Final- Letter to Paris

A Letter to My First Love 

Experiences from traveling in Paris

Paris, My Dear
      I've never had the pleasure of falling in love, but if I did, I imagine the relationship would feel much like the one the two of us have shared this summer. You pursued me with such vivacity I could hardly catch my breath. You enticed me with grandeur and beauty that left my heart racing a thousand beats per minute. In the words of one of one of my favorite Jane Austen characters, "you have bewitched me, body and soul." 

Paris, You Changed My Perspective

The only painting with a mob.
Photo by: Kimberly Chandler

      Our relationship began like any other. We went on dates and you expanded my thinking, showing me how beauty is found not just in Mona Lisa's smile, but just to the left; in the gazed over master pieces of other Da Vinci works. Bustling tourists speed by some of the most brilliantly crafted pieces of art in a mad dash to catch a glimpse of that smile. However, you have taught me to appreciate the beauty in the lesser known; In the things that have always been there, but go unseen by eyes living in fast-forward. You made me slow down in order to look for and find unsuspected treasures hidden in the mundane; like the smells of open markets and boulangeries wafting through my windows in the early mornings, taunting me from my sleep. 

Paris, You Made Me Independent
       As time moved forward and euphoria turned into routine, I became comfortable with you, Paris. I started to venture out on my own seeing things with fresh perspective; you gave me new eyes. The beggars on the streets weren't just the scammers that I was warned to avoid at all costs, but teammates with their own eunique stories, working busy corners in shifts, rotating from sidewalks to metro stations. They were actors on the world stage just like the rest of us. I finally understood what Shakespeare was saying, "they have their exits and their entrances and one man in his time plays many parts." I wonder what part I play.

                                                            Paris, You Taught Me To Communicate Without Words

Even on the darkest night, the Eiffel Tower
never loses its shine.
Photo by: Kimberly Chandler

      My lack of knowledge in the french language proved to be difficult, and yet you did not allow it to hinder my experience. On the days when I felt  lost, you translated for me, showing me that spoken language was only one form of communication. Art spoke for itself. In fact, the Eiffel Tower told me to withstand and endure without saying one word. The tower demanded my attention, exuding charm and confidence that begged my mind to engage with its rich history. In a day trip to your sister city, Normandy, I learned about how the Germans conquered you during the second world war and how through defiance and rebellion, your people would not allow the nazi flag to fly over the tower.  As the old adage says, "Hitler conquered France, but did not conquer the Eiffel Tower." With confidence and indignation, the Eiffel Tower tells me I too can resist my enemies. 





Paris, You Helped Me Appreciate French

      Although I can't speak it fluently, your native tongue still leaves me in awe at the beauty of its word choices.  Walking down the Seine I witnessed a scene play out between two musicians. A flute player began yelling at a guitarists, clearly upset that his marked territory was being tramped upon by another musician. "Tu respectes mon misère, plus que tu respectez mon musique," the flute player shouted repeatedly. After doing a little research, I translated the words to "you respect my misery more than you respect my music!"  Even in the heat of anger, the french language shoots from the lips like little bullets leaving a barrel. Simple english sayings  take on new life when spoken and translated from french. The phrase "I miss you" is tu me manque, and it's literally translated as "you are missing from me." Again, this example shows how zeal infuses your language with a passion that drips from each word like poetry.

Paris, You Taught Me Love
      Paris, the very things that make me love you, are also the things that infuriate me about you. Your busy streets, although charming, almost got me killed on several occasions as absent minded drivers sped through crosswalks and ignored traffic rules. The adorable pups that roamed the streets at the heels of their owners, left little presents in their wake that my shoes always seemed to find. Your indecisive weather patterns that changed on a whim, left me with the sniffles. You were aggravating, and I loved every minute of it. In my home city, the traffic is pretty moderate, dogs are confined to fenced in yards, and the weather is hot and cold when it's supposed to be. My home city is sensible and right for me like the boyfriend that says all the right things and treats me like I deserve, but you, Paris, are like the ex that I have screaming matches with at 3 a.m. With you I am passionate, tumultuous, and crazy and even though my boyfriend is the obvious and safe choice, it's you my mind runs to and craves to be with.

Paris, You Changed Me
      My time here is coming to a close and to say you have changed me is an underwhelming statement. Because of you, I have found my voice in a city that doesn't speak my language. My stride is still the same but my pace is different, matching the steps of those who value living in the moment and enjoying life. Like most Summer flings, they must have an ending place, but I believe this is just the end of a chapter in a book that has many more pages. I will see you again Paris. I have too much more to learn not to. 

  

       

Journal #7

The Markets
Food- Writers- Books

I was not particularly certain what to expect in our shopping adventures, but I was optimistic because I was told flea markets in Paris are different than flea markets back home, and I abhor the flea markets back home. So I went into the whole ordeal fairly positive, especially because the first markets we were visiting were food markets and we all planned to grab some food and I was ravenously hungry.

