Djembe Juice

7 Jun

My cousin, Adele, has a djembe drum.

Source

Apparently that’s all she wanted for Christmas. So now she takes weekly lessons.On Saturday, she had her first ever performance in the next town over. As a supportive family member, I traipsed over to the town with the rest of my family.

The djembe is a fun instrument to listen to. It’s even better when random people start dancing. The show was held in a former church, with old solid stone walls. On one side of the church was a boy in a bright blue shirt jamming out, complete with random howls. On the other side was an older man in an orange wife-beater. He was really feeling the music. His tan and veiny arms were waving in the air and, at one point, he was jumping.

Another fun thing about watching Adele’s show was seeing yet another gorgeous Frenchman. This one had short buzzed blonde hair, blue eyes, and huge dimples. He was also tall and ripped. When it was his turn to have a solo, he rocked out but he was adorably shy beforehand. He waited to get the feel for the music and then let it go. So amazing. And, because this name seems destined to follow me forever, his name was Charles.

Sunday was a pretty calm day. My aunt, uncle, baby cousin Amelie, and I went for a drive around the French countryside. It’s incredible. It’s probably extremely American of me but I can’t help marveling at how old houses are. I mean, the last house I lived in was considered “old” because it was built in the 1980′s. There are houses here that were built in the 1580′s. Imagine living in a house that old. It’d be fantastic.

Mummy! Mummy!

6 Jun

A few days ago, I went and sat outside the Louvre kind of like a creeper because I could get in for free if I brought my Polish passport and I’m a poor college student so of course I’m not going to pay money to get in. On the 4th, I decided to go all out and bring my passport with me so I could go check out the Mona Lisa, again. Spoiler: it’s small.

I took the train in because I’m cool like that and because standing outside in the hot sun waiting to get in is not my friend. Thus, the only pyramid I saw today was this one.

The Da Vinci Code had something important here. I don't remember what it was but it doesn't exist in real life.

Once I got inside, I wanted to go see the Mona Lisa first so then I could wander around aimlessly, much like I do around Paris. But I somehow managed to get lost. Instead of ending up in the Italian art section, I managed to get into the Egyptian art area? I’m not really sure how I did that but it was ok because I like mummies. I used to be terrified of them because when I was five, I watched Reading Rainbow and there was an episode about mummies and after that I dreamt that this huge mummified owl came and swept my daddy away into a nest in our backyard and it was very emotionally scarring. Luckily, the fifteen years in between dream and reality have managed to make my fear of mummies mostly disappear.

Not sure whose mummy thing this is but it's AWESOME

The inside

I am now fairly sure that when I die, I want to be mummified and put into a coffin as fantastic as those. Also, a pyramid would be swell. kthnx.

Then, after I went through the Egyptian art, I decided to go upstairs instead of traipsing back through to get to the Mona Lisa. So again, instead of Italian art, I managed to get in to the French stuff. Most of the people they painted were pretty ugly. And from what I know, they tried to make them look better than they did in real life for portraits so I’m not sure whether they had completely different standards for beauty or if the artists just really got stuck painting ugly people and this was the prettified version.

I was finally headed to the Italian section when a Louvre tour guide grabbed hold of me. He began by speaking French and once he realized I didn’t know any, he told me that if I lived in France, I’d be “his”. And that I had a “smart face”. I’m not completely sure what he meant by that but we were in the Roman room and he started shouting stuff at me about the art work and could he please give me directions to where I want to go? It was really awkward because the people in the room could tell that I was creeped out but no one bothered to save me. Thanks Frenchies. I appreciate the rescuing.

After I managed to escape his overzealous explanations (“That ring! So old!”), I got to the Mona Lisa.

The crowd in front of the Mona Lisa

Up close and personal

The actual way you get to see the painting

I decided that it was time to peace out of there and went back to the gardens near the Louvre. I plopped down with a book in the gorgeously green grass and started to read. Not even ten minutes later, guess who was sitting right near me!

Oh yes, Green Shoes Boy! He looked gorgeous in a button down again, which I’m pretty sure is his signature look. And the quintessentially French girlfriend was no where to be seen! Granted he only stayed near the Louvre for like thirty minutes but still. Amazing. Exciting. Fantastic.

