Oh, The Delay

So, yeah I guess I haven't posted in a few weeks. Many weeks? Not sure when you end up crossing that line.

After making it through finals week AND packing my (ungodly amounts of) stuff to spend the summer in Northern Virginia, I went to Cincinnati with dear boyfriend to spend a much-needed week turning my brain completely off and only contemplating the really difficult questions (Should we get a red spatula for our kitchen next year? Or a white one? DECISIONS DECISIONS OH MY GAHH) (we picked red) (it's the official accent color of our living room) (I know.)

I've been to Cincinnati roughly a million and one times since Matt and I started dating, so I didn't really do a lot of sightseeing, but I did eat. Oh boy, did I EVER eat. We ate out every. single. night. I forgot what it was like to wake up in the morning and feel empty...not full? Because I was full every day for 10 days. AM PRIVILEGED ALSO FAT. And coming off of a college diet/budget, it was roughly like going to steak filled heaven. Which is probably my personal version of heaven anyway. If there is a heaven. And if there is, STEAK. 

Anyway.

I'll maybe/probably end up outlining the restaurants later on, but right now I just want to talk about my two Cincinnati loves (sorry Matt): Skyline and Graeters. (If you're from Cincinnati, then, well, yeah I know its a little stereotypical and also not exactly haute-cuisine but DAMMIT, tasty and delicious).

Skyline chili is pretty much the greatest thing since, well, food was invented probably. It's chili, and no one really knows whats in it besides chocolate (which probably isn't even a main ingredient but somehow everyone knows about it) and some kind of meat. Perhaps. It's also not the thick, chunky chili that your mom makes (Thank goodness, right?). And they pour it on coneys or noodles or even burritos (which I haven't had) and it's awesome. Almost awesome enough for me to forgive their semi-annoying and outdated jingle (it's skyline time...)

A typical skyline meal goes like this:

1. Enter restaurant. Look around for a place to sit and then end up going to the same table you sit at every time.

2. Be greeted by a waitress who will give you a bowl of oyster crackers (of which you will eat approx. 500 of before you leave) and your drinks.

3. Order. Two coneys without (onions and mustard) and a four-way onion. At least, if your names are Chelsey and Matt.

4. Wait the 10 seconds it takes for them to make this and the waitress to bring it to you.

5. Devour.

6. Pay at the register and buy two york peppermint patties so that your companion doesn't hate you for your breath later.

7. Feel regret and also satisfaction.

Graeters explanation later. Am too hungry to go on.

Remembering April 27, 2011

I’m posting this today because tomorrow is my boyfriend’s birthday and I will be damned if I spend the second year in a row unable to celebrate out of sadness or fear.

I live in Tuscaloosa, AL. On April 27, 2011 I was a freshman, still living in a dorm on campus, on the fourth floor. My boyfriend was a freshman too, living in a dorm just across the street from mine. We were celebrating his 19^th birthday. We got up, and he opened his presents. We went to class. We came back and had an argument at his place. I don’t even remember what it was about. We were so mad at each other that he dropped me back off at my dorm and then went out to lunch without me. Or was it class? I don’t remember.

I was angry. I stayed in my room, played around on the computer. Got an email from the university around noon that we were expecting severe weather later in the day, that all classes after 12 were cancelled. No big deal, I thought. We had been getting severe weather threats and tornado watches almost once a week for a month before that day. Plus, I had the added bonus of being from Northern Virginia and completely able to write off severe weather. We never have severe weather. Last time there was any kind of tornado anything in the area, I was really little and my mom made me move my crafts to the middle of the living room, instead of being next to the windows. Unprepared didn’t even begin to cover it.

Another email from the university came later in the day. Really severe weather. Be prepared. Big tornados. I was slightly concerned, so I texted a friend on the first floor, letting him know that I was going to just hang out in his room if the sirens went off. This was at about three pm.

I didn’t even have time to finish the text before the sirens erupted. I grabbed my computer and my phone, and hustled downstairs. My roommate stayed in her room, thinking it was nothing. I wasn’t taking my chances.

