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

The Seventh Stag

This young little lass (I of course am referencing myself) was born the day after St.Patricks day. That’s about my only connection with Ireland, and St.Patrick wasn’t even Irish.

I am currently in Dublin for my winter vacation [from vacation]. Before my arrival, I believed that the Irish obsession with drinking, pubs, and Guinness was a gross exaggeration–like most stereotypes.

After being here for exactly twenty-three hours, I have decided that that gross exaggeration is completely correct and sound.

Some interesting drinking facts about Dublin:

• There are over 1000 pubs in the city
• Dublin is home to the Guinness Brewery and Jameson Distillery
• 10 million glasses of Guinness are produced daily
• The Brazen Head, Ireland’s oldest pub, is located here
• In Ulysses, James Joyce states “good puzzle would be cross Dublin without a pub”
• In the middle of Dublin Center, there is a huge Spire with a blinking light on top, which one tour guide explained to me as the “4 million euro homing device for drunk people”

I arrived in Dublin with absolutely no expectations; one of the best ways to experience a new country. Think of me as a tabla rasa, an empty glass, a new 32gb flash drive, or just a person with an open and eager mind, I guess. The sole reason I bought tickets to Dublin and Edinburgh for my winter vacation is a literary one: I’ve read many books that have situated themselves in these cities/countries in general. In terms of Dublin, renowned writers such as James Joyce and Oscar Wilde have both been influenced by this city and its culture. In terms of Edinburgh, I love the accent and I read Outlander. Do I need another reason?

But, as you can tell, being in Dublin is a huge nerd-out for me, and I came in ready for an adventure–solo adventure I might add. I landed in Dublin with a journal full of ideas of where to visit and what to do; but other than that, my agenda was completely open for an unexpected journey.

Thus, upon arrival to my hostel, I was greeted with a huge sign which stated “BACKPACKERS PUB CRAWL. EVERY NIGHT. FREE GUINNESS. FREE SHOTS”

Little-lass-Tash’s reaction?: Sure. Why not. New friends.

My first day in Ireland was a busy one: I went on a jog at 7am, then joined in on a 4 hour walking tour (which brought us to Trinity College, Christ Church & St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Temple Bar, etc), delicious lunch, and the Guinness Brewery. In addition to constantly talking and moving, I had to continually answer questions from my fellow travelers about why on Earth I would travel alone. Isn’t it scary? What do you do? Are you lonely? How are you so independent?

My answer?: I had a craving for an adventure, and I wanted it to be my own intimate experience. Easy peasy.

BUT, my own experience has to be funded–by myself I might add. I’ve never been a stickler for money until I lived abroad. I have to! This is my life savings I’m talking about. If it doesn’t last me, short and sweet, I’ll be broke. If you know the right places to look, vacationing in Europe can be inexpensive. Free walking tours, Ryan Air (hiss), student discounts, etc etc. Emphasis on the “can”.

That being said, I didn’t plan on going crazy with drinks at the supposedly “epic” Dublin bar crawl. I even considered not attending after my full day of activities. But, if I wasn’t tired, I wouldn’t be using my vacation to its full potential. …right?

Which brings us, to. The. PRESENT. (Change in verb-tense alert for story time)

After quickly washing up from my full day out, I head downstairs to the main lounge to connect to the Internet. I look at a few emails, research affordable/quick/very Irish restaurants to hit up for dinner, and book a tour to the cliffs for the next day. Now, the thing about Isaac’s Hostel, where I am staying, is that it practically forces you to be social. There’s no Internet in the rooms, and it is only available in the main lounge and the basement. This is nice because backpackers and travelers hang out in these spaces all day, and it is extremely easy to strike up a conversation and make new friends. I can’t even tell you how many new and interesting people I’ve met during my first 23 hours in Dublin (not to mention the days that followed, because I am obviously posting this a few days later).

Not two minutes after completing my last Internet activity, a man in his late 20s sits across from me, obviously wanting to start a conversation. Which he doesn’t do. For the next 5 minutes. Nothing is said. I finally decide to initiate eye contact and a smile, and my evening adventure begins.

• “Hi there!” He talks first. So British. Geeze that accent is heavy.
• “Hi!”
• “Whatchu doin?”
• “Looking for a restaurant to eat before I go to the pub crawl tonight.”
• “Oh you goin’ to the poob crawl? Me too. Me and my mates. There’s six of us.”
• “All six of you traveled together? For what?”