Along with him, there was also a bunch of good looking guys who took off their shirts.

Theoretically this picture is of the statue of the naked lady

See, I knew ya’ll would appreciate seeing how green the grass is over here. And the naked statue. Those guys in the corner were just accidentally there. Totally accidentally.

But, although they are completely gorgeous, they were pretty much douchebags. Two of the four were American and the other two were Australian. They were in Europe to get laid. The best looking one said that he was “in [his] prime” and that he could “get a girl in five minutes flat”. While so far I’ve been really lucky in meeting awesome guys, it’s important to remember that there are guys like these in Europe too, the type of guys who are total skeezes and probably riddled with unsavory diseases.

Because I want to end this on a happy note, the chances of me seeing Green Shoes Boy again are fairly decent, if I move into the Louvre gardens. Might be worth it.

Celebrate The Irony, Everything Is Going Wrong, But We’re So Happy

5 Jun

Ok so wayyyy back in the beginning of the year, my friend and I strategically planned out who could friend-request a certain guy first and it was a big deal. We also have a system that we use when we need to add people because first friend A adds the boy and then friend B adds him too so no one appears overly desperate. Do boys do that too? Because here’s the back-story.

The hardest part about traveling abroad is the budgeting. Paris is an expensive city and basically everything here costs 10 Euros, which doesn’t sound too bad until you realize that if everything costs 10 Euros, that’s a lot of Euros to be spending all the time. That’s why free things make my heart happy. One of those free things is this tour you can take of Paris. It’s a three hour walking tour and loads of fun. Three hours on foot with an New Zealand tour guide who told me that firemen in Paris look like male strippers. Oh and I was just about the only one who found her funny  so my laugh was the only one to be heard. Yeah, not awkward at all. Along with that, an old man decided to latch onto our group with his big tele-photo lenses and wanted to take my picture for something and I’m an untrusting soul so I said no and it was just weird. He kind of wandered off later on, after spending half the time chatting up a girl from Iceland. So along with the comedic New Zealand tour guide, there were these two guys. We bonded over the fact that we accents make stuff sound so much funnier than it really is. We were talking, becoming fast friends. Their names are Dan* and Jim*.

The following is transcribed from my iPod because that’s what I do when I’m on the train, I take notes that are really rubbish but that’s okay because hello, reminders.

  • Dan was cute and short. Bonded over tour guide and his love for country music. He built custom made wooden things for a band. Thinks my “ya’ll” is cute.
  • Jim is an HTML geek like me. Not cute but nice.

Yes, my notes really do suck.

Anyway, I spend most of the time talking to Dan. Jim doesn’t even begin talking to me till the very end. Then, Dan asks me for my name and contact info because they’ll be in London when I’ll be in London and we might go out. I tell him to Facebook me because that’s how I roll. We ride the train part of the way back together and I’ve had a glass of wine at the cheese tasting restaurant (because this is France and that’s what they do here, apparently) and am… happy. Well I get home and I have a request from Jim and not Dan. WTF?!? I mean they were legit running back to the hostel before going out again but seriously, WTF? I don’t really get it. Why did Jim request me and not Dan? I spent three hours talking to Dan. Maybe 30 minutes talking to Jim. How does that work? It’s not that I’m particularly interested in him but I’m more confused as to how this all works. I’m perplexed.

Notre Dame

Notre Dame again

Supposedly if you jump on this, it means you'll come back to Paris. This is also where all distances between Paris and other cities are calculated.

Some king that once had a light saber in place of a sword. True story.

View from a bridge

Doesn't this look Alice In Wonderland-esque?

Pretty sure Napoleon stole this from the Egyptians.

After they went bon voyage, I sat next to this hot soccer player on the train, unintentionally because it was packed and I was mad excited to even get a seat. How sad is that? Anyway, hot soccer man had been facing the aisle but once I sat down, he turned right next to me and we rather smiled at each other. It was all sorts of disgustingly cute. And because I like to be different, I decided to pull out my book (in English) and start reading. This gave him a chance to talk to me. He told me his English sucked and we talked about how he was in college and he was so cute. He had brown hair and pretty brown eyes and I like Paris apart from weirdos whose friends add me and not them.

