Happy almost my birthday month!

In honor of my birthday being a mere 16 days away, I made you a playlist birthed from 6 months worth of Shazammed songs from my iphone. "What does that mean?" a non-iphone owning individual might ask. Well. Shazam is an app that you turn on when you want to identify a song you're listening to. So each of these songs were so amazing, curious, or sentimental to me that I risked my life, likely driving, to look them up as fast as I could so I would never forget them.

I present to you, my Shazam playlist. You will enjoy. That's a threat.

Sorry I've Abandoned You, TP

Bonjour, mes pirates.

I got a little too carried away with my new blog-venture, and as a result I've neglected my dear readers on this side of the Internet. Mea culpa.

To make up for it I just posted the crème de la crème of what I was writing while I was away, and I promise in the future I will double-post.

A la prochaîne,

Neenuh

Morocco Part 2: The Hammam

The thing I was most excited to do in Morocco was to visit the hammams, or bath houses. I was pumped for the cultural stuff too, of course, but the prospect of spending time in a spa-like setting, getting all renaxed and shiz, really appealed to me.

There are different kinds of hammams you can go to, depending on how pampered you want to get and how much you want to spend. We went to one where we just paid 30 dirham (the equivalent of 3E) so we could take a hot shower. There were no frills, no extras, just a room with a showerhead and a bucket. As I understand it, there are also ones where you strip down and sit in a shvitz for awhile, soaping and exfoliating yourself while trying really hard to forget how uncomfortably Minnesotan you feel about being in a room full of nakey people.

But we decided to go for the full-bore, 100% luxury experience at a fancy modern hammam for a whopping 100 dh, plus 30 dh for the exfoliating glove (about 13E total).

Having never done this before, I was full of trepidation. Were we supposed to be naked? Were we supposed to wear swimsuits? Would they be offended by my circa-2007 teal-and-red flowered bikini? After a brief conference in the dressing room, Emily and I decided to go with both halves of our swimsuits, with our towels clutched tightly around us. The Moroccan woman in charge of us indicated we should bring our soap and shampoo, as well as the tokens indicating we had paid for fanciness.

We descended to a marble room that I like to imagine resembled the old Roman bath houses. There were showers in one corner, a steam room on the opposite side of the room with a jacuzzi adjacent to it, and four raised marble tables in between, where women in black tank tops and skorts were exfoliating their bodacious clients--all of whom were topless. Got it. I hung my towel on a hook and nervously plucked off my bikini top, mentally assuring myself that no one was staring at me and everyone has a body and it's OK to be half-naked--really!--it is.

Our Moroccan lady beckoned us into the steam room and handed each of us a gob of gooey, caramel-y savon noir (black soap) that kind of reminded me of Gak, miming  that we should rub it onto our skin. She then left us to our own devices. This was our first time around hot water in two days, after a night spent in Charles de Gaulle and a day of dusty touristing, so I was eager as could be to de-stinkify. My handful of savon noir took a surprisingly long time to run through, so I got really, extra, super clean.

After we'd soaped and rinsed to our heart's content we didn't quite know what we were supposed to do, so we did some awkward stretching and lounging on the tiled seats. "See?" I told myself. "You're a champ at being half-naked! Ain't no thang! Nobody's staring at you! Oh wait. Everyone's totally staring at you. Better cross your arms over your chest and act real casual. Good."

The lady finally came to fetch us, and pointed that we should get our tokens and exfoliating gloves and go to one of the raised marble tables in the middle of the room, where more black-clad women were waiting for us. I smiled meekly at the one assigned to me and handed her my token, which she promptly stuffed inside her skort.

After hosing me off with a shower head, she took to me with that black, sandpaper-y glove, and exfoliated the crap out of me as if my skin were a scourge on humanity that the King of Morocco himself had ordered her to remove with whatever force necessary. Great gobs of grayish dead skin cells came wilting off me as she violently rubbed me EV-ER-Y-WHERE. Parts you wouldn't think someone other than your partner would see, much less touch: oh, she went there. Sensitive parts you'd think she'd go a little easy on: ha! nope. At one point she flipped me onto my stomach and yanked my swimsuit bottom up so she could get at my cheeks, giving me the worst wedgie of my life as I stiffled a yelp.

