All About Ericka

The first day I arrived in Aix-en-Provence, I met a small, feisty Dominican named Ericka–my housemate for the next four months. Following a brief introduction at the airport, we unpacked into our new rooms separately, and immediately took naps. After dinner, Ericka came into my room–with a handful of condoms. She simply said “Here,”, threw the condoms at me, and continued, “I’m an R.A. and I want you to be safe. If you need more, I have a suitcase full of them,” then walked out. Little did I know, this condom wielding munchkin would become my best friend.

Look how cute she is!

Ericka may be fun-sized, but she has the personality of a giant. My favorite topic to hear her complain about is the fact that she gets picked up at parties–and by ¨picked up¨, I mean physically lifted up into the air. “It was a great night of dancing,” she would begin, “but then everyone started to pick me up.” And once one person starts, everyone joins in, and Ericka ends up being passed around the room from person to person. This happens more times than one would deem acceptable.

We spend nearly every day together, walking to class, going on Valentine’s Day dates, watching “specific” movies together, doing Insanity, having pillow talk every night–you name it. She is the Laurel to my Hardy, the Merry to my Pippin, and the Dumb to my Dumberer. And after months of threatening her, the day for her blog post to reach the light of day has finally arrived.

If anyone could claim to be my number one fan in life, it would be Ericka. She has watched all of my acting videos, been my audience at the open mic and talent shows in Aix, listened to and critiqued my ukulele practices, and she continues to read every single one of my blog posts. As I write each post, Ericka pesters me from her adjoining room, saying, “Is it up yet is it up yet is it up yet?!?” Then, when I finally post my blog, Ericka reads it slowly and meticulously from her desk, with her adorable Dominican accent, laughing every five seconds and reading parts of it out-loud.

There are an endless amount of stories I could write about Ericka, and we’ve had enough adventures together to write an entire book; but, I’ll limit it to a few, based on some quotes she has spoken over the past few months. Enjoy these stories, because her personality shines way too bright in all of them.

   

1) Homo Erectus.

Before I left the states, I had an interesting conversation with my hairdresser. She claimed that European men have the biggest penises. I, of course, had to discuss this fact with Ericka. Here’s a snippet of our conversation:

• “Ericka, I heard that French men and Scottish men have the biggest penises.”

Ericka takes a moment to reflect upon this information, then explains, carefully,

• “I think that’s because of Homo Erectus. No. The Neanderthals. Definitely the Neanderthals.”

2) The Air Freshener

Throughout our French house, there are multiple automatic air fresheners. We each have one in our adjoining rooms, and they spray a scent every 15 minutes. The air fresheners annoyed me to no end the first month we lived there, because mine and Ericka’s were delayed from each other by 14 seconds. This was annoying. Anyway, what we never realized until it was too late, was that the air freshener could run out…in the middle of the night.

At 3:45 a.m., Ericka and I woke up to what sounded like a fire alarm–coming from her air freshener. In a sleepwalk slumber, Ericka got out of bed, grabbed the air freshener contraption, and attempted to open it. Next, came the sound of her throwing it on the floor. To no end, Ericka smashed and smashed the evil device, hopelessly attempting to end its life. In desperation, Ericka took the air freshener, walked out of her room, through my room, to the door leading into the hallway. Then, she went into the bathroom, violently tossed the air freshener into a cabinet, shut the door, shut the bathroom door, shut my door, and returned to bed, tranquil as if nothing had happened.

A few hours later, our host mom Sophie discovered the contraption hidden in the bathroom, still beeping violently. Our battle was messy, but at least we had some semblance of a victory. A few weeks later, my air freshener went off in the middle of the night; but this time we were prepared with knives and forced it open. Then, we left a note on top of the now dead air freshener on the kitchen table, for Sophie to find the next day, stating “NOUS AVONS GAGNÉ!” (we won).

3) My graduation party.

I’ve been planning my graduation party for when I return back to the States, and there have been a few issues of coordination and planning within my family; making it a stressful and annoying issue. Ericka’s analysis of this banal problem?

• “I feel like your party is going to be at the White House, and I will be greeted by Barack and Michelle Obama. They will tell me what wine glasses I can and cannot drink out of.”

4) 9/11

On a random day in March, I decided to watch old 9/11 videos and the movie ¨Flight 93¨. It was a very depressing day. Not to mention, a few weeks before, I was certain that I would die on my flight from Barcelona to Mallorca, because the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling during turbulence. Because of this, I had somehow accepted my fate that, yes, one day I will die. Ericka’s contribution to this day?

• “If it would make you feel any better, we can make a mini Twin Tower! And you can like. Jump. If you want to. Like on the sidewalk or something.”

5) Cultural Differences

When you live with someone, you become quite close with them. What I didn’t expect or even anticipate was how close I would become with Ericka until she forced it upon me. One day, Ericka and I entered the house after walking home from school. As I told her a story about my day, Ericka went to the toilet, kept the door open, began to pee, and popped her little head out so she could still talk to me. I immediately started laughing and tried to look away, respecting her privacy, but she continued to look at me obstinately, and simply stated,

• “Cultural differences my dear.”

6) Bullying

Our host mom thought that Ericka was bullying me. Enough said. We laugh about this every other day. BUT IS SHE?

7) Shaun T

Ericka is in love with Shaun T, a fitness trainer who created the workout program “Insanity”. Unfortunately for Ericka, he is happily gay and married. But that doesn’t stop her from working out to his videos everyday, and being extremely vocal about it.

• “Yeah Shaun T, I’ll do it just like that, I know how you like it.”
• “I feel it, I feel it Shaun T. YES. YES.”
• “You can touch me like that too, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

8) Chippendales

Ericka and I happily watched and drooled over “Magic Mike” together. Needless to say, we were extremely interested when we passed a sign for Ladies’ Night at the Woohoo, that included a free hour of open bar AND Chippendales. At the show, Ericka screamed and screamed in enjoyment. I kept looking over to her, laughing at all of her reactions, until she yelled at me,

• “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Don’t look at me, LOOK AT THEM!”

9) Miscellaneous Quotes

• “I’m gonna shoot an arrow at your wings and bring you down to earth. Hard. Because I know you like it like that.”
• “There’s nothing like getting in bed. It’s the best welcome and the hardest goodbye.”

(Watching American Beauty)

• Me: “I’m just so in love with him. Even though he’s a psychopath.”
• Ericka: “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll cut you to pieces while you’re having sex.”

Every time Ericka talks with her family:

• “AY, DIOS MIO”

When Ericka met me at Parc Jourdan with a huge smile on her face:

• “I have a present for you.”
• (She pulls out three black and white pictures of Bruno Mars.)
• “For our room!”

Commenting upon how much cereal I eat every morning:

• “Uh oh, looks like the cereal monster attacked again!”

(That’s me. I can finish a box in a day.)

10) The Appropriate End

The culmination of our friendship occurred at IAU’s Talent Show this past Friday night. Throughout our four months together, Ericka and I have shared a special Bruno Mars ¨Uptown Funk¨ bond. I remember the first day we walked to and from school together–getting lost in our new little town, not knowing where to go–we sang ¨Uptown Funk¨ to the beat of our steps. We’d listen to it as we went on our morning runs together, when we did homework, and even when we were ready to go to bed but wanted a late-night dance party instead. Of course, we wanted to share our love for this song to the entire universe, and attempted to sing it twice at karoake night; but, apparently ,we showed up ¨too late to make a song request¨.

The first time we sang ¨Uptown Funk¨ together in public was at a bar in Prague; but this situation was less than ideal because some drunk American girl kept stealing the mic from us. Fast-forward to this past Friday night, at the IAU Talent Show. I had already performed a few times, when Ericka approached me and said, ¨We HAVE to do it.¨

So, we picked up our mics, loaded the Funk of the Uptown, and sang and danced our hearts out in front of our peers. And do you know what happened? The entire room stood up to dance and sing WITH us. It was a Bruno Mars dream come true! We started a dance party that lasted a good two hours after we had finished singing. Granted, most of the students and even the faculty were drunk off of wine, but it was a moment that brought all of us together, during our last week in France, where we could all let loose and enjoy the company of those around us. And there I was, dancing and singing my favorite song with my best friend, and I couldn’t be happier.

——

Ericka, I may not understand you all of the time, because I only speak 4 words in Spanish (thanks Duo-Lingo!), but I do know that if you ever asked me to buy a McFlurry for you, I would. Thank you for holding my hand and walking me home whenever I drink too much, giving my cell-phone number to everyone at le 3C, and researching you-know-what together for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. I’m happy to be the new travel-fashion-photographer for the girl whose face has been seen all over the Dominican Republic, and I can’t wait for the next time I can push you down the hill in a shopping cart. Here’s to all of the dégustations du vin we have ahead of us, and finding a new Magic Mike in Florida for your birthday. I’m going to miss you so much little nugget. My amazing experience in Aix wouldn’t be the same without you being a part of it.

• ¨Ericka, you’re going to love the blog post I wrote about you.¨
• ¨I’m sure I will. If it’s coming from you, I’m going to love it.¨

Trying not to cry,

Tash.