Knowing that the markets opened at nine and closed fairly early, me and my team made a plan to head out earliar than the rest of the group so we wouldn't miss anything. Bad idea, We headed out around 8:40 and arrived to our first destination a little after 9. No one was setup, We could smell the food being prepared behind closed doors and pulled curtains/tarp from the outside stands and yet we couldn't buy anything. Disappointing. We decided to wander around anyway. The workers refused to acknowledge our existence as they readied themselves to open I'm assuming sometime around 11 or noon. These markets were not very big, but it was quaint and cozy, tucked away into a small cove between tall apartment buildings. The prices that were on dispay didn't look to bad and if the food tasted anything like it smelled, I would definitely go back for lumch

Next we went to the markets that we all referred  to as the writers market. We again, didn't know what to expect but we hopped on the metro, after stopping at a boulangerie for croissants of course, and made our way to the market streets. Again, they were still getting ready. At this point it was after 10 and we were all pretty confused as to why the internet and book warned us about getting to these places early. From what we could see, vendors were setting up clothes, handbags, and food shops. Me and my group sat down on some steps over looking the two main market streets and ate our boulangerie pastries while we plotted out our plans. "I think there's some more shops on the other side of that building," Ina suggests. So we got up shook off our flakey croissant crumbs, and headed in that direction. There were no shops to be found. We really weren't having much luck on our shopping adventures, but we were still in good spirits because we had saved the best for last, Books!

Once getting off the metro for our last destination, we walked towards the book markets, passing vendors a long the way that are usually planted along the Seine. We had seen them numerous times always avoiding, assuming they were the tourists traps we all were warned again and again about. About half way down the road they were lined on I noticed they all were selling the same things. Books.
"Ugh, guys. I think this is the book market," I said.
"I think you're right, but these guys are always here," Raven added.
Apparently the book markets had been right under our noses the entire time and we had never realized. The books were very old and all in french, but they were beautiful and classic. They also sold postcards and stickers and posters out front before you got to the books, which probably is the reason  we never realized they were book stands.

We ended our trip standing over the Seine on the original love lock bridge, examining the art and wondering what we would journal about. It wa in this experience that I realized everything is a story, even if things don't go as planned. We all, with our failed attempts at markets shopping/observing, each had our own experiences and so much to write about.

Final Draft

Dear Paris,

        You have shown me so much in a very short amount of time. I have learned things about myself that I can only credit to you, and for that, I must say thank you.

      When visiting you, many tourists hit up the well known spots such as The Louvre, The Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame. These spots are well known, and packed with bodies, and yet they still deliver awe and inspiration from their beauty and rich history. No matter how many times I visit the Eiffel Tower, my eyes can't help but trail up and down the sturdy structure, and at night, the twinkling fills my stomach with giddy delight.

I have always considered myself someone who was horrible with directions, but your metro system has given me confidence in my abilities. No matter where I am within the city, there is usually a metro stop near by, and as long as I can find that, I know I can find my way back home. Yeah the connecting lines are a bit confusing at first, but over time after a few failed attempts they were finally conquered. It was like something clicked in my head and the whole world made sense...

Food is something I love dearly, but I can tend to be a picky eater. That was not the case, thanks to you Paris. You offered so many delicious choices that I couldn't help but want to try new things. The freshness of the bread and cheeses and meats left my mouth watering everyday, and I woke up with a ravenous appetite every night, ready to see what new things I would get to try!

Again and again I was warned of tourists traps and pick pocketers, and it made me uneasy to say the least. I constantly was clutching my bag to my chest and judging any suspicious character that steppe near me. Maybe I was lucky, but within in the confines of the city walls, I never felt unsafe. Being a girl from Atlanta, I know its best to not wander the streets of the A after darkness falls or you might run into some pretty unsavory characters, but although you have some interesting characters in your city.....

(New idea, I want to write from the perspective of atlanta. I will personify both cities as if one is writing a letter to her friend or new aquaintance. I think this works for my audience since my target audience is an atl publication. Since I will be writing about my own personal experiences and things I encountered, I will write as If I am Atlanta so that its more personal.... I'm rewriting this whole thing now.)

Journal #6

It was mid-afternoon, when terror struck the Oiseau family. A cool breeze brought a peaceful calm over the couple. With it, smells of Nutella and Crepes wafted over the unsuspecting occupants flitting about the sandy park grounds, munching on bread crumbs and half eaten sandwiches.  Mr. and Mrs. Oiseau had just arrived to Paris after traveling a full weeks journey. All they wanted was to rest, so they made their way over to the massive expanse of brown water that stood in the center of the park.

"This really is a beautiful place," Mrs. Oiseau chirped as she cocked her head back and forth watching the boats sail on the open waters, feeling the maritime mists coating her brawny body.

"Ah, we could settle in just nicely here," her husband added as he perched himself on the wall of the fountain. He had tried for 5 unsuccessful years to convince his wife to migrate into the city, but she was set in her ways; convinced the big city, with its giant walls, would leave her feeling caged.

"Ah, whatever you old crow," she teased. "This is just a visit. Don't you go trying to talk me into staying. Now, what's next on the agenda for..." she paused mid-sentence, "Did you hear that?"

