French Word(s) of the Day: vacances de printemps (veh-cawn-sah de prown-tom)- spring break
I’m finally done with my 8 thousand projects. Or at least, for the next two weeks I’m done. Classes are out of session! Spring break! Vacation! Exclamation points!
I think my neighbor is on spring break too, because her alarm didn’t go off until 8:30 this morning. However, not everyone gets spring break this week. One of the other residents decided that they were jealous of us spring breakers, and so s/he blasted Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” in the middle of the courtyard at 7 am. I would have yelled at s/him, but judging by how loudly s/he listens to his/her music, s/he’s deaf and wouldn’t have heard me.
Or s/he soon will be deaf.
Everyone in the program has gone southwest for the break, so there are a scant few of us left. As the scant few are the ones I like (aka the only other girl over 21, Brittney), this hasn’t been a problem. I don’t know what happens between the ages of 20 to 23, but it must be significant for building maturity levels…
I did a LOT of walking this weekend. Arnaud and I walked around Paris for 3 hours (unintentionally… we were looking for friends, but this is France so they were over an hour late). We gave up on them and got crepes instead, because Nutella fixes everything.
On the way back, I found my pretty ballet shoe store by Opera Garnier. It always has pretty displays, and this time was no exception.
On Sunday, Brittney and I went to see the goats. There’s a tiny little park in Bois de Boulogne (the French version of Central Park) that has farm life. Brittney said this is so Parisian children get to see actual animals other than pigeons or rats.
For serious, that’s all Paris has: rats and rats with wings. Every French person who has ever visited me gets WAY too excited about squirrels. They’ve all stopped and taken tons of photos of them. If you’ve ever seen Up!, it’s exactly like this:
There weren’t any squirrels at the park, but there was Donald Trump in duck form.
Note the real sized donkey under him. I took this for a size comparison. Also, French children are the only ones allowed to wear baseball hats, and only then when they’re visiting barn animals. Otherwise, they must be impeccably clad.
Of course, this exhibit was created by a Parisian. I assume that because they had this in the gardening section:
Either France is a hundred years behind the US in gardening techniques, or that’s a bit outdated. I can just imagine a French farmer seeing this and laughing, “Ha ha! We still use horse-driven plows too! You Parisians could not SURVIVE without us.” (Different regions in France aren’t so fond of each other.)
This was at the end of the park, but Brittney and I just had to take pictures of it:
I’m going to England next week for the Royal Wedding. My friend, Vanessa, has charged me with the task of finding her a husband. I think I’m going to try for Prince Harry, but she’s willing to go slumming for a commoner. Her choice.
She wants him to look like the beautiful Swiss guard I met at a pub when I was studying in Ireland. I don’t think they make ’em like this in England, but here’s a picture for reference (this is all just an excuse to give some eye candy… Duck-ald Trump and the donkey are nice, but they’re not quite as visually pleasing):
Maybe we should invite him to England for the Royal Wedding? I won’t even make him wear his uniform. (I don’t think he got to keep it, but he did get to keep his sword. Swords are far more important.)
I’ll let you know if I find Vanessa her man. And I’ll give you pictures if he looks like that. ^
Oh, I almost forgot! This is for my Aunt Joan because she sent me a fabulous box of chocolates!
Pain au chocolat count: 75