Some of the Lessons I Learned at School

 

I was born and raised in Texas. I vaguely remember hearing that at the time I was in school (I only went to public schools for my primary and secondary education) that a public-school education was better than a private one. I don’t know if this is true, but I was told that private-school teachers didn’t have to be certified while public-school ones did. This might have been the story my parents told themselves to not feel guilty about sending me to public school, but I do feel like I got a pretty good education, although there were a few problems with it.

In elementary school, early on in 1^st or 2^nd grade, or possibly even kindergarten, a friend of mine was very chatty. We students would often have to sit on the floor, gathered around the teacher while she taught us something. Do kids in kindergarten still do that? Gather around the teacher, sitting on the floor. I have memories of gathering around the teacher and sitting on the floor as far as 4^th grade. The floors were carpeted, but some teachers had carpet squares stacked in the corner of the room and each kid would go get a carpet square to sit on. It was always disappointing if I didn’t get there fast enough to get a good color and ended up sitting on brown carpet.

Back to the chatty friend. During one of these “gather around the teacher” times, my chatty friend had a lot to say. I crawled around the group moving to the other side to get away from the chatty friend and she followed me. We were friends, but I was, and am, a rule follower. I knew she was about to get in trouble and I wanted to get as far away as possible. It didn’t work. So I turned to her and either said, “quiet,” or “shush” or something. And I got in trouble. I learned that it was possible to get in trouble when other people are the ones being disruptive and you shouldn’t speak up for yourself.

I don’t know what grade of elementary school I was in when the first computers appeared, but I do remember immediately being let down by my education. My elementary school was in a square building. The library, which had no real walls, was in the middle of the room. Smaller classrooms were around the edges of the room. They didn’t have real walls, but rather partitions which slid out of the walls and locked into place, so the size and shape of the classrooms could be changed. The grades of students went around the room clockwise. Stepping into the room, the kindergarten kids were closest to the door on the left. The fifth graders were closest to the door to the right. The other grades went around the edges in order.

Because of the layout of the building, I’m going to guess I was in at least 3^rd grade when this happened. We were sat at a row of computers with a very simple test on the screen. One question at a time was shown. Only one question stands out. Fill in the blank with either “to,” “too” or “two.” I knew that “two” was the number, but I was never actually taught the difference between “to” and “too.” I looked helplessly at the girl seated beside me and she acted like this was common knowledge. In other words, not something that even needed to be taught. We were expected to know it going in. I took a guess, and I’m pretty sure that I got the right one, but I knew, without any doubt, this was a failing of my education and not of my ability to learn things. I was never taught the difference so I never learned the difference. I learned that basic things are sometimes skipped over.

I don’t blame my parents for any blind spots. I actually think my mom did a better job than most moms when it came to sending me off to school with a basic education. I didn’t need to learn the alphabet or how to count from my teachers. My mom took care of that. And she was always reading, so I had a role model who was never without a book. Sure, they were romance novels, but she ran through them two or three each week.

I did hate English class, but I paid attention. The class I would daydream in was math, because I was good and math and caught on quickly. That left me a lot of time do think about other things. Once, during independent study, I started to read a book and was scolded for not continuing to stare at the math pages. I didn’t need to stare at the math pages, because I got it! But I learned then that there was theater involved in being a student. You had to pretend you were learning something, even after you had learned it.

I think the main thing I learned during middle school was that people are mean. I was sometimes mean, too. I’m sorry to anyone I was mean to. Believe me, I was on the receiving end of mean behavior and comments infinitely more often than I did mean things. I’m pretty sure I also apologized after I realized I was being mean.

In high school, when we signed up for classes, we got a list of the classes offered and had to pick what we wanted to take. Physical Education was required for at least 2 years in high school-- maybe more? I don’t remember. The first day of 9^th grade I went to my chosen PE class: tennis. The coach tossed a ball to me, I hit the ball, and I was told I had to drop the class and take “regular” PE. The tennis class was only for students who could already play tennis who would then be on the tennis team. I learned that not all of the classes offered were there for learning. Some were there for the school to win awards and the learning part of some of the classes took place at country clubs on the weekends.

I took bowling by correspondence. It was a lot of fun and I didn’t have to change clothes at school.

Back to middle school now. In middle school I started taking French class and I continued French in high school. One French teacher I had was preparing a class trip to Paris. I wasn’t going, but I heard a lot about the planning. I was also in French Honor Society, so there is a chance that’s where the planning for the trip to Paris was focused. The students who were going to travel to France were given a dire warning by this teacher. I’m paraphrasing:

“In France, if you get injured, even slightly, they will take you to a hospital and treat you, even if you don’t want to be treated. You don’t want this to happen to you. Don’t get hurt. Make sure you have insurance to get treatment when you get back to the US and if something happens, shout at them that you don’t want to get treated.”

