to promise her one thing: Don't fall in love with a French guy. Sorry Ceci, but it happened. I fell in love. With a French guy. 

Here's how it happened: We met at the cutest little coffee shop by the Sorbonne and I ordered un expres which tastes like the devil's asshole  and then he asked for my number, and well, the rest is history.

No, I'm totally kidding-- instead of asking for my number he asked if I wanted to pay in cash or credit card and then looked creeped out as I stared in awe of his attractiveness. This, unfortunately, is a true story, but I'm not too ashamed because the next day, I fell in love again and this time it was real. (Again, totally kidding. In fact, don't ever take what I say seriously because chances are I'm being sarcastic.) 

Basically, I "fall in love" like every time I don't have dinner with my host parents and have a male waiter under the age of 40. I'm pretty sure I even fell in love that time I saw my plate of foie gras being brought out to me at Bouillon Racine, and this time I mean I fell in love with the dish, not the waiter. 

Now, don't get me wrong. Yes, I did go to an all-girls' school for ten years, but I was not nearly this boy obsessed when I first started at Wes. I've started to seriously become worried for myself because I can't keep falling in love with waiters. I began asking myself: Am I going crazy? Maybe. Are people here just that much more attractive than in the States? Unclear. 

In the back of my head, however, I heard a little voice. Her name is Kate Gibbel. "Froggles", she said. And I was like "Wutthefuck Kgibz?" And she was like "Yeah, Gabarias. Froggles." 

"Froggles" are short for "Frisbee Goggles" AKA the sad realization that all the guys at our annual Frisbee Tournament are just inherently nerdy and unattractive, therefore standards must be lowered and one must wear these aforementioned goggles. 

Similar concept applies here, in France, except "Froggles" mean "French Goggles". You could honestly be kinda fugz but the fact that you're French makes you that much hotter or suave or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. The longer I'm here though, the more I realize that French guys aren't that different from Americans. It's really just the damn accent. And lack of boat shoes/critter shorts. AND, if hypothetically a French guy asked me out, we would literally have nothing to talk about on our date because the state of my French fluency is in shambles. 

So, Ceci, even though you're probably not reading this, don't worry. I probably won't stay behind in Paris because of some French dude who drives a vespa. In the mean time, catch me eating my feelings and eating dinner alone in my room: 

Fact: I also fell in love with the guy who sold me this baguette.

On resting bitch face and my first full week

I knew this would happen. You probably knew this would happen. But alas, I have failed to update my blog regularly. I can't say I didn't warn you, but after several messages from friends and family members alike, I have decided to lock myself dans ma chambre to write this post. I mean, you do have to understand that the minutes it takes me to write these damn things are valuable minutes that I am missing out on walking and exploring and drinking. Alors, quelques impressions:

The French are my kinda people for the following reasons:

1. They are fashionable af. 

2. POLITICS POLITICS POLITICS!

3. RBF (Commonly known as resting bitch face).

French fashion is amazing, and I just happen to live two blocks off of one of the chicest streets in all of Paris known as Saint-Germain des Près. It is home to the cafes that Hemingway wrote in, Ladurée, Cartier, etc. etc. Every morning in my metro ride to school I am so inspired by what people are wearing, be it the cocoon coats that every femme in Paris seems to be sporting these days, or the Gregory-Peck type specs that so many men wear here. I haven't done much shopping yet, but I am making the trek to the 18th to shop at the APC store (and also check out a knitting store that a friend's host family recommended to me bc ya gurl is in desperate need of yarn). Fashion is effortless here, but not sloppy. As it should be.

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"The French go bon-kehrs for politiques" - my host dad, Jean-Claude (He has the cutest habit of trying to slip in "common English expression" to seem widdit and hip when speaking to me). 

The French rarely talk about themselves in conversation, which is why so many people think that the French are guarded and unfriendly. Maybe to an American perspective this might seem to be, but just try to talk about politics with them and they will welcome you with arms wide open. I love the way the French approach politics as well. People get into heated discussion all the time, but never offended. Political debates in French are all about progressing in a conversation and learning from one another, not being petty and attacking one another. (AMERICAN FRIENDS, LEARN FROM THIS). They aren't afraid to be opinionated, and they care about global issues, not just national issues. Even though my host family and I don't always have dinner together, we to watch the news together almost every night pour être courrant.

