A Tribute: Is Paris Burning?

In light of what happened last Friday evening, I will dedicate my final passion blog post of this semester to Paris.

Considering this is the third time, you all are probably tired of reading about my trips to Paris, but I really can not help but reminisce and work out some thoughts about my favorite city.

So, I visited Paris for a few days last February, right after the January attacks on the satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo.

I was invited by a friend of mine, an exchange student from Antibes who went to my high school, and we stayed for a few days in a small hotel just around the corner from where the Charlie Hebdo attacks happened.
 
"Don't distress. Don't panic. This is what terrorism wants," said my mother when I asked her if she was nervous about letting me go.

Our hotel room was about the size of a postage stamp, and only had one outlet in a far corner. Thus, my friend needed a specific phone charging stature.

This shrine, right outside of our hotel, was one of many around the city built as both a heartfelt memoir and a declaration of strength.

Although more than a few weeks had passed since the violent incident, it was evident that people were still heartbroken because there was always at least one person standing in front of or touching the shrine.

People were sad, but by no means subdued, as could be seen by the murals like this covering walls and buildings everywhere.

These anonymous assertions of strength and outrage seemed louder than any violent revenge because they indicated that, although France was in a time of crisis, the French were still united and refused to be frightened.

I was especially glad to come across stuff on the internet that showed off French strength and anger at the violence.

For example, this song was written and posted the same day as the shootings. If you have the time, watch it, because it's powerful and it’s catchy.

I thought this was extremely inspirational, and I hope that this sentiment is still being fostered after the terrible massacre last weekend.

It seems, however, that the world is using this mass murder as a means by which to talk about other issues at hand because, lately, I’ve been reading more articles criticizing French foreign policy and world wide ignorance about the bombing in Lebanon than about standing strong against terrorism.

Why are people complaining about temporary Facebook profile pictures?

Why are we blaming gun laws in France?

But, hey, at least we stopped talking about Starbucks cups.

I recognize that this is a depressing note to end the semester on, but  I would love to hear anyone's thoughts about the issues surrounding Syria, ISIS, and Governor Wolf's recent decision to offer Pennsylvanian solace to refugees.

 

My thoughts and love go to the people in the world who will not be having a happy holiday season, and I am truly grateful to go home to a whole and happy family this weekend.

#prayforparis

 

Cartagena, Colombia: Statues deserve more respect than this

Have you ever taken a vacation that turned you into an Ivy Leaguer?

For the summer of 2014, I went to Colombia with my parents. This was a nice way to start off my senior year in high school because, every time I’d tell people I visited Colombia, they’d be very impressed and say “I didn’t know you applied to Columbia!”

Anyway, we stayed in a coastal town called Cartagena de Indias and, although it was supposed to be a beach town, the beaches weren’t exactly how you’d expect them to be.
 

Behold a regular swimmer and sun bather.

 

Considering how dangerous wild hogs are, we kept our distance and went to see the colonial ruins and Bolero statues that decorated the city.
 

Here we are in front of a fortress overlooking the ocean, designed to defend and alert the city of any incoming ships.

 

I am in a shoe.

 

 

No words.
 

 

After about 5 days, we ventured on a rickety boat to stay on a very tiny mangrove island called Baru. If you know anything about mangroves, you know that tiny hotels do not grow naturally within them.

Our hotel was essentially a series of cabins scattered and built into the roots of these tough plants, with bridges walking between the structures and a dug out, artificial beach.

The first day was novel, having the island to ourselves. The second day, we took a boat out and went snorkeling in the incredibly colored water.

 

 

The third day, we got bored. Curious as to why the hotel staff wouldn’t let us out onto the street through the back door, we insisted on taking a walk and exploring the island.
 

Eventually, we walked for 45 minutes in the blazing rainforest heat.
 

With hindsight, I realize how reckless this was. Any number of unspeakable things could have happened to us on that walk, or when we arrived to the town only to discover its immense poverty.

But the questionable decisions don’t stop there.

I didn’t mention that there were scads of boys no older than 13, presumably working for a local entrepreneur, zipping around on rusty motorbikes and offering us rides. Tired of walking, but unable to stay in town because it seemed a little dangerous, we took a ride offered by one of these kids.

Naturally, this was terribly frightening.

So, I’m seated behind the boy driving the dirt bike, and my mother is, in turn, behind me. As he starts up the bike, I timidly hold onto his shoulders because, naturally, he’ll drive slowly with three people on an old piece of machinery.

I realized immediately that he’s probably been driving this bumpy, dusty dirt road since he could operate this ancient motorbike, and had full intentions to get us back at the speed of light.

So, I held onto his waist for dear life, and tried not to look at the barbed wire guardrails coming dangerously close to my leg.

And Colombian fish is tasty and photogenic.

 

Part IV: France and the usual antics

Remember my roommate, Amelia, and our spontaneous weekend adventures? Well, we went to Paris for 4 days during July and we had insane fun.

We stayed in this tiny hostel in the 6th arrondissement, which was walking distance from Notre Dame, Les Jardins de Luxembourg, and La Sorbonne, so I made her walk until she gave me the silent treatment.