Huh. I knew that the teacher was telling us something that she thoughts was unbelievably bad. Dangerous. Unwelcomed medical treatment. But I couldn’t understand exactly why it was bad. She didn’t say you wouldn’t be able to afford it. I think she said something about France being socialist. I told my parents the story and tried to convey the same terror the teacher had in her voice. They didn’t seem too interested. I wasn’t going on the trip anyway. I took money with me to school and bought a sweatshirt from Paris when the students returned. They bought extras to sell to those of us who weren’t going. I learned how the conservative politics of teachers is passed on to the students.

During high school, I got my driver’s license. Most kids in Texas (and maybe the US?) do this as an exciting right of passage. Since my sister was two years older than me, I didn’t bother to do this in the same way as kids on TV shows and movies do. On TV, as soon as a kid turns 15 they go in for their driver’s permit and start learning to drive. They either enroll in driving school or their parents teach them. My parents taught my sister how to drive. I was going to driving school whether I wanted to or not. But I still had an unwilling chauffeur in my sister, so I didn’t actually go to driving school until I was already 16.

Getting a driver’s license involved getting the learner’s permit and then passing the road test. You had to pass the written test before you got your learner’s permit. I failed my first road test because we didn’t learn to parallel park at driving school. The second test, I just backed into the spot and said, “I’m not doing this.” I got full marks off for it, but didn’t fail that time.

The year after I got my driver’s license, Texas stopped requiring the road test for new drivers if they had been to driving school. A quick Google of this and it looks like they require the road test again. But for a while, it wasn’t required. I thought this wasn’t fair and I learned that the people driving in Texas might not be qualified.

My college experience is something for another post, but eventually I went to the University of North Texas (UNT), and that’s where I finished my BA. My major was in Radio/TV/Film and I got a minor in French.

Because I had studied at a number of different colleges before settling down, I had taken French 1 twice already (not counting in 8^th and 9^th grades), and I took it again at UNT. I could have taken some tests to get out of it, but I learned that each school thinks the education they offer is superior to any other school. When I got out of high school, I could have also taken tests to get skip over some basic math and English classes since I had taken AP classes, but I opted to not take the AP (advanced placement) test. This just reiterated that I’m too lazy to take tests to get out of doing work. I’d rather have an easy A than the stress of a test.

When I enrolled at UNT, all students were required to have a major and a minor, and two years of a foreign language (12 hours). I had studied French since 8^th grade, and was happy to continue with it in college. To get a minor in French, you only needed three years (18 hours). One of my French teachers was trying to get me to change my major to French. When a summer program in French came up, where students went overseas to study, she helped me get accepted into it, no doubt thinking it would convince me that I really wanted to be a French major. The summer program counted as 6 hours. I was already at my 12 hours required for graduation, so this 6 hours would give me the minor and a summer in Nice. My parents were surprised I wanted to do this, but they let me do it.

If you know me personally, you know I am an introvert. I’m happy to do things with friends…one friend at a time. Maybe I can handle going somewhere with two friends at once, but more than that and I’m not only going to uncomfortable, but I’m going to be very quiet. Going to France to study in a program like this is not something that introverts usually do. We stay at home, inside, alone, with our cats. We have cats. But I like to push myself into uncomfortable situations and I really wanted to do this.

On the plus side, I was able to get a single room. I actually think all of the dorm rooms on campus were single rooms. It was a sparse room with a bed near the window, a desk and a sink! The window had shutters on it that you cranked open and closed. When they were closed, the room was as dark as if it was night.

The first day of classes, we all had to take assessment tests to find out which classes we belonged in. Oh! My favorite! I tested at or near the top, to be put in the most advanced classes. There were two classes each day that I had to take, as far as I remember. In the morning, we (the students) went to the grammar class. Written French. In the afternoon, we went to the conversation classes. Spoken French. Oops! I think I was only in the very small (four students including me) advanced conversation class for one day before the teacher was like, “You’re dropping down a level.” I didn’t mind.

I was at a huge disadvantage when it came to speaking and hearing French - most of my teachers had had heavy southern accents. American southern accents. Texas, y’all. This was also in the beforetime, when there were three or four French movies available on video in all of Texas and I had seen them all. And one, a movie starring Christophe Lambert, was dubbed into English. I couldn’t go to YouTube, or Netflix, to watch French movies and TV shows to work on my listening comprehension.

I liked the other class better. It was a much larger group of people - maybe 30? It felt like a normal class. There wasn’t as much pressure to perform. We learned the words to La Vie en Rose and La Mer. On the last day of class, after almost everyone had left the classroom, the teacher came over to me and said, in English, “I don’t know why you came here. You are the wrong person.” I learned that teachers aren’t supportive of students trying to push themselves.

Obviously, it still bothers me. I didn’t tell my parents about it, but it made my trip end sourly. I got my minor, still took another French class (phonetics), since I really liked the French teacher at UNT, and have gone back to Nice again. It was a good trip and I’m glad I went. It defined part of me.

I also had over 18 hours of study in music, but there was one required music theory class, at 8:30 in the morning, and no minor could be received without taking that class. I learned, about myself, that even if a goal is easy and within reach, I won’t reach for it if it requires waking up early.