His answer: A “Stag Party”. Aka. A bachelor party. Oh boy.

• “I’m Martin by the way. But anyway, we got to Birmingham this mornin’, drank at the airport lounge for 3 hours, then drank beers on the plane, arrived in Dooblin a few hours ago, went to a few poobs, and are makin’ our way to the poob crawl soon.”

He pulls a bottle of beer (seemingly) out of thin air. Martin seems to be having difficulty maintaining eye contact.

• “Oh, there me’ mates!”

I now find myself surrounded by six very inebriated British men, with extremely heavy accents. The conversation between them is fluid, quick, and very much like an advanced match of ping pong. I also feel like I am in an episode of the Inbetweeners.

• “Oy this is Natasha!”
• “Natasha!”
  “Nataaaasha!”
  “Nuhtoosha?”
  “Na-tahtahtaaasha!”
  “Wait what’s her name?”

Let me introduce you to the characters of my evening out in Dublin (nicknames created by Tipsy-Tash so she could remember all of these people in the morning).

1. Martin “the Translator”: the one who started the conversation with me. You’ll understand why I nicknamed him “the Translator” later on. Martin was my “go-to” new friend of the night, simply because I met him first.
2. Simon “the Canadian”: I thought Simon was the most level-headed one of the group, as I had many intellectual conversations throughout the night with him, until we arrived at Bar 4 and he refused to put his shirt back on. Simon is not Canadian, but he is a ginger (irrelevant?) and is moving to Canada in May for work.
3. Lee “the Married Guy”: I really only saw Lee twice during the night; once at the hostel, and the other time at the first bar. Then he…disappeared? I have no idea. Very much like a Hangover movie moment. Quiet and reserved. This “party” (that his friends are clearly benefitting more from) is for him.
4. Richard “Red Nose”: Richard is the quiet, comedic giant of the group. Had many “Jim Halpert please help me” eye contact moments with him throughout the night. Also his nose looked like it came out of a cartoon.
5. “Young Papa” Tom: 25 and has a kid. Never got to see pictures, so that sucked. He has the “movie star” face of the group, and decided to wrap my scarf around my neck every time before I went outside. Thanks, Papa?
6. Dan “Trying too Hard”: Sorry dude, but it’s true. The only one in a suit. Also “that friend” who seems like he is just lucky to be here. The drunkest of them all. And the thickest accent of them all.

It essentially felt like I was living in the film “At Worlds End”.

“Trying too Hard” asks me what I’m doing tonight. I tell him that I am about to catch a quick dinner, before I meet some of my new girlfriends at the pub crawl.

• “Aw what? Dinnah? No girl. Eatin’s cheatin'”
• “Yeah eatin’s cheatin'”
  “EATIN’S CHEATIN”
  “If you’re eatin’ you’re cheatin’.”

The six of them are like a flock of birds, reminding me of the “mine seagulls” in Finding Nemo. Everything is repeated. All. The. Time.

I look at the six characters around me, and realize I have a decision ahead: do I hang out with this bro-pack of seagulls, or not?

A thought–I have a theory (remember from my last post, I’m a scientist): If you go out to the pub, and you are a girl, without a drink in hand, surrounded by people who are having “fun” and have had lots of drinks, someone will buy you a drink because they want you to be included. And they’re too drunk to care.

So what does Natasha do? She latches onto the Stag Party, becoming “The Seventh Stag”, decides before the night begins that she will not buy drinks and just go for the “experience” (half because she didn’t budget for an expensive pub night, half because she wanted to see if the theory worked) and she writes the moments down in her phone as they happen, so she can entertain her endearing blog audience.

Seriously. The things I do for you all.
Here are a few moments (out of way too many) from the night:

Bar One: The Mercantile

Arrival:
Red Nose-“Oy mates look who it is!”
Followed by a bird chorus of: “Natasha!!!!”
Trying too Hard-“Anything to drink?”
Me-“Oh I have my glass of Guinness from the crawl, thanks.”
“Unacceptable. You like spirits?”
Free Drink #1

Me-“So you’re getting married soon?”
The Married guy-“Yes.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“5 weeks. I think.”
“Enjoying your party?”
“Yes.”
My last conversation with him.

Trying too Hard:”Jsoshskfbs.”
Me-“Um. What?”
“Jsoshskfbs”
“I think I need a translator. Martin?”
The Translator-“At your service.”
“Please translate from British to American.”
A moment.
“You don’t want to know what he said. But I will continue to cockblock and be your translator for the rest of the night.”
“Thank you.”