**Names and identifying details have been changed because I believe in a thing called privacy. And just so it’s clear, whenever I use an actual name on this blog apart from mine, if it’s not linked to another blog/site, it means it’s been changed. Thus, the only time I really post people’s names are when they have posted their own online first and I have their blessing.

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Faking French

4 Jun

Apparently, I fake French quite well. Basically, everywhere I go people assume I’m French, something I take as a compliment because it means I’m not one of those tourists that drives every local crazy. I try to keep quiet and speak the bare minimum of French. I learned how to say “I don’t speak French” and “do you speak English” so that I can keep death threats at a low. And while I’m not completely certain how French I manage to look, I do get asked all the time for directions. I honestly think it’s because I’ve always got my iPod in, which tends to make you look like a local. And because I don’t really have a set direction when I set out in the morning so it may look like I know where I’m going when really, I’m just winging it. Either way, it’s kind of nice and also sort of annoying because I keep having to apologize for not speaking French and they tend to take it one of three ways:

  • Option One: the person gets really excited that they have an American in front of them and speak English to me.
  • Option Two: the person gets annoyed with me and leaves in a huff.
  • Option Three: the person thinks that shouting at me in French is going to assist me in figuring out what the hell they want.

Option Three never works, although it’s been often tried on me. Mainly it leaves everyone really exasperated.

The first day I went out into Paris, I stood waiting for the bus to come. Once it finally arrived, two French girls (whom I heard speak French) got on before me. This little old lady in Willy Wonka-type glasses and with a plaid bag stood in the doorway and let them through. I tried to be polite and let her off. She started speaking to me and gesturing, which I had no idea what was being said. I interpreted it as “come and get on the bus”, so I did. After I stepped on, she started shouting at me. This little four foot tall grandma was shouting at me. In French. On a packed bus. So I replied with “je ne parle pa francais”. Apparently the old lady was also slightly deaf because another woman had to pass on the message. And then she helped the lady get her bag off the bus, which it turned out the entire fuss was about. She wanted the bag off. Instead of asking the two girls before me, she decided to ask me and my confusion made me look like a bitch. Lovely. And then I turned around, after apologizing and reiterating my lack of French speaking skills, to an entire bus full of people staring at me. Being a tourist is fun.

Along with that, I tend to get the creepy old guys who try to chat me up. Usually the language barrier works in my favor but sometimes they get really happy and try to woo me with English. It fails.

Another problem that I’m attributing to culture is smiling. I tend to smile at people. When I sat in front of the Eiffel Tower for six hours, I saw the same soldiers over and over again. After a few times, one started smiling at me, something I thought meant that he thought it was funny that I was still there. So, I started smiling back. Apparently, he and I were on two different wave lengths because the second to last time I saw him, he gave me a really vulgar gesture. One that made the women who were near me look at me and ask me if that really happened. I mean, woah. I guess I tend to forget that I’m sort of an adult now so I can’t just grin at guys like I used to. I don’t know. I learned a little in NYC to stop smiling at guys but I forgot, I guess. I like being happy. I like smiling. I don’t like the whole interpretation of my smile as something completely different.

Speaking of different, did you know that the French don’t tell each other “bless you” when they sneeze? They don’t say anything unless they actually know you really well. So sneezing on the bus or in public means you get nada. It’s so weird. Half the time I’m inclined to say “bless you” but I don’t know how to say it in French and I also don’t want to be accidentally rude. Complicated stuff, huh.

The Louvre

I learned about the sneezing two days ago, when I went to the Bastille, which apparently doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe I completely fell asleep in history class that day but I don’t think we ever covered the fact that the Bastille was destroyed during hte French Revolution. It was. Now there’s a courtyard or something. After that, I went to the Louvre. Well I didn’t go into the Louvre because you can get in free if you have proof that you’re a citizen of the European Union and I totally am so I decided to wait another day. Instead I sat around in the gardens and people watched some more.

The Louvre's side entrance

Fountain in the courtyard

The famous pyramid entrance

Old and new (and my attempt to be artsy)

There were two frat guys beside me, the type that made me so happy that I didn’t go to a regular college. They talked about their friends “Nate-dawg” and “P-brah”. Seriously. These two bros referred to their friends incessantly as those names. And the girl with them was hanging off their every word, totally crushing on one of them. It was kind of sad because the guy she liked didn’t like her, which was pretty obvious.

