The Venice of the North

Upon the booking of my bus ticket to Bruges, Belgium, I found myself announcing to everyone my spectacular day trip plan. In previous conversations, I heard marvelous things about this small Flemish city. Naturally, at dinner a few nights before my departure, I mentioned to my host mother of my day trip set for the 17^th of February. Like any typical French person, she began to ooze with passion when the word Bruges fell out of my mouth (I have come to realize that the French may be the most passionate people on this planet…everything from the beauty of rain and snow to documentaries on giant squid-more to come on that topic, I promise).

For the next 20 minutes, my host mother poured all her adorations and obsessions with Bruges right on to the dinner table and into the goat cheese, tomato and mushroom quiche. When her speech came to an end, she casually mentioned how Bruges is considered the Venice of the North…and that is when my heart sank. Italy and I have an interesting relationship. I fawn over their gnocchi and carbonara, I admire nearly every piece of artwork that is a product of the High Renaissance, and I marvel over the intricacy of Baroque architecture and décor.

Yet every city I have been to in Italy has been an utter disappointment. Florence- rainy, overly large pigeons, insane amount of fanny pack wearing tourists. Rome-just as dirty as Florence, incredibly small metro system, creepy men. And then Venice. I was in Venice for only two days in the winter of 2011, and it was horrid. The rain, the cold, the winding, claustrophobic streets and passageways…Venice was not the city for me. So when I heard that Bruges was the Venice of the north, I felt an ominous cloud form over my head in preparation for my day trip Sunday (I’m not this dramatic in person, I swear…)

My bus departed from the Musée du Louvre metro stop at 7am. The four hour bus ride was pleasant and I found myself loving the deserted country side as the sun rose quietly over the small green hills. It was also interesting to learn that it is required by French law that bus drivers must stop for a minimum of 30 minutes to rest, so as not to over do it. Only in France would a break be required by law.

When we arrived in Bruges, all of my fears dissipated into the thick fog that hung over the city. In Paris, I would moan and groan at the sight of a cloudy day, but in Bruges, the cold misty, fog was almost comforting. We toured most of the city in an hour and a half and then had three hours or so of free time. After a wonderful lunch of cauliflower soup and smoked cod fish at the family-run restaurant called Beethoven, Joelle and I went to the Groeningemuseum, visited Notre Dame, took a short canal tour, and popped into a few lace shops as well.

And then….there was death by chocolate. OH THE  CHOCOLATE! The woman behind the counter at the Chocoladehuisje on Wollestraat did not look amused when I changed my mind nine times about the chocolates I wished to purchase. But what did she expect? I may have the biggest sweet tooth of anyone I know, so I had reached my chocolate paradise. Bruges was the city for me.

            Leaving was difficult, but Paris was waiting for me and I hated to be away from the City of Light. On the night bus back to Paris, I reflected on all the ways in which Bruges was not the Venice of the North. Instead, I found Bruges to be a wonderful conglomerate of Prague, Amsterdam, and Venice. The architecture was reminiscent of Prague thanks to the varying styles and colors in buildings. The abundance of brick and the small canal reminded me of Amsterdam. And the winding streets brought back memories of Venice. Bruges was a fabulous city and I wish I had another day to tour. But if there is only one thing I can say to Bruges, it would be: You had me at chocolate. 

Notre Dame Was under some construction

Lace shops galore!

Interior of Beethoven

Death by chocolate

Canal tour

Joelle posing at the Groeningemuseum

To Be Cold or….(Not to Be Cold). There Is No Question

It has been five weeks since my suede Zara wedges touched French soil. Since my arrival in the land of wine and cheese, I have been freezing my royal Rastafarian nay-nays off (please note the Cool Runnings reference from the one and only Sanka)! Some may argue that the French detest radiators because of their aversion to all things modern. Perhaps their dislike of heat comes from the need to resist certain appliances that the American culture fully embraces (and most certainly uses in excess). Others may even argue that the lack of heat is due to the extreme price that comes with living the fabulous Parisian lifestyle. While the latter is correct, I would like to argue my personal opinion, which is the French refuse to turn on any form of heat because, it reflects their somewhat cold mind-sets. The French are by no means known for their overly warm and welcoming personalities. (Stay tuned for my post on Ann Lawson’s Guide to making French Friends!)

In the corner of my room, fixed to the wall, there is a small white electric heater. This modern, lifeless savior is merely 2X2 feet and is my only friend in the battle against the Parisian cold. Secretly, I turn the heater on full blast, or to the point where it becomes so hot that the heater begins to smell like burnt toast. For the first two weeks my plan was phenomenal! While the rest of my host family’s apartment was a frigid 16^o C (around 60^o F) my room was nothing short of a full-blown sauna that had the added plus of smelling like toast. My plan worked for about two and a half weeks. Then Sylvie, my beloved host mom, walked past my room as I opened the door to leave for French class.

Usually I time my door openings to when no one is in the vicinity. However, this particular time, I was careless thanks to the fabulous pair of Dre Beats upon my head, which obstructed my hearing ability. Sylvie became almost hysterical. “QUOI QUOI QUOI?!? Your room is so hot!! Why??” She immediately began to explain to me, in French, that I was no longer in the United States and that I could not just simply waste precious energy like most Americans do.