My skin tingled all over when she finished, and I gave thanks to God that I didn't suffer from eczema or any other ouchy skin condition. She hosed me off again, and then squirted half my precious bottle of Aveda rosemary mint body wash onto me as she massaged me. "Ahhhhhhh," I thought. "This is nice. I could just lay here for--" She abruptly yanked on one of my legs, trying to flip me over. I was slip-sliding all over the soapy stone table, trying desperately not to fall and crack my head open, as she pushed and prodded me into different positions.

When that part was over, I stumbled over to the shower where I was blessedly allowed to wash my hair. The first Moroccan lady cut my shower a bit short, and ushered me over to the bubbling jacuzzi. I didn't mind; I could go for a nice relaxing sit in a hot-- holy mother of nards the water was freezing! I suppose the point was to close our newly cleansed pores, but come on! A little warning!

Our final stop at this Sadist Spa was the Chambre de Relaxation, which was actually quite nice. We lay there for awhile on lovely leather recliners, meditating on what we had just been through and making plans to come back.

The French Word for Pony is Poney

I've had incredible strokes of luck since I've been on this side of the world. Like when the plane that was supposed to take me out of Morocco broke down and we ended up being trapped in the airport for the entirety of one day and part of the next, I made best friends with a guy named Brian.* Because of the massive delay he wasn't going to make his connecting flight to Delhi via Riyadh until three days later. So I invited him to stay with me and my little brother in Paris, and we ended up having the very best time in all the history of all the world.

Bonus: having a third wheel meant that Brother Sam and I could take a series of excellent jumping pictures in front of all of Paris' monuments. Like so:

This weekend was supposed to be terrible. For the first time in months, I was going to be stranded all by my lonesome in my cell in Digoin. Due to said trips to Morocco and Paris, I was too poor to take a weekend trip (I have 50E to my name until I get paid next week... eek). And my regular Saone-et-Loire homegirl Missy had plans to be in Paris for a Patti Smith concert. So I was looking at an entire weekend of horrible, poverty-induced loneliness in my 7 ft x 9 ft cage with nothing to do but laundry.

But! Lady Luck intervened and Missy decided to stick around S+L to save money, and she proposed a staycation in her exotic hometown of Charolles, pop: 3,500. We planned to watch episode after episode of How I Met Your Mother and play Backsies Backsies (a game I invented where you rub my back and I rub yours... maybe) and not much else.

But! Lady Luck intervened once more and Missy's Austrian roommate Sigrid invited us to go along with her to visit PONIES!

Let me say that again. POOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!

Sigrid's 5-year-old Leoni has been here a few times already to go riding. This time she got a pony-horse named Vagabond (pronounced va-ga-BOHN). He was brown and shaggy and so cute and small and perfect and Mom can I please have him PLEASE???

I couldn't ride Vagabond because I would probably make him dead, but nothing on this earth could stop me from jumping in front of this--France's most glorious monument to little girls' dreams everywhere.

This one's for you, Brian.*

 

*Brian's real name is Eric. But since he looks more like a Brian it's just too confusing to call him Eric.

Pillsbury Croissants and Their Impact on My Life

There were two staples at our dinner table when I was growing up: Dole Caesar salad in a bag and Pillsbury croissants in a tube. There are six people in my family and eight croissants in each tube. The only way I was going to get a second delicious, flaky croissant was to wolf down my dinner like a ravenous child-beast and pray that my three siblings were slightly less savage/grabby than I.

As a result, I grew habituated to stuffing food down my gullet at lightening speed.

Then I moved to France, and I was forced to eat in a way completely unnatural to me-- i.e. with my fork in my left hand, a knife in my right, and both hands on the table at all times. Every time I get too comfortable and revert to my preferred table manners (fork in my right hand, left hand in my lap), I need remind myself that everyone thinks I'm creepy when one hand is mysteriously below-decks.