We were huddled in his roommate’s room, watching the weather channel in horror as it became apparent that we were not getting out of this one scot-free. We watched storm cells hit one city after another, watched the weatherman rattle off names of new towns every five minutes that were about to get pummeled. We learned about the devastation that had taken place earlier in the day. We had no idea. I watched the roommate’s girlfriend dissolve into frantic tears as the weatherman announced the name of her hometown. I watched her start to panic when we realized it was coming at us. I stood in the doorway of the room, watched her frantically rip sheets off his mattress, watched her carry it into the living room. I didn’t know what to do. I was frozen.

I turned and went back into my friends’ room, and stared out the window. The university police were driving around campus with their sirens blaring. I don’t know if I texted Matt. I texted my mom, who wouldn’t realize the severity of the situation until 10:00 that night. I texted my cousin, who lives in Huntsville, works in the same building as the storm chasers, and who was giving me updates and information faster than the TV could. Who was also worried she was about to get hit herself. And when I looked back out the window, I saw that the trees were parallel to the ground. I saw that the sky was green. I turned to my friend, who is a Tuscaloosa native and is very prepared for such situations, and pointed out the window. He simultaneously shut the blinds, pulled me by the back of my shirt away from the window, and shoved me into the hallway.

We huddled, and waited. I was scared. I think I cried a little, but mostly I just shook. We had the mattress. I had my phone. I couldn’t get texts out or in, except at extremely sparse intervals. I didn’t know where Matt was. I didn’t know how long we had until it would hit. I didn’t know anything.

Someone shut the storm doors to the hallway. There were people who stayed in the lobby, surrounded by the glass windows, opting instead to watch for the twister.

Then it happened. The lights flickered and went out. Everyone went silent. We heard a rumbling noise, like people were running back and forth on the hallway above us. But no one was up there. And then we heard the people in the lobby scream. Long earth-shattering screams, like they were staring death in the face. We heard them screaming that it had touched down by an academic building just a minute’s walk from our dorm. We braced ourselves. We waited. And nothing happened.

The lights stayed out. The rumbling faded. We waited for half an hour before anyone was brave enough to just venture into one of the rooms off of the hallway, to see if they could look out the window. I don’t know if we ever got an all-clear. Maybe we just knew because the sirens had stopped. Somehow, I got to my feet and ran outside. I ran to Matt’s dorm. It was fine. He was fine. We were shaken up, but okay. The fight was forgotten. Campus was fine. The worst damage were tree limbs down. We had no idea what had happened to the rest of Tuscaloosa.

We heard rumors that McFarland Blvd had some damage. We got in my SUV and decided to drive down and look. Everyone else had the same idea. It took me 30 minutes to get to the edge of campus, where we were turned back by police officers. “We’re quarantining the area,” they said. “You are interfering with the rescue effort.” We turned back. Finally, pictures started coming in. And we saw the damage. The tornado had touched down barely a mile from campus, just missing us and the hospital. It had hit tons of residential properties. The infrastructure of the city was gone. Impossible to say when power would come back. Impossible to say who was alive and who was gone. No one could tell.

We went back to Matt’s dorm and made a plan. Get food. Get water. Get gas. Then we’ll figure everything else out. I piled 6 other people into my SUV and drove us all to a CiCi’s Pizza in Northport, a town that hadn’t gotten hit. At this point the dining halls had announced that they were out of food. We stuffed ourselves, then went to a gas station and got gas and water. We charged our phones in my car. We resolved to sit and wait together in Matt’s dorm.

Not long after we made this plan, night fell. We gathered around a mega-flashlight, ten of us, maybe more, just sitting together. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we said nothing. What was there to say? No one knew what to do. A friend of ours was worried. His hometown was rumored to have been hit. He was panicking. “We have to go out there,” he said, ready to go move heaven and earth. “We have to find people and we have to help them. They’re trapped out there. We have to. It’s our city.” No one said anything. I turned to him and said that we had to let the rescue workers do their jobs. And what would he do if he saw a dead person? A child? He wasn’t ready to see that. None of us were. He chose to wait with the rest of us.

