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!