It's really hard for me to push chunks of food onto the back of my fork and then get said fork to my mouth without spilling things everywhere. Like couscous. Can I please get a pass on couscous so I can eat it the creepy American way, where my right hand shovels it into my mouth? Please?

Anyway, now I eat a lot more slowly.

The end.

This is the way I am sounding when I am speaking the French, of that I am sure

Of more and more time I speak to myself in my head in the voice that is that of English translated very bad. For it takes much years before one to stop the direct translation from one language in another one and starting to speak the one new extra fluent, and I am so much surrounded by people who speak like this I no more remember the way correct.

I have fear that when the man to which I am marry arriving here the next month, I have the impression he not know what is my meaning. "Why are you so perhaps?" he to demand of me.

Someone propose me to march along the river, and in my head I says, "I am in accordance." Someone propose me to eat of the croissant and in my head I am saying, "That walks." Someone propose of me to march along the river after the eating of the croissant and I am thinking, "I have very much tired for to do that." Then I bed myself.

Moreover they kiss in the elevator

One of my fellow English teachers (not at my school) gave me the awesome task of helping him grade his students' descriptions of the scene in Baz Luhrmann's "Romeo + Juliet" where the two meet each other for the first time. I give to you two of my favorites, in all their unedited glory:

The story begin in a bal who is creating of Juliet's father, or there have Romeo and herself. But Juliet's family don't know that Romeo is there with friend who is Mercutio. When Romeo and Juliet are meeting, they are fall in love but Juliet don't know Romeo is a Montaigu and Romeo don't know Juliet is a Capulet. But their love is stonger and when Romeo is discoverded he decided to leave the ball. But when Romeo is ready to go he decided to join Juliet in her house.

He wants to see Juliet discreetly but he drops a statue that bring out the monitoring of the pool luckily, he don't see Romeo and he goes. When Juliet comes out he follows and speacks of love and her name with him. When they are kissing Juliet is call by his nurse and she gets out of the pool and she says good night to Romeo.

This was hands down the best I read:

At the biginning. Capulets organise a party and Romeo and Mercutio come on. Mercutio is singing and Romeo comes in the bathroom, and though the aquarium he see Juliet, during an amor song. He is dressing in a knight warrior, and Juliet in a angel fairy. In the party there are a Devil, a Mousqueteer, a Skeleton, a Roman emperor and a Cleopatra. After that, Juliet dances with an astronaut. Then Juliet's cousin see the young Mantague and wants do him go out, but his godfather no allowd it.

Whereas Romeo tell with Juliet and try to kiss her. Moreover they kiss in the elevator. But after she learn Romeo is a Montague and Romeo go out. Then, he leaves in his friends' car but he goes back to Juliet's place and spies on her. She speak about Romeo's name and she asks he to change is name. Finally he shows itself and they fall in the swimming pool. Juliet is innocent, loving but careful whereas Romeo is loud, brave, irrational and passionate with she. They talk about love, the moon and mariage, they plan to get married soon. At the end, Juliet keeps coming back and they say goodnight a thousand time.

The most adorable two hours of my week

I ran into one of the English teachers from the local middle school at the cantine a few weeks ago, and he requested that I come into some of his classes of sixièmes (10- and 11-year-olds) to talk about about what life was like for their compatriots across the pond.

After enlisting the help of fabulous Texas middle school teacher Aberdeen, who was also in my French classes of yore at the U of M, I compiled answers to the teacher's list of questions: How long is the school day? Do the students wear uniforms? What kinds of clubs are available? What food do they have in the cafeteria? Etc. (Thanks Aberdeen! Now everyone go read her blog.)

I got to the classroom a bit early, and the students were crowding around the door, waiting for their teacher. They. Were. Adorable. Some of them seemed barely 3 feet high, and they just had the cutest little French faces. Once they discovered that I was The American talking to them that day they encircled me and chirped, "'Ello! Good afternoon! 'Ow ah yoo!"