Suddenly, it started pouring outside. Thundering, lightening. A girl rushed in with her laptop, the only one that still had battery. “Another one!” she screamed. ”There’s another one coming at us!” We lost it. We had beaten the odds through one tornado, no one is lucky enough to beat two in one day. We knew that. People were running around, down to the first floor, calling neighbors that were even lower on a hill slope than we were, and could we stay with them? We paced around, not knowing what to do, not hearing any sirens, and questioning if they would even work after the day’s earlier events. Finally, we called 911. There was nothing else to do. We didn’t want to take away from the rescue effort, but if there was another twister, we didn’t want to add to the amount of people that needed rescuing.  There wasn’t. We were in the clear.

Matt called his aunt, who lives in Prattville, AL., a town that wasn’t hit. He asked if we could drive the hour and a half and come stay the night. We were concerned that if another tornado developed, we wouldn’t hear about it without electricity. She told us no, to wait where we were and come as soon as it was light out the next day. She didn’t want us out on roads that could be blocked in the middle of the night. I lost it. I had been strong and rational through the whole ordeal, but when I realized I also had to get myself through the night, I lost it. I was ready to have an adult come in and make my decisions for me. I was exhausted. I didn’t want to continue to be the only person that could affect whether I lived or died. I was done. 

Matt and I lay on his bed, not saying anything, just waiting to see the sunrise so we could get on the road, and get out of Tuscaloosa. The university had already announced that classes were cancelled on Thursday. We waited, and then we drove to Prattville, a couple of shaken refugees from a nightmarish experience.

Part 2: The Aftermath

If Wednesday was the worst day of my life, Thursday was a close second. It was starting to sink in, what we had been through, how lucky we were. During the experience we were scared, but we were also filled with adrenaline. We made decisions on a minute-to-minute basis, and we thought very little about the implications of everything. Thursday was when we had to start picking up the pieces.

I texted everyone I could think of to make sure they were alright. I called my mother. I emailed my family. I posted on facebook and twitter, to let people know that I had survived. But mostly I just sat on the couch and watched endless amounts of the news, sobbing intermittently and balling tissues in my fists. Matt couldn’t reach one of his friends. I watched him call the Red Cross and the check-in sites the school had set up, with no luck. We later learned that he had just driven home immediately and wasn’t able to contact anyone. I cried for the possibility that he was gone. I cried for the people who were unable to contact loved ones, who really were gone. I listened to Ashley Harrison’s heart-wrenching story, and I cried for her, and her boyfriend, and her family. I cried for how lucky I was that I still had Matt, and I cried imagining what it would be like to lose him. I cried for my city. I cried for Alabama.

The university announced that Thursday that finals were cancelled, that the water was not potable, and that everyone needed to move off of campus, immediately. We made a plan to move out, driving back to campus Friday, spending the night in Prattville, and driving to Cincinnati (where Matt’s from) Saturday. I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t sleep alone that whole next week. I couldn’t go out without feeling guilty, because I could go home to a house that was in one piece and a town that was functioning perfectly, when so many of my fellow students didn’t have that option. How can you go to a party when you know that a city you care about is desperately scrambling for a sense of normalcy in the wake of a disaster? I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand knowing that I couldn’t help.

And now, a year later, we’re still looking for a sense of normalcy. The state came together and helped. We’re cleaning up. We’re rebuilding. Now, instead of lots full of twisted rubble, we have empty lots with yellow permits on stakes in the middle. Permits that mean it’s okay to rebuild. It’s okay to move on. It’s okay to fill up this area with houses and people and joy again. It’s okay. It will be okay.

We are Tuscaloosa, and we survived.


To see more information about Ashley Harrison's scholarship fund, click here.
For more information on donating to disaster relief efforts, click here. 

Idea Time!

So, I almost can never think up a good thing to write about. Sometimes I ask Matt for suggestions, or to at least say something funny so I can use that as a jumping-off point, but then he just says "boobs" and giggles so I'm kind of on my own here. Not that there's anything wrong with boobs. It's just not that kind of blog, Matthew.