While I was at UNT, I also decided to take an art class - watercolor painting. Part of being in college, I thought, was experiencing new things. I had never taken an art class before. It was a bit like tennis all over again. The teacher didn’t want me there. He told me that he didn’t want me there, giving me a chance to drop the class before it got to be too late. I didn’t really understand what the problem was. Most of the other students were hostile toward me. The teacher accused me of having my sister (who was in an art program) of doing my homework paintings. (She did not, but she did offer some input - more helpful than any input from the teacher, obviously.) Despite my grades averaging to a B-, he gave me a C in the class. He called one of my paintings trite. I learned that there are some closed clubs, with no reason why they are closed, and trying to get into them just leads to frustration and tears.

Before I graduated from UNT, where I only studied 2 ½ years, the requirement that students have two years of a foreign language was dropped. And then the requirement that a student have a minor was dropped. Just like how I felt about the driving test, I felt about this college dumbing down that I was witnessing. I learned that things were going to be harder for me than for people born just one year after me.

After college I went to work for 5 years and had my first nervous breakdown. It wasn’t officially diagnosed, but that’s what it was. For some reason, it is ok, and maybe even expected, in the US for people to be miserable at work to the point of crying in their cars during their lunch breaks and when they get home at night. I knew that something had to change and I decided that I needed to go back to school.

After being in the “real world” for five years, being back in college to get my Master’s Degree was a breeze. You mean all I have to do is read and write things? I don’t have to worry about a creepy client making passes at me during a 33-hour shift? And that if I’m not polite about the passes we could lose a lot of work and money? I don’t have to overhear other clients talking about how much they hated my work? I don’t have to politely listen while Pauly Shore tells me I made him look like an idiot in his reel? Did I mention all of the unwanted sexual advances? Being in school was what I needed. I could afford to put myself through California State University, Northridge, CSUN, so that's where I went.

I was lucky enough to TA (be a teaching assistant) for my favorite professor. As part of my TA work, I had to give a couple of the lectures. I shared my hesitation at lecturing with the professor. Did I really know what I was talking about? Did he want to review what I was going to say to make sure it was right? Will the students believe what I’m saying? Yes, he assured me, they will believe you. You are in charge. Just say what you want to say with confidence and it will be right. I learned that even the professor I admired more than any teacher I’d ever had before was just winging it to some extent. Confidence counts for a lot - probably for more than being correct. The topic was screenwriting, so it wasn’t like a math class, where being correct counts more than anything else. But is writing, and creative things, confidence is the most important thing.

These are just the bad things I learned. They were lessons the teachers didn’t even know they were teaching. But someone is always paying attention and learning from you. I’m sure I learned good things, too, but the bad things are the things that stick out. 

Anyway, here's a watercolor I did of my dorm room in France:

 

December Book Report and Some Thoughts on the Year: Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

 

The collection of essays, Me Talk Pretty One Day by humorist David Sedaris, starts with a story of how in elementary school he was taken out of classes to attend speech therapy sessions. Rather than having his speech corrected, he worked around things by expanding his vocabulary to avoid the words with the “s” sounds he was deemed to be not good enough at. What follows are essays woven around the loose theme of talking/speech, presented in (from what I remember) chronological order, following his upbringing in North Carolina, his young adulthood in New York and his adulthood in New York and France. The tendency to choose different words as a workaround for speech problems continued into his adulthood. Rather than learn the genders of words in French, he would order things in multiples, since a “la” or “le” word transforms into a gender-neutral “les” when pluralized.

I found the book to be enjoyable, but largely forgettable. I was most interested in the stories about France, where he would give literal translations of things he tried to say in French and how the sentence structure was different and sounded juvenile in English. But the way he only presented the English end of the translations left me wanting to hear him say the thing again in French. When he talked about his first trip to France where one of the only words he knew was “bottleneck,” I longed for him to tell me the French word for “bottleneck.” Looking it up, Google Translate offers three different choices. Was he saying goulot? I’ll never know. And this is the kind of thing that really bothers me.

There were sections where I laughed, which is a pretty good endorsement, but sitting here today, I can’t tell you where those sections were or what they were about. I’ve forgotten them.

I didn’t actually read this book, I listened to it. It was read by the author. His voice, if you haven’t heard it, is similar to Droopy Dog from the old cartoons. A little southern, a little lispy, a little depressed. It was fine, really, but it drew attention to itself. For a book called Me Talk Pretty One Day, having the voice of the reader be another character in the stories works. A friend who adores David Sedaris was a little miffed that I told her my book report wasn’t going to be an overwhelming lovefest. She adores him and would listen to him saying just about anything. Sure, I feel this way about David Mitchell (the other one) and Richard Ayoade, but I do not share the passion for David Sedaris. I guess I need an English accent along with the whine to really enjoy it.

As far as the production goes, some of the chapters in the audiobook were recorded live in front of audiences and music was added in places, as chapter bumpers and during the live readings. I found this a little jarring.

Did I love it? No. Did I hate it? No. I’m sort of indifferent. If my friend said, “This other book is so much better. Listen to that one!” I would consider it. But I’m unlikely to seek out another of his books/essay collections on my own. It was whatever.