When the teacher came he unlocked the door and they filed in, each repeating, "Good afternoon!" before going to their desk. They all stood politely beside their chairs until they were told to sit down. They started the class by practicing their questions. The teacher would prompt them in French, telling them to ask me things like whether I had any brothers or sisters. Those who knew the sentence structure would point their index finger in the air and moan, "Mister! Mister!" when they wanted to be called upon. Some of the questions I was asked included:

Do yoo lahk flowers? Do yoo lahk Michael Jackson?* What ees your address mail? Haff yoo got a boyfriend? Do yoo spek Portuguese? Do yoo spek...attend...c'est quoi le mot...Chinese? What ees your telephone numbah? Do yoo beleef in Fazzer Christmas? Do yoo lahk leesen zuh blues? What your muzzer do for job? Do yoo lahk your fiancé? Do yoo sink Barack Obama ees good president? Do yoo haff an animal pet? 'Ow old ah yoo?

For the latter I told them 25, and they whispered among themselves trying to decide what that translated to in French (numbers in another language are always so hard). One of them announced, "Elle a trente-sept ans! (She's 37 years old!)"

After my interrogation was over, I told them about life in America. They were envious that students there get out of school at around 2:30 or 3:00--here they have school until 6:00--but astonished that Americans have to go to school all day on Wednesdays. Elementary students here have Wednesdays off, and everyone else only goes to school till noon. They were similarly incensed that the kids only had about a half hour for lunch. Here they get two hours.

The Duluth Public Schools lunch menu was another source of envy. Several clutched their chests and smacked their lips when I told them their friends overseas enjoyed chicken nuggets for lunch last Friday. They also thought Rotini Hotdish sounded divine, which means I did not explain it correctly. Turkey hot dogs, however, did not sound as appetizing to them. They were impressed at the number of sports available for students, and that if you're a member of a high school team you practice your sport every day after school. Jaws literally dropped.

I offered to teach them the "We've got spirit, s-p-i-r-i-t spirit" cheer, which is always a big hit. They were amazed at the complicated clapping that accompanies it, and when I finished I got a deafening round of applause. When the bell rung the teacher told them all to thank me, and I got a chorus of adorable gratitude.

One student, who still hasn't mastered his "th" sound, beamed and yelled, "F**k yoo!"

*Fun fact: The school has a Michael Jackson club.

How to make a French person laugh

When asked why you decided to come to France, tell them, "J'ai voulu beaucoup des aventures avant de me marier."  Literal translation: "I wanted to have many adventures before getting married." What it really means: "I wanted to be very promiscuous before getting married."

Ask for une trompette (trumpet) when what you want is une trombone (paperclip).

During a conversation about Thanksgiving, tell your French friend how hard it is to be far from your amants (lovers) instead of your bien-aimés (loved ones).

Give your height in kilometers.

When politely motioning someone to go in front of you, tell them "Va t'en!" (get the frick out) instead of "Allez-y!" (go ahead).

Lounge Podcast Take 1!

Take a listen. You won't regret it.

New Years Rezzies.

1. Wake up at the same time every workday.
    Back story: I'm notoriously awful at getting up in the morning. And you know how it is, snoozing can be a slippery slope. Before you know it, you have snoozed for an hour! No more, lassies. No more, kindly gents. I'm taking control of my morning, like a snake takes control of its prey. One snooze per day, 9 minutes before when I wake up, which will be 8:30 every day no matter what. Minus weekends.

2. Eat breakfast every day. 
    Back story: I've never done this before! My tum isn't normally too happy when I get up, so my first meal of the day is usually lunch. No more. Breakfast is good for the body. Plus it cures cancer. And gives you long, luxurious hair. And bionic limbs. So...I'm on board.

