Amsterdam in Pictures

Partly because I'm lazy and partly because I don't think you can really understand this city without seeing it, I've decided to show you my weekend in Amsterdam through pictures.

The most surprising thing about Amsterdam: 

Amsterdam is not so much of a city in the bustling metropolis sort of way, but more in the everyone is relaxed, friendly and takes afternoon rides through canals sort of way. The entire city looks like the poshest neighborhood in any big city, where every single building is beautiful. There wasn't any "bad part" of the city (Yes, even the red light district looked nice despite all the naked... everythings.). It was the most gorgeous, quaint, little city I've ever been to.

The most "Amsterdam-y" picture:

We took a canal tour on our second day. As I was trying to take yet another picture of the cute stacked houses along the canals, this boat snuck into the frame. The only thing that could make this picture more "Amsterdam-y" (a word I proudly just made up) would be if the driver of the boat was drinking a Heineken.

My least favorite thing about Amsterdam: 

This picture doesn't quite capture how horrifyingly steep the steps are in all of Amsterdam. I don't know if they historically had shorter feet or just a knack for acrobatics, but I swear I experienced vertigo on these things. I had a little shoulder bag for the weekend, but I couldn't imagine carrying up a suitcase for a weeklong stay. They actually have these large hooks at the top of buildings that they use to make a pulley in order to lift mattresses and couches up and through windows, because you can't take them up the stairs. How about just make less diabolical stairs?!... but I digress. 

My favorite thing I did in Amsterdam:

Canal tours are nice and I'm sure the Van Gogh Museum is excellent, but my main reason for going to Amsterdam was to see the Anne Frank house. We waited for just over an hour to tour the house, but it was so worth it to me. I don't really know how I can correctly or adequately put into words what going through the house where Anne Frank and her family hid for two years was like. First, it's incredibly eerie. There isn't much in the annex, because almost everything was removed after her family was discovered. Otto Frank, Anne Frank's father, asked that the rooms remained empty in order for visitors to remember all that was lost during that time. However, the original bookshelf that hid the entrance to the annex and Anne's original diary remain in the house. Both are rather simple looking, but both gave me chills when I saw them. I could go on for several more paragraphs about the house, but in the interest of everyone's tear ducts I'll move on. 

The most difficult thing to take a picture of ever in the history of tourism: 

I love the "I Amsterdam" sign. In fact, I love it so much that I wanted to take a nice picture of it. Sadly that is impossible. I don't mind all the people climbing all over it that's part of the fun, but the sign is so long and there is a large fountain directly in front of it that you can't get back far enough to take a picture, hence my strange side angle shot.  It's not like I could even go to the end of the fountain to take the picture because there are these large abstract sculptures in the middle of the water!!! I know, first-world-picture-obsessed-tourist problems. This picture isn't so bad though. Maybe I'll invest in photoshop and erase some of the randos in front of the "I am" part. 

Although its stairs are insane and its fountains are poorly placed, Amsterdam was a beautiful, strange, crazy city, and I'm very grateful that I got to explore it.

London Three Ways

Although I went to Amsterdam this weekend and there is Royal Baby about to be born a mere 60 miles away, I realized that I have a bit of catching up to do. I've been to London three times already and haven't mentioned it once. It's time to correct that.

I imagined my first visit to London to be an extravagant experience filled with royalty, tea and small sandwiches. In reality, it started with me taking a large swig of a luke warm banana smoothie (I like bananas almost as much as Joan Rivers likes aging naturally). It was not a good time. 

I was in London for the first excursion of my Grady Seminar. We went to the offices of the Guardian newspaper, and got to talk to one of the global development reporters. I had never been inside of an actual news room, and it was incredible that I got to make my debut at such an accredited publication. I learned a lot on the excursion, but didn't see much of London. My only cue that I was actually in the city was the signs for the Underground. I made sure to do it up right nice on my next visit. 

I was the biggest tourist on my second trip, but I feel like when you are unfamiliar with a city it's best to start with the basics. The bus from Oxford dropped us off behind Buckingham Palace, naturally that was out first stop. 

Everyone and their mother camped out
for the changing of the guard

It was insane. People where crammed up against the gate, police on horseback were managing traffic and the crowd and every step of the Victoria Memorial was filled with people fixed on the palace. At first, I thought the Royal Baby had been born on the ride over, but then I saw a man in a tall black fuzzy hat. Every other day in the summer at 10:30 a.m. the changing of the guard takes place at Buckingham Palace. We happened to hit it at the height of the tourist induced pandemonium. 

Big Ben in all its golden glory 

We ducked out early as not to get stuck in another mob and headed toward Big Ben. It's always a strange experience seeing a building or landmark that you've only ever seen in pictures. Big Ben was smaller than I expected, but I couldn't stop staring at it. I can never get my head around the history that a building like that has stood through. It was built 20 years into Queen Victoria's reign, it's seen three London Olympics, and it survived the bombings during WWII. After all that I, a nobody, get to stand in front of it. Being able to touch and see history of that magnitude is one of the most rewarding parts of traveling to me. 

The view from the top

We rode the Eye next. I love ferris wheels, and I think after riding the London Eye I have reached the pinnacle of all other ferris wheel rides. At 443 feet in the air, the only sight that surrounds you is London. The city seemed to stretch out forever. 

The rest of the day consisted of walking around, touring churches and scoping out locations that were used in Harry Potter. Needless to say, it was a vast improvement from my first trip. 

Looking back on my third visit seems like a Devi Wears Prada induced fever dream. We toured the Hearst Magazine office with Terry Mansfield. If you're unfamiliar with either may I suggest clicking here and here. Our tour began with Elle. More specifically our tour began with meeting the editor in chief of Elle magazine. Our tour ended just as grand as it began, as we went on to meet the editor in chief of Cosmopolitan. I even got to ask them a few question, causing the magazine fan girl inside of me to die of happiness. 

I kept scanning the office to try to find the fashion closet, but unfortunately my hope of a makeover montage went unfulfilled. All the searching made me realize that 90 percent of the women in the office had their hair in a top knot. Is this a weird form of fashion magazine uniform? Is it a job requirement? What if your hair is too short? I have now made perfecting my own top knot a priority in my life. 

In all seriousness, what struck me most was how unglamorous the office actually is. They both produce a large glossy fashion-filled magazine, but its done in a small area where everyone's desk, beside the editor and publisher, touch. At Elle, the walls were packed with past covers of