¨There’s not a word yet, for old friends who’ve just met.¨ –Jim Henson

My hips DO lie

There are many things you have to accept in life; and for me, that includes thunder thighs and wide birthing hips.

I will never have that weird thigh gap between my legs, or pants that actually fit both my thighs and my waist. Am I okay with this? Of course I am–it’s part of what makes me, me! And let me tell you, my powerful legs have won many a tickle and wrestling battle back in my glory days of recklessness. I will kick you. And hard. It is my only defense. So don’t mess. Think of me as a shorter version of Wonder Woman.

The first time I referenced my body as having “birthing hips” was in Mallorca two months ago. Abid and I were making pancakes in our villa, and he was in my way. I, of course, casually complained, “Abid, you need to move, because me and my wide birthing hips cannot possibly make it through this space.”

Later, he called out to me, “Your birthing hips just keep getting in the way of the stove!”

A new entity was born: the birthing hips of Natasha. We added on and on to this mystical creature, on how it could birth an army of Orcs if needed, or could save the day in super-hero style. “Is it a bird? A plane? No, it’s Natasha’s hips! We’re saved!”

I like to imagine the top half of my body and the lower half of my body holding hands (or feet?), skipping down the street to “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go”. Why did I just write that? I don’t know. It was what I was thinking. The hips wanted it.

Anyway, my lovely hips never presented an issue to me in life…until I went caving underneath Budapest.

I’m a nugget!

To summarize spelunking in Budapest: it was one of the highlights of my time abroad so far. I was terrified and exhilarated at the same time, trying not not to think about the movie “The Descent”, or that I could come across a Balrog at any moment (I so desperately wanted to scream “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” into the void). This created the perfect amount of adrenaline. But I had no need to fear, because my high school friend Jess, rock-climber chick extraordinaire, joined me for the journey, giving me a friendly face in the darkness of many strangers.

Our tour guide, Mark, is Hungarian, but somehow has an Australian accent when he speaks English. Or, it sounded Australian to me, because he was also wearing a kangaroo shirt. Associative thinking?

I believe Mark HAD a good first impression of me that somehow went sour in the caves. We started off friendly, very buddy-buddy, making jokes and sharing travel stories; but that all changed when my terrible sense of humor decided to insult him in the caves multiple times.

An example of how I ruined our one day friendship:

• Mark: “You can all just call me Mr. Frodo.  I will lead you through the caves, fear not my hobbits!”
• Me: “Why on earth would you want to be Frodo? He’s a little bitch that does nothing but complain. That being said he’d make a terrible leader if it weren’t for Sam.”
• Mark: “….”
• Me: “And wouldn’t saying that we’re Dwarfs be a better analogy for the present circumstance? Hobbits aren’t cave dwellers, rather Dwarfs are more skilled in the underground mines.”
• Mark: “You know I can leave you in here if I wanted to.”

We were off to a great start. This banter of me calling him out continued as we crawled through the underground. I couldn’t help myself! It was way too easy. But, Mark found a way to shut me up for good, and it was all because of my hips.

My nemesis.

Halfway through our descent, Mark stopped our group of 12 and told us to sit down. “This,” he began, pointing to two small holes in the cave wall, “is called the Banana. One of the hardest holes to climb through in this cave system. It is called the Banana because that is its inner shape. For those of you who want to try, you can climb through the bottom, and pull your way out through the top.”

Jess, the actual Wonder Woman of our group, was the first to try. With minor hiccups and confusion, she made it through the Banana, ending with a handstand into a standing position. None of us could follow this example, and we applauded Jess’ acrobatics.

Jess in the banana like a #boss

A petite Asian girl was the second to try, and she posed for pictures at the top of the hole for a good two minutes (peace sign with a winky eye and tongue sticking out. You know the type). Mark pulled her small child-like body through the hole and to the ground. Applause again.

Then my big mouth said “Mark why don’t you actually show us how to do it.”

“You want me to go before you? I’m a tough act to follow.”

A challenge. I mulled the thought of climbing through the Banana in my mind. The other two girls could do it, why couldn’t I?

And then it hit me. I looked at the size of the top hole, where I would eventually have to climb through. There is no way my birthing hips could make it through that. No way.

I, of course, said this out loud: “Yeah there’s no way my wide birthing hips can make it through that hole.”

Mark smiled at me and replied, “You’ll be fine. It’s bigger than you think.”

I looked to Jess, and she smiled at me in encouragement. I could do this!

I stood up, and began to carefully walk over to the Banana. Mark looked me up and down, and said with a smirk on his face: “You’re right. Your wide hips won’t be able to make it. They’re too big.”

Silence. No one knew whether he meant to insult me by calling out my body or not. But I think we all collectively realized that he was foreign and had no idea that actually agreeing with an American woman about her view on her own body image was a terrible, terrible sin. Or he was getting back at me for my behavior towards him for the past two hours. Most likely the latter.

But in Natasha fashion, I ignored his comment and would not accept defeat. “Well, I’ll just have to give it a try then!”

I went towards the bottom of the Banana, and started to climb upwards. My arms went through the top hole, and I pulled myself forward so my head could emerge as well. I could see the (headlamp) lights! I was going to make it! I saw all of the faces of my group looking up at me with support; and Mark, standing off to the side, with his arms crossed. I was going to prove him wrong.

I began to pull my chest through, then my stomach, until IT happened: my hips hit the sides of the hole. Not only did they hit the sides, but when I pulled forward more, they completely clogged the hole like a drain stopper and left me no room to wriggle around. I stopped moving, and reluctantly looked down towards my peers; I tried to imagine what they would be seeing at this very moment: an obstinate girl, stuck in a hole, with her arms and head hanging through on one side, dangling in the air, while her birthing hips prevented her from moving anywhere.

“Yeah this isn’t happening.”

Mark seemed pleased. “Are your bones touching the walls, or is it just your skin.”

“Bone. Definitely bone.”

Mark, victoriously, pushed me back towards the bottom of the hole with some difficulty, and I emerged from the bottom–the entrance, not the exit–with defeat. I looked towards my group. No one said anything, it was unbearable. In Natasha fashion, I put on my best smile, started applauding myself, and exclaimed “Yeah she tried woooo yay for trying!”

Everyone clapped the most pitiful clap for me; but it was still an applause, and I’ll take it. Then of course, Mark showed all of us how to climb through the hole in 8.5 seconds with expertise and speed. Mentioning quickly that “for men, it’s most difficult with the shoulders, not the hips.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I turned towards Jess and told her that me and my hips would birth a demon army in revenge of this moment. I don’t think she knew how to respond to that.

We climbed/crawled through the rest of the cave system. I was fueled by my defeat but still in good humor, so I didn’t stop challenging and making fun of Mark. That’s what our one day friendship consisted of, you know? At one point he was climbing in front of Jess and myself, and I called out to him that he was moving too slow and obviously couldn’t do any better. Then he became the Flash and sped up ahead of us, literally leaving us in the dark. I had met the Jedi Master of spelunking. But even Jedi Masters need a little competition from their Padawans (does this make him Obi-wan and me Anakin in Attack of the Clones???)

At the end of the tour, Mark told Jess and I that we have a naturally skill for caving. I took this remark as him throwing in a hand of truce. I replied with a compliment highlighting his ¨unmatchable skills¨, and for the first time during our journey, we were in a momentary time of neutrality.

Yeah I’ve got hips, yeah I can’t climb through the Banana, but I tried, and I was able to do the entire rest of the caving journey without any issues. Plus, I can’t wait to birth my demon army in revenge of that moment.

Apparently my hips DO lie,

Tash

“To lose confidence in one’s body is to lose confidence in oneself.”

― Simone de Beauvoir

P.S. Hi Jareddddd thanks for being my pen pal and reading all of my bloggsssss. Sorry I haven’t written you another letter but I’m coming home in three weeks anyway so maybe that counts? I dedicate this post to YOU. And I hope your finger is better. That story made me laugh.

The Beer Train Quest

I’m an avid planner. Everyday, when I wake up, I write a list of activities and accomplishments for my day on a sticky note. Once I have completed every task, I throw my temporary yellow binding contact into the trash, and it is one of the most satisfying things I can do. Then, the next day, I wake up, and write another sticky note. I unfortunately like to view myself as a slave to my thoughts, and the days where I do not write my list of activities down, I either feel like a bad-ass living life on the edge, or i become too anxious and memorize a list in my head.

Backpacking around Europe was no exception to my anal retentive planning habits. I purchased my plane and bus tickets 4 months in advance, unlike most of the students in my program, who bought them a week or two before.  I have every detail written about directions, reservations, and sights I would like to see in my little red travel journal. And of course, I have each day of the week listed in each country, with a list of things I would like to do that day.

Before I left for my trip, I bought a concert ticket in every town I would be visiting: one play and one opera in Prague, an opera in Budapest, and an evening of Mozart in Vienna. Somehow, my backpacking trip had become extremely cultured.