The jig was up. Ever since, I have been a victim of the heat police. If I left my room for more than five minutes… “Ann, you turn off heater right?” Which she deliberately said to me in English, so that nothing was lost in translation. If that was bad, mornings are a nightmare. As if waking up at 7:30AM for French class isn’t enough of a struggle for me, waking up at 7:30AM to the weather common in the South Pole is incredibly painful. I rush across the hall, or as I call it the frozen tundra, to shower. When my splendid eight minutes of overly heated liquid bliss is over, I pull back the cheap, blue shower curtain, to the rush of cold air that hits my fair skin like pins and needles. Luckily, after complaining under my breath about the Icelandic temperatures, my host mother dug up an incredibly small electric heater to place next to my shower. Beggars can’t be choosers.

But it is not only the apartment that’s cold. It’s everywhere in Paris. My night class in the Louvre-cold. Boutiques-cold. My programs studio space-cold. Restaurants-cold (unless you sit outside where there are heaters…ironic no?). And of course, my French class, which is also cold.

I think what bothers me the most, besides having to change my habits, is the different French people telling me that it’s physiological. Ok, fine...Me being cold is a psychological issue. My French professor, Stephane, had enough of my moaning and groaning about the lack of heat in his class.  His first attempt for me to shut up was to simply ignore me. Well, if anyone knows me in the slightest, it’s that I hate to be ignored. So I became more vocal about the cold. His next attempt was the classic American beat down. “Oh you Americans and over-heating spaces, so typical.” Still didn’t deter me of my goal of a heated paradise. Stephane’s last attempt was telling me that my chills are due to my mind-set, that if I pretended to be warm, then I would be. False, buddy. I’m cold because this room is too cold to even sustain life.

For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid winter lover. I am convinced that I was a polar bear in my past life and ever since my Moon Boots purchase, I am prepared for the next snowpocalypse. But after this past month, my mindset has changed. I have come to realize that I love snow…when I look at it from inside a cozy room. I love to watch winter winds whip through the trees…as long as there is a heater blasting. I love leisurely walks in winter wonderlands…if I am wearing my  Moon Boots and an incredible coat that is accessorized by leather gloves and a fur hat. And sleet? Adore it! As long as the surrounding air is a toasty 72^o and as long as I am off any roadway.

But to conclude, this constant battle with the cold and the heat police has forced me to realize my incredible need to be warm is not only excessive, but it forces me to come to terms with the importance of conservation. I am certainly no tree hugger, and the hippie lifestyle is one I would prefer to avoid at all costs. But now, my heater is on low and it is off while I sleep and while I am away from my room. Besides, wearing my fabulous vintage green coat and fur vest indoors just gives me another reason to look amazing every minute of the day, even when no one else can see me.

Ciao!

Re-Bonjour Paris!

There are some who call me the modern day Michelangelo. While this maybe an inappropriate name for a blog, which is consumed by talk of Parisian cafes, art, and sights, I seem to embody every quality of the name. I have a horrible habit of being unable to finish what I start. For example: some homework assignments never seem to make it into the professors hands, various creative art projects rarely see the light of day, and broccoli is always left over on my plate. However, I can soundly inhale a tarte aux framboise in one minute flat, I never seem to fail at keeping up with my Tumblr, Pintrest, or Instagram accounts, and an entire box of pistachio macaroons from Laduree can be easily consumed without breaking a sweat.

As some of you may know, I had a blog from my last Parisian adventure. But alas, its electronic lifespan was short lived and thus was another innocent victim of my modern day Michelangelo tendencies. But can you blame me? I was trying to write blog posts while in Paris…the biggest distraction of all! Blog posts began to turn into what felt like homework assignments and I am no fan of extra work (I just suppose I can thank my inner Frenchiness for that). I was much more talented at prancing around Parisian boulevards in six inch heels, overdosing on blackened espressos, drooling at the sight of delicately crafted macaroons, or fainting from the smell of leather made products wafting out of a small boutique on Boulevard St. Germain.

Yet this time I have higher hopes for my blog entries. Photography has always been a passionate hobby of mine, so I figure that with a little motivation from my Nikon, I will be more dedicated to sharing my photographs of the City of Light along with some detailed entries on my fabulous adventures while abroad…take 2. I never thought that I would be so lucky as to to travel to Paris to study for one semester. But a second semester in Paris?! That is simply a dream come true. 

As Dr. Seuss once said: “You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” I am not sure if it is the time difference or my pure excitement to be back in Paris, but sleep has become somewhat obsolete since my return. Dr. Seuss is right; I am in love and I am constantly falling over and over for a city that I simply can’t get enough of. I fall back in love with Paris every morning when I groggily walk through the damp fog, when I sip a cup of tea from Mariage Frères, or as I watch an old man quietly walk through Parc des Buttes Chaumont. So my everyday reality in Paris is better than sleep. And my love for this city and culture only grows with each passing day.

À tout à l’heure!!