(The Puppet version of Twilight)
I want a bike. It's been years since I last rode one and now I want to have one again. Even though Miami has a climate that makes the activity of bike-riding quite torturous, I still want a bike. It's fun. Period.
In fact, I have craved wanting to relive my childhood past time for a good year or so. Today, I woke up with the same desire.
I learned how to ride the "grown-up" bike when I was nine. My elementary school P.E. classes started to make us learn bike safety rules and whatnot. I did not do well in my class because I did not know how to ride. As my classmates chased and crashed into each other, thus giving our P.E. teacher premature gray hair, I clung for dear life to the two-wheeled transportation device. I was clearly a little rusty from my trike years and I concluded that needed to do some more practice on my own time if I wanted to do well in the class. I happily told my parents that evening that I wanted to have my own bike because it was fun. So my father rushed to K-Mart and purchased a bright pink helmet and a bike. The bike in question came without training wheels.
I learned to ride within two days.
My father's highly effective method of teaching featured me peddling quickly off the slanted driveway in front of our house to make me careen precariously into the safety of oncoming neighborhood traffic.
Oh, yeah. You'd better believe I learned fast. This wasn't just merely "sink or swim"; it was "ride or die." By the way, I don't recommend this teaching strategy for parents today, lest you want to have child services raid your behind to court.
When I was in France, I did not ride a bike. Not once. It's not like the French are short on bike supplies. Paris has Vélib, a public system that allows people to rent bicycles in time intervals. So does Lyon. Even Dijon jumped on the bicycle bandwagon; their system is called Vélodi. I rarely saw a Dijonnais peddling away, however. What for if we have an excellent bus system that is prone to the occasional strike? I almost got the chance to mount on one. When visiting my ex-boyfriend's village for one week-end, we had marvelous plans of trekking up the hills in the Ain, one of the eight départements which divide the Rhône-Alpes région.
Rain spoiled our potential excursion.
I will get back on a bike someday. But first I have to purchase one.
Barb the French Bean
Nowadays, blogging has become something sensational to do among those who like to write (and in certain cases make money). Of course I don't do it for money...
I finally got the dreaded "Studio" out of my mind.
*wild applause and raucous cheers*
On this quiet Sunday, I craved to listen to one of my favorite French singers, Francis Cabrel. When I had a stable source of income, a good portion of my earnings were traded on Amazon.com to purchase various French CDs. I gladly invested in perfecting my pronunciation by singing along to Hélène Ségara, Mylène Farmer, even Pascal Obispo. But Francis Cabrel stuck out among them.
"I come from heaven and the stars among it don't speak of anything but you, from a musician who makes his hands play on a morsel of wood..."
Early in my arrival in Dijon, I overheard one of my room mates listening to her playlist of songs. I instantly recognized "Petite Marie." I got excited. It was the first time I heard his voice in France. It was no longer in my room in my Miami!
"Ah, that's Francis Cabrel," I exclaimed.
"Ben, oui, bien sûr. Who else could you think it was?" To the French, it's obvious who he is.
I also love "Je l'aime à mourir." It's a declaration of a man's unyielding love and admiration for the woman who raises him.
For this man, you can destroy everything that you want; she only needs to open the space of her arms to rebuild it all. She builds bridges between them and heaven; they cross them every time she doesn't want to sleep. She dances in the middle of the forests she paints. She must have fought every war to be as strong as she is today. She must have fought every war of life as well as love's.
(Yes, behold Cabrel in his '70s Jesus glory!)
Barb the French Bean
Disclaimer: neither the videos nor Cabrel's lyrics is mine.
Tonight, I met up with a very good friend from my high school years. We had not seen each other in close to two years, so we decided to make our reunion a special occasion.
43 days have passed since I left France.
...Saying that makes me feel like some poor addict who counts and takes each day at a time. No. I sound more like someone who pathetically logs about his travels while he wanders lost in some foreign land.
Day 43: I cannot take it anymore. My body craves the wonderful fromages of Caprice des dieux and Le Régal de Bourgogne. My lips tremble when I barely remember the creamy heaven that once graced across my tongue. I have no choice: I must make due with some Boursin that I scavenged at Costco.
I admit that, for these past few days, my emotions have shifted from "On top of the World" ...
I also have the power to emancipate myself.
Another day begins. I wash my hair. I put mousse in it. I put on my make-up. I spray on my Kenzo Amour perfume on my clothes.
This Post is not perverted AT ALL.
Being a Psch. major is very interesting, especially when you start learning new terminology. Even though we do get a lot of reading assignments and can be very tedious, you will always find something odd.
Like always, I was in class ready for another lecture about some crazy theorist with a bad upbringing. At times, I tend to space out, but only when my professor goes on and on about a certain theorist, who is actually normal.
As I was musing about going to my kick-boxing class, I suddenly heard the word "Musturbation".
Bewildered by what my professor had said, I started to crack up in silence only to later be joined by my classmates.
"Did you mean masturbation?" asked one of the students, as everyone kept laughing. "No, I said musturbation," said my professor amused by everyone's reaction.
The professor started to explain that musturbation was a word that Albert Ellis, the founder of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy, would use to refer to someone who has a destructive idea that their needs and expectations MUST be met.
Well after I got out of that class, I decided to use the new word.
Of course, since not everyone is going to get the humor of it, I decided to explain it to my roomate, and then try to use it around her.
Even then, it still sounds wrong. No matter how many times I explain it.
- Hanny The Coffee Bean
WARNING: This post features a highly earwormable song. Proceed with extreme caution.
During the 7 months that I was away, the air conditioning device in my room took a nice long vacation from functioning 24/7. I have now returned. It's officially summer and to be in a room without air conditioning equates to suffering in a self-induced sauna.
Throughout my years of studying and living among the French, my American friends always ask me about certain French stereotypes. These aspects, happily portrayed in films, have unfortunately created certain images about the French that are rather ridiculous. So, with some frustration, I hope to dispel some of these myths.
1) The French do not dress like this on a 24/7 basis:
Barb the French Bean
Disclaimer: I do not own the video of Edith Piaf (though it would be awesome if I did)
My daily life includes going to classes, doing homework, blogging, going to kick boxing, and the never ending errands in my life. I know not so much, but by the end of the day I am dead tired.
One of the most difficult aspects of learning a foreign language is oral comprehension. It takes many years to have your ear become accustomed to deciphering the sounds, inflection and vocabulary. The advantage of practicing constantly results in training the mind to pick up new things.