The fountain where I sat until I got sick of the bros

After I got sick of hanging around them, I walked towards the Louvre again and laid down in some grass. The busses I use to get around were on strike so I had to stay til about 7 in Paris itself so I wouldn’t get caught in traffic. It was there that I saw one of the best looking guys I’ve ever seen in real life.

He was lying on the bright green grass in an unbuttoned pink button-down shirt. He was perfectly tan and rocking bright green sneakers. His hair was dirty blonde and he had a book beside him. In short, perfection. It was great, trying to figure out how to become his future girlfriend. I mean I had a plan and everything. There were these two dogs and somehow they were going to get us to strike up a conversation and true love would occur, of course. It was going perfectly, until his actual girlfriend showed up. And the actual girlfriend was quintessentially French and marvelous and it was absolutely heart-breaking.

The grass where I saw the (momentary) love of my life

Luckily, my heart’s got a quick rebound rate so I moved on pretty easily.

PS. I apologize if these posts seem so picture-heavy. I’m just trying to document everything because it’s ridiculously exciting for me.

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I Ate Snails. Seriously.

3 Jun

I’ve finally decided to create a category for this summer, seeing has how I’m traveling. Thus, these posts are going to be called Eurotrip 2010, with tags for Paris, London, Krakow, and Tarnow. This is my attempt at organization, along with trying to add in pictures.

Now then, on to the fun part. On Monday (May 31st), I decided to go check out Montemarte, one of my favorite places in Paris. The first time I went, I absolutely fell in love. It’s such a gorgeous place and, well, just look at the Basilica.

It is absolutely gorgeous.

I stumbled around a few streets in Montemarte, trying to avoid touristy spots. I strive to not look like a tourist because I know how much I utterly despise them in Manhattan, where they pull out their maps and block off the entire sidewalk. Or when they stop to take photos of random buildings in the middle of the sidewalk. I avoid doing that as much as possible.

After Montemarte, I walked down to Clichy–which is apparently the new “red light district”. It’s where the trannies hang out, according to my cousin. Pigalle, where Moulin Rouge is located, is the old and theoretically classy whore hangout. See, learn something new every day.

From Clichy I took the train and stopped across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower. Thus began my attempts at artsy shots.

Then I plopped myself in front of the Eiffel Tower for about six hours. No joke. I love people watching and that is a golden spot for it. Not only do the tourists hang out there, we’ve got gypsies. The gypsies roamed around asking for money and kind of harassing tourists. One of their favorite tricks is to ask if you speak English, then show you a sign pleading for money. It’s sad but also gets to the point of irritating. And then one gypsy peed in a bowl. Yeah, no joke. She popped a squat in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was disgusting.

While I sat there for so many hours, I became friends with this guy we’ll call Pete. Pete studied in Europe for the semester and we got to talking. He’s an amazing artist (which is how we met, he was sketching the Tower). He may or may not have taken me out on a date. I’m not sure. We went out to dinner after hanging out for like five hours in front of the Eiffel Tower together and he convinced me to try some escargot. Yep. Me, who won’t eat mushrooms or most fish, ate a snail. I don’t have photographic evidence yet because Pete’s got the picture but as soon as I get it, I’ll post it up. The verdict of snail-eating? Chewy. It was well-seasoned but really chewy. Also, never think about the fact you’re eating a snail while eating it. Or before. Or after. It’s actually best to never think about the fact you’re eating snails. Even now, while writing this, I feel pretty grossed out that I ate a snail.

Pete’s already back in the US but it was loads of fun to actually meet someone in Europe and become friends. And, not going to lie, I’m pretty proud of myself for at least trying escargot.

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Je Suis A Paris

2 Jun

I took the first one way back in ’07 and the second one today. I didn’t mean to be in the same place but I stumbled there by accident.

This morning I went to the Eiffel Tower alone, where there was a vast amount of rugby fans? Who knows what the fuck they were there for but one group started chatting me up. I said my “bonjour” and then my piece de resistance, “je ne parle pa francais”. They somehow assumed I was from Spain? I don’t know but that was cleared up rather quickly. The boy’s name was Chris and he wanted to give me a kiss on the cheek but I literally bid him “au revoir” and he was calling after me “I love you America”. It was really cute. Whenever I’m in Europe, I tend to be called America. It happened loads in Poland.