Bar Two: The Old Storehouse

The Canadian: “Where’s your drink?”
Me-“I’m not getting one.”
“I’ll change that.”
Free Drink #2

Young Papa: “You takin’ the piss Natasha?”
Me-“Uh. Martin help.”
The Translator-“Are you making fun of him?”
Me-“Oh. Yes. I’m taking…a piss.”
Young Papa-“Not A piss. THE piss. Geeze you’re so gross.”

Red Nose: “Natasha I find it offensive that you are speaking in a British accent.”
Me-“I so offend to make offense a skill.” “Alright we like you. Cider?”
Free Drink #3

Bar Three: Peadar Kearney’s

I decide to make new friends and ditch the Stag party for a bit. Red Nose calls me out.

Red Nose-“Changing hands I see?”
Me-“Just trying to talk to as many people as I can.”
“But it’s STAG NIGHT.”

Two American girls studying in Normandy:
Girl #1:”That’s wonderful that we’re all studying in France!”
Girl #2: “Why don’t you have a drink?”
Me-“Uh–”
Girl #1: “Here I’ll get you a pitcher.”
Free Drink #4

Young Papa- “If you’re going to talk to other girls, an least introduce us.”
Me-“I’m a stag not a wingman.”
“IT’S THE SAME THING.”

The Canadian-“Why did you bring a jacket?”
Me-“Because it’s cold and I don’t want to get sick.”
“That’s stupid.”

Bar Four: Whelan’s

Upon walking in, and receiving a free shot.
Me- “What is this?”
Bartender- “Alcohol.”
The Translator-“Do they not drink in America?”

Me-“Simon why is your shirt off?”
The Canadian-“I’M FREE YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.”

Trying too Hard: “Here,”
Free Drink #5
“You have to kiss me now. I bought you a drink.”
Me-“It doesn’t work like that. Go back to kissing those two other girls from before.”
“Ugh. Fine. Tequila?”
Free Drink #6

Then the Canadian, Young Papa, and I leave to get food.

Random Diner:
The Canadian: “I DESERVE TO BE SERVED I’M BRITISH.”
Young Papa: “Be quiet. Wait. WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG.”
“I’M GOING TO CONQUER IRELAND. FOR THE UK.”
Me-“Okay we’re leaving.”

Random Cab:
The Canadian-“How on earth are we going to get back to the hostel?”
Me-“With the taxi. That we’re in. I can give directions.”
Young Papa-“Are you the only American that doesn’t get drunk?”
Me-“I didn’t drink all day like you. It’s called being responsible.”
Canadian-“It’s because she had dinner. Eatin’s cheatin’.”

Back at the hostel
Canadian- SLUMBA PARTY!
Young Papa- LETS HAVE A PILLOW FIGHT!
Me- “Aaaaand it’s time for me to go to bed. Night!”
BOTH-“NO DONT LEAVE US!”

I’d say my first (and most likely only) Stag Party was a success. I made friends. Didn’t pay for anything. Yeah. Good night. I wish I could include all of the great and funny conversations I had with the stags and with other international students and Irishmen of the night, but alas I can’t include everything, now can I? Although I will include one moment I loved the most: I met a group of Portuguese students at one of the bars, who barely spoke English, but they did speak French. It was a really nice moment, transcending our own languages and cultures to find some sort of commonality.

What happened to my six characters after the night? I have absolutely no idea. Married Guy is probably stranded on top of a building, brutally getting sunburned–at the very least.

Forever one of the guys,
The Seventh Stag

P.S. Apologies for the lack of pictures. I typed this all on my phone, and I don’t know how to add pictures yet. Oh, technology.

“Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”–Ernest Hemingway

Proceed with caution: TMI ahead.

Fun fact of the day: I originally went to college with the intent of studying Neuroscience. Two novels, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and The Bell Jar, had a large impact on my intellectual life, and made me interested in the many functions of the brain. Little did I know that my passion for science also translated into my passion for literature and character study, causing me to switch my science degree to a double major in English and French Literature. It’s funny how things work out.

The reason I bring this up, is that I oftentimes like to consider myself as an ¨amateur scientist¨. I enjoy reading Scientific American. Neil Degrasse is a demi-god. I’ve looked into becoming a medical writer for a career. And I create my own…¨experiments¨.