In Prague, I stayed in “Art Hole” hostel–one of the most intimate and personal hostels I have been in so far. When I walked into the hostel, the kitchen, reception, and common room were all one and the same, and all of the other backpackers were hanging out with the staff drinking beers. This was a casual and friendly space, where it was extremely easy to strike up a conversation.

During my second day in Prague, after walking around the city for 5 hours straight and subsequently taking a 1 hour nap, I decided it was time to get rid of my nap breath and brush my teeth. As I stood in front of the sink, next to the washer and dryer, brushing my teeth and staring at the weird faces I was making at myself in the mirror, I heard a “Hi”.

I turned to my right, toothpaste dripping from my lip, to see tall Ian, a guy I met briefly earlier in the day, watching me brush my teeth.

• “Hi” I garbled.
• “We’re all going oot for drinks, do you wanna join?”

Ian is from Alberta, Canada. Please read everything he says in an obnoxious Canadian accent because he did not sound like that at all (of course).

• “Uh.” I spit my toothpaste in the sink. “Sure! But I have a show at 8:30, so I can only come for an hour or two.”
• “No worries. We’re ready when you are.”

Finally being able to rinse my mouth, I finished eradicating sleepy Tash from my face and was ready for an adventure with strangers. I went out to the common room to meet our other two characters of the night: Miles and Christa.

Let me paint you a little picture of why my three new friends were in Prague at the moment:

• Ian: Ian quit his job as an engineer, and decided to travel the world. Places he’s been? Australia, where he somehow joined a bell tower choir, and Thailand, where he stayed for one month before coming to Prague. One of the first things Ian ever told me was that he was very cold in Prague (it was 70 degrees) because Thailand was sweltering hot. Unlike me, Ian has no idea what he’ll be doing two hours from now, let alone two days. He’s going to stay in Prague until he feels like leaving to go somewhere else.
• Christa: Christa is a theatre director who used to live in NYC and now lives in Austin. She took a month or two off to travel Europe, and is fluent in German. She gave me some really good advice on places to go in Vienna, and how I need to make sure I don’t spend my life savings there.
• Miles: Miles’ story is a more personal one, but I found it incredibly beautiful. Years ago he was in the army, but he recently finished teaching English in Thailand for one year, and when I met him, he was fresh off of a 35 day walk from Spain to Italy called “The Camino”. Generally a religious walk, the Camino brings in people from all walks of life, and Miles said it was one of the best experiences in his life. I asked him why he decided to teach in Thailand, and why he decided to walk across three countries. His response? His girlfriend died of cancer, and it was always her dream to teach in Thailand and walk the Camino. It’s his beautiful way of honoring her.

When I met Miles, and he told me that he walked for 35 days, 10-12 hours a day, from Spain, through France, to Italy, I felt like I had no right to complain about my 5 hour walk through the city.

The four of us sat in the common room, trying to figure out where to stop for a beer that night. Christa had a few options, but when she mentioned the words “Beer Train” I was immediately sold and screamed “YES WE HAVE TO DO THAT.”

So, off we went, trying to find a restaurant that serves beer on trains that we have never been to.

As we walked, I told the trio about my theatre plans for the night. “I’m seeing a show called the Color Dreams of Dr.Frankenstein. I have no idea what it’s about, but apparently there is no speaking and it is a performance art show…”

“You’ll have to let me know how it is,” Christa responded, “I saw some shitty piece of crap Alice and Wonderland black light show here and good god was it horrendous.”

Christa tells it how it is.

After walking for 15 min, we found ourselves on the street where the restaurant would be, but we couldn’t find the restaurant. Christa, the only person who had heard of this magical place, left her map–where the location was marked–at the hostel. All we knew about the restaurant was this: it was on a certain street in our general area, and apparently it was in a tower? There was only one thing left to do: ask directions in a language none of us speak.

Ian decided to take charge. He walked up to a random man on the street, and mimed drinking a beer, then having the beer on a train, then having the beer on the train move. It was one of the funniest things we had ever seen. What other way could you possibly explain “beer train” in a foreign country?

Random Man #1 had no idea what Ian was saying and walked away.

A few minutes after, Random Man #2 made his unlucky entrance into our midsts. Ian mimed the beer train again, and to no avail, again, we were left without directions to our new Mecca.

Losing a hope we were not keen to give up, it felt like a useless cause when Random Man #3 walked down the street. Ian, our mime expert at this point, went up to him and communicated the same magical beer train. And, hallelujah, Random Man #3 not only understood Ian’s desperate miming, but had heard of the restaurant! In broken English, he said, “Yes. I have heard. On this street. Towards center.”

In slow motion Breakfast Club style, we all jumped up and down in excitement (at least this is how I imagined it in my head). All was not lost! We would still make our beer train and I would make my show.

We walked towards the center of town, on the same street, and reached the end of the street. No tower. No beer train. Nothing.

UNTIL I looked up and saw a sign clearly depicting green beer on a train. Casually containing my excitement, I pointed up and said “Maybe that’s it?”

Again, in slow motion Breakfast Club style, we jumped up and down, with the added universal high fives this time. We did it! We made it to Mordor! Our journey had been completed!

Walking inside the beer train restaurant was one of the most satisfying portions of our day. As we entered the upper floor, which may I mention was nothing at all like a tower (thank you very much Czech guide), we were greeted by the Willy Wonka factory of a beer experience: in front of us, were train tracks, table height, weaving in and out throughout the entire restaurant, with the main train station located at the bar. The bartender placed three pints of beer on the train, and we watched as it chugged it’s way to a nearby table, where it stopped on cue, the patrons took hold of their precious cargo, and flawlessly the train continued on its way.

What kind of magic was this??

   

   We sat down and ordered the mystical green beer, only to be greeted a few minutes later by it chugging happily on top of a train and into our tummies. We were at that restaurant for a grand total of three and a half hours, and watching those trains travel around the restaurant never got old.

  

Anyway, being with my awesome new friends in the magical environment made me not care about my predetermined schedule of the night. At that point, it didn’t matter that I would be losing money on a show I already (analy) bought tickets for. I had met great people, we were drinking great beer in an amazing city, and we were surrounded by trains. This is what I wanted my Prague experience to be.

Although, as I write this, I wonder what the “Color Dreams of Dr. Frankenstein” would have been like. Would the doctor have danced? Do color dreams correspond to wet dreams? Does he dream of Putting on the Ritz? We’ll never know. All I know is that there is a beer train bar in Prague, and it was freaking awesome.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you have a plan. It can change at any time, for better or for worse, and I have decided that I am okay with it.

-Natasha

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them;that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.” –Lao Tzu

Nobody puts Natasha in a corner.

¨No¨ is not a word I like to hear often, unless it is used in the following contexts:

• ¨Can I jump off this cliff?¨
• ¨I spread poop on the walls, am I now an artist?¨
• ¨Do you think this dog/person is cuter than Izzy?¨

Growing up as an only child, I felt like I had a sense of entitlement in this world. The earth must clearly revolve around me since my household does, right? There was no one to share my toys with, no one to argue with, and no one to compete with; which, looking back on, was not the best way to show baby Tash how the world ¨works¨. I was habituated and trained in the art of ¨getting my way¨, a terrible trait I have struggled with for most of my adult life–until France. But being an only child had it’s advantages: I was forced to be like and act like ¨one of the adults¨ since I spent most of my time with adults. It was a maturing process, but also a lonely one; and thankfully, I am lonely no longer! #liz&becca

During these past few months in France, I have become a keen disciple in the ¨art of letting go¨. For some reason, ever since I moved here, I won’t let issues get to me; meaning, if something does not go the way I expected it to go, I won’t let it bother me anymore. I can only react, reflect, and find a different or more creative approach. That’s life, right? What’s the use in stressing over something so small when you can face it efficiently without the migraine? Something so simple to say, but difficult to apply–especially with my ¨entitled brat¨ background. In the South of France, I haven’t experienced any stress with my adventures that could compromise my new outlook on life.

Until today.

Today, I was ¨supposed¨ to run the organized 10k in Aix-en-Provence, until the French she-devils ruined my fun, took my money, and forbade me from leaving with my beloved race t-shirt. Here’s where the rant begins, my friends.

This morning, I woke up prepared. Imagine Tash waking up in bed, with a creepy smile on her face, dancing to ¨Wake me up before you go go¨ while spinning in a sea of flowers accompanied by Bruno Mars on drums and prancing pink gummy bears. Okay, it wasn’t exactly like that, but that’s what I like to imagine my morning as, since the act of getting out of bed is difficult as is. After my gummy-Bruno-dance fantasy (those three words don’t elicit a pretty picture), I ate a banana, put my race gear on (Rutgers t-shirt and shorts #fancy), and began my walk to Parc Jordan.

A little background for those of you who don’t know: I began running about three years ago (thanks Collin!) and have had a love/hate relationship with it ever since. My philosophy? Run so I can eat cake without feeling guilty. That’s a decent motivation, right? And in the past three years, I have run countless 5k’s, two triathlon’s, one half marathon, and a few 8ks. Not bad for a beginner. Next year, if all goes smoothly, I will be running my first and ONLY marathon.