A low whistling sound began to ring out over the park, a noise unlike anything the couple had heard, sending shivers down their tailbones.

"Oh, its probably nothing," Mr. Oiseau unconvincingly assured. "Don't get your feathers all ruffled, dear. It's just a little wind."

Boom!
An ungodly sound echoed creating a vibration that seemed to shake the earth, and the Oiseaus, to the very core!

Boom, boom, boom. Again, and again shock waves filled the park, sending the terrified occupants into fight or flight.

"Run for your lives!" screeched Mr. Oiseau as he began running, bobbing his tiny body, and moving his feet as fast as he could.

"Run if you want, I'm out of here," Mrs. Oiseau said over her shoulder as she stretched her feathers and flew up into the chaos of pigeons flying in terror at the sounds of the instruments.

"Oh, right," thought Mr. Osiseau, and he too spread his wings and took flight into the air, away from the cacophony of drums.

Blog Post #3

Postcards: Unsafe Safety 

Safety Measures on Bastille Day in Paris, France

Soldiers underneath the Eiffel Tower
Photo by: Kimberly Chandler

The Chaos Before

I never questioned my safety in Paris until I was face to face with thirty policemen systematically corralling people in order to insure my safety. I knew going into Bastille Day, France’s Independence day, that security would be crawling all over the city’s streets. What I didn’t expect, however, was the sense of vulnerability their presence would make me feel. Since stepping foot off the plane, due to recent events putting Paris on a red alert, I have seen military and police walking, gun in hand, all over main streets and busy tourists hubs. So multiply the heightened security by 10, and that might give you some image of how intense things were on this Holiday put in place to celebrate the strength of the country’s military. As most first time visitors would do, I made the decision to experience all parts of Bastille Day. From walking the Champs Elysee in order to view the parade, to staking out a spot on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower so I could get a great view of the fireworks, I did it all. During those activities I could feel my tension and unease growing through out the day as more service members appeared, lining the streets with their weapons and steal expressions, but it wasn’t until that evening, after the fireworks display finished, that I felt the most unsafe.

The Chaos After 

As can be imagined, the big lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower was packed to capacity; not an inch of the green grass could be seen. So once the display was over, expectedly, chaos ensued. People, myself included, began pushing and running trying to make it to the metro only to be met with a blockade of security baring entrance. A little frustrating, but there was another metro station barely a block away. However, as it turns out, it to was closed. Quickly, the now agitated crowd realized all of the metro stations in the area were closed off; we would have to walk. After a day of being searched, moved, and now blocked, the service members were nowhere to be found. They had made it so everyone was pushed out of the central part of Paris and into the outer quarters. The tension from frustrated drivers stuck in their cars because people filled the streets and even more frustrated metro riders who were roughly pushing people out of trains because they were packed with everyone trying to get into the open ports, grew to a pretty hostile environment. Despite their efforts, the security team had made things worse. Instead of creating an atmosphere of calm, the lack of control people felt they had when faced with security, made them feel threatened. After a long day of this people were fed up and just ready to get home or to their next destination and that is the time security is needed the most, but where were they? Perhaps, the lesson to be learned in this scenario is experiencing all of the Bastille Day activities can be fun and worthwhile, but it will come at the price of relinquishing your own feelings of security.

Note to Dr. Carroll: My posts are doing some weird things with my fonts and text sizes that I can't seem to fix.

Blog Post #2 Revision

Audience: Travel blog piece for first time flyers/travelers.

Getting Through The Port

It's not always easy, but it's always worth it.

        Since traveling is so expensive, my family never took vacations. I remember when I received my first car (this was around the same time I headed out to college) I felt unstoppable. I felt as though the world was mine to explore. However, there was only so far my lime green little boxy car could take me, and believe me, I pushed that green machine to its limits. I was road tripping all over the southeast with friends, and even going as far as San Antonio, Texas. I loved mobility, but like with anything else, getting a taste of travel only made me crave more. At 24 , I embarked on the trip of a lifetime to France, and if I can do it, anyone can.

          For many first-time abroad travelers, the planning stage consists of figuring out what kinds of clothing to bring, as well as what fun activities and attractions to do upon reaching the destination. However, the actual plan for getting there can easily become an afterthought. I started planning for my France adventure nine months in advance. To get ready for my trip, I began reading travel articles nine months before departure, covering topics such as ‘how to pack’ and ‘how to get the most out your trip to Paris.’ New to flying, I could only wonder the ardors of a nine-hour transatlantic flight.

          Upon reaching the airport, a nervous sensation began to spread, making my stomach feel as though it was doing back flips. I blew it off as nervous excitement, not recognizing the early stages of anxiety. As I rolled my suitcase over to the baggage checkpoint, the sensation only grew. I ignored my sweaty palms and mild chills. After one last goodbye to Mom, I headed for security and, for me, unchartered territory.