And then I was struck with an idea. ZING! I'll write about places I've been and where we stayed and what we did and that way a.) I'll never forget and I can take my future child there someday and say Look baby, this is where Mommy ate a melty ice cream cone in the summer of 2012 and probably my kid will just tell me to screw off, but nicely because I'm going to be that kind of parent so maybe they'll just tell me I'm not interested Mom but probably we should go shopping instead. Or something. And then we would totally go shopping. Oh and b.) so that if anyone else cares, they can go do those things too. Because TripAdvisor is fab and all, but only if you already know what you're doing and just want to see reviews. Also who really has time to search through all 5,000 attractions under the keyword Nashville? Not. Me.

Anyways. Blog = reformatted. Except not really because I'll still post useless spacey things sometimes. Actually, probably a lot because I don't travel that much either. And I'm going to include links, which is really the master part of the plan. One stop online shopping people. It doesn't get better than that. 


Although definitely the chocolate peanut butter brownie cupcakes I just pulled out of the oven are better than that. Yum.

Book-y Goodness

Jenny Lawson's book came out today. If you haven't heard of it, it's called Lets Pretend This Never Happened and it's probably going to be awesome. I mean, come on, this is the same lady who can claim Beyoncé as her own.

I am ridiculously excited but also very peeved, because it was supposed to come today, dammit. And Amazon should not fuck with me when I want to read a book. And I want to read this book. Also, the tracking information says that it was scanned into the Tuscaloosa receiving center, or whatever the hell, at like 8am this morning. Which means that I could have gotten the book today, but didn't, because I guess someone just didn't feel like delivering that particular box today. Or something. 

So probably it will come tomorrow, and if it doesn't I will maybe have a fit. And if it does I'll read it immediately and tell all seven people who have found this blog (hi Mom!) how fabulously hilarious it is. 

Really I am mostly just saying that I would like people other than me to also read this book so that I have someone to talk about it with. Unlike with the Hunger Games, because Matt refused to read it and no one else I know is done with it yet. So I've been having to keep all the post-apocalyptic goodness to myself. But this is not about the Hunger Games, even though I've been playing my own hunger games all day (har de har har, another first world hunger games joke) because DOMINOS IS NOT FILLING, but also is cheap and they take dining dollars. I'm a sucker for a deal.

Paris: Thursday...

Thursday was probably the most easygoing day of all for us. We both woke up pretty late, due to colds we had magically developed overnight, so by the time we got going it was already like noon. Whoopsies. Although, i really didn't feel that guilty because we had pretty much been packing our days full for the whole week. So a few extra hours of rest didn't do us any harm.

We decided that we would dedicate Thursday to Montmartre exclusively. We did this because Montmartre is a huge pain to get to, mostly because it's very far away, and also because there is a TON of walking involved. And not easy walking, we're talking up and down big hills. Montmartre is translated to "Mountain of Martyrs," so that should give you some idea of what we were facing. But we knew this, so we wore comfortable shoes and felt pretty prepared for the challenge.

However.

There are always things in Paris that only Parisians seem to know. Little tricks-of-the-trade, things you should probably know before you attempt anything in Paris. Things that les stupides Americans do not typically know. Unfortunately for us, no one had mentioned anything about the Montmartre metro station. We read gobs and gobs about the mountain itself, where the painters are, where the tourist traps are, who's trying to scam you, etc., but failed to come across this one detail in all our research. Here's the thing: Paris metro stations are essentially laid out like a blind architect just threw darts at a drawing board to determine where the platforms ought to be: which is to say, poorly. So it's not uncommon to be faced with set after set of stairs, some for you to go up and some for you to go down, with escalators sort of sparsely mixed in. Elevators are for the handicapped. So you develop an attitude of "I can do anything" or more realistically "I can climb any set of stairs." This is a dangerous mindset.

