Tag Archives: Résidence

And then we got stuck in an elevator…

Yes, the rumors are true. Immediately following the joyous ‘Welcome Dinner’ nine of us got stuck in the teeny tiny elevator of our Residence. For an hour.
*It should be noted that while only eight people can be depicted in this photo there is in fact a ninth person – she was having a panic attack next to me in the corner on the floor – from the moment the doors closed. Such a dramatic scene!

The ridiculousness of this situation is heightened by the Frenchiness we encountered throughout: no one coming to our rescue even though we were four inches off the lobby floor and the front desk night watch man could no doubt hear us calling for help and repeatedly buzzing the black call button. It was only until I used my French cell phone to call the the Residence’s front desk that he acknowledged our situation – and even then – shat on it with a big pile of French poop.

Front desk man: (in French) “How many of you are in the elevator?”
Me:  “Nine.”
Front desk man: (in French) “Well the limit is eight people. You shouldn’t get in with more than eight people.”
        Me: (mentally) Of course it is… If I had said there were 8 of us he would have said the limit was 7. I love the French, but for real – F them sometimes, too.

What happens next is him telling me that they have called “the technician.” Good, I think, he’ll get here lickity split since this is a sensitive situation. Ohhhh no. The unhelpful Frenchie at the front desk proceeds to tell me this “technician” is coming from Nice as he was attending to another elevator disaster (what the hell kind of elevators are these that break all the time?!) and it will take at least 45min. Fantastic. Great. Katio (that rhymes with ‘patio’) has been crouched in the corner for 10min already crying and shaking. I tell him his time estimate is “too long” for us to wait, but alas, his unhelpful nature is unwavering. I get the sense he may even be smirking. Awesome.

Frustrated, I call Namita (the HBIC) and think for sure she will make something happen. In the very least she can call the local fire department (assuming there is a local fire dept — in four years I can’t say I’ve ever noticed one…) and they can come axe us out or something. She calls me back and says the fire department says to rely on the “technician.” Wait, what?! The FIRE DEPARTMENT said, “No”?!?! Is that even legal?! Firemen get cats out of trees for christsake – that surely seems less urgent than 9 people, 1 mid-panic-attack, being stuck in a small metal box hovering two stories over the underground parking deck. What the hell?

Realizing this situation is going nowhere fast, I begrudgingly begin to accept our fate and focus my energy on the others in this shoebox with me.

We laughed, we cried, we shared water (thank god Sophie had grabbed an extra bottle from the welcome dinner), and we shared Xanax (thank god Sophie had flown in that evening and still had her plane aid in her purse). It was a tumultuous hour, but we all made it out alive and bonded together.

It is no coincidence that NO ONE has ridden in that elevator since then and that most students are getting far more exercise than usual on this trip as most opt to take the stairs given our elevator incident.

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I guess the question is…

Why WOULDN’T they repaint all the white lines on the road at 1:30am right outside our residence with a crazy loud machine?
Silly me.
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Day Trois

Being the haggard old lady that I am – well, at least compared to these Energizer bunny students – I took the third day of the Festival “off” to stay in Juan Les Pins and catch up on sleep, sanity, and computer usage.

Posting up in the wifi-friendly lobby of our residence, I sunk deeper and deeper into one of the cracked leather couches for approximately seven hours – accomplishing way less, blog-wise, than I had set out to complete. It’s amazing how accustomed we (in America) have become to instant gratification, technologically. When the loading of a website or the upload of a photo takes longer than .5 seconds it feels like an eternity. Needless to say, it has been a struggle — in France, I achieve as much in an hour as I would in ten minutes back in the States. And yes, I WILL take some cheese with this whine – preferably camembert and emmental.

Besides my time-sucking-blackhole-of-an-internet experience there were a couple noteworthy anecdotes I’ll take the time to share…

Living in a French residence makes for some fantastic people-watching in our very own lobby. The slue of characters is similar in that they are mostly European vacationers – a lot of times with families (read: adorable kids with even more adorable accents) – or they are quirky, elderly locals. On this, my day off, I was lucky enough to have encounters with both of these ‘types’.