After that I just hung out around the Eiffel Tower and got this DELICIOUS pastry. It was to die for. There’s a lot of yummy food. Some of the not-yummy food was escargot, which they legit fried outside in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Escargot

These guys supported USAP... which is about all I know. Chris was a USAP boy.

More USAP fans.

They were really excited.

I'm going to assume a donkey is their mascot.


Along with that, apparently some big event was happening where a world record was being broken. I snapped some shots of that too.


That’s the name. Mega Jump. A guy basically jumped 40 meters (I think) off of the Eiffel Tower and onto a ramp.

The ramp from a distance

Up close and personal

They also set up ramps for kids and adults to skateboard, rollerblade, and bike on.

Skateboarding

Bike ramp

After that, my cousins decided to take me out. Of all the places in Paris, where do you think we went?

Yep. A gay bar. Naturally. It’s basically where I feel most at home due to the fact that nearly my entire school and neighborhood are gay. Nah though, it wasn’t actually a “gay” bar in that there weren’t any gay guys/gals so it was kind of weird. There was a hot bartender too whom I assumed liked men but apparently not? France is making my gaydar go loopy. Men in white pants aren’t gay here. It’s a strange world.

At the bar I had a Long Island Iced Tea, which Frenchies suck at making. There was no “tea” about it. It was basically a concoction of the ingredients minus the tea taste.

We didn’t get to the gay bar for ages though because we failed at finding a bar that was cheap, had good music, and relatively young people. We wandered around the Latin District, near Chalet, and a few other places but we ended up at that gay bar.

Basically, I’m having a good time in Paris. It’s only been two days but so far so good. I think my favorite aspect of the trip is that I’ve decided I’m not allowed to “hate” myself. You know, the whole “oh I’m fat” or “I’m ugly” bits that we all feel sometimes. Whenever I think something like that, I try to change focus. It’s been working so far. I’ve also been trying this thing called “interacting with guys” where if I see a guy I think is cute, I actually do something like SMILE at him. It’s surprising to see how much more fun it is to do something active instead of passively thinking about it. On the train I had a cute experience where we sat next to this guy who I thought was absolutely adorable. Blonde hair, green eyes, and a cute smile. After sitting across from him and making eye-contact a few times, I decided to just fucking go for it and smile. He smiled back and while there wasn’t any instant love connection or even any conversation,  it was nice. I looked over at him when I was getting off the train and gave him another smile, which he returned. It was kind of adorable because you know that look you sometimes get when you realize you had a momentary connection (which may be too meaningful a word for what I’m trying to convey) and you get happy? That’s the look he had on his face after our little interaction.

It’s the little things, the tiny smiles, that are the best parts of my day.

Update: Apparently I was much more tired last night than I thought when I wrote this. Sorry for the whole repeat thing. I going to send this as a message to my friend but I failed? Sorry lovelies.

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Fighting Irish

30 May

On Wednesday morning, my intelligent brain decided I needed to wake up at 6AM. Yes, that makes a lot of sense when I went to bed at 1AM and have an international flight. I had to wake up by 8 anyway because we had this thing called sweeps where we go through and check to make sure all of our residents have left. Apparently our residents really love us because a bunch had stayed behind illegally so we had the added joy of kicking them out. Once we finished that, I got to hop on a shuttle at 1:30, where the entire thing was jam-packed and there was a gumball machine beside me. More fun stuff arrived while in the car because the driver started heading to La Guardia and I was flying from JFK. I tried to get up the nerve to ask him where he was going and it only took about twenty minutes of internal debate. I was so convinced we were headed to the wrong airport that I had an entire plan to get to JFK all ready.

Once I finally stopped being a baby and asked, it turned out we were headed the right way, only taking all the wrong streets. It made sense to him, I guess. He was a giant grouch who hated Indians though. I’m not sure why but after he dropped nearly everyone off at their gates, he took a call from dispatch and adamantly refused to take any Indians into Manhattan. I think he was Pakistani and maybe that had something to do with it but mostly it was just fucking awkward.