Montmartre is a mountain right? And the metro station is underground. So it didn't occur to us that the stairs to get up to the surface would be like…incredibly long. And incredibly steep. And numerous. And in the shape of a spiral. And that when everyone lined up at the elevator and gave us funny looks because we opted for the stairs, we maybe should have followed them. But we didn't, because we have been here for a week, and we can do anything, guys. How dare you doubt us and our stair climbing ability.

I have never been so exhausted in my life. That we made it out of the metro station is a feat in and of itself, forget climbing to Montmartre, the important thing was that we made it onto solid ground.

Montmartre is a really pretty area, but it is also quite touristy, so you get scammers and pickpockets and gypsies, and things of that nature. It's not really a big deal, you just have to pay attention to what's going on around you. But the views of Paris are spectacular, and on a clear day you can practically see out to Charles de Gaulle (or Orly, we weren't sure which, if either at all. We're educated like that). There is a square, Place du Tertre, almost in the middle of Montmartre, surrounded by cafes, where the artists set up their easels and sell their wares. There's a lot of crappy portrait artists, but if you can separate them out from the locals, you can find some really awesome artwork.

I was there specifically hoping to find an artist from who I purchased a small watercolor painting about 8 years ago. I knew her name was Nicole, and that her last name started with an M. That was it. But I wanted to get another piece of her artwork, so I was determined to at least try and find her. After much circling, looking for a similar style of art, we were coming up empty handed, so I convinced Matt to help me ask one of the older looking artists if they knew her. Surprise! They knew who we were talking about, and brought us over to her husband, who was selling her paintings for her. I explained to him who I was and what I was looking for, and he told me that Nicole had broken her shoulder and was unable to sell her art, so he was doing it for her. And he told me her last name was Mathieu, which sounded about right to me. Her art though was completely different. It seemed like she had sold out to the tourists a little and had a lot of eiffel tour and neon color artwork- it didn't seem so original. So we thanked her husband and went on to find something to eat.

And, here is where we have to deal with something we had a problem with the whole trip: cafe etiquette. We just hadn't been in a restaurant when we didn't feel like we were awkwardly accomplishing some horrific cultural faux pas. So Matt refused to go into the little cafe on a side street (places right off the artists' square are notoriously expensive) on the grounds that we had no one to watch enter and what if we did it wrong? Looking back on it we were just being dumb, as I'm sure they would have been perfectly friendly, but it was terrifying at the time. So, hungry and annoyed, we walked into the first restaurant we saw off the square, thinking that they would at least know what to do with us. Big mistake. The menu was ridiculously expensive, there was nothing on it that sounded appealing, and by this point we were  mad at each other and everyone around us.

So we ordered 2 coffee's and a carafe d'eau (a pitcher of tap water) from a very harried and mad looking waiter, who immediately removed all our table coverings with a sweeping motion and stomped off to stand behind the bar, no doubt commiserating about our inexcusable behavior with the bartender. And really? The coffee wasn't even good. So he had nothing to be complaining about, because even I can brew a decent cup of coffee, monsieur. And I learned how to use the coffee machine like, 3 months ago. After sweating and feeling awkward and uncomfortable and knowing everyone was probably ready to kill us, we left exact change on the table and got the heck out of there.

We found our way down a side road to a tiny little boulangerie, which I fell in love with immediately, of course. Although, really, that isn't so impressive because old fashioned lettering and flaky baked goods are basically the key to my heart. So we dined on a hearty meal of deliciousness, involving pain au chocolat (chocolate croissants), macaroons (citrus and chocolate), and a flaky turnover filled with apples (basically like apple pie filling) that I am determined to figure out the name of and just haven't been able to at all. So not healthy, but I would consume any number of calories just to be able to taste those pastries again. And we sat at a wood table facing out onto the street and just people watched, as only the french know how to do.

Once we got tired of that (and believe me, it takes a long time to get tired of that), we headed over to Sacre Coeur, or Sacred Heart. It's basically a huge old church that I'm not even going to pretend to know the history of. These are the things I know about Sacre Coeur: 1.) it's beautiful; 2.) It looks over all of Paris; 3.) It's worth a trip, even if the guards inside are super mean and yell at you if you sit down (but my feet are tiiiiiiired, and I thought anyone could go in the church because seriously? It's a church). So yeah. Big and white and pretty. Lots of pictures of Jesus. Can you tell I've studied churches in depth?

We sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur for a long time, just admiring the view and talking. It was lovely. The sun was out, the steps were warm, and we were together in Paris. What more can you ask for? (Maybe first class seats on the flight home, but that's another story for another day).

Finally, we decided we were ready to brave the metro at rush hour and started down the mountain to get back home. Unfortunately, there was a whole gang of scammers standing at the base of the Montmartre steps, one of whom came after Matt insisting that Matt would have a lot of fun if he would just allow the man to tie something that looked suspiciously like a cable tie around Matt's finger because s'il vous plait, Monsieur, is just like magic! And I guess it is a lot like magic, if you consider magic to be having to pay the guy money to get whatever it is off. But because we are street smart, we brushed right past him while shooting him dirty looks. Par for the course, y'all.

For dinner that night, we decided to try a brasserie called Les Cascades that was basically across the street from our hotel, based on the excellent recommendation from the night clerk at the hotel, who is clearly the night clerk for a reason. Because he knows nothing. We asked him if he could recommend a restaurant, any restaurant at all outside of our neighborhood, and he stuttered over this question for a while before muttering the equivalent of "I do not know." Which: really unhelpful. So we found our way over to Les Cascades and really felt sort of pleased with it. After a week of awkward restaurant encounters, we found our way inside, were seated without incident, and had a friendly waiter to boot. The snails were incredible (oh yeah, and I had snails for almost every appetizer. My body is probably like 60% snail at this point. I'm sure I'll start growing a shell soon), and Matt had a french onion soup that frankly, was to die for, with a giant wedge of cheese and toasted bread slowly incorporating themselves into the soup. The steak frites (steak and fries) were disappointing, the steak was tough- the béarnaise sauce, however, was incredible. You win some, you lose some. Additionally, the crepes with nutella were wonderful, though I felt that the crepes were a little thick. But maybe I'm just a crepe snob. I could live with that title. And the wine…I was not in love with. A Cote de Provence Rosé…eh. I could have done without it.

After we came home, we again watched Money Drop (oh french game shows, let me count the ways I love thee), and then passed out. No snoring on my part this time though- at least, not that I'm aware of…

Click to read about our adventures on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.

Paris: Wednesday...Because Why Not?

We woke up pretty late Wednesday morning; I guess a combination of exhaustion and jet lag finally set in. Matt once again got us some croissants for breakfast...really, is there anything better than a croissant in the morning? It never fails to get us moving (and by us I mean me...because I'm really the only one with issues waking up. I know that's very surprising to all of you) and ready to face the day.

We began the day by heading out to the Latin Quarter, to visit the Pantheon there and get a bite to eat. I got a picture of the hotel we stayed in last time I was in Paris: it was so charming when we went! But the square was much busier than I remembered, and the building next door to it was under some kind of major construction, so there was stuff everywhere blocking it.

Hotel du Pantheon

We also decided to explore the Pantheon. Matt wasn't too keen on the idea but now says it was one of his favorite parts of the trip. It's an amazing building- the sheer size of it takes your breath away. We managed to get yelled at also, because I was leaning too closely to one of the murals on the wall while taking a picture (sorry monsieur, but it's not like I don't know not to touch it or something. Us Americans aren't nearly as stupid as we look), so I was pretty embarrassed about that until we headed down to the Crypt.

The Pantheon

The crypt is my favorite part of the Pantheon. It's pretty creepy, it's absolutely huge, and (at the risk of sounding crass) there's a ton of really famous dead people down there. It's an awesome collection of bodies in a really morbid way. It's also freezing down there. Who knew dead people had to be kept so cold? Or maybe it's because (surprise!) the Pantheon has no heating/ac system. Who knows.

Creepy.