          Once, in the main airport I began heading to my terminal. Thank goodness I spotted some classmates, Madison, Typhani and other girls I recognized only by face, who were coming on the trip with me, or I might still be wandering around the massive airport. As I slyly followed the crowd, probably looking conspicuous, I gaped in awe at the magnitude of the airport, which looked more like a shopping mall. There were so many stores. I couldn’t help wondering if people paid for flights just so they could come shop or eat at the fancy food court. Fighting the urge to do some shopping myself, I finally made it to my terminal. After waiting for what felt like hours, they began boarding us. I was very nervous about who I would sit next to and prayed I would have the window seat. Lucky for me, I sat next to Kristy Johnson, a woman who exuded happiness and offered to be my travel partner through the duration of the trip. I was tucked away right by the window and ready to begin the flight! 

          Who knew how shaky airplanes were? During take off, the plane shook so much I thought for sure it would fall apart before we made it off the ground. I clutched my seat so tightly the color began to drain from my fingertips. The side ways tipping back and forth sent me over the edge. I began praying so earnestly; I felt a spiritual growth occur right then and there. That’s when the deep thinking began. I started reflecting on faith and how every individual who flies has to have faith regardless of their belief system. I thought about how many people were currently floating in the air at that exact moment. I thought about the clouds and how my plane looked like a ship floating amongst the clouds. I thought a lot. And as the anxiety and thoughts about death by turbulence subsided, I began thinking about the wonders of the sky and the majesty of the huge hunk of metal floating, transporting us miles and miles across the world. That was all it took. I was hooked. As scary as my initial ascent into the air was, I was finally traveling. The memories of getting there is a journey of it’s own, and make up a huge part of the experience. 

Taken from the Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt.
Photo by: Kimberly Chandler

Journal #5

Going into Bastille day, I had very basic knowledge of French History and independence. SO I did a quick Google search and found some information on Wikipedia so I wouldn’t totally be in the dark on what was going on during the days festivities.

Once we went out for the parade and fireworks, I found that I was totally I the dark for the days festivities. I had no idea what to expect, and what I got was sensory overload. Google and Wikipedia did not prepare me for the chaos, crowds, and obnoxious people.

After waking up and heading out to the Champs Elysse at 8:30am, I realized just how massive the Paris armed forces are. Including police and other security members. I was awestruck.

On every corner was a service member. While walking with a friend towards the metro to head out I asked my friend, “How are the military members going to patrol and secure everything if they’re all in the parade?”

Well, they weren’t all in the parade. Not even close.

They’re were hundreds of military in the streets, and yet countless more patrolled up and down the champs. The side walks lining the street for the parade were gated off so that the only way you could get into the enclosure was by first having your bags and person checked. This was understandable. I mean, the countries president was going to be there and no telling how many wackos were walking about. After going up to the gate to be checked, my friend was asked to throughout her cute little jar of jelly we had just received from a café. Since, we weren’t willing to part with some of belongings, we decided to keep walking up and down champs and see if we had better luck somewhere else. We didn’t. every inch of free sidewalk was covered with people just trying to catch a glimpse of the top of the soldiers helmets. As I enviously looked up at the high apartments with French people leisurely watching the parade from their balconies, three planes flew from overhead and painted the sky in red and blue. It was amazing. More planes flew by at incredible speeds keeping exact formations and at that moment the strength and security felt by strong militaries was felt by everyone in attendance.

After the parade, we decided to walk towards the direction of the Locadero to scout out a place to see the fireworks. Once at our location, the police began pushing people back out of the park in a systematic fashion.

The part I want to focus on in my blog is the security. After the fireworks display people were hearded to one metro as the closest ones to the Eiffel were closed off and guarded by police. Once at a working metro, people began to get pushy, irritable, violent, and forceful. This hearding to one metro was no helpful. If anything it made things worse. All day the police/military were blocking and barricading and controlling. Desperately trying to control a city by asserting their power but when it came down to it, It made it harder and made people feel less safe.

Journal #4

Tino Rossi: My very first impression when I walked up the stairs to the very first dance party was a feeling of confusion, admiration and fear.

The fear was real and debilitating. I wanted to dance, I love to dance, but how exactly was I supposed to dance with complete strangers?

I began to feel like I was in middle school again at the sixth grade dance waiting for the first person to make a move signaling to the rest of the timid youths that it was ok to dance. Boy did I want to dance

“Do you want to keep walking?” someone asked.

I immediately responded with a hurried yes, ready to shake the feelings associated with my adolescent, not so charming years.

“Lets see what else is going on,” I added to make myself feel better about chickening out.

As we walked down to the next group of dancers I immediately tensed up. This group was doing some sort of slow sensual salsa that looked to steamy, and way to personal for me to participate in. I am novice dancer and I couldn’t imagine myself getting up close and personal with a random stranger and exhibit the same intensity as the other dancers with out bursting out into a fit of giggles, and I was already tired of feeling like a 12 year old.

“You wanna keep walking?” I asked.

“Yes, definitely,” my classmate agreed. At least I wasn’t the only one having a mild panic attack.

As we approached the last group we noticed that set up for whatever was going on was underway but going fairly slow.