She forgave me only after a few (bags of) authentic chocolate rochers.

 

Anyway, our hostel was old, with thick wooden doors and old fashioned keys that stuck easily. On our last night, we returned at an absurdly late hour of the night only to find that we couldn’t turn the key. In my greatest feat of strength ever, I actually managed to break it in half.

 

Amelia thought it was hilarious that I had to dig the other part of the key out of the lock and snapchatted the entire thing.

Anyway, when I visited again in August, I was with my mother, who knows about my predisposition for breaking things.

 

We actually stayed in the same area to visit her old college stomping grounds at La Sorbonne.

We walked, we ate heartily, and we got caught in the rain outside Notre Dame.

She actually insisted I bring that poncho to college with me, it's hanging on my door as I write this.

We also visited that bridge that everyone loves to share things on Facebook about. You know, where couples go and write their names on a lock and throw the key into the river and live happily ever after, yada, yada...

Just a single lady in a world made for two.
 

Things got really interesting, though, when we visited a friend of my mother’s in Amboise, about a 4 hour train ride from Paris.

When she told me he lived in a 16th century castle, I had a lot of things in mind. None of them involved a 16th century castle that had not been renovated since the 16th century.

This “castle” was a crumbling building built into the side of a cliff, overlooking the rest of town.

Oh yeah, The cliff? Not a cliff. The house was actually built into caves that dated as far back to prehistoric times.

Apparently Leonardo Da Vinci lived and grew old in this house, but this was honestly the creepiest place ever, chalked full of dusty medieval relics.

Note how the ceiling bows down, as if it's about to fall...

 

The basement, which was too dark to take quality photos, had these statues built into the walls carrying out orgies and murder scenes, there were spiders everywhere, and the plumbing was haphazard to say the least.

In order to flush the toilet, we had to pull these ropes that attached to the toilet basin...which was hanging on the wall overhead. I’m not sure which was more likely to tumble down, the toilet or the house.

I also swore to my mother that I would remain awake all night before touching the nasty, crumbling wall that was so full of bugs and so near my face.

She set out to catch me at a moment of weakness, in the throes of sleep, a bit too close for comfort.

Part III: Italy Brings the Heat

Where were we? Ah yes, my mother and I were leaving Switzerland and its controversial blog content behind. Where to next? Florence and Rome.

Since I had never been to Italy, I was excited when my mother told me she had to read at a Literature Conference in Florence. Overall, this city was beautiful, cultural, and...hot.

In fact, when we arrived, we decided to walk from the train station to our hostel and stopped in just about every open shop along the way for the sweet feel of air conditioning.

During our short stay there, we had to wake up around 8:00 in the morning to visit museums and walk around because the sun and the heat were absolutely intolerable from 11:00 in the morning to 3:00 in the afternoon.

We did, however, visit as many museums as we possibly could in the two days we had.

As you can see, I am extremely mature when it comes to fine art, and wouldn’t dare take a photo with a man’s bum if presented the chance.

 

Lets blame my stupidity on the heat, shall we?

 

Anyway, Florence was everything I expected and more. My one regret, however, is that I did not see the tall, stone cold, goat-eyed, demigod I’ve been reading about since my second grade art history unit.

Michelangelo’s David.

It was really irresponsible too, because we actually visited the Florence Academy of Fine Arts, but we were really drained from walking so much and decided to go eat margherita pizza.

The pizza was unbelievable, though, so I’ll regard this little fop as another reason to return to Florence.

On our third day, we took a very, very long day trip to Tuscany. After four towns and a wine and pasta tasting for lunch, it was a sweaty and delectable experience.

By the end of that infernal day, though, I was ready to sit in the dark for the rest of my life.

We also visited Pisa, at which point I took this intelligent picture of my mother.

 

Yes, she’s trying to hold up the leaning tower from the wrong side.  

The day after this adventure, we took a train to Rome which was, at first, an intimidating city. We warmed right up to it, so to speak, because it was hotter than Florence.

This didn’t stop us from waiting in line for three hours under the blazing sun to get into Saint Peter’s Basilica.

I think this was about an hour and a half in, so don’t judge me for looking kind of weird. That was the last of our water.

 

 

We eventually made it, though, and walked the 400 steps up the dome. We earned our celebratory selfie.

 

To wrap things up, we visited the Sistine Chapel the next day, which turned out to be surprisingly small. The pictures on the internet and in textbooks make it seem so huge, but it’s really a tiny room with a tall ceiling.

 

It is also forbidden to take pictures inside the chapel itself, but my mother fancies herself a rebel.

 

 

David attributed to:

http://images.dailytech.com/nimage/David_Head_Staring_at_Rome_Wide.jpg

Part II: Switzerland and Advised Viewer Discretion

When you think of the high school reunions that you’ll attend in the future, what comes to mind? Maybe old friendships, mediocre food, and some stuffy old people?

Well, "stuffy" is about as far from the truth as it gets in Switzerland.

As I mentioned in my last post, I spent last June in Lugano, Switzerland, taking a course in microeconomics.
 