After the Pantheon experience, we decided we were very near starving so we headed over to Crepes a GoGo, a restaurant that I've also been to before. Unfortunately, we betrayed our American roots rather fast by being unable to figure out the etiquette for being seated. Do you just sit anywhere? Does it matter? Is inside different from outside? We still haven't learned the answer to this question: however, luckily, we did learn that as long as you walk in and look sort of uncomfortable and confused, someone will come help you. It's a little embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as I would imagine getting yelled at by a french waiter to be if you mess something up (hint: it's probably traumatizing). We both had savory crepes: Mine was called Le Cheverette and came with goat cheese, cream, and honey. Matt
had something involving cheese and bacon, and both of them came with green salad piled high on top. Don't worry though, I was able to pick through it.

I've also been ordering Orangina with every meal, and it's been costing me between 3 and 5EUR every time, a price I consider to be exorbitant for something that is essentially sprite and orange juice mixed together. But I guess that's just France for you. We also have wine with every dinner, and Matt has a beer of some variety with just about everything he eats (except for the croissants, although I think that may just be because even here, drinking anything other than a mimosa before noon is considered...irregular). Also, the beer and some
glasses of wine are cheaper than the aforementioned Orangina. Unbelievable.

So feeling like we had finished the Latin Quarter (though I'm sure we did nothing even near that), we headed over to the Louvre. Now, I was very excited for this part of the trip...but not because of the art. I mean yeah, the Mona Lisa is awesome and stuff, but holy cow it's a Gigantic Castle. This is pretty much my dream museum. I guess I just once again proved that I'm not old enough to appreciate art...somewhat. I mean, I love art. I go to the torpedo factory all the time at home, and I love little museums and stuff like that. But the Louvre...is huge. And there's a ton of art in it. And you couldn't enjoy it all in one day even if you wanted to. There's just far too much of it, and that's really how I feel. There. I said it. Even though that's practically sacrilegious here in France, I find it difficult to appreciate one certain statue when there are 40 more just like it lining a single hall. So sue me.

Musee du Louvre

Well anyway. We forgot to pick up a map in the entrance hall, when we first arrived, and as a result we couldn't find what I wanted to see, which was the Mona Lisa. So, unbelievably, we had no idea where she was. We were literally running up and down the Grand Gallery trying to find her, and we just...couldn't. We couldn't do it at all. We did manage to locate a couple who was clearly looking for the same thing we were, and were clearly willing to ask people for directions...so we let them do the work and followed them around. And finally we found her in some side room (thanks, Louvre), and I have to say, I was pretty impressed. I mean, I hear a lot of people say that they waited in some huge line for hours and they finally got to see her right before the museum closed and she's so small, and what a disappointment, and oh not worth it but it's da Vinci so we have to...but I actually really liked it (there you go Leonardo, I guess you have my approval). Total understatement, but she's beautiful. And the sfumato background is beautiful. And her smile is just as enigmatic as everyone says. And good gosh does she look like Leonardo when you get up close. So, yeah, completely worth the trip (though I didn't stand in line, so I can't speak to that).

What really made the trip to the Louvre worth it to me though were the preserved apartments of Napoleon Bonaparte himself. That sounds really dumb, but to someone wandering the Louvre just trying to imagine what it was like as a castle, and what it was like to live in, it was like finding a gold mine. His apartments defy description. They were beautiful, ornate, luxurious...perfect. The good news is, I found my preferred decorating style. The bad news is, it's probably going to cost us several million to decorate anything like that. Oh well. I guess you can't have everything... Poor Matt was having to help me wipe the drool off my face the whole way through the exhibit. Oh, it was beautiful.

My dream dining room.

The Louvre was about to close by the time Matt and I got through everything we wanted to see, so we wandered outside and sat by one of the many fountains by the entrance to the Louvre, just sort of taking in everything and enjoying the end of the day. It was quite lovely out, and we managed to find the part of the courtyard where there weren't 500,000 tourists. That view of the Louvre always really brings home for me how big that thing is. It goes off into the distance. It's unreal. I love it.

Too beautiful for words.

We went home for a little afterward to relax, and watch some TV. There's always some kind of variation of a game show on, and we have become addicted to Money Drop and the French version of Family Feud. I won't bore you with the details, but they are fabulous.