****

Anyway, I’ve finished my New Years Resolution of a book a month. Yay, me! What have I learned from this experience? I think I already knew it, but just reinforced that I actually hate reading, but I love books. Holding something with ideas inside, looking at the covers, smelling the pages…all great. Filling bookcases? Love it. Going to a bookstore? Love it. Finding a book with a cover drawn by Edward Gorey and adding it to my collection? Love it. But actually sitting and reading a book one of the worst things you can ask me to do. I guess that’s why it took me 10 years to edit my own novel. The idea of sitting down and having to read the thing was torture. Listening to books is better than reading them. But did I “enjoy” it? No. If I had, then the extra books I still have in my Audible library wouldn’t be sitting there, unlistened to. I actually finished this book in November and since then I’ve spent maybe another 30 minutes listening to a book. Knowing I was done and that I just had to write up the book report lifted a weight from my shoulders and no book has enticed me since then.

I’d like to blame my job for my disliking of reading. For work, I have to read a lot of screenplays. Sometimes I have to read a screenplay because of the continuity I’m writing and sometimes I’ll take work proofreading them. Reading = Work. For relaxation, I’m much more likely to put on a record. Listen to music. Practice piano or guitar. Write my own stuff. Do some crocheting or make some jewelry. Dig up weeds in the yard. Pull out my pastels and make some art. Sometimes I can put on an audiobook while I’m doing those other things, but just as often I’ll put on music. Or talk radio. Or a podcast. Or I’ll start the series of QI running at A and let it go. Background noise. A book isn’t background noise. It demands attention and mostly I don’t want to give it that attention.

Next year, my resolution will not involve books or reading.

Perfume Ranking - Fragonard's Garden

 

Here I rank the fragrances in Fragonard’s Garden line. And for those who don’t want to watch the video (although it helps me if you play through the whole video), here’s the list, in order:

1.     1.  Bigarade Jasmin

2.      2. Tilleul Cédrat

3.      3. Jasmin Perle de The

4.     4.  Grenade Pivoine

5.      5. Rose Lavande

5. (joint) Encens Fève Tonka

6. Héliotrope Gingembre

7. Rose Ambre

7. (joint) Santal Cardamome

I’m not sure if that’s how they should be numbered, with two ties in the ranking. It doesn’t match up with what I say in the video, either. Sorry.

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Perfume Obsession, from Sweet Pea to Passion Flower

 In the summer of 1996, I went to France for summer school. Nice. I didn’t take advantage of any of the tours you could book for non-class days, but I did spend a fair amount of time shopping in Vieux Nice. I bought some perfume extracts there. Colorful liquid in mass-market bottles with the name on a band around the cap.

 

The scents weren’t complex. Violette, patchouli, lily. The liquid was a color to match the scent. The shops selling the scents were abundant. I bough several, although I only have one left. Years, moving and broken glass took care of the others. I didn’t ever wear them as perfume. I would just open them and smell them to bring back memories of my summer.

 Back in 2014, I went, by myself, on a trip to Europe, and made sure to include some time in Nice. I went to Vieux Nice and couldn’t find these same parfumiers there. But I did take tours. Two of those tours included visits to the parfumier Fragonard, in both Grasse and Eze. The tour each time ended in the giftshop. Can you believe it? And there I was, on tours with maybe 6 people in them, in the factory at the start of the off-season, in November.

 I fell in love. I fell in love with the aromas. I fell in love with the packaging. I fell in love with the history. I bought as many items in the giftshop as I could justify buying. And then a few more.

 Fragonard had already started making one flower the “flower of the year” by that time, although I wasn’t really aware of it. They didn’t emphasize it during the tours. The year I went, the flower of the year was sweet pea. Sweet pea also happens to be the flower of my birth month. I bought some. And because of their amazing packaging, I bought some remainders of the 2013 flower of the year, lily of the valley.

 

I’m someone who likes to wear perfume. If the perfume is too spicy, though, it can give me a migraine. I started using the sweet pea perfume, sometimes adding a spray of The Body Shop strawberry with it. I loved it. And I would get compliments on it. I decided to buy more. That’s when I found out what flower of the year meant.

 Flower of the year meant that after that year, they would still sell it only if they had stock remaining. Nothing else was being manufactured in sweet pea. And my timing was so bad that I bought it in November. The new flower of the year, jasmine, came out in January. I think I managed to buy one more bottle, but that was it.

 I was, however, so happy with the first flower of the year I had encountered, I was hopeful that the next flower of the year would be just as good. I might be one of the only people around, aside from those employed by Fragonard, who waits eagerly in early January to see what flower has been given the coveted title. It’s a bit like Pantone’s color of the year. There is no competition. The award is given by the people who invented the award, to a product they make. But it is still fun.

 Alas, jasmine did not live up to my expectations. But it did come with some lovely merchandise when you ordered it. An umbrella, a shopping bag, a small gift set with travel spray and soap, all with beautiful jasmine paintings. The flowers-of-the-year scents lacked the simplicity of the essences I bought years before, and the more complex “perfume” nature of them was missing the mark for me.