“What do we do now?” I wondered

“Lets just wait here and see what they do next,” my classmate suggested.

That was the right answer, I hurried up and agreed and then proceeded to hunker down and wait, but the music kicked in. The group began some sort of Irish line dance accompanied with a live band playing accordions, guitars, and other instruments I couldn’t name if I tried.

It was straight out of a movie. You know, those movies that you criticize for not being realistic because somehow everyone already knows the choreography. Well, apparently those are movies are realistically.  Or Paris is just an alternate reality, because every last person started dancing in sync, knowing every turn and hand movement and I watched mesmerized. They effortlessly flitted from one partner to the next and all I could do was stand there gaping, whispering to my classmates how I wish I knew the dance because I would “totally join” if I did.

As the song ended we decided to make our rounds again. We headed back to the original group of dancers to see if we could pinpoint what particular style was going on. I honestly still am confused to the genre of dance. All I know is as we rounded the corner and headed back up the stairs to the dancers a familiar tune from the late 90’s reached our ears and me and our classmates looked at each other and said almost in unison:

“Is that what I think it is.”

The DJ had started playing “No Diggity,” an R&B song by blackstreet and dr. dre, popular amongst many, especially in the black community.

‘I like the way ya work it,

No Diggity,

I Got to bag it up!”

Me and my classmate sang along as we made our way on the dance floor. All cares forgotten in that one instant. Dancing with reckless abandon with no particular style or genre in mind.

“Shorty get down, good Lord


Baby got 'em open all over town!”

We sang the lyrics out louder as the chorus got going. Quickly we handed our bags and cameras over to our classmates who had decided to sit out of the dancing festivities.

You ‘re sure you’ll watch our bags?” we added quickly. I mean we were still in Paris, pick-pocketing capital of the world. Once they assured us of our belonging’s safety, we danced. And then after that song we danced again. A popular Jeremy song that is played on repeat back home in the states came on which made us even more excited.

“What kind of Latin music is this?” we asked each other, confused by the popular top 100 club hits being played.

As we continued to dance, more of our classmates joined until we had a decent sized group twirling around and swaying on the dance floor. Someone started the electric slide and a group of young American girls joined in on the fun apparently to shy to dance until they saw us. At this moment, the term “Ugly Americans” vaguely lingered in the back of mind, until a group of German girls joined us asking to be taught the steps. Perhaps ugly foreigners would better suit our hodge-podge group. We didn’t care though, we kept dancing.  Although we got a few, maybe many, stares, no one came and threw things at us or asked us to leave. They just kept turning around and around in elegant circles making eve the most ratchet American hits seem classy and sophisticated. 

Blog Post #2

Audience: Travel blog piece for first time flyers/travelers.

                                                     Getting Through The Port
                                             It's not always easy, but it's always worth it.

          Wanderlust, a word many teenage girls have thrown around to describe the ever-increasing sensation or desire of getting out and leaving whatever town they inhabit. Travel is important. In fact, I would say travel is a necessity. Although that may be true, travel can be expensive and a lot of travel opportunities aren’t afforded to everyone. As a young woman who spent majority of her life in Georgia, I too had the constant persistent urge to get out, but I never had the cash to act on those urges. Since traveling is so expensive, my family never took vacations. I remember when I received my first car (this was around the same time I headed out to college) I felt unstoppable. Like the world was mine to explore. But there was only so far my lime green little boxy car could take me, and believe me, I pushed that green machine to its limits. I was road tripping all over the southeast with friends, and even going as far as San Antonio Texas. I loved mobility, but like with anything else, getting a taste of travel only made me crave more. At 24 years old, I finally embarked on the trip of a lifetime to France, and if I can do it, anyone can.

          For many first time abroad travelers, like myself, the planning stage for a big trip usually consists of figuring out what kinds of clothing to bring, as well as what fun activities and attractions to do upon reaching the destination. However, the actual plan for getting there can easily become an after thought. I started planning for my France adventure nine months in advance. I was reading articles with titles like “how to pack for five weeks,” and “how to get the most out of your trip in Paris.” I thought I was prepared for everything. I didn’t think much of my lack of air travel experience. I was new to the whole flying thing and I had no idea how I would react to a nine-hour flight once I was actually in the air.

          Upon reaching the Airport, a nervous sensation began to spread making my stomach feel as though it was doing back flips. I blew it off as nervous excitement, not recognizing the early stages of anxiety. As I rolled my suitcase over to the baggage checkpoint, the sensation only grew more and more; still, I ignored my sweaty palms and mild chills. After turning to my mom one last time to say bye, I then marched making my way through an endless maze of ropes in order to go through the security checkpoint.

 “What do I do now?” I thought frantically, once I was near the front of the line. Luckily for me there were plenty of people to observe, so I followed their lead. Shoes off. Belts off. Everything off. As I placed all of my belongings in a little cubby I began to panic, hoping, praying I wouldn’t get pulled to the side and searched like the man in front of me who either was a terrorist or had forgotten to unpack his razor blades or some other harmless contraband that would make him get pulled aside by TSA. My mind started to race, begging my brain to remember everything I had packed. “Next,” the TSA worker shouted at me. I had passed through the scanner machine without incident, praise God. As I waited for my cubby and bag to go through the x-ray machine, I continued stressing, hoping I didn’t pack too big a bottle of contact solution or somehow accidentally stuffed a rifle or butcher knife in my bag. This was the beginning of my irrational thoughts.