We were so exhausted from the day that we ate dinner in our room and then went to bed. It wasn't a majorly notable night or anything. I love being able to by alcohol at the grocery stores here though. They don't even bat an eyelash. It's going to be hard to go back to the
states and wait for 2 more years.

Click to read about our adventures on Monday and Tuesday.

Things That Make Me Angry

I was going to make a point to try and not make this a controversial blog, and I promise that this isn't going to be a regular thing, but this situation really just burned my biscuits.

Today, my boyfriend brought to my attention a letter to the editor that had been published on the Tuscaloosa News website. You can read it here.

I am posting my response on here, because I don't think mine will get published (mine exceeds the <250 word limit), but before I do I want to make a few things clear.

1. As someone who plans on teaching some day, I believe strongly in the right of all children to an education in a safe and hate-free environment, regardless of their race, gender, sexual orientation, or creed. My letter is primarily motivated by this belief.

2. I believe that religion can be a wonderful thing for individual people, and that individual people alone have a right to decide what their beliefs are and at what level they believe in them. I believe that anyone can believe whatever they want to believe, provided it does not endanger the life of anyone else. I also believe that while believing strongly in something can be a great and powerful thing, it is not your job to make me or anyone else believe in the same thing you believe in. 

3. I believe that everyone has a right to their opinion, and while your opinion may not agree with my opinion, I'm willing to listen to yours. I'm also willing to agree to disagree, and share that opinion with you as well.


4. I believe that controversial issues should not ultimately affect the education of children, and that it is your right to teach your children to believe however you would like them to believe. By the same token, I do not believe that it is your right to teach other people's children what you would like them to believe. That right belongs to an objective, impartial body of people, who will make decisions on these matters with the academic education of the child held in highest regard.


5. I would like to point out also that I love the South, have chosen to spend four years of my life in the deep South, and am painfully aware of the stereotype that comes with the Southern United States. It needs to change, and I feel like people like Ms. Hamner are holding us back, not pushing us forward.


Gosh, I've never used the word believe so much in my life. Without further ado, here is my letter to the editor.

Dear Editor: As a resident college student of the University of Alabama, I was appalled to read in your paper that a Tuscaloosa woman was condemning same sex students being allowed to attend the prom together. This is just one more reason why the southern portion of America gets such a bad rap in this country. No wonder so many people think that the south is a close-minded, unaccepting place.  Thank goodness at least the school systems have enough morals and backbone to stand up to organizations that would deny students fundamental rights, like the right to take whoever you would like to prom.

I am coming to you as a well-educated former resident of the Northern Virginia/Washington D.C. area (a place that does not have any such reputation) that does not accept things just because they (are) (in someone’s opinion) “religiously incorrect.” It amazes me that in this 21^st century, people are still debating issues as simple as a prom date. Instead, maybe we should focus on things that are actually affecting the world today; things like war, poverty, and hunger. Parents of students that are not gay did not get a say in this decision because this decision belongs in the hands of a moral institution that can objectively think for itself. In today’s society, sex is rampant in our media, and homosexuality has become widely accepted. Instead of educating the youth of Tuscaloosa about religiously bigoted and ignorant people like Ms. Jennifer Hamner, the school system has decided to offer its students an open-minded view of the world, one much more compatible with, say, real life. I am disappointed and disgusted that one woman (though her views are shared by others, I’m sure) would stoop to attack something as out of her control as who another child is taking to prom. Because yes, Ms. Hamner, the school system would get sued, as refusing two girls or two boys who want to go to prom together admission to the dance is discrimination on the basis of sexuality (which is very illegal), and at least the school system has managed to figure that out.

This decision by the Tuscaloosa County School System gives me more hope than ever that the South is going to be able to overcome its traditionally single-minded roots and promote an environment of No Hate. How wonderful.

*******

Basically, to me, out of all the things that need to be fixed in this world (genocide? Joseph Kony? AIDS? Hunger? Poverty? Global warming? How about literacy rates in Alabama?) this is not one that deserves attention. Period.