 So, jasmine had been an overall dud, but I was not deterred. I stuck with them through iris, peony, verbena, lavender and magnolia, each time thinking the perfume would be as good as the flower extract. Each year I was disappointed in the perfume, but happy to collect my umbrella and shopping bag with the beautiful artwork. I would also like to add that I am extremely frustrated by their website. They offer various products to different countries, and the US seems to have gotten the short end of the stick on what’s available. And being in California makes it even worse, because some products, like candles, are illegal to ship to California. Who knew? I didn’t until I tried to buy a candle.

 When I left the factory in Grasse, in 2014, they were having a contest/drawing for a big basket of products. I entered and did not win. But I was put on their mailing list. An actual, in-the-mail mailing list. Every few months I get the latest gift with purchase offer and some sample towelettes of their fragrances. This way, I did stumble upon another perfume of theirs that I really love, bigarade jasmine. Bigarade is bitter orange.

 

But the bigarade jasmine perfume is very heavy. It isn’t an everyday, go to work fragrance. The sweet pea had been.

 For 2021, the flower of the year is passion flower. And…so far I really like it. My sticking with them through thick and thin might have finally paid off. And I’ve learned to get the perfume early in the year, so there is plenty of time to stock up should it become a favorite. It is light and sweet, not sickly or overpowering. The other perfume elements of it work. And, as always, the packaging is beautiful.

 

I still have an alert on eBay to let me know if someone is selling their bottle of sweet pea. Unfortunately, the $25 (at the time bottle) now sells for $100 when one turns up. Too rich for me. Maybe one day they’ll look back on their best of the best flowers of the year and make it again.

Yes, I Made it Home

November 19, 2014

I got up early and asked for directions to Paddington station at the front desk. I knew it was a mistake to ask anything at the front desk, but I also had a map and was pretty sure I could get to my destination regardless of what the front desk people told me.

I checked out of the hotel and decided that I would walk to Paddington and not take the closer subway stop to get there. It was really pretty close and it was not a bad walk. I also wasn't alone in making this walk. There were a fair number of other people pushing luggage to the station.

The station was huge! Unfortunately, though, you had to walk past where all of the smokers seemed to congregate to actually get inside. I found my platform and the train I needed was about three minutes away from departing. I couldn't find my ticket quickly, but the man working there said he thought he saw it while I was flipping through papers and not to worry that I would have time on the train to find it before they came asking for either a ticket or payment.

I got on the train - again having booked first class passage, and found my ticket. The car was nearly empty, despite the small difference in price from coach to first class. The ride wasn't too long and then I was at the airport. Heathrow this time.

Now, if you have been to an airport in the US you know what a disaster they can be. Heathrow was amazing! All of the waiting areas are together near the shops and you don't head to your gate until just a few minutes before boarding time. And the gates all had lots of room for people to sit - not like some other places.

I got on my plane, and this time it wasn't a full flight. The only bad thing was that I didn't want to miss my special vegetarian meals so I didn't relocate. Some people had entire rows to themselves and were able to spread out and sleep for most of the flight. I'm not a good airplane sleeper, so I again spent the whole trip watching films and TV shows. I don't even remember what I watched!

When I finally landed at LAX I had to wait over an hour for my car service to decide it was ready to make the drive to Tujunga. They also loaded up with people going downtown. The last stop downtown was for someone who was visiting to do some work with the LA Opera. She didn't know where she was going and despite giving the address to the driver ten times, he kept trying to go to a different address. There had been as mistake in booking and the wrong address was pre-programmed into his GPS or something.

It took me about 5 hours from landing to get home. At home, Oskar was the happiest I've ever seen a cat. No cold shoulder for my return. Instead he followed me around as if saying, "Never leave me again!"

Cut to weeks later: I hooked up the Spanish cell and downloaded the pictures I took with it, so here are a few odds and ends from the trip.

The view from the beach at the Dali house.

A beach on the Thames - why English people don't sit out a lot.

A business in Nice, owned by my family??

Spanish iced tea.

A tile in Parc Guelle.

My Spanish room service meal.

A sign in the Tate near the elevators.

A sign on the river near the Tate Modern, just a few feet from very active buskers.

Another Paddington.

The London Eye.

I don’t know when I'll be up for another vacation, but I almost certainly won't make it so jam-packed. 

Casinos, Rain and Perfume

 November 15

I was picked up at 8:50 AM by Sebastian, our driver for the day. We stopped and picked up Sandy and Jeff, a couple from Australia, and Andrea, a woman from California who teaches at the international school in Zurich. At least I wouldn't have to worry about what part of the tour I was missing because it was in Russian. It was a very rainy day, to put it mildly, and Sebastian started out in an obviously bad mood. I sat in the front seat, near Sebastian, and had to hold my seatbelt most of the trip because seatbelts are the law in France, and mine was broken.

We were driven through Villefranche to Eze, another medieval village. There was nothing open in the actual medieval part of the city, so our little group walked around a bit and then Jeff treated us to coffee and tea.