          Once, in the main airport I began heading to my terminal. Thank goodness I spotted some individuals who I also knew to be on the trip with me, or I might still be wandering around the massive airport. As I slyly followed the crowd, probably looking conspicuous, I gaped in awe at the magnitude of the airport, which looked more like a shopping mall. There were so many stores. I couldn’t help wondering if people paid for flights just so they could come shop or eat at the fancy food court. Fighting the urge to do some shopping myself, I finally made it to my terminal. After waiting for what felt like hours, they began boarding us. I was very nervous about who I would sit next to and prayed I would have the window seat. Lucky for me, I sat next to a very friendly individual and I was tucked away right by the window!

          Who knew how shaky airplanes were? During take off, the plane shook so much I thought for sure it would fall apart before we made it off the ground. I clutched my seat so tightly the color began to drain from my fingertips. The side ways tipping back and forth sent me over the edge. I began praying so earnestly; I felt a spiritual growth occur right then and there. That’s when the deep thinking began. I started reflecting on faith and how every individual who flies has to have faith regardless of their belief system. I thought about how many people were currently floating in the air at that exact moment. I thought about the clouds and how my plane looked like a ship floating amongst the clouds. I thought a lot. And as the anxiety and thoughts about death by turbulence subsided, I began thinking about the wonders of the sky and the majesty of the huge hunk of metal floating, transporting us miles and miles across the world. That was all it took. I was hooked. As scary as my initial ascent into the air was, I was finally traveling. The memories of getting there is a journey of it’s own, and make up a huge part of the experience. Without them, my wanderlust wouldn’t be complete. 

Taken from the Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt.
Photo by: Kimberly Chandler

Metaphor

I am bilingual. My French is subpar, but I am fluent in coffee. The waitress brings out English menus, but it is not needed because the aroma from the espresso machine is my translator. The café’s inhabitants are punctuation marks, adding emphasis and pauses that enhance my speech. Like with any language, this café brings different people together. Khakis short wearers meet up with suit and tie wearers, splicing individuals together who should stand alone as independent clauses. However, it is these misused commas that add life to speech. No one speaks with perfect grammar, not even in the language of coffee. 