JFK does a lot of stuff strangely. One such thing is making you lug your suitcase over to another guy who screens it instead of putting it on a conveyer belt like everyone else in the world. I wouldn’t have minded if not for the fact that I was lugged down with a backpack, carry-on, and trying to shove my tickets/passport somewhere so the people behind me in line wouldn’t get pissed at me taking forever. Then, you head down to the duty-free area that ISN’T passed security so no drinks can be taken through. I pay attention to shit like that so I just bought food and got a drink post-security.

My flight from JFK to Dublin was relatively uninteresting. The guy next to me was a toy designer and we talked for a bit until the stewardess showed me I have my own TV. Hell yes. It came loaded with Top Gear, The Office, 30 Rock, and a bunch of movies I didn’t watch because sleep > TV. Landing was boring too, until I hit Dublin where it was just insanity.

So first off, Dublin. The airport sucks. You get off, completely exhausted because it’s like 4AM American time but 9AM Dublin time and you have to go through fucking security. Instead of realizing the fact that we’ve just CROSSED THE OCEAN and have been searched within an inch of our lives in NYC, they decide that Americans must suck at searches and search us again. Only before we get to do that, we have to go through customs where the guy was like “how long are you going to be here for” and my reply of “thirty minutes” did not make him happy. Whoops. It was the honest truth though.

Then, once you’ve made it past the grouchy Dublin customs agent, you have the joy of going through security. Again. And because I’ve technically left the airport by going through THEIR customs, I have to toss out my nearly full and perfectly good bottled tea because I could be a terrorist. Yeah. It makes a ton of sense. Also, Dublin says you’re not allowed to bring umbrellas in your carry-on, which I have never heard of but there’s an official sign and everything.

Well once you’re past that, you go through this white corridor which looks like an insane asylum with these stupid little “don’t mind our appearance” signs when in reality, I totally do fucking mind. It looks like shit and makes me feel like I’m about to go loco.

Then, when you’re convinced you’re going to be reaching some nice padded doors at the end of the hallway you reach your terminal, where a flight for London is leaving and no where does it say that a plane is flying to Paris. Lovely.

After that, you sit down and pray to God your plane is going where it’s supposed to be going. Luckily, it is. But then you get onboard and get seated next to a woman who fucking hates Americans.

Now I’m normally a calm person. I like talking to strangers. I do not like getting told that I’m racist because I’m American. Even though the 60 year old Irish woman tells me that she “used to think black people lived in mud huts and never grew up”. What. The. Hell. This woman was possibly the most repulsive person I’ve ever met in my life. If my flight had been longer, I would have asked the stewardesses for a different seat. This woman went on and on about how America sucks and it’s horrific and that even though we elected a black president, we’re all just racists because of the McCarthy trials which happened over 50 years ago. She also mentioned how Polish people are “such hard workers” in this utterly snooty tone. She basically thought she was amazing and the rest of us? Well, we suck. I tried to be polite and let her finish even though everything she was saying pissed me off. Then, when I thought she was done and I could read, the bitch began again. Jesus. It took a good thirty minutes for her to leave me alone, a thirty minutes that would’ve been best spent sleeping due to the fact that I hadn’t really done any of that for a while.

I don’t understand people like her. I’m a stranger. It doesn’t mean that I’m a captive audience for you to be a racist bitch to me. If I ever get anyone like her again on a flight, no matter how short, I’m asking to switch seats. I can do that, right?

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The One Where Ania Gets Reminisce-y About College, Take Two

26 May

Woah. I’m officially finished with my second year of college. I can’t believe it, and yet it’s here. I’m jetting off on a plane to Europe in a few hours and I’m half way done with my college education. Jesus Christ, when did I get so old? About a year ago I posted a recap of last year. This year I’m going to do the same.

During Summer 2009, I had an affair with a machine and realized that the time I spent at the gym was definitely related to how hot the trainers were. And whether or not a certain hot soldier was working out on an exercise bike when I got there or not. I spent my summer working at the Store, where I wrote a letter to my male customers about how letting me “accidentally” walk in on them in the fitting room isn’t really all that hot. I also tried to be nice to my readers about the fact that I fail as a blogger a lot and give them a list of places to read stuff because I apparently can’t write a post to save my life. Then I added in the fact that I went to a Coldplay concert that was absolutely positively amazing. Plus I rambled on about how I brought the wrong shoes when I went to visit my friends at their college. That was kind of a fail.