The first encounter occurred with the former of these examples. A pack of siblings plopped themselves down on the plush, brown couches around where I sat. There was the older, adolescent sister who quietly set the example – there was the husky, middle-child brother whose slicked back hair and bowling ball-esque stature was more than amusing, and then there was the youngest sister with curly hair down to her back who was full of life and too cute for words. All three were pre-occupied with electronic devices that matched each child perfectly – size and age-wise. It was like the three bears in Goldie Locks and the sizes of their furniture. The oldest typed on her regular-sized laptop, the middle child gazed at his personal DVD player, and the youngest energetically played on her tiny handheld Nintendo device. The site of these kids with their perfectly-sized gadgets, respectively, was entertainment enough….that is, until the youngest little girl started loudly cussing at her Nintendo. Repeatedly. It was HILARIOUS! Her older brother and sister were hardly fazed by her outbursts – which made me wonder if this type of language/behavior was normal. The little girl couldn’t have been more than five, yet she was shouting “merde” at poor little “Mario” on her screen. “Merde! Mario a tué!” If I heard a kindergartener in America yell, “Shit, Mario died,” I would correct them – or in the very least strongly question the way they’ve been parented. Is this a cultural difference? It was my understanding that ‘merde’ means ‘shit’ and ‘shit’ is equivocal to a cuss word. Am I wrong? Has this term been lost in translation? Perhaps ‘merde’ is more closely aligned with ‘crap’ – still getting the meaning of ‘shit’ across, but in a less severe word form. I don’t know – this encounter really made me wonder…

Second, there is an old man whose walks through the lobby I have managed to witness twice daily. He often takes up complaints about who knows what with the front desk – he seems to really make the staff work for his approval, which I like. The students refer to him as “a boss” (not in the workforce sense…but in the current college lingo sense). From behind, in his flannel shirts and fitted jeans, he has the frame of a 30-year-old version of himself – yet when he turns around to face forward his 70-year-old potbelly and wrinkles are revealed and I love him all over again. My favorite accessory is his blue NY Yankees hat that he wears constantly. So badly I want to take a picture of this man for Pete Heid (one of my advertising coworkers and the biggest Yankees fan I’ve ever met). Anyway, on this day I find myself in the elevator with him for a few brief moments. I seize this opportunity to tell him, “J’aime beacoup ton chapeau” (aka- I really like your hat). He says, “New York!” and continues on to tell me an unlikely story. Instead of the typical ‘I went to NYC and bought this hat’ tale he told me he had gone on a trip to Spain and found this hat for sale en Espagne. He bought it there solely because he like the hat, admitting to me that he had never even been to New York let alone the United States. I laughed in French (quoi?) and bid him ‘au revoir’ as the elevator stopped at his floor. I smiled the rest of the way up to my floor.

Finally, I got a small taste of home. Through a quick gchat with Dan I learned that Charley (mine and Dan’s sweet little Puggle) was in daycare back in Atlanta. I immediately go to Bark ATL’s website to take a peak in its three dog rooms – Little Pup Lane, Mid-Hound Lounge, & Big Dog Way – via the online motion cameras the daycare provides. I found Charley and her doggy friends PASSED OUT in the Mid-Hound Lounge, her white underside exposed, in prime position for a belly rub. I took a quick still shot of the room and dragged the photo to my desktop (see below). I love that even 4,735.2 miles away (yep, check it: http://www.distancefromto.net/) I can see my baby girl and get a little jolt of happiness from home. God bless Bark ATL’s video cameras (and skype)!

Courtesy of services provided by: www.barkatl.com

Around 8pm I venture out from my comfortable lobby setup with our program’s Telecom professor, Dr. Jennifer Smith. Jen needs dinner and my stomach’s gurgling indicates that I do too. I suggest in an instant that we dine at “Pasta de Lys,” the cheapest, best pizza/pasta place in Juan. Jen has heard me raving about it since last year, so she is eager to try it.