So of course when I arrived in France, I instantly wanted to find a race, aka, a motivation to stay fit. I’ve never participated in a race in a different country, let alone run in a different country, so I thought it would be a great, memorable experience. I signed up for the Aix-en-Foulées 10k two months ago, and have been training for it ever since.

As I walked to the park for packet pickup, I listened to ¨Uptown Funk¨, until a lovely French woman made persistent eye contact with me. I then took out my ear buds and struck up a conversation. She told me about the course, what I should expect, and where the hills were, since she had run the 10k the year before. We split our ways when we reached the packet-pick up tent. I observed the sign-in process, which was similar to that of the States (you have to keep an eye out for the difference, you know?) and after a few minutes, it was my turn to pick up my packet.

¨Sydor, S-y-d-o-r¨ I told the packet-woman.

She looked down her list, found my name, and with a smile highlighted it in pink. Then she suddenly stopped highlighting, leaving the ¨O-R¨ in my name untouched by the pink, and asked,

¨Do you have your medical certificate?¨

¨Uh. What?¨

¨Your medical certificate.¨

I looked around me. Everyone else in line was holding a piece of paper. I quickly remembered:

¨Oh yes. I attached it to my online application two months ago when I signed up. You should have it already.¨

She looked down at the list again.

¨It was rejected.¨

What? Who rejects a medical form, and doesn’t inform the person in question about it? Also, I never received any emails from the organization in the past two months. I was in the dark.

I stammered, ¨Are you sure, I submitted it with my application, it should be here.¨

¨Do you have your medical certificate on your phone?¨

Why on earth would I have a medical certificate on my phone…

¨Um no. I’m an American staying here for a limited amount of time, and I don’t have a smart phone with me that is functioning.¨

¨Okay…go see the woman at the other table.¨

Dejected, but still high with hope, I walked towards the other table. As I waited in line, I saw the same lovely French woman I walked with before. She gave me a smile of encouragement.

When I finally approached the table, a new French packet-woman greeted me.

¨Yes?¨

I explained my situation to her.

¨You don’t have your medical certificate?¨ she asked.

¨Unfortunately not.¨

¨What about on your phone?¨

Here we go with the phones again.

¨No.¨

¨Okay. You can’t run the race.¨

¨Wait, what? Are you sure? There’s nothing I can do?¨

¨No medical certificate. No race. We need each and every one, and we scan them into the system.¨

¨There’s absolutely nothing I can do?¨

¨No.¨

I said ¨merci¨ in the most defeated tone I’ve ever said it, and walked away. But then I quickly remembered something, and ran back.

¨Can I at least have the t-shirt I paid for?¨

¨No race. No t-shirt.¨

What is with France? Not running the race made me mad enough, but not receiving the t-shirt I paid for? Natasha became infuriated. I like my race t-shirts. And here I was, being denied my consolation prize.

I quickly texted Ericka, as I knew she would be on her way to cheer me on. I wrote ¨Don’t bother coming. They won’t let me run.¨ And she replied, ¨Whaaaatttt! French Revolution, mofo.¨

The walk back home was the most defeated walk I have ever…walked. I tried listening to Taylor Swifts’ ¨Shake it Off¨ so I could, indeed, shake it off, but nothing was working. This was the only chance I had of racing in Aix-en-Provence, and it had been torn away from me, along with the stupid lime-green technical shirt.

I returned home and did what any infuriated twenty-something year old would do: I took a nap. The goal of the nap was to 1) calm myself down, and 2) to not cry. I swear, my body’s natural response to unexpected events is not to fight or fly, but rather, to cry or cry some more. I’m the person in the movie theatre who cries when a dog dies.

But before I took my nap, I searched my online documents for the medical certificate I attached with my application. It is my certificate of health for my participation in study abroad, and all my doctor wrote was,

¨Natasha is free from communicable diseases.¨

Oh. So that’s why I was rejected.

I woke up from my nap, and snapped myself back to reality. Just because I can’t run an official race in Aix-en-Provence, doesn’t mean I can’t run my own race in Aix-en-Provence.

Operation ¨Vengeance against the stupid racing system in France¨ was a go. Time to run my own 10k (aka, just a normal long-run).

In a montage-like-action-movie-moment, I put my sneakers on, my Rutgers shirt, watch, and checked to make sure my ponytail was in the proper place. I was ready for war.

I stepped outside, started my stopwatch, and began my solo race. 10k? No problem.

5 minutes in I found myself on the Aix-en-Foulées race-course, and there were runners still competing from the 25k race. So what did Natasha do? I ran faster than them and scored all of the cheers from the spectators. It was my form of evil redemption.

Slowing down so I could maintain a decent pace, I veered off the 25k course and went towards the park by the military academy. And while there, I found a runner’s haven. I had somehow stumbled upon the Island of Misfit Toys for runners. All around me, running through the trails and on the open terrain, were runners of all ages–all who had not participated in the race today. So I ran with them, my brothers and sisters in vengeance, and it was oh so sweet.

I returned home to cheers and a BBQ. Later on, I went back to the packet-pickup tent, and scored free leftover ice cream. My victory of vengeance was complete.

Word to the wise: if you ever want to run a race in France, you need an oddly specific medical certificate. Or you can join me, my comrades.

All in all, I kept myself calm, and ran a race in France like I have always wanted to–even if it wasn’t exactly how I had pictured it to be.

Looking on the bright side of life,

Natasha

“The reason we race isn’t so much to beat each other,… but to be with each other.”
―Christopher McDougall 

Wrong Place, Wrong Time, NEIN NEIN NEIN

I don’t often find myself in random out-of-the-blue awkward situations (I think I’m lying here), but when I do, you can be sure that I will have a story about it…

I have just returned from a surprisingly lederhosen free trip to the Fatherland to see my childhood friend Katharina. Katharina left the states shortly after 6th grade, to return back with her family to Deutschland. With my aspirations of becoming a European girl, and her aspirations of staying an American girl, I’d say we have an extremely complimentary friendship. We’ve kept in touch throughout the years, and Katharina has traveled to the States on a few occasions for visits. This was the first time I had stepped onto her turf, with the expectation of eating lots of schnitzel and drinking gallons of beer.

Then.

And now. Thankful that awkward stages eventually end.

Upon our epic reunion in the airport, it had seemed like no time had passed between our last meeting with each other. Time to be typical 20-something year old girls! Which leads me to our story…

On my second day in Germany, Katharina showed me the sights in Frankfort; picturesque German architecture, bridges, museums, you name it. And next on our list, was a German church.

Love these buildings.

We approached the church by walking through a small alleyway. Upon reaching the other side, we were greeted by a large group of people moving past us, in a slow yet steady stream, with banners that neither of us could comprehend. We stood still for a few moments, looked at each other with confusion, and wondered if this large mass of people was part of a riot or a protest.

So what did we do? We followed them, of course. In fact, we had to follow them, because they were blocking our pathway into the church. We joined what we thought to be a protest, and walked alongside the protesters.

Except, they were not protesters.

And they were not walking past the church.

The were walking into it.

The aforementioned church.

Funneling in.

Katharina and I exchanged looks again. What on earth is going on?

And then I had a terrible, terrible thought: ¨Are they going to close the doors, start the gas, and ready the furnace?¨

My eyes widened at the clearly insensitive WW2 comment I had just uttered in my thoughts. I looked around me: I was surrounded by Germans. Thank goodness I did not say this out loud.

I turned to Katharina and whispered, ¨I just had a terrible thought that I cannot possibly say out loud because it might get me killed and I’m going to keep it to myself.¨

She laughed and replied, ¨…okay?¨

We followed the cult, as I no longer had seen them as protesters, into the vestibule. Natasha-reflexes were strong that day, and I managed to snap this quick selfie of confusion as we walked in through the doors.

Out of nowhere, the cult began to murmur and chant. Was I in Eyes Wide Shut? When would the masks come out? The chanting continued, in a call and response format, from an airy voice that echoed off of the ancient walls. We continued to move forward into the church. Katharina and I attempted to decipher what language the cult was speaking in. French? Nope. German? Not at all. English? I’d hope not. I think I heard the words ¨Benedicté Cumberbatché¨, but I can’t be certain.

And then it hit us: it was Friday. Good Friday. And this was…a church service?

We walked into the main church area, and were greeted by hundreds of more church-goers (no longer protesters or cult-members. Well…). And then? Complete silence. For the next five minutes. Where did the chants go? Where did the undecipherable flag end up?

After waiting for nothing to happen, Katharina and I finally decided to leave, since we had overstayed our welcome enormously.

Moral of this story? Follow the cult. Actually that’s a terrible moral. There is no moral to this story. Awkward situations are awkward. But being a detective and finding out the reason for a march is fun (until I become a sacrificial lamb).

The Inferno’s not so hot,

Natasha

¨It’s only awkward if you let it be.¨–Silvia Donahue

 

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Defeat

Aix-en-Provence is famous for three reasons:

1. The artist, Paul Cézanne, lived and worked in Aix.
2. There are many very expensive ¨magasins¨ (stores), where very rich northern Europeans shop and buy very expensive things in the very expensive summer (does that make sense? no…)
3. The Montagne Sainte-Victoire

Oddly enough, I had not experienced anything on this list until three days ago. In regards to Cézanne, yes, I know he has an ¨atelier¨ (workshop) just outside of town, and that I can ¨walk in his steps¨ around Aix, but have I completed either of those things? No. Not interested.