Journal #3

                                                       Dinner Cruise on the Seine

As me and peers are standing outside waiting to go onto the dinner boat, I notice bus loads of tourists are staring at us from their dry interiors (it had began to rain) and I couldn't help feeling important. There's something about being in a group of smartly dressed individuals about to get on a boat for a nice dinner, that makes you feel fancy. Anyways, it was raining, so of course the chorus of groans from students, myself included, as to why they weren't letting us on the bus already ready rang out amongst the crowd. Finally the doors opened. As we filled in handsome boat workers attended the door. Although I tried my best to be attentive to details, i didn't actually know the boat workers were attractive, this fact when over my head, it was my table mates, a group of 5 girls, not counting myself, who informed me of this little tidbit. it seemed that everyone had took note of how attractive this particular boat worker was, but me. Me, the one who was supposed to be taking notes. Anyways, as we sat at our tables, me and my group of girls, we bonded and made table arrangements before entering the boat, picked a table in the middle to enjoy our dinner cruise. This was it, we were on the boat.... "What now?" I wondered to myself as we bobbed up and down docked closely to the wall of the Seine. After at least 5-10 minutes of waiting, the chaos began. First we were given water for our tables. Evian and sparkling. then we were offered a white wine. I did NOT like the wine. Then after making sure our drinks were filled, a waiter began to flirt with a girl at my table. "How do you say delicious," she asked.
"deliciouso" he responded, "like the wine. Like me."
As she awkwardly laughed to herself, the waiter insisted that she agree with him stating repeatedly "aren't I delicious."
It was weird to say the least, but not as weird as my first course. It was a salad... I think. The first course consisted of half a tomato topped with some other vegetable, two little fishies ( i'll say they were sardines) and a vinaigrette.... This was the strangest salad I had ever had, but boy was it pretty. As I pulled out my phone to snap an instagram worthy picture, I noticed all of my other table mates did the same with their phones and cameras. We actually all looked pretty ridiculous, treating our dishes as if they were Kim and Kanye and we were the paparazzi trying to get their best angle. After, snapping a few shots I looked at my beautiful salad tomato and began to plot the best course of action in eating that thing. as I looked around the table I noticed everyone kind of looking down at their plates mesmerized, no one wanting to take the first cut, I assume nervous they might do it wrong and look like an idiot. So I stepped up to the occasion with my utensils in hand and made the first incision. Everyone then followed suit.
 I started by first removing the sardines to the side of the plate, I would get to those later. As I worked the knife through the first chunk of my salad tomato, I begun to wonder things only poor people like myself think about I assume. Like, why the heck would someone pay so much money for half of an uncooked tomato with more uncooked things thrown on top of it. Salads are way too expensive, but this salad tomato seemed just a bit lazy in my opinion. I mean, come on chef, can't you cut my tomato up and and toss the rest of the stuff around?!? Alright, so the first bite of my salad tomato was pretty good. About what you would expect from eating a raw tomato with salad dressing. Then I tackled the sardines. I hate fish. But I'm in paris and I'm feeling adventurous, so why not? First bite. I hate sardines. I abhor sardines. If sardines were the only thing on earth to eat, I would create factories and manufacturer my own food and... Oh wait, America. Ok, so processed foods already exist, but I would make my own just so I never had to eat another salty sardine again. Lucky for me, one of my table mates loved sardines and happily took them away so I never had to see their ugly little bodies again.
Moving on, 2nd course. As I braced myself for something completely outlandish and bizarre, my waiter set my plate in front of me. Steak and potatoes. When i think of steak and potatoes I don't necessarily think of froo-froo french food, but hey, i was not complaining. I was hungry and ready to eat. As my table mates complained of the toughness of the meat, I happily sawed my steak to death and chewed until my jaws hurt as it was cooked exactly how I liked it. Well-done! Yes! no one else at my table enjoyed the steak, but i was very happy. Next was dessert but that was not before a waiter grabbed two unsuspecting girls from their table and started a dance party. Everyone applauded as the waiter excitedly twirled the nervous looking girls in circles. It was our flirty delicious waiter. He really made his rounds this evening! The dancing was fun and lightened the mood in the room, which was nice, and right on time for the best desert I've had in france thus far. It was ice cream layered stuff that tasted amazing! I loved every flavorful delicious bite! I began to notice the volume in the room increase slightly and i realized some of my peers had helped them self to quite a few glasses of wine. Yay, wine! As I sipped my own wine, I smartly pointed at a whale tail art piece we had passed earlier in the cruise and said, "look guys, another one." Of course, it wasn't another one and we had indeed turned the boat around. Thats when I put my glass of wine down. We capped our dining experience with some expresso which tasted amazing! As our boat began to dock back against the Seine wall, we noticed how cute the waiters for the next dinner cruise were. Well, a table mate noticed and decided to take a picture of them, too which they responded by pointing, winking, and laughing at us. Yay. That was it. The cruise was over. The food was great. the people were fun. The sun shone on us from the open top boat and lit our ways all the way home... Just kidding. The second we stepped off the boat a torrential down pour scattered paris, and people ran for their lives as if they were searching for Noah's Ark. The perfect Parisian ending to a fun trip if you ask me.

BLOG POST

Coffee + Poetry = Home

Home can be find in many places. I found mine in a latte and through the power of spoken word.

             As a college student who loves coffee and poetry, my go-to spot for entertainment is Atlanta's Urban Grind Café. My first experience at the café happened by chance. After leaving my friend’s dorm, a student at Georgia-tech, I walked the crowded streets of Atlanta, taking in the city’s scene, when I noticed a crowd of college-aged people standing outside a packed coffee shop. I walked up  and asked what was happening inside. “It’s a poetry jam,” someone responded. This intrigued me, so I squeezed into the already full café, and after ordering a caramel macchiato, sat back to enjoy.

            The Urban Grind gives off a cool vibe and is well known as a place for young people. The coffee was decent but, it was the talent that brought in the crowd. The café filled with the sounds of snaps as poets performed, some novice, some seasoned poets, some taking the stage for the first time. The crowd gave off an easy atmosphere that encouraged even the shyest poet to step up.

            Although Urban Grind is one of my favorite "spoken word" spots, other cafés in the city boasts talented artists: Kats, Apache, and Copper are a few that give off a similar vibe to Urban Grind. In a city saturated by Starbucks, these fresh, privately owned coffee shops offer the kind of charm threatened by Atlanta's gentrification. 

Journal Entry #2

Paris is nothing like I imagined it, and exactly how I imagined it at the same time. I know that sounds confusing, but It is the only way I know how to put it. The culture and diversity was apparent from the first day of stepping foot at Cite Universitaire. People, for the most part, are friendly and willing to help and aren't as cool or turned off towards americans as I thought they would be. However, me and a group of peers were laughed at on the train by a two girls for speaking english. I also was not expecting the vastness of the city. I knew it was big, but size is relative and Paris, in my opinion, isn't big, but immensely huge! The grocery stores are pretty much stocked with the same stuff I would find back home, which I was under the impression they only had fresh non preservative type foods. However, there food is considerably more fresh and healthier options are more accessible than back home.  On the flip side, Paris lives up to a lot of stereotypes. So many people wear stripes and scarves here. Women and red lipstick is a must. Live music being played in the metro and at restaurants is a regular occurrence. People, mostly speak french, obviously. Little froo-froo dogs rule the streets. Bike riding is normal. And leisurely evenings seem to be the way of life. So far, Paris is the most amazing, beautiful, city I've ever been in, which in my case isn't saying much since i've barley left the southeast in my 24 years of life. But I am definitely learning a lot and enjoying the culture shock.

Ugly Americans. It is a real thing. We are grossly privileged, entitled, self centered, proud, and yet every time I hear an american speaking english, a tiny gravitational pool links me to them and makes me feel a bit of relief. With all of our faults, which my senses seem to be heightened to now that I am here, we still have good. As a southerner, every person I see, I make eye contact with and smile and say hello, or nod to, or even ask them how they're doing. Well, thats not really how things are done in Paris. Here, you keep your eyes forward, walk with purpose, and mind to yourself. Maybe if I was a New Yorker I'd have an easier time acclimating, but I like striking up random conversations with people in my vicinity.
 Ok, back to ugly americans. At the Eiffel Tower on the fourth of July, I saw sorority girls throwing up gang signs, drunk guys chanting U.S.A., and an American group with sparklers. I thought, "could we be more obnoxious." As I silently sat and judged my fellow citizens, I heard a girl's voice from behind me yell across the lawn,"Hey, are you guys Americans?" to which the guys she was yelling too enthusiastically responded with affirmative replies. I rolled my eyes to myself annoyed at their fulfillment of the loud stereotype, until I heard one of the guys go, "we're from Georgia!"
"Georgia?" I yelled back, after wheeling around to face them, "We're from Georgia too!"
These random guys were from my neck of the woods, In fact, one of them went to my rival high school about 7 minutes from my house.
Anyways, I learned something valuable that night. As ugly as Americans are, and as judgmental as I was and will continue to be for the duration of this trip, deep down, as hard as I fight the temptation, I am an ugly American.

Journal Entry #1

The Airport International terminal is a lot different than the domestic.
Walking through the security and leaving my mom and sister behind was like leaving all of my comfort and everything I know behind.
Meeting people I'd never met was awkward at first, but a lot of students were eager to find friends.
Highlight: being mistaken as a french woman by a french woman at the Airport before boarding.
Waiting to board the plane and feeling anxiety for flying for one of two times in my life.
Waiting in anticipation about who would be my flying buddy in the flight to Frankfurt.
Take Off- Hoping the plane wouldn't crash.
Looking out the window and feeling fear dissolve into inspiration as the plane guided above the clouds.
Fear spreading again once hitting turbulence.
Wanting to sleep but instead watching 3 different movies because I couldn't get comfortable.
Landing in Germany and waiting 4 hours after 2 days of no sleep.
Looking up at the tv and seeing that 149 people died in an asian country that afternoon after a plane crashed.
Fear rising again as it was time to board for paris.
Sleepiness turning into moodiness as delirium sets in.
Flying over the Eiffel Tower and hearing about how beautiful it looked from my peers with window seats.
Reality sets in. I'm in Paris.
Jet lag is REAL!

Coffee + Poetry = Home

            Atlanta is jam-packed with college campuses and its students make up a large portion of the city’s population. The population of students diversifies Atlanta, and although many come from various backgrounds, there is one thing most students have in common; they love coffee almost as much as they love entertainment. Lucky for us, in the ATL students can have the best of both worlds. The city is home to some of the best Spoken Word cafes around. Right outside of GA Tech’s campus (one of the largest colleges in Georgia) is the popular Urban Grind Café. Every week you can drop in and get your coffee fix and listen to some of the best talent in the A. The café boasts many talented artists from all over the metropolitan area.

            As a college student who loves coffee and poetry, Urban Grind Café is my go to spot for entertainment. My very first experience at the café happened by chance. After leaving my friend’s dorm, a student/resident at GA-tech, I began to walk the crowded streets of Atlanta taking in the city’s scene when I noticed a crowd of college age individuals standing outside of a packed coffee shop. I walked up to the group and inquired about what was happening inside. “It’s a poetry jam,” one of the individuals responded. This intrigued me, so I squeezed into the already full café, and after ordering a caramel macchiato, I sat back to enjoy the show.

            The aesthetic of Urban Grind gives off a cool without trying vibe that makes it easily identifiable as a place for young people. The coffee was decent tasting, and delivered a caffeine dose that any college student would appreciate. However, it was the talent of the evening that brought the crowd. The café was filled with the sounds of snaps as each poet took the stage with their powerful and often inspiring pieces. The artists were made up of a mixture of novice and seasoned poets, some taking the stage for the very first time. The crowd gave off an easy atmosphere that encouraged even the shyest poet to step up during the open-mic section of the night. This café is definitely a shining spot in the city.

            Although Urban Grind is one of my favorite spoken words spots, other cafes in the city can also be found boasting talented artists. Kats, Apache, and Copper are just a few that give off the similar vibe you would find at Urban Grind. These trendy cafes are important to the nightlife in the city and also give individuals a forum or stage in which they can express themselves. In a city inundated by Starbucks shops and other large franchises, these fresh, private owned coffee shops offer that charm the city is lacking due to gentrification. Urban Grind Café and other shops like it are mainstays in ATL that everyone should visit and experience at least once when they visit the city.