From the village we went to...the Fragonard perfume factory! Sharif had assured our tour that the factory in Grasse was the best one, but he was lying to us. (I still think I hate him a little.) The factory in Eze was larger, and I once again dug out my credit card and bought something.

From Eze we went to Monaco. Sebastian informed me that if I wanted the full-day tour, he would pull over in Monte Carlo and let me out of his van. Alone. On the side of the road. In the rain. With no idea what to do or when another van might come by to pick me up. No cell phone. If I decided on the half-day tour, I would continue with him, but the company was not going to return any of my money. So the next time you are in France, book with Med Tours or Startours! They love to take your money and not give you what you've paid for. Sebastian also thought the afternoon tour, which would theoretically pick me up, might be canceled because of the weather. I did not get out of the van.

We stopped in front of the casino in Monaco and were let out to take some pictures. We were only allotted about 15 minutes, so not enough time to go inside and lose the 20€ I had planned to lose there. Sebastian returned early, and we were all glad to get back in the van, out of the rain.

The rest of the tour was just driving around. We drove the Formula 1 track through the city, went down to the waterfront, went through tunnels. The rain was so heavy that water was coming up onto the road at the port and a wave crashed and hit the full side of the van. We drove through huge rivers of water streaming down from the mountains, making its way to the sea. Sebastian also informed us that the sewage water from Nice was pumped out into the sea. So despite looking beautiful and deep blue, the water isn't that clean. Sebastian finally started to loosen up as we were returning to Nice.

Sebastian offered to drop us back at our hotels, or anywhere else in Nice we wanted. We decided that the four of us would stick together a little longer so we had Sebastian drop us at Sarao, a restaurant he recommended. Luckily, it was good. We ate a leisurely lunch and the rain died down a little. The four of us walked down the Promenade des Anglais and went to a chocolate expo which was open for the weekend in a tent near the water. Free samples of chocolate and cookies made up my dessert.

She's dressed in chocolate.

Sandy had scheduled a massage for the afternoon, so we said goodbye to Sandy and Jeff at the chocolate expo and Andrea and I walked down the shore back toward out hotels. After a brief rest in the hotel room, I met up with Andrea again and we went to a casino near her hotel - I had 20€ I didn't spend in Monte Carlo burning a hole in my pocket. We both had bad luck and left with just some change, which we didn't even bother to cash out. We split a pizza for dinner, with chamomile tea, and headed back to our respective rooms.

Packing took about an hour, but I managed to fit everything in the suitcase without having to resort to unzipping the expanding section...yet. I showered and went to sleep, setting the alarm for my early trip to the airport.

Antibes, Cannes, Gourdon, oh my!

November 13

Before my morning tour, I went to the same little coffee shop I had eaten at the morning before and got a pain au chocolat and a hot tea. I think I am in love with pain au chocolat. The only place I've seen it around where I live is at Starbucks, and I'm not convinced it will be as absolutely amazing as it is in France.

The tour was picking me up in the lobby of my hotel, so I sat there and had my little breakfast while I waited.

The tour guide, Sharif, spoke English and Russian on our tour, which was all women. Six of us. There were two Russians and three family members from Jakarta and me. We got in the little bus, which Sharif drove, and headed to our first stop in Antibes. Unfortunately, it seemed like Sharif really likes to speak Russian, since he spent much of the time chit-chatting with the two Russian woman and ignoring us English speakers until it was time for his memorized tour material.

Am I the only one who doesn't think it is thrilling to look at yachts? That was our big stop in Antibes. Not the Picasso museum (although I really don't like Picasso) or the city, just the port. After a 20 minute walk around, we got back in the bus and Sharif drove up through ritzy neighborhoods on our way to Cannes.

In Cannes, we stopped in front of the theater where they have the film festival and had another 20 minutes or so to walk around.

I went down to the beach, which was sandy, and sank down into the fluffy sand.

There were also weird little hairball things all over the beach there. 

There wasn't a lot of other stuff to do there - a small coffee stand, toilets, tourism office. Back in the bus!

We headed up the mountain to the village of Grasse, where we toured the Fragonard perfume factory. It was interesting and I bought a bunch of Christmas presents there. 

The table where the Nez works.

Then we went past Tourettes, stopping for photos only, and then up to the village of Gourdon.

I don't remember if that is Tourettes in the background or Saint Paul de Vance.

Lunch in Gourdon was disgusting. There was a lot of pressure from Sharif to eat at a particular restaurant - I think it was called the Three Brothers. Sharif must have a deal with them to get a kickback from taking his tours there. I sat with the Indonesian family to eat. Despite telling the waiter I didn't eat meat, which included fish, my salad came with fish in it. I only ate the hard-boiled egg from the top of it and picked out some tomatoes. In my opinion, I should not have been charged for the salad, but I was. It was the most expensive egg I've ever eaten, coming in at 13€. The Indonesian family weren't happy with their meal either, wanting mussels but having to settle for the only fish available at this place - aside from being all over the salad. They had soup that they hated, bad fish, a similar salad to my own -without fish, because they like fish, so naturally they don't get any - and, I think in desperation, french fries. Sharif's answer was just "It is hard to be a vegetarian in France." I hate him a little bit.