What about the very expensive shops? I live off of baguettes everyday. Which are cheap. I’m trying to be cheap. Expensive shops are not in my budget.

And the mountain? Well, there you go! Something I am interested in doing.

Montagne Sainte-Victoire came to fame because of Cézanne, as it was one of his favorite landscapes to paint. So I suppose in some distant-related way, by climbing the mountain I also accomplished something Cézanne-related…it’s a long shot. Anyway, the mountain is apparent from the city center, and it a tourist-attraction as well as a local-weekend activity.

Cézanne’s Sainte-Victoire

     

After two months of living in Aix, I finally decided to climb Sainte-Victoire. Many of you know that I LOVE hiking; I absolutely cannot get enough of it, and being outside in nature is one of the greatest joys in my life. Another dream on my list of things to do before I leave this planet, is to hike the Appalachian Trial. I am nowhere near ready to do that, so don’t worry, I won’t be leaving you all (for another 5 months) for a very long time.

On Friday morning, my friend Kelly and I left for our big adventure―climbing the mountain. After somehow finding the correct bus, which dropped us off in the middle of nowhere, we were then tasked with the feat of finding the trail about a mile up the road. Once found, we climbed Sainte-Victoire in 1h30min. Was it fun? Yes. Was it challenging? At times. Did it go as expected? Certainly not.

Why, you ask? Le mistral.

Tashie cold.

Tashie cool.

The mistral is a northwesterly wind which can often exceed forty kilometers an hour, with a maximum speed of one hundred kilometers an hour (thanks wikipedia!). The mistral occurs most often during the changing of main seasons, from winter to spring. It begins near the Paris region, and makes its way down to the south, accelerating all of the way, through the valleys of the two rivers, the Rhone and the Durance, and making its way into Aix. Think of where I live as a small little vacuum, situated between two large mountains, with the wind acting as a never-ending hurricane in the middle. The one beneficial aspect about the mistral? Beautiful blue skies and a brilliant sun.

Long story short, we climbed Sainte-Victoire during le mistral, and when I reached the top, I was almost pushed off of the mountain, if it were not for the small handrail at the top.

But alas, my dear friends, my near death experience is not the focus of this story! What happened one hour after is.

After reaching the bottom of the mountain once more, and subsequently doing a mental victory dance, we headed back to the bus stop. Now, what happened next is completely my fault, because my usual anal-planning skills failed for the first time in a long time.

I forgot to look up the bus times for the way home.

Okay, you may say, this isn’t so bad. What is she freaking out about?

Upon reaching the bus stop, we looked at the schedule in disbelief: the next bus wasn’t for two hours and thirty minutes.

Here we were, in the middle of nowhere, completely exhausted from climbing a mountain, and we were now faced with the daunting task of waiting. Not just waiting anywhere, but on the side of the road, exposed to the sun, with no food or water left. No bueno for my privileged white self.

I looked at the schedule multiple times, looked at Kelly, looked at the looming mountain, and looked to the road. I then decided that I was not going to wait.

So, I did what any person who has seen a road movie would do―I used my thumb.

And hitchhiked.*

*Attempted to hitchhike.

In my 22 (ew) years, I have never hitchhiked, partly because it grew out of fashion way before I was born. I know a few people who have, and all of their stories have turned out well and interesting. But then again, in the movies, people are killed. I do not want to be killed.

Ignoring all of this information about murder, I nevertheless stuck my thumb out for the whole world to see. 10 cars and 2 buses later, no one stopped for us. Most people just ignored the thumb, while one bus driver waved his forefinger at us in a sadistic fashion, miming ¨nuh-uh, you ain’t getting on here, american girls¨.

Why wasn’t my thumb working? Did I not charge it up with enough mojo? Is hitchhiking illegal in France?

Nearing defeat, we almost succumbed to our imminent fate of waiting two and a half hours for the next bus.

UNTIL. A bus arrived. What? As we stood next to the bus stop, an Aix-en-Bus (local bus) drove past us. Losing hope, once again, we thought this bus would be like the other bus driver, mocking our cursed existence. But then, the bus did something interesting: it stopped at the bus stop down the road, made a u-turn, and turned off. What exactly was going on?

Kelly and I looked at each other. Was the bus stopping for us, or simply taking a ¨repose¨? It was time to find out. I opted to stay and try my beautiful thumb on the road one last time, because frankly I was a little p–o’d that no one wanted to pick me up, while Kelly approached the bus. I watched her walk up the road, into the distance, while I stood along with my failure of a thumb.

Then the miracle occurred―Kelly got on the bus, and the bus drove down the road. Hallelujah! We were saved. In an action-packed moment, the bus swerved to my side of the road, like a getaway vehicle. The two doors opened, and I entered the bus, spewing ¨merci’s¨ like there was no tomorrow. The bus driver looked at me, very seriously, and said in French, ¨This is the only time I will ever do this. Ever.¨

Point taken. Our victory vehicle had arrived! From our bus ride back into centre-ville, I got the impression that she wasn’t technically in service when she picked us up from the middle of nowhere. But she saved us, and we rewarded ourselves with crêpes.

Crêpes à Go Go mm

So did hitchhiking work? Obviously not; it was a grand defeat in my book. But SOMETHING worked, and for that, me and my two and a half hours of extra time are grateful. That being said, I will continue to use my sorry excuse of a hitchhiking thumb until I am victorious (victorious meaning that I am successfully offered a ride and subsequently not killed), because gosh darnit, I am a nice person and someone should drive me home!

 

The hopeless wanderer,

Natasha

“If I saw you hitchhiking, I’d smile and return your thumb’s up, just for you doing such a great job of being a positive roadside influence.” ―Jarod Kintz 

No bueno?

This past weekend, I traveled to Palma de Mallorca to see my bff Abid and his roommate Alex. Let’s just say, while I was there, there were many….misunderstandings.

Upon arrival, I already realized I had a problem ahead of me: every time someone spoke to me in Spanish, I immediately responded in French, even if I had no idea what the person had asked me. I found myself thinking in French, talking in French, and having a difficult time saying Spanish words; let alone talking to my friends in English. With English, I forgot simple words and phrases. What is going on with you, brain?? Latching onto my problem, the only two phrases I knew how to speak in Spanish before my arrival were ¨My name is Natasha¨, ¨I am hungry¨, and also the color ¨Yellow¨. Did I really need to know anything else? Thanks elementary school Spanish.

Out of our trio, Alex is the only one who can speak a lick of Spanish, so he served as our go-to consultant for the weekend. But alas, none of us were fluent, making general communication very difficult. Luckily, we chose an island that thrives off of foreign tourism, and many people know basic English.  So our language and cultural barriers were not complete failures.

But we did fail. Multiple times. Here is a tale about one of them.

Abid and Alex met me at the airport. After calming down over the initial shock of ¨wow you’re an actual person and not an image on my computer anymore¨, we got into our rent-a-car and made our way to our VILLA. No more hostels for this mooch! How on earth did we manage to stay in a Spanish villa? That would be from the wonderful grace of Alex’s parents who had a timeshare this year, in which Abid and I coasted along for the wonderful, glorious benefits. Thanks, mom and pop! The villa is huge, with more beds than we could possibly occupy, complete with a backyard and a washer/dryer. I was shown to ¨my room¨ which had two beds and four pillows, and I somehow managed to sleep on both beds at once while using all of the pillows. Vacation done right.

The boys at the entrance of our villa.

Backyard!

The streets of Palma.

Since I had been traveling for the majority of the day, when we arrived at our villa at 9:30 pm, I was famished (as usual). Rather than going into the city of Palma, Alex and Abid had another suggestion: La Finca.

In our villa ¨complex¨, if you can call it that, there are two restaurants: one I do not know the name of, because I never went there but I heard it was good, and the other one is La Finca. Neither of the boys had been to La Finca yet, so we figured it would be a good idea to give it a try. 5 minutes later, we arrived, and headed over to the nearest door…which didn’t open. After pushing with most of their weight, the boys finally opened the door, leading us into a large lounge with couches and small children playing an oddly menacing-sadistic version of bowling on the floor, in which they destroyed the bowling pins and basked in their demon-like conquest. We observed our surroundings, and found no waiters in sight. After a minute of confusion, Alex walked to the opposite side of the lounge to find service, and we were lead to a table.

I looked at our menu: it was in Spanish, but I was able to decipher the difference between pasta and not pasta, so that’s a plus. I was starved, so pasta it was!

Our waiter made an appearance after talking with the demon-children, and asked us what we wanted to drink.

• Alex: ¨Water.¨
• Abid: ¨Water.¨
• Me: ¨Agua!¨

Wow I surprised myself–I knew another word in Spanish besides ¨yellow!¨. 10 points for me. The waiter talked Alex into ordering a beer as well, then inquired what we would like for dinner. I asked him two important questions:

¨Which pasta has meat? And which pasta is not spicy?¨

He pointed to a pasta with cream sauce and bacon. Perfect, exactly what I needed.