What the word ¨experiments¨ means in ¨Natasha language¨ is that I like to pretend to be a ¨scientist¨ from ¨time to time¨.

¨air quotes¨

Also known as ¨being curious and doing weird things¨.

There are 6 steps to the Scientific Method:

1. Purpose/Question
2. Research
3. Hypothesis
4. Experiment
5. Analysis
6. Conclusion

Now comes the point in my blog where I hope to have piqued your interest. Experiments? Scientific Method? Natasha, what exactly is going on in France?

I’ll put it in layman’s terms for you:

Natasha’s purpose/ question:

What would happen if I chose not to shave my armpits for one month?

Natasha’s research:

Google says that it is a stereotype that French women do not shave their armpits. Since I am in France, does that make me a French woman? Why do people shave their armpits anyway? Time to research more about this. Ah looks like this myth originated in the 1940s, when GI’s were stationed in France just after WWII. Scrolling. Scrolling. Wow, there are a lot of feminist arguments about not shaving. Also, it looks like things might get smelly in the pit area. Thanks, Google.

Natasha’s hypothesis:

If I do not shave my armpits for one month…I will feel….different…

As you can tell, I didn’t have much of a hypothesis. I just wanted to see what would happen. FOR SCIENCE.

Why did I randomly decide not to shave my armpits for one (very very very very very) long month?

Story time!

Hi NGD 😀

Let’s travel back in time through our ¨Ship of Imagination¨. It’s January 26th. Natasha has been in the South of France for a grand total of three days. Life is good, until she realizes…

¨Jiminy Cricket, I haven’t shaved my armpits since I arrived!¨

A perplexing realization indeed. Natasha is usually so attentive about shaving her armpits exactly every other day, like clockwork (not orange). What on earth prompted her to neglect shaving since her arrival abroad? Is it something in the water? The culture? Some sort of communicable brain disease in the baguettes?

There could only be one conclusion.

¨The shower.¨ Natasha uttered, menacingly.

Walking into the bathroom, the young American quickly realized her fault. In this shower, one must physically hold the shower head, making it a more difficult cleansing process than her previous (wonderful) shower at home. Because of this, and the scarcity of hot water, Natasha has been forced to acclimate to a new shower regimen, called ¨showering as quickly as possible within 4 minutes because hot water is expensive in France and she will be reprimanded if she doesn’t¨. Therefore, vitesse is essential. Attempting to clean every pore is imperative. But shaving, is a luxury.

Walking out of the shower, dejected and beaten by her hair-care defeat, Natasha consults her housemate, Ericka.

¨Gee wiz, Ericka, I know this might be too much T.M.I., but I haven’t shaved my armpits since I got here.¨

¨Girl, I haven’t shaved my armpits in a week.¨

Shocked, Natasha decides to take this conversation a little further, testing out the waters, as an idea slowly engenders itself in her mind.

¨How long do you think we could go without shaving our armpits?¨

¨You mean…no shaving? No trimming?¨

Natasha smiles at this. The experiment has begun.

¨Exactly. Think we could go for a month?¨

¨It’s on.¨

Natasha’s Experiment:

Below is the thought process of a woman with unshaven armpits.

• Day Three: The Challenge. Is. Accepted
• Day Four: ¨I’m so awesome. Look at me being alternative.¨
• Day Five: ¨Move over No-Shave-November, it’s time for No-Shave…February¨
• Day Eight: ¨Why am I doing this I’m grossing myself out please make it go away it tickles and makes me sweaty why Natasha whyyy¨
• Day Ten: ¨Oohh now it’s so cute and soft now! Hi Beary. That’s your new name now. Beary.¨

And then, Day Eleven came. *cue hallelujah music*

Ericka enters Natasha’s bedroom after a sudden realization.

¨Hey Natasha…I just realized that if we do this for a month, it is going to overlap with our Winter Break…and I’m going to Italy…so….can we make our challenge a few days shorter?¨