After a small walk in the city and some souvenir shopping, it was back on the bus. The drive back down from the mountain was very nice. It had rained the day before, so there were several waterfalls. Sharif took us to a lookout for waterfalls called Cascades du Saut de Loup, which he claims was not part of the tour, but his gift to us. It was one of the best stops.

The last stop on the tour was at Saint Paul de Vance, which was a pretty interesting place. I saw the grave of Marc Chagall and had an ice cream. There was a lot of walking around, but it was worth it. I think because we're in the off season, maybe as many as half of the little shops were closed, though. We spent a little over an hour here, which was enough.

No crowds.

More pebble mosaics in Saint Paul de Vance.

Back on the bus we got to experience the scenic wonders of a gas station. The gas prices in California are high, but not as bad as in France! The ride back to the hotel was all on highways, since the tour was over and we no longer deserved pretty scenic roads.

I went back to my room briefly, then set out for dinner. Vanya, the extremely helpful front desk woman at my hotel, recommended a couple restaurants, but they both were closed when I got there. I was dining early for France at 6 PM. I found a place called La Pizza and had a huge, but only okay pizza. On my walk back, I missed my turn and lo and behold, picked up Mario again on the street. I realized I had gone too far, after having Mario walk with me a couple of blocks, and turned back on my own. I walked a little faster, just to make sure I lost Mario if he had decided to try and follow me to my hotel.

Back in the room, a little early, I spent the evening watching the horrible TV choices.

Getting From One Place to Another (sorry, few pictures)

November 11

Breakfast at the B&B was fresh preserves with brioche. I also had a big cup of Lipton hot tea. I didn't understand at first that the bowls on the table were for drinking coffee and tea from, but caught on when I saw the Belgian woman drink coffee from hers. They were the size and shape of cereal bowls.

Check-out did come with one surprise - cash only! You cannot imagine my relief that I had enough money with me to pay the bill. I don't know what I would have done if I was short - leave my stuff there and go in search of an ATM, I suppose. But that meant I had very little cash for the rest of my day.

I left Saint Antonin Noble Val around 10 AM and had to be at the train station by 12:48 for my train to Nice. I couldn't get the GPS to understand Gare Matabiau, so I pushed the "home" button and hoped for the best. At least it got me to Toulouse - where I drove around and around and around. The "home" button on the GPS was actually programmed to take me to someone's home, not the car's "home." I got to the mystery house and then just started driving around the city. There were some signs pointing to the train station which I passed on my way to the mystery house, so I tried to backtrack and find a sign. But before I could return the car, I had to fill the tank.

Finding a gas station was much more difficult than I anticipated. I passed the train station once while looking for a gas station, so I had some relief that it, at least, could be found. The only gas stations I had seen were when I first exiting the highway. I found the highway again, but no gas stations. I'm so used to LA where there is a gas station just about every few blocks. Time was ticking down. Despite giving myself about 1.5 hours of "getting lost" time, it was quickly running out on me. I was sure I was going to miss my train. There were some tears. But I figured, worst case would be that I rented the car another day and drove to Nice instead of taking the train.

I finally found a gas station and filled the car, 1/2 tank for 40 Euros, and by then I had lost my bearings on the train station. I drove around and around and around with no sign of the train station. Worried I would need to fill the tank again if I just kept driving around, I finally hit the "home" button on the GPS again, knowing at least it got me near a sign for the train station. Turns out I had wandered nearly 20 kilometers away from the train station on my search for petrol. I saw a sign and followed it, finally driving toward the station with only 10 minutes left to catch my train. It was there. I could see it. I needed to just turn left and go about 100 yards and I could return the car. Unfortunately, I could only turn right. I had to go around the block again, which wasn't really just a block and was not a fast trip, and keep my fingers crossed that if I went up one block from where I tried to enter the parking before, I would be able to.

Every red light, every car changing lanes without signaling, every pedestrian trying to sneak through against a light, they were all working against me. I kept going over the car return process in my head. "Just bill me! I can't stop and talk about this. Here are the keys!" I finally got to the garage entrance, at the same time as another car. I cut the other car off just past the entry gates - I didn't have time to be polite or worry about irritating a driver I would absolutely never encounter again in my life. I went as fast as I could up the ramp to the third floor and found the Enterprise parking. I didn't do the best job of parking and hurried out of my car. Naturally, the Enterprise spots were the farthest from the station and the elevator.

With luggage in tow, I got to the elevators and one of the two elevators was out of service. Time was ticking down. I rode the one working elevator down, dreading that someone would call the elevator to another floor. Finally I made it to ground level and I couldn't find the entrance to the building. Another wrong turn, this time on foot. I finally got inside and found the Enterprise desk and they were closed for a bank holiday today - Armistice Day. I dropped my key through the slot for returning keys and hurried to the platforms. I needed platform 6, but where was it? With the bank holiday and my keys in the overnight slot, switching to a rental car was no longer an option. I had to find my train. Down an escalator. Platform 2, 3, 4, 5... 6! Up a flight of stairs - with a suitcase. There's the train. Get on board. I couldn't lift my suitcase onto the train, but a young woman trying to have last goodbye kisses with her boyfriend on the platform helped me so I would get out of her way. I stepped into the car, the closest one I could find, and almost immediately the car door closed. I had made it by seconds. I then asked other people near the door if I was, in fact, on the train to Nice. Good news, I was.