Then he went to Abid, who jumbled up most of what he wanted to say with ¨lo siento’s¨ and confusion. Abid mentioned something about spicy food, and the waiter gave him a recommendation. But what either the waiter failed to realize, or Abid failed to communicate, was that Abid, like me, cannot tolerate spicy food. And what he had just ordered was the spiciest pasta on the menu. -10 points from Abid.

When our food arrived, Abid’s came with a large glass container of ¨pasta hot sauce¨; or at least, that’s what I’m calling it. Naturally, our curiosity got the best of us, and we each tried a spoonful of the liquid, burning our lips and making my eyes tear up with regret. We avoided the sauce for the rest of the evening. But even without the ¨pasta hot sauce¨, Abid’s pasta was still spicy. In order to avoid the horrible burning sensation, he ate only the pasta, ignoring the toppings and added sauce which accompanied it.

30 minutes later, an elderly waiter with a face that has clearly seen much battle and despair (you could tell from his soulless eyes) approached our table. I’m going to call him ¨Gustavo¨ because he has an unmovable evil intent in his face like Gustavo Fring from Breaking Bad.

Gustavo looked at Abid, then looked at Abid’s pasta-sauce filled plate, and with a stoic face that could destroy a thousand ships, he said very directly,

¨No bueno.¨

Caught off guard by his direct severity, we looked at him with confusion. Abid immediately responded, ¨No, no bueno. I mean, yes bueno. I mean. What?¨

Gustavo looked back down to the plate, then made eye contact with Abid once more.  A moment. Meanwhile, Alex and I were silently laughing to ourselves about the situation. Realizing this, Gustavo quickly looked over our way and made direct eye contact with me. I could feel his eyes piercing my soul. I stopped laughing. He was ready to speak again.

¨No good.¨

None of us knew how to respond, so we did the best thing we could think of: not to respond. After a long, tension filled moment, Gustavo picked up all of our plates, giving us spiteful looks along the way, and made his way to the kitchen.

The three of us exchanged confused looks: what on earth was going on here? We then decided that the best thing to do now was to get the check, and leave as soon as possible.

We flagged down Gustavo, and asked him very politely (careful not to step on any ¨no bueno¨ nerves) for the check. He looked as if we had asked for his first-born child. He said nothing, then left, only to return moments later with three menus.

¨No no no¨, Alex explained, ¨we want the check. We’re done. No dessert.¨

¨But you must stay,¨ Gustavo whispered. ¨You cannot leave yet.¨

I started to laugh again. He shoots me down with his laser eyes. I stop.

He continued: ¨Sit. In lounge. Stay.¨

¨We just want the check, please.¨

He eyes all of us down, then leaves once more. We needed to leave, and pronto. This was becoming very uncomfortable.

Gustavo then returns with three shooters of green apéritifs.

¨Drink.¨

We looked at each other. What is this…poison? Is he going to poison us?

Alex was the first one to try it. He gave the look of ¨if we’re going to die, we might as well die quickly¨ and guzzled down the shot. I looked to Abid: et tu brute? I took mine next. What on earth did I drink? I have absolutely no idea.

Our first waiter returned after our green-goblin substance was no more, and I was more than happy to have his presence back again. He pointed to the check and said something to Alex, followed by ¨comprende?¨ I immediately answered ¨Yes¨ even though I had no idea what he said, wanting to leave as soon as possible. After a long moment, Alex responded ¨No.¨

¨You have 10 percent off. The next time you visit.¨

As he explained this, I see Gustavo making his way towards the table, not breaking eye contact with me. He wants us to come back.

We quickly said our thanks, then stood up to leave, only to be stopped by Gustavo. Clearly his grudge knows no boundaries, and he kissed my hand in a gesture of fake truce.

¨Ciao, Señorita.¨

It took everything in us not to run out of the restaurant.  Once we were back safe inside the villa, the situation became comedic, and served as our personal joke for the rest of the trip. Making pancakes? No bueno. Swimming in the pool? No beuno. Watching a film? No bueno.

Here are a few pictures of us trying to recreate Gustavo’s face:

Abid’s ¨no bueno¨ face.

I told Alex to make me a ¨no bueno¨ face, and he did an awkward pout instead.

My ¨no bueno¨ face.

Moments after making the ¨no bueno¨ face because it’s just so darn funny.

Another story about misunderstanding involves me wearing nothing but a robe around my body, and a towel around my hair, only to be kicked out of the villa while making pancakes. But I can’t share EVERYTHING on my blog, now can I? Where would the fun in that be?

Speaking of, ABID BROUGHT ME PANCAKES and we ate them everyday.

Clearly I was more happy than he was to eat pancakes.

Time to start learning more languages! And to stay away from the Gustavo’s of the world. Because he is no bueno.

-Tash

“[White people] will read a book that’s one third Elvish, but put two sentences in Spanish and they think we’re taking over.” –Junot Díaz

― Junot Díaz

I’m not dead yet!

I can associate many ages in my life with coming of age ¨goals¨:

• 5th Birthday: Hey look, I’m an entire hand now!
• 10th Birthday: Hey look, I’m TWO hands now!
• 11th Birthday: Where is that Hogwarts letter…
• 13th Birthday: Aren’t my braces so cool? I’m a teenager. Back off 12 year olds.
• 16th Birthday: Sweet Sixteens are too expensive…also I have a driving permit!
• 18th Birthday: I have an ADULT license because my country says I’m an ADULT
• 19th Birthday: First birthday in college YEAH. Also I can buy cigarettes I think?
• 20th Birthday: I’M ALMOST 21
• 21st Birthday: I’M 21 BUT MOST OF MY FRIENDS AREN’T. MORE TEQUILA PLEASE.
• 22nd Birthday: I’m going to die soon. It’s inevitable.

10 years ago I was 12. In 10 more years I’ll be 32. THESE NUMBERS MUST MEAN SOMETHING.

If you missed it on social media, my birthday was on March 18th. I turned 22. I am 22? I don’t like saying this out loud. This number is weird. This number is foreign.

Is this the year of the existential mid-20’s crisis where I don’t know what to do with my life? Most likely; but I don’t believe my crisis will start until I return back to the States. For now, I’m having the most magnificent year: I graduated college with honors, I’m living out the greatest dream of my life in the South of France, I am fortunate enough to travel to various locations and experience everything this big blue dot has to offer, and I have so many people in my life that make my days filled with happiness. Someone please remind me in May to read what I just wrote when I am complaining about car insurance, loan payments, and unemployment. Thanks in advance!

Besides feeling the ever-looming hand of the grim reaper on my shoulder when my life turned one year older, my birthday felt different this year. This was the first birthday I have ever spent in my country of birth. 20 minutes from where I live in Aix-en-Provence, is a small, quaint village called Aubagne. And in that town, a chubby-wubby baby was born, and her name was going to be Maxwell if she was a boy, but luckily that Y chromosome didn’t kick in, and Natasha was brought into existence.

I was born prematurely, because a French Doctor broke my mother’s water during a check-up. Seriously, who does that? How rude. I was extremely content swimming around in my amniotic fluid, and I didn’t ask to be pushed out so abruptly like that. My original due date was in late April, making the fact that I was going to arrive so soon a bit scary for my parents. Not to mention, my mother was sick. So, what do the French doctors do? They give my mother a cesarean, pull my cranky 6.5 ounce butt out of there, sew her up, and put ice on her stomach–no medication or anything! Then, they take me away from my mother, and transfer me to a completely different hospital entirely (1 hour away) because my mother was sick and I was born early? This is unclear to me. But what IS clear, is that en-route to this new building, I pooped out my first mercadem on the doctor’s hand; that’s what you get for pulling me out from my nice in-utero-bed. Don’t mess with the Tash.

For the next few days, my mother was not allowed to see me, so my Fahjah (yes, Austin Powers) went to visit me in the hospital and took videos for her. Poor mamah 😦 My Fahjah says that I was an easy baby to identify–firstly, because I was the biggest baby there, even though I was born prematurely , and secondly, because my hair was blonde with red highlights, and all of the French babies had dark brown hair . Don’t believe the highlights? Ask me to show you my first passport, when I was a infant. Then you’ll see.

When I was a munchkin.