• Day Twelve: ¨Thank goodness I will be able to shave earlier than expected. Seriously. YES¨
• Day Thirteen: FOR SCIENCE!
• Day Fifteen: In the middle of a very silent, and very, very cold night: ¨At least my armpits are still warm.¨
• Day Sixteen: ¨Where is that smell coming from.¨
• Day Seventeen: ¨Me. Definitely me. That smell is coming from me. I need to spray perfume on my pits.¨
• Day Nineteen: ¨I am not a quitter. I will succeed. I’m in too deep to back out now.¨
• Day Twenty: ¨DAMN IT HAIR GO AWAY NO ONE WANTS YOU¨
• Day Twenty-Two: Ericka–¨Hey Natasha…do you want to touch each other’s armpits?¨
• Day Twenty-Three: ¨There’s no way Kate Austen from Lost had perfect armpits on the Island. Just no way. She needs to embrace her furriness.¨
• Day Twenty-Four: ¨There’s something different about my room…did…did my host mom just put an air-freshener in here? COME ON.¨
• Day Twenty-Six: Ericka–¨Hey I just found a small ruler. Want to measure our armpits?¨

Which brings us to today, dear reader. I am ONE DAY AWAY from being able to shave my armpits. It has been a struggle, but I am very happy to announce that I see a light at the end of the tunnel, and it is very bright and naked like a mole-rat.

Ahh my future pits.

I imagined many different social scenarios that revolved around my armpit air; none of which happened. For example.

At the bar:

• Frenchman: ¨Salut. Wanna go home with me?¨
• Me: ¨No. I have armpit hair.¨
• Frenchman: ¨What?¨

But alas, next time.

Natasha’s Analysis:

The first few days (of No Shave February) were exciting. I felt alternative. I felt cool. And my armpit hair tickled, forever making me giggle. I felt the pleasure of conducting a secret experiment that no one would discover (until now), because it is ¨winter¨ in Aix (50degrees…) and I wear long sleeved shirts everyday.  However, halfway through, the discomfort arose, and I began to sweat more than usual. Not to mention there was a very odd and particular odor. But now, on the last day before my re-birth, I don’t mind the King-Kong creature growing upon my body. That’s all I’m saying. My beary.

Natasha’s Conclusion:

This was an experience. I’m still unsure if it was a good experience or a bad experience, but it was an experience nonetheless. Will I do it again? Eh. Not for an entire (almost) month, that is for sure. But, it won’t be the end of my existence if I go a few days without shaving my armpits. My body enjoyed not being scraped with a razor every few days.

Call to action?? Dear readers, will you follow in my (hairy) steps??

Forever curious,

Natasha

Two and a half weeks in. Blame my mother for making me post this picture.

“People say: idle curiosity. The one thing that curiosity cannot be is idle.”–Leo Rosten

Jack from Lost doesn’t sit next to me; disappointment ensues.

Before I left the country to study abroad in the place of my birth, I created a mental list of unrealistic expectations that I desperately wished to come true:

1. Have a “Very Brady” host family who takes me on bi-weekly bike rides, introduces me to their favorite French movies every Friday evening (8:30 preferably), and accompanies me to the Zoo (is there a zoo in Aix?) with their two young children (who absolutely adore me) and one of them is named Pierre.
2. Immediately after landing in Marseille, I will walk out of the airport to find either J.J. Abrams or Clint Eastwood filming a new major-picture in the South of France and somehow sneak my way into becoming an “extra”. After this, he (most likely J.J. because he seems nice and is also filming Star Wars) will realize how incredibly talented I am, will provide me with an agent, and use me in all of his films for the next 10 years (craft services provided).
3. Everyone will think I am French and not American, therefore loving me instead of hating me.
4. Along with my ukulele, I will find a partner, start a two person band, take the Aix music scene by force, and be the super-cute-quirky-French-girl I’ve always dreamed to be.
5. Sit next to Jack from Lost on the airplane, and he will buy me a vodka tonic.

Completely forgetting that I am going over to Aix-en-Provence for my educational studies and work, my dreams seem somewhat…feasible. High disappointment percentages, but, feasible; hence, my first blog post.

On the past three plane rides I have been on, someone has bought me a drink. One woman, in fact, bought me two drinks on the way to North Carolina– at 7:30 in the morning. The reason for her generosity? Her life sucked and it wasn’t going to get any better, so why not make someone else’s day great with a free drink? That being said, I considered myself to have a pretty good track record in the free drinks department. Current standings are 3 for 3. Why would my flight to France be any different?

In pre-celebratory fashion, I decided to get an early start. Before leaving the house, my family polished off a bottle of Prosecco. In the car, I brought another bottle for the road–”liquid courage” I like to call it. If this is my last day in the good ol’ U.S. of A., I sure as heck am going to celebrate.

20 minutes pass and I still can’t open my bottle of liquid courage. The bottle has a weird rubber stopper on top that persistently defies my sober-wrath, and I feel stupid for not having brought the necessary tools. Dejected, I forfeit the battle, but not the war. “There’s still my free drink on the plane!”