Overall, these four weeks were really different from what I was used to, primarily because this was the longest I’d traveled abroad without my family. Also, the Switalians (Swiss Italians) are like New Yorkers on crack. Or a drug that makes you really brusque and cranky.
 

Needless to say, some friends and I got into trouble when we got lost and ended up hiking for 6 hours. When we finally googled our location, it turned out we were minutes from the Milan/Swiss border, which was about a 45 minute drive from our university. I’m not really sure how that happened because it was supposed to be a straight shot down from the top.

 

But, on the way back down, we got lost in the woods, found these creepy castle things, and were confronted by some very angry Italians and their dumb private property laws. Overall, it was a very strange day.
 

Regardless of the people, this place was gorgeous. This was the view from my dorm room window.

 

Lake Lugano #nofilter
 

At the end of the course, I flew to Geneva to meet my mother. Together, we went to a place in the Swiss Alps called Villars-Sur-Ollon for her high school reunion and, let me tell you, the Swiss really know how to party.
 

Can you spot the Go-Go girls?
 

After a weekend of Swiss bread and charcuterie, cheese and chocolate fondue, macaroons and gelato, we contentedly rolled ourselves back down to the mainland to stay with one of my mother’s old friend on Estavayer le Lac, a little beach town on the shore of a huge lake.
 
Bernard, her friend, is a cheese eating and sarcastic Swiss man and a professional photographer. When I asked what exactly he photographed, he casually listed some exotic places he enjoys hang-gliding and...well, women.
 
As he mentioned this, we walked in the front door of his house only to be greeted by the floor-to-ceiling photo of an extremely naked woman.
 
Look away, you might suggest?
 
Like any proud artist, Bernard's home was decorated with scads of his photography. The kitchen, the bathroom, the guest room, the deck. Everywhere, scattered amongst normal family photos, were exhibitions of the various stages of  female youth, pregnancy, and old age.
 
While I could see how his art was an appreciation and celebration of their lady shapes, I just couldn't look at the naked woman on the fridge without giggling or averting my eyes. Maybe I'm just shy. Or immature. Or both.

Regardless of the edgy atmosphere, we had an amazing time water skiing. My mother actually forgot to mention that she is a master water skier, so my whole life has basically been a lie.

 

I’m pretty sure I’m making that face because I knew I was about to make a total fool of myself.
 

I did, but Mother Dearest couldn’t photograph any of it because her thumb kept getting in the way.

 

All in all, I think I left Switzerland ten pounds heavier and planning my early retirement.

 

And Mother made a new friend.

Part I: Marrakech and the Sahara

Have you ever ridden a horse and felt sorry for it? Like, Aw, the poor animal has to walk around with a fat human on its back.

Well, I am no longer one of those people. Ever since my weekend in Morocco, all of my sympathy goes towards the riders of these beasts of burden.
 

This being said, I should clarify that I’m talking about camels and how uncomfortable they can be.
 

Context? Ah yes, well, over this past summer, I spent two months in Europe. This post, cleverly entitled “Part I,” is, indeed, the first of a few stories from my summer of 2015.  
 

During the first month, I stayed in Switzerland to take a course in microeconomics. Fortunately, I was sharing a dorm with the coolest girl ever (Shout out to Amelia) and we had some time on our hands over the weekends.
 

So we flew to Morocco for three days.
 

Now, our trip there was a little rough. Unable to catch a bus from our university early enough for our flight, we had to spend the night in the Milan airport, which is a really sketchy place from about 10:00pm to 5:00am.
 

We did, however, arrive safely in Marrakech with only moderate back pain from sleeping on benches, and found our hostel in the Medina after a few hours of wandering.
 

 

Our room, essentially a closet with 3 sets of bunk beds in it, kind of forced us to make friends with the four other people sleeping there and we all went out to this huge food festival.

The festival was basically the entire city coming together in one plaza to sell every sort of Moroccan food imaginable. Everywhere we went it smelled like these stands of awesome and multicolored spices.

 

The second night is when things got really interesting.

Through our hostel, we signed up for this camping trip in the desert, wherein we would drive out to the Sahara, ride camels for 2 hours, and then stay in tents in the middle of... well, nowhere.
 

On the way up, we stopped at all of these places that I regret not photographing. We saw the village where scenes from Gladiator were filmed (Russell Crowe has been my old-man crush for a while) and all of these tiny oases that people lived in. They were like mini towns, but cuter and green.
 

Anyway, it comes time to mount our camels, and as they come near us with a group of them, I make a joke to Amelia about what seems to be a particularly stubborn one. He was making a curious camel noise, stomping the ground, and just being pissy.
 

I think I said something like "I wonder which lucky person gets to ride that one.” 

You guessed it, the joke was on me.
 

Long story short, the camel's name was Barok. As in Baroque, the classic cultural period, or “Damn, that camel look broke.” 
 

Being the graceful steed that he was, he basically set out to annoy every other camel in our group by getting fresh with them.
 

 

He was also incredibly unpredictable, so I was shy at first. Camels spit, by the way, so keep that in mind next time they bring one on campus for homecoming.

But, as usual, I reconciled with a hostile entity via selfie.
 

And, despite our lack of access to running water, we maintained impeccable dental hygiene the morning after.