*Cool bonus: “Pasta de Lys” will provide you a Chinese takeout-esqe ‘to go’ box for your leftovers should you choose to take them with you. In a country where ‘doggy bags’ are virtually non-existent (and definitely taboo to request) this is a huge perk worth mentioning. The restaurant also offers delivery service. Yes, delivery service in France. It’s so cute – they have a little motorbike that sits out front with a plastic crate strapped on the back that can hold pizza boxes. I love it.

[insert food pic]

As you can see, this place – and this food – is fantastic.

After we finished carbo-loading the ball was in Jen’s court to guide us to a dessert place. Being the nutella crepe connoisseur that she is, Jen immediately leads the way to “Grand Marnier” – the fanciest, shmanciest crepe stand I have ever seen. Like its closely-situated competitors “Grand Marnier” possesses the standard round, heated crepe maker, metal crepe spreader, and oversized jar of nutella. Unlike the other crepe stands “Grand Marnier” trounces the competition with sprawling marble countertops – an unrivaled luxury provided to the walk-up customers. Additionally, there are two crepe-constructors extraordinaire (as opposed to the usual, one-man crepe operation) and this tag-team duo perpetuates their professionalism through their uniform chef hats, at least a foot high, and their crisp, white chef jackets. They clearly take their crepe-making seriously.

*Cool bonus: “Grand Marnier” provides a never-before-seen (at least in my quarter life) crepe eating device: plastic tongs! Genius! Beige in color and free for the taking, these tongs are also labeled with the “Grand Marnier” name – as are the napkins. Needless to say their investments have paid off.

[insert crepe pic]

“Grand Marnier’s” crepe is, hands down, the best nutella crepe I have ever consumed.

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So Euro

My drinks are so Euro right now.
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Dinner Excursion

Guess what? My appetite came back! And I am starving!

Since I haven’t really eaten a meal since the picnic-style Moe’s and Joe’s lunch of chicken quesadillas on the floor of Carl’s cube Tuesday afternoon — (had to get my Cinco de Mayo fill early) — I was turning into quite the Ana Anna. (that’s eating disorder speak, folks. look it up.)

*SIDENOTE (aka- Completely Unrelated Tangential Meandering): Not only does my last name stand for “lady bits” (‘Beaver’), but my first name is lucky enough to have the honor of standing for ‘Ana’, a glorified personification of an eating disordered girl (think, Fiona Apple) – derived from, ‘anorexia’. Ana is often spotted hanging out with fellow skinny bitch, ‘Mia’ (you know, like, buliMIA). I’m not even making this up, folks. This is the type of information I learn when I see a friend on facebook who has gotten too skinny and then spend the next hour and half of my ADD-plagued life on urban dictionary-esque sites centered around eating disorders. I also read about some sort of weird tie-in about what it stands for when these types of girls wear red and purple bracelets?? I don’t know – I learned a lot of crazy things during that Google search. So beware, skinny friends, I’m watching you…

Anyway, getting back to it. I was STARVING, J, but still not quite ready to indulge in the delicious richness often found in typical French cuisine. So I opt to go the salad route and start wandering the local streets.

Saw this on the way.

I finally stumble into a little pizza place across the street from my residence. I ask if they can make a salad “à emporter” (aka- ‘to go’). The owner was overtly accommodating and assured me he could do this – offered me a place to sit down in the restaurant while I waited. It was a good thing I sat down because it took him about 40min – no lie – to prepare it. I guess he was just trying to make it perfect. I didn’t mind waiting – it was nice being out of my room and listening to a nearby table of French folks chatting over their meals. Anyway, when he finally brought it out – he gave me the salad in a big thing of tupperware – ha! If I had known they didn’t do take-out, I wouldn’t have made him go through all that – but he was so nice. Anyway, I promised him I would bring back the tupperware, silverware, and dressing container he gave me because “je reste juste la-bas” (indicating my residence was right across the street). He knew because he said he saw me get out of the taxi the other morning. That would’ve been creepy if he wasn’t so nice – but I didn’t get that vibe from him at all. He was legitimately just looking out for an apparent out-of-towner. So nice.

My delicious salad. Can you tell it was a pizza place? Notice the pesto covered mozzarella. LOVE. IT. This shall now be known as “Le Anna Special.”

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