What can I say about my sophomore year of college? This year I became an RA and took way too many trips to the hospital with numerous residents. I’m saving those fun stories for after graduation.

P and I became fantastically close friends. We’ve had quite a few adventures involving wonderfully foreign boys and a trip to Brooklyn at 4 AM on Halloween, convinced that we “fell back” an hour and it was only 3 AM. Who changes time on Halloween? I mean really? That’s asking for confusion. I didn’t write about that because I love my brother very much and would like to see him live to be 30. I also got screwed over by a friend, whom I’ve obviously since forgiven and love a lot but it was still a huge part of my life and has jaded me in some ways. It also taught me a lot about being “decoration” and how uncomfortable clubs and places like that make me. I took a French class where I revealed my utter and complete inner nerd to my professor by writing a biography of Harry Potter, which wasn’t really at all appreciated. He kind of ignored my topic, which was insulting because, hello HARRY POTTER! And especially when 90% of the girls in my class wrote about Coco Chanel, you’d think Harry would be refreshing. Then I went home to South Carolina and kicked my friends’ asses at poker. In December I went a little picture crazy and posted a lot of images and about how I went to Central Park with a certain photographer friend who was coincidentally brought up again when I made a shitload of excuses for someone. It’s okay though because I am really skilled at avoiding people. It’s a skill.

I wrote my first ever guest post over at Cheryl’s blog, which was insanely exciting. It was all about my insane talents as a Facebook creeper and how I’m going to try and stop doing that. Apparently this is a theme common in my life because I just wrote about it a few days ago here.

I also turned 20 this year, which is insane. I celebrated with another extravaganza, this one only being one day. We ate dinner at Elmo and went to a club Green House (I think). We also blew out a Yankee candle because that’s how we roll. And because we can never remember to actually buy candles.

I spent Valentine’s day with good old P, celebrating our singleness by going to a Ke$ha concert and finding our new favorite band, Black Taxi. We’ve managed to see another Black Taxi show and were going to go to one in Brooklyn a few weeks ago but life and school got in the way.

P & R got me tickets for a John Mayer concert at MSG so I got to see him live. It was amazing. My favorite part was when he sang “Who Says” and substituted NYC boroughs instead of New Orleans or whatever.

Then I wrote a relatively depressing post about wanderlust and wanting to move around. I finished a ton of projects, including building a chair for a class. See how cute it is?
I created an entire selling presentation for Givenchy Phenomen’ Eyes mascara, which my professor refuses to tell my grade for because he’s a crotchety old man. I had fun nights out in the city. I had a good time.

Next year I’ll be a junior and finally turning 21. Hopefully I’ll keep the same friends and have even more good times. But for now, a thank you to all of my wonderful friends. I love ya’ll so much.

Happy Little Somethings

24 May


From here

I’ve never thought of Mondays like that. I like it.


From here

Letters to the girls on the floor above him.

I’ve written about this song before. It’s one of my absolute favorites. I fell in love with it five or six years ago in Paris and my love for it has yet to fade. There’s something so desperately romantic about it. I’m not sure how to completely explain it but this is probably one of the best songs I’ve ever heard.



From here

The last one perfectly illustrates my current situation. I’ve got about 32 minutes of battery life left and I’ve locked myself out of my room but it’s all okay because I can make a wish at 11:11.

I’ve got a plane ride out of here on Wednesday and I’m done with classes. It’s warm and somewhat sunny and life is happy and beautiful and it’s all going to be amazing and great. That’s what I’ve got to remember. Happy.

It’s Complicated With Facebook

21 May

Facebook.

I’ve been a member since December 16, 2006. My first profile picture was one of those typical Myspace shots, a terrible “let’s look away” sort of things.

See what I mean? Heavy black eyeliner? Check. Not looking at the camera? Check. Posing awkwardly? Check.