There you have it, my very own David Copperfield birth story. Here I am, 22 years later, in the same place where all of these events occurred. Here’s a little view of how my birthday went, from the perspective of yours truly:

• 6am: Well, guess I should write that paper now.
• 7am: BIRTHDAY RUN
• 7:45 am: Sophie singing– ¨JOYEUX ANNIVERSAIRE NATASHA BISOUS BISOUS¨
• 7:47 am: Ericka gets out of the shower: ¨It’s your birthday!¨ ¨Ericka, you might not want to hug me, I’m all sweaty.¨ ¨I don’t care. Sweat is good.¨
• 7:50 am: Time to shave my legs because today is a special day.
• 8:10 am: Crap I’m running late.
• 8:11 am: I don’t care. I want to dance to the Beatle’s Birthday Song ¨For anyone in the audience who has got a birfday today, Happy Birthday to YOU.¨
• 8:35 am: Class is at 9. It takes me 30 minutes to walk there….I stopped caring two seconds ago.
• 9:05 am: Imagined scenario walking into class– ¨It’s my birthday, bitches. WORSHIP ME.¨
• Actual scenario walking into class– ¨Bonjour. Here’s my paper….¨
• 11:30 am: Board game shop with friends!
• 12:00pm: Gelato with friends! 
• 12:45pm: Birthday crêpe with friends!
• 2:00pm: Midterm -_-
• 3:30pm: Another midterm -_-
• 5:00pm: BIRTHDAY FREEEEDOM
• 5:30pm: Time to buy rosé. For 3 euros. Yaassss
• 5:35pm: Aww Ericka got me flowers. 
• 6:00pm: Birthday nap.
• 7:30pm: BIRTHDAY DINNER
• 8:00pm: BIRTHDAY DESSERT
• 8:15pm: BIRTHDAY PRESENTS
• 9:30pm: Welp, time to meet up with friends. Supposed to be there at 9:30…oh…
• 9:45pm: And the night. Begins.

I’m going to end my birthday time-line there, because both Tipsy Tash and Tequila Tash were in their best forms last night. For those of you who know them, I am very sorry for your souls. Let’s just say there was a lot of white girl dancing, free-drinks, tomatoes in the sink, po-po run-ins, and facetime. I’m not going to elaborate on anything. Here are a few pictures:

                 

I write this post completely exhausted from my full day of activities sitting in the Aix-Marseille airport, awaiting my flight which will take me to Palma de Mallorca. The adventure continues!

–Tired-Tash

¨When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. –Mark Twain¨

You say tomato, I still say tomato…

There is one thing, and one thing only, that prompted me to write the following post: pancakes.

The other night, I woke up at 4:25am because I had such a vivid dream about pancakes dripped and drenched in a syrupy golden pool of Aunt Jemima Maple Syrup (yes, the more sugar the better) that my stomach woke me up. As I lay awake, at 4:25am, I thought to myself ¨I need pancakes. PRONTO.¨ But alas, as the clocked ticked away to 4:26am, I realized that I was not in New Brunswick NJ, and all stores in my small little area of Provence closed at 8pm (with a few exceptions). After quickly lamenting to many of my friends about the lack of buttery pancakes in my life (delicious crêpes do not count) via a plethora of disturbed text messages, I quieted my stomach by downing a few chocolate cupcakes caked with Nutella on top; a worthy adversary to duel with my fluffy-pancake craving.

I am food porning so hard right now.

And thus, I experienced my first case of ¨home-town sickness¨. All because I was hungry.

For the past two months of my temporary life in France, I have been keeping a list of all of the differences I have noticed between life here, and life back home in the States. Why? I’m a curious creature, that’s why. What makes this culture so different? What exactly are the differences? How do people act over here? How were people raised? What differs from my upbringing in the States? You understand the general idea.

My list of observations goes on and on and on, and I have decided to give you an abridged version, of my top 10 observations.

Top 10 Major Differences I have noticed between Franceand The States (‘MURICA)

1) The Poop

• Of course I have to begin my list with this topic, don’t you know me by now? I won’t give you a detailed description of my personal bowel movements per say, but I will give you a description of all of the dog poop I see everyday.
• Aside from the public parks, Aix is a town devoid of grass. In New Brunswick, or even in New York City, there is usually a small patch of grass or dirt separating the side-walk from the road; not in Aix. In Aix, there is only pavement, pavement, and more pavement. So where do the dogs go to make their doo-doo? On the pavement, of course! And does anyone pick it up? Nope. I have the feeling that doggie-bags and pooper-scoopers have yet to be introduced in the South of France.
• The existence of dog poop in everyday life is so apparent that one of my professors told me ¨Dog poop in France is like Bird Poop in the States: if you step in it, it’s good luck for the day! And trust me. You will step in it.¨ Luckily, I haven’t stepped in it. Yet.
• For my closing thought on this subject, I leave you with this small anecdote: One day, walking home from class, I decided to count how many dog poops I saw on my route back to the house. Well, I forgot about this immediately, and did not remember until I was one block away from home. I then decided to count how many poops I saw in one block: the count stood at 15. I don’t even want to know how many poops I see each day; and I’ll save you the description of what happens when it rains…

2) Adding supplements to beer

• Maybe this topic seems so weird to me because I am still in my early stages of becoming an ¨alcohol connoisseur¨, but every time I work at Cafe 3C, someone asks me for a weird mixture of substances: that being, beer and syrup.
• Before I came to France, I was never exposed to the ¨sirop¨ drink; that is, putting flavored syrup in water. I assume it could be compared to Vitamin Water? But it is much more sugary and viscous. The first few times I worked at Cafe 3C, people would ask me for ¨framboise¨ or ¨menthe¨ with water. Getting used to the idea that ¨sirop¨ was popular in France, I didn’t see this as odd. But then, I started being asked to put it in beer, very frequently. Even more, syrup with lemonade AND beer. The French really like their drinks fruity, huh? So then I tried it one day, AND IT WAS DELICIOUS. How will I ever go back to drinking beer the same way again?

3) Food is synonymous with Bread

• There is no way you could effectively live in the South of France if you are gluten-intolerant. I have tried, on many occasions, to forego eating any bread in my diet for the day, and I have failed every single time. I can’t avoid eating delicious French bread; baguettes, crêpes, pan au chocolate, croissants, more baguettes, you name it. I eat at least one of each every day, and my body is not pleased about it (thank goodness I don’t have a scale here). I have also been eating more fruits, specifically mandarins and apples. But I do miss my huge American breakfast.
• To my dismay, my largest meal of the day is dinner, which is often served at 7:45pm. So for me, I eat an amazing, extremely filling dinner and dessert (we have home-made chocolate cake about 2-3 times a week), then immediately lay down in bed. Back in the States, I always made a conscious effort to make my largest meal lunch, so I wouldn’t feel so filled before bedtime.
• That being said, I feel like I have no right to complain at the moment because I am happy, content, and well fed. I’m going to go eat some cake now.

4) Laundry

• I had no idea what my laundry situation would be like before I came to live with my host family. My program told me that I was only allowed to do laundry once a week. Now, this is a fine idea for washing my everyday clothes; but my workout clothes? I had to pack ¨light¨, with two suitcases for a few months, and I only brought three pairs of workout clothes with me. How on earth was I supposed to wear my icky, stinky, sweaty running bras everyday of the week?
• Unfortunately, my first week in Aix, I did just that. I ran in yesterday’s and the day before yesterday’s running clothes every day, because I felt guilty about doing laundry. And what did I get from it? Disgusting hygiene, a rash on my arm, and acne. After week one I was about to give up excising in its entirety, and succumb to the delicious lbs of the baguette, but then my host-mom asked me why I hadn’t been putting my laundry in the laundry bin. Laundry bin? What laundry bin? She then explained that she would do laundry whenever it was full. HALLELUJAH MY WORKOUT REGIME WAS SAVED.
• We do not have a drier in our house–just a washer for the laundry. Imagine my face when I came home for dinner one night, only to see all of my underwear on the dining room table, drying on every surface imaginable. My frilly black thong especially stood out to me, and I felt ashamed for having worn it in the first place, since it was now showcased for the whole family to see.
• Because of this, I am more cautious about what I wear, and try to wear outfits at least two times before washing them (this was especially difficult for my shirts when I decided not to shave my armpits for a month, and my pits REAKED).

5) The Toilet (aka the poop again)

• I was confused about the toilet when I first arrived in Aix; not that I didn’t know how to use it, but the toilet paper wouldn’t flush. Then, my housemate Ericka told me that I’m not supposed to flush the toilet paper; I’m supposed to put it in the trash bin. Um. What? I’m supposed to…wipe my butt after a glorious poop, and put it…in the trash bin? Isn’t that gross?
• So I tried it out for a few days, and it completely irked me out. I kept imagining all of my little poopie cells swimming in the sea of trash, for days on end, constantly plaguing me every time I went to the bathroom. I decided to ask around at school, if anyone else had to do this. My friends’ responses? Absolutely not. After that, I put my toilet paper back in the toilet again, where it rightfully belongs, and made sure to hold down the handle a little longer–just to ensure that it all got to the right place.

6) Dinner

• My favorite difference between my life here and my life back in the States is dinner. As an only child, family dinner wasn’t exactly a ¨thing¨. It was either me and my mom, or me and my dad, before they both remarried. But here, I have Sophie (host-mom), Innesse (her 14 year old daughter), Ericka (you all know her by now), and sometimes Beliza (the older sister) who stops by from time to time.
• Dinner is one of the highlights of my day, and not just because of the food; I love our conversation together. I feel like I am part of a real family unit: we laugh, we compare, we relate, we talk about everything. It’s something I aspire to have when I have a family of my own. It’s funny; I never thought having dinner with the same people every night would be something I would wish for, but it is now. It’s a nice feeling, to belong with others.