And who will this free-drink come from? #5, Jack from Lost, OF COURSE. It is completely feasible that JACK, not the actor MATTHEW Fox, but JACK will sit next to me, order me a vodka tonic, and await our unavoidable journey to the Island. Inspired by my new-found realization that I will still somehow receive my celebratory drink, I walk into the airport with a “come-at-me-world-I’m-unstoppable-look-how-cool-I-am-studying -abroad” attitude.

Imagine (in slow motion, please) Tash.0, strutting into the airport, flanked by two very small dogs, and a posse consisting of three parents. Come at me, France.

My biddies.

I approach a very empty check-in line, where I am greeted by a not-so-enthusiastic Newark Airport worker for TAP Portugal.

“Hi…so…uh…no one is in line…so…you can pick any counter you like” he unenthusiastically explains to me.

I look at my choices: ahead of me are three male flight attendants, and I feel like Goldilocks. The first is clearly a golden male model in his spare time, the second has a handsome, defined chin and a “domestic-homely” look in his eyes, and the third is a “hey don’t compare me to the two guys next to me because I am in their shadow” type of guy.

So what does Goldilocks do? Have them fight for it, of course!

I strike a pose and shout “Who wants me?!”

All three men raise their hands timidly.

I choose the “hey don’t compare me to the two guys next to me because I am in their shadow” guy because this type of situation must happen to him quite often, and I wanted to make him feel better. Even more, while I talk to him, model-man and domestic-homebody oodle my dogs. I’d say it’s a win-win for all.

After small talk about my study-abroad plans and explaining why I’m not a French citizen even though I was born there, I charm my way into a window seat with an empty one next to it, excited that I will have a decent amount of legroom and the ability to bask in my own farts for the duration of the flight and not someone else’s.

“There’s nothing like your own brand”-Fat Bastard, Austin Powers.

However, on my way to TSA, I realize that I have made a horrible mistake: “If I ensured that no-one will sit next to me, how will Jack buy me a drink and take me to the Island?”

Horrified, I immediately regret charming my way to an empty seat. The male model would have put his foot down at that. Not only did I not have my pre-flight celebratory booze, but I solidified that Jack would not get drunk with me. Life can be cruel, sometimes.

Fast forward two and a half hours, and I am boarding my plane [to the Island]. Greeted by Portuguese that sounds like Czech to me, I am nervous yet excited about my upcoming flight (the first of two). As I turn the corner onto the plane, I am absolutely delighted with the cabin: “This looks EXACTLY like Oceanic Flight 815” (the plane from Lost); 4 seats in the center aisle, two seats on the side aisles. My dream trip with Jack seems to be so close to reality.

Time to share that drink!

Then I start walking. And walking. And walking. Past the questionable bright red and neon green colors of TAP Portugal (who picks that for a theme?). Finally, I find my seat, 41 J, the last seat on the right side of the plane. No chance that Jack would be in the tail-end; he’s probably basking in his large first class seat with someone who isn’t me. I sit down and force myself to realize that 1) Jack will not be here, 2) No-one will buy me a drink because I don’t have a seat partner, and 3) Holy poop I’m actually on my way to France.

Does this story have a happy ending? YES. Because I DID get a free (cough complimentary cough) drink on the plane, and although it wasn’t from Jack, the domestic-homebody flight attendant came around with a drink cart and asked me if I wanted “a drink” with my “dinner” to which I responded “yes”. Red-wine never tasted so well deserved as it did that day. Also, I’m in France; trump card played.

Flying above Marseille

What does this story make me realize?

1. I need to stop obsessing over Lost. Come on.
2. I don’t know what to expect in terms of my life over the next few months, but it sure is entertaining to come up with crazy-fun scenarios and see how they play out.
3. I’ve never felt so comfortable farting on a plane before (thanks “hey don’t compare me to the two guys next to me because I am in their shadow” guy for giving me an empty row).
4. I’m going to have a lot of interesting stories, and I can’t wait to share them with my friends and family.

As you can tell, this blog isn’t your typical “study-abroad-let-me-tell-you-about-what-I-ate- today” blog. I love telling stories, in every shape and form, and there’s nothing that I love more than sharing my stories with my peers. Expect the unexpected, because that’s how I am going to take every day of my life in France for these next few months.

See you in another life, my brothers.

-Tash