As time went by, I posted more and more pictures. Slowly, I became increasingly reliant on the site, using it to keep in touch with my old friends and check out new ones. It’s like conducting background checks sometimes. Using the site has allowed me to become ridiculously skilled at reading between lines, determining how well I’d get along with someone. I’m not the only one, the creator Mark Zuckerberg says he can predict relationships between people, although that doesn’t really take much skill. All it takes is time. Anyone can plop down and read wall-to-walls and check out budding romances and those gone bad. We all do it, even if you won’t admit to it. However, do you ever stop to think that someone is reading your wall-to-wall with someone?

The idea that someone, anyone, is taking time to look at my Facebook creeps me out. Even though I am fastidious about who I add (I’m only friends with one blogger–everyone else I have personally met and know), I don’t relish the idea of any of them checking out my profile and pictures. Not only that, I have almost all of my friends “hidden” from my newsfeed. I don’t want to see their updates and pictures. If I did, I could click their profile. It’s not because I don’t like my friends or I don’t care what’s going on in their lives. I just don’t think it’s healthy. And some people are just Facebook whores.

Since I don’t really like the idea of people I know looking at my profile and pictures, why would I be okay with Mark Zuckerberg? Everything about him skeeves me out. From the decidedly shading beginnings, each step Zuckerberg and Facebook take make me more and more apprehensive about trusting Facebook as my chosen platform to connect with friends.

I first took issue when Facebook changed all of my privacy settings to public. I have everything set to private and have done so for years. Whatever though, I thought. I changed them all back to super private and continued on my merry way, commenting and liking away. Then, suddenly, I began “liking” sites I had visited while logged onto Facebook. Sites that were completely and entirely separate from Facebook suddenly showed up on my profile. That isn’t ok. While the only sites that showed up were Gawker and Cracked, I don’t like the idea of Facebook publishing my viewing history. Furthermore, I am not ok with Zuckerberg doing it without my permission. I had opted out of their “Instant Personalization Pilot Program” so why were sites I had visited doing almost exactly that? Why was my information being spread around?

I’m of two minds on Facebook. On one hand, I love the connection it provides. All of my high school friends are on there and a lot of my elementary school friends from the Midwest are there. It reminds me of birthdays and lets me check out my friends’ photos. On the other more sinister hand, I don’t trust Zuckerberg. While I haven’t really delved into the issues behind my lack of trust in him, the Internet is littered with articles about him. If I don’t like people I am friends with having the ability to see so much into my life, why would I allow a stranger to sell my information?

This might seem hypocritical, seeing as how I’m writing this on my blog. I don’t believe it is though. On this blog, I have the ability to publish whatever I’d like. These are my words and while I’m not always certain who views them, I ultimately have control over what goes out. I understand the whole “don’t post online what you don’t want the world to see” idea. I agree with it. None of the pictures I had, or have, online are ones I’m ashamed of. I don’t take pictures I’m ashamed of. None of the posts on my Facebook or my blog make me uncomfortable. What makes me uncomfortable is placing my identity in the hands of someone who doesn’t believe in privacy, who has proven willing to sell my information for a buck without my agreement. When Facebook began showing sites I’ve visited, it’s nearly became the straw that broke the camel’s back. Having nothing to hide doesn’t mean that everything should be shared. There are certain things that should be private and, from where I’m sitting, Facebook doesn’t completely grasp that concept.

I’m still up in the air about deactivating my account. There are numerous benefits to it. The key question is, do the benefits outweigh my privacy concerns?

Right now, I’m not sure. The only reason for not deactivating or deleting my account is because I’ve taken steps to make it as private as possible. I am not tagged in any photos. My profile pictures are private and can only be seen by me. My wall is innocuous and there is no information available on my info that really tells anyone about me. Sure it says where I’m from and where I live but those are things that the people I’m friends with on Facebook are aware of. I also carefully screen anyone who requests me. Unless I know you/have heard of you through a trusted friend, I won’t add you. So why am I still so concerned about remaining on Facebook?

The only reason I’m still on is for my friends. I want to stay in touch with them and Facebook lets me do that, easily. But if Facebook continues in the direction it’s headed, chances are I’m not going with it. I wish there was a good alternative to it. Twitter isn’t, in my opinion. And while a bunch of NYU kids are gearing up to create Diaspora, it’s not there yet. I hope that they succeed though. Hopefully sooner rather than later because leaving behind Mark Zuckerberg will be freeing.

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