7) Money on the counter

• When I go to the boulangerie or patisserie (you know me and my bread), and I pay for my delicious purchase, the change is given either on the counter or in a small bowl, not directly into my hand. This has happened at nearly every establishment I have went to. Luckily, I have morphed myself into one of Pavlov’s Dogs, and have stopped placing my palm out when waiting for money to be returned for me. Now, I simply pick it up from the dish or the counter. This is a subtle difference that showcases my blatant American identity to the world, and I like to compare my situation to Michael Fassbender’s in Inglorious Bastards when he makes a mistake with the number ¨three¨. Slight, but deadly.

8) TV & Electricity

• I have no television in my house. I have no idea what is happening in the world. And I am only connected to the internet at night-time because I like being disconnected from the world during the day. I must say, it’s nice not being surrounded by technology.
• Every time I exit a room, I turn off the lights. This is a first for me! Aren’t you happy, Fahjah?? I am extremely conscious about my electrical consumption, because electricity is very expensive in France. So, I open my windows for natural light during the day, I only charge my computer when it is at 10% and do not leave it plugged in for hours on end, and again, I always turn off the lights. Look at me forming good habits! Also, same goes for water: my water consumption for bathing and washing the dishes has drastically gone down. Now I can say ¨bonjour¨ to a better, brighter tomorrow (#cheesy).

9) The Wine

• WINE IS SO CHEAP HERE IT IS AMAZING. If I want a super-cheap-decent-wine I can get it for 2 or 3 euros. If I want a moderate-good-average-wine, I can get it for 9 or 10 euros. If I want to splurge and get a celebratory-birthday-wine, 20 euros. Not to mention that they are all from the region as well. And the saddest part about all of this? Gum is more expensive than the cheapest wine. Thankfully, upon viewing a rosé for 2 euros next to a pack of gum for 4 euros, I immediately requested that my mom add gum to my next care package.

10) Transportation

• American transportation sucks, it’s as simple as that. It’s so much easier and efficient traveling around in Europe than it is in the States.

And there you go! 10 differences. Now you know a little more about life in France, and probably a little more than you wanted to know. I’ll end my post here, because I’ve just about gone over 2100 words, and I want to eat more cake. Ask me in real life for more differences, and I will gladly talk your ear off.

I still want pancakes,

Natasha

“It’s never the differences between people that surprise us. It’s the things that, against all odds, we have in common.” –Jodi Picoult

¨And what’s he then that says I play the villain?¨

I have a confession to make: life in the South of France has not been as ¨ideal¨ as I portray it to be. I have been hiding something from you all.

Everyday I am:

• Afraid to leave my own house
• Physically assaulted
• And mentally abused

Because of a dog.

The villain’s name is Kira, to be exact. I equate her as the Iago to Shakespeare’s Othello. And I am Othello. Now, let’s give a little ¨Natasha history lesson¨ before we continue on with this story.

I love dogs. I love dogs more than I love most people. I actually prefer spending time with my dogs than spending time with certain people, and I’m not afraid to admit it. Why, you ask? I have a theory (scientist alert!): it’s because I was an only child most of my life, before my mother remarried and I gained two lovely step-sisters who do not call me ¨Cinder-asha¨ and prohibit me from going to the ball. As an only child, I was not given the automatic playmate most siblings have growing up. The solution? Get the girl a dog, and pronto!

Enter Isabella, my greatest obsession and the most spoiled-rotten being on this planet. You all know her, whether you’ve met her in person or I’ve shown you a never-ending stream of photos. She was present at most of my high school production rehearsals, as well as some in college. I take her flower shopping and we like to socialize, but prefer a nice nap together even more. Our horoscopes are complementary. I talk to her (and yes, if you’re wondering, she does talk back). Years later, after I leave for college, enter Maxwell, my quasi-replacement for my parents in life since I am no longer in the house (thanks Dad and Jill…); the semi-demon who humps all of my male friends; but he’s still kinda cute sometimes. Both Izzy and Max sleep with me at night; we make a nice little family unit.

We’re so happy together!

When I heard that my host family owned a dog, I was more than excited; I was ELATED. Being without my two pups was going to be hard for a few months, but at least I would have a new puppy to pass the time with.

My first impressions of Kira, the Brittany Spaniel:

• Wow, she’s big for a one-year old.
• She’s so energetic, I can’t wait to play with her!
• Looks like she enjoys some good cuddles too. This’ll be great!
• Wow, she can jump up to my chest. That’s. Impressive?
• Is your name Kira, or Kara? I can’t tell with the way my host family is pronouncing it. I’m just going to say something in between so it sounds like both. #inventive

Trying to eat my body.

The major difference between Kira and my dogs is that Kira lives outside; something I would not personally do, since my dogs obviously sleep in the same bed as me, but the culture in France is different and people view and treat dogs differently than they do in the U.S. So, during the day, Kira spends all of her time outside, with a free reign of the yard. At night-time, she is placed in a sheltered room on the side of the house. Every morning, when I leave the house, Kira greets me and escorts me to the gate, while I throw toys and sticks for her along the way. She hardly ever leaves my side as I walk towards the gate, and she constantly brings me items to play with.

However, the unspeakable happened. This is when I knew that Kira and I would have an interesting relationship.

On my first day of class at IAU, I was running late. Typical French-Natasha (as we all know by now). But not too late. I left my room about 5 minutes later than I should have, assuming that my professor would be forgiving since I was still adjusting to the new city and culture. Five minutes, pas de probleme!

It was about 35 degrees Fahrenheit that morning? Not as cold as New Jersey, but the temperature and wind called for a jacket and gloves. As I left the house, I placed my gloves in my pocket, so I could lock the door.

And then. It happened.

Kira jumped up, grabbed my two beautiful brown leather gloves from my pocket, and ran away.

Oh boy.

I stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do. Do I retrieve my gloves? Or walk three miles in the wind without them?

I wanted my gloves back.

I put my bag down, walked down the steps, and searched for Kira.

She kept her distance from me, quiet and observing all of my actions, next to a tree. The two brown gloves delicately hung from her mouth. It was an invitation. A challenge.

¨That obstinate bitch¨ I whispered under my breath.

I slowly approached Kira, breathing ever so slightly, trying to make as little sound as possible.

¨Kira…Kira…donne-moi mes gants, s’il te plaît.¨ (yes, I talk to the dog in French. It’s what she understands.)

And all she did was look at me, tail wagging.

I made a jerky move for the gloves, thinking I could catch her by surprise. But she’s much more clever than I thought (to my dismay). Kira ran for the pool, then the gate, then disappeared behind the house, only to return to the same spot after 10 seconds. Geeze that dog is fast.

I tried the same ploy again; Kira responded the same way again. Something needed to change…

So I decided to chase her.

I chased Kira around the entire yard (which is decently large) for twenty minutes straight. We would stop, face off, I would fail, then we would run again. Clearly she knew she was playing a game with me, toying with my delicate emotions and ruining my expensive gloves, but she was playing it well. I was at her mercy. I tried EVERYTHING: throwing her other toys, sticks, baby talking with her, and I even pretended to play dead. But nothing worked.

I will forever have the image in my head, of Kira standing on top of the hill to my house, looking as if she was the King of Pride Rock, with a wagging tail, and tattered gloves in her mouth.

However, I was successful at retrieving one of the gloves back. But after 20 minutes of chasing her around the house, and another 15 of stand-offs, I decided that I would have to forfeit the battle–but not the war. As long as I eventually won my glove back, no matter if it was in twenty-million different pieces, it would be a victory in my book. And at that point, I just wanted to rub my victory into her little smug nose.

That being sad, my battle with Kira made me FORTY MINUTES LATE to my first class of the semester. I was embarrassed, sweaty, and convinced no-one would believe the ¨my dog ate my gloves¨ story.

Later that day, upon returning home, I was cautious. I opened the gate like I was entering a bomb field, prepared for my upcoming battle. My mission: retrieve the lost glove, no matter what. I will not lose another battle.

But Kira was no-where to be seen. Interesting.

I walk up to the door of the house, and what is waiting for me?

My tattered glove, left at the door like a present, delicately placed on the mat. The lining–destroyed. The fingers–ripped off. The leather–all but blackened. She had devoured, and she had devoured well.

On the right–the glove I retrieved. On the left–the glove Kira devoured.

I turned around to find Kira waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She kept her distance, but we shared a moment, where my eyes said ¨touché” to her. Even with this fake-appeasement, she had won. I had been bested by a dog.

Ever since that day, it has been an ongoing battle between Kira and I. Yesterday, she nearly bit my finger off. Today, she chewed at my ankles. And everyday she jumps on me when I return from school, attempting to eat my scarf or snatch a taste of my new (very cheap–I learned my lesson) gloves.

But, we have our calm moments of neutrality, where she kisses my cheek and I rub her stomach. The calm before the storm…

Forever prepared,

Tasha

 

“Dogs are great. Bad dogs, if you can really call them that, are perhaps the greatest of them all.” –John Grogan