On the way to Nice, the train stopped for about 40 minutes, on the tracks, in the countryside, requiring some maintenance. In Montpellier the train stopped at the station and I swear the conductor announced we would be there for another 50 minutes, but then the doors were closed and we...just sat there. But not for long. After all I went through to catch this train, it was running very late at all the subsequent stops. Just not at my stop. At least I had spent the extra 8 Euros for a first class ticket, so I was comfortable. And thank goodness for the Evian I bought in Andorra and the granola I packed for the plane.

The train arrived at the station in Nice at around 9 PM. I headed to the information desk…where they were out of maps. The reluctant man who worked there gave me a map and apparently didn't have maps for the other ten people asking for them. I was just lucky, and perhaps looked the most desperate. I figured out the general direction I needed to head, and set out. On foot.

I must have looked pretty rough, because a girl who was biking (at night) saw me and offered her assistance in finding my hotel.  She walked her bike, leading me all the way to my hotel. Elodie. She was the highlight of my day and started me off having a friendly experience in Nice.

My hotel, however, was not exactly up to par. The room was small and warm, which I like, but there was a terrible smell in the hallways and elevator. They didn't have room service, or night food service at the restaurant, so I went without food. They also didn't allow food in the rooms, so I was forced to only eat things which I could finish while walking, or eat at a restaurant. The TV wasn't adjusted properly and the English channels were all news - BBC, CNN, Bloomberg. At least they had some English channels. There was no bath, but there was a shower and the water was hot.

That's the whole room.

Trip to Europe, November 2014

November 5, 2014 - Leave for the airport.

Prime Time Shuttle picked me up about 10 minutes late, but I still made it to the airport with plenty of time. The check-in system at LAX does leave a little to be desired. You have to go to a machine and print a ticket, then get in line to check your bags - a line they only let you in if you have a ticket from the machine. Tickets printed at home, I found out from the disgruntled couple in line, mean nothing. So, I printed my ticket and got in line. The line moved pretty quickly and to my surprise, when I checked my bags they tore up the ticket I printed at the machine and printed a new ticket for me. What an amazingly efficient system. And good for the environment, too, with all the torn up and discarded tickets.

The security check was the same as on a domestic flight. The only delay was when a whole group of flight attendants from a Saudi airline showed up and had first priority going through the security screening. After that, just find your gate and wait to board. My phone didn't work at LAX, but they have free wi-fi, so I sent a few emails. The terminal area is like a giant shopping mall, and the only bad part about that was having to walk forever past the shops to actually get to the gate. I had time to get a pizza and iced tea before my flight, so I did.

Me waiting at LAX.

The plane was more cramped than I ever remember a plane being. For some reason, I thought when I was little if someone in the window seat wanted to leave the row, they others didn't actually have to get up, but did to be polite. Now my small carryon bag didn't even really fit beneath the seat in front of me. I put my skirt out to cover it so the flight attendant wouldn't make me move it, although I didn't end up needing anything from it anyway.

The back of the seat in front of you has a screen which offers tons of TV shows and movies, enough to entertain me for the whole 11 hour flight to Paris. I watched 5 movies - Edge of Tomorrow, The Lego Movie, How to Train Your Dragon 2, Sex Tape and The Grand Budapest Hotel, and the one episode of Veep that was available.

The most alarming thing the screens have available is a view from three cameras mounted outside the plane - one looking straight down and the other two to front and back. Every seat can be a window seat! I just thought about how much my sister would have hated to be able to see outside the whole plane for the whole journey, although most of the time it was clouds, so nothing to see.

The earth, as seen from the back of an airline seat.

I pre-ordered a vegetarian meal and for the most part I'm glad I did. I got my meal first, before the food cart came down the aisle. And even though there was a choice of cheese ravioli for the lunch meal, they ran out just before my row and only had chicken left. Also, instead of a pastry, the vegetarian meal had fresh fruit. The vegetarian breakfast, however, was not good at all. Sure, there was a muffin and apple sauce. Bread and butter. Orange juice. But along with that there was a tray of boiled veggies - mushrooms, carrots, asparagus. Just what you want first thing in the morning.

My layover in Paris was very short - just shy of an hour. It was in Paris where we went through customs and got our passports stamped. Then a change of terminal. My flight gate was at F51, but all of the signs directed you to terminal F2. You just had to have faith that since they both said F, it was the right thing to do. Luckily, my connecting flight was delayed by 40 minutes or I would not have made it to Barcelona. And, unfortunately, my luggage did not make the connection.

The gate in Barcelona had two ramps for two different planes at the same gate, boarding at almost the same time, causing great crowds and mass confusion. I looked at the other gates and it seemed to be standard operating procedure to have two planes at each gate. I think they might need a bigger airport...