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Finalement, le resting bitch face. RBF is about as plentiful as baguettes and red wine at dinner, so much so that the French even have their own expression for RBF, known as faire la guele. I was once probably like you are now, asking what stick the French had up their asses because they always looked so pissed and never smiled, especially when on the metro. And then it hit me. They, too, have resting bitch face. I am no stranger to this terrible affliction. Many a times has someone asked me if "I was mad" or "having a bad day" because my face (not my personality?) just exuded bitchiness. But c'est pas ma faute! RBF is real, and I am just a mere victim. Not gonna lie, the fact that I pretty much only wear black, navy, and olive doesn't really help combat the assumption that I am in fact a sour bitch, but like the French, I apologize for nothing.

Is she a bitch? No, she's French. 

On arriving and Charlie Hebdo

My first day in Paris was overwhelming to say the least. I could be selfish and complain about the three hour flight delay, the crying baby that I wanted to murder on my flight, or the serious jetlag I faced during my first 24 hours of being abroad. To be honest, the most overwhelming thing of being here though is feeling the tension and anxiety in Paris. If you have been living under a rock, let me break it down for you: 12 writers of Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical newspaper, were brutally murdered on Wednesday morning by two Islamist gunmen due to a cartoon they published depicting the prophet Muhammad. Since then, there have been two hostage situations, one of which included the two gunmen. At around 5pm local time, the police offers found the gunmen and killed them. The past 48 hours have been intense and it's been hard to get the most up-to-date coverage of it all when you have (if you're lucky) 30 minutes of wifi a day.

I've been told that these events are to the French what the terrorist attacks of 9/11 were to Americans. Luckily, what I can say about all of this is that the French are very unified on this issue. The solidarity is palpable; you can't walk more than two blocks without seeing graffiti reading "Je Suis Charlie" and French businesses all have the slogan written on chalkboards or pieces of paper on their store fronts. There have been several peaceful demonstrations against these attacks and there are more planned for this weekend. As a foreigner in Paris, I'm not sure how to react to everything; the line between being respectful of a culture that isn't my own while being vocal is very fine. I will never quite understand the magnitude of what these attacks mean because I am not French. I didn't grow up seeing these cartoons and I still don't even understand what Franco-Islamic relations are like. While it might be easy for me to be dubious of the comparison of Charlie Hebdo to 9/11, bottom line is that I just won't understand the magnitude of these events. All I can do at this point is be respectful of the feelings of many French people and remain observant.

On a separate note, I'm moving leaving my hostel in the 14th arrondissement tomorrow morning for my host family's apartment in the super swanky 6th arrondissement right off the Seine. Im super stoked because I got the family I requested and I am only about a ten minute walk from Paris 4 (Paris-Sorbonne) where I will be studying Art History. I'll try to update you all tomorrow and make sure to attach a picture of the view from my window (which is sure to make you all super pissed that you're stuck on the east coast in a snow storm lol sorrynotsorry).

~o0o first post~

Welcome to La Vie en Prose. Yes, it's corny as hell. Do I care? Only in a mildly self-conscious way; like not in a big enough way that I would forego naming my blog such, but in the kinda way where I might look back at this in like three months and hate myself for it. So here's the deal: I like to write but have convinced myself for the past few years that my writing should be kept clandestine in nondescript but ~super artsy~ black moleskine notebooks. This. Ends. Now.

The new year means new beginnings and my new beginnings include the following: a new city, new language, new university and new friends(?) So while this introductory look into my study abroad blog couldn't get anymore cliché and before I go vom at my own sad attempts to be witty, let me welcome you to my very own web address in which I will avoid doing my french homework by documenting my wanderings and new surroundings in France, as well as present some prose writings that I hope to work on while abroad. Read on, comment if the spirit moves you, and peep my instagram. (I will obnoxiously geotag everything and take way too many pictures of food like the bougie bitch I am, and no, I'm not sorry bout it because #YOLO is still v. relevant in 2015.) I once had a short stint with tumblr when I was like fourteen and had side bangs, which by the way is too damn old for side bangs, but hopefully this study abrog will prosper and someone other than my mom will read this. In the mean time, enjoy this picture of my sister wearing a burberry bucket hat and me in some really cool matrix-esque sunglasses from 2001 below:

Note: I am six years old here and clutching onto a can of diet coke while giving some SERIOUS bitch face. 
Not much has changed. 

P.S. - my link is lavienproses.blogspot.com because some asshole from Portugal took lavieenprose.blogspot.com in 2006 and hasn't updated since. Blogspot is majorly lame and wouldn't let me add hyphens or periods, hence the slightly modified web address.