3. Stop eating after 10 pm. 
    Exemptions and back story: Did this last night for the first time. It was ROUGH. Apparently that's how Oprah lost all of her weight back in the day, but I'm amending it to 10 pm instead of 9 pm since I don't go to bed until about 2 am every night. I will allow myself two exemptions. 1. If I haven't eaten dinner before 10 pm then obviously, the rule goes out the door. 2. I get one bite of whatever Tom is eating in front of me because, c'mon.

4. Go to the Y every single day.
    Exemptions and back story: Unless I'm out of town or extremely ill, I will go to the gym every day. I'm one of those people that has to go every day, or it turns into zero days. Did you know I joined the 100 mile club at the Y? Well, I did. That means I will swim a mile every day unless I need a chlorine break because my skin is falling off or my hair is officially green. Then when I reach 100, I get a t-shirt indicating so. Jealous?

5. Throw myself and Troy the best birthday party known to man.
    There's not much I can say here except that it is our Godly duty to show everyone a good time as we ring in our 26th and 28th years of life. It's like we were born to throw this party. Don't believe me? Observe pump up video #1, more to come as we inch closer to that fateful date. http://www.facebook.com/v/486804139716

Ok! Now you know all of my secrets. And it's on paper, signed in my blood, which I just smeared across the computer screen.

Love,
Anna

7 parties. 1 fateful night.

Here's a top 10 list of things to know if you're going to 7 parties in one night.

1. Plan for parking. Especially if it's a snow emergency. And freezing outside. Because if you aren't patient and aren't willing to park at least 6 blocks away, you're probably going to miss the 8th party (sorry Bleric!).

2. Group your parties by location. Start with the farthest away, then work your way in so you can get to your eventual goal of being on foot only.

3. Someone needs to be sober sister. Consider the people traveling with you in your group. If one of them drunk-slept an entire day and night when you were camping, including when he was tubing down a river, perhaps it's his turn to be sober sister for the first half of your parties.

4. Bundle. The frick. Up. It's cold outside! We're talking scarf over your face, booze in a backpack, don your warmest and least attractive boots, and learn from me ladies. Double up the leggings next time, ok?

5. Spend a good chunk of time at the party with the best food. (You know who you are, party #3. Your spicy chicken bbq dip, your pickles and cream cheese appetizers, your caramel puff corn, your white chocolate dipped oreos, for God sakes!! I'm bringing you a medal, you hear?) 


6. If you're going to be a-holes and not stay at parties for very long, at least bring a gift. Our choice beverage was a variety of delicious sparkling juices, because every party has its token kids and/or alcoholics, right? Respect.

7. If you are the non-sober person of the group, I highly suggest no more than 1 drink per party, unless one party was a dud and you needed to double up (obviously). I found that 7ish drinks over 8ish hours was a pretty perfect combination of non-sloppy yet energetic, hilarious, and adorable. According to me.

8. Don't leave your sweater at party #2. That means leaving parties 3 through 7 you'll have to endure the cold inside part of your sleeves rubbing up against your bare arms. Bare arms! C'mon Anna.

9. Make mental notes of hilarious things people say and do so you can recount them the next day via text. Especially when someone whispers cryptic pieces of advice into your ear as he/she gracefully stumbles out of the party (*cough HANNAH, *cough BEST PART OF THE NIGHT).

10. Take pictures with all of the hosts of your parties, so blog readers can believe everything you actually accomplished that night.

My partner in crime.

Party #1, hosted by Dave and Kristin

Party #2, 1920's themed, hosted by the lovely Keira Gatta

Party #3 and winner of best food ever, hosted by Alyson Wise

Party #4, circus themed, by the homemade tutu-ed Ani Loizzo

Party #5, where the ball dropped, hosted by Bokensha x2 and Jessi!

Party #6, hosted by Allison, Marlowe, and my cuddle buddy Professor!

Party #7, hosted (until 4:30 am!) by Lauren and Bobby

And please, let's all have a moment of silence for our fallen party. I'm sorry Bleric.

...................silence...........................

The end. Happy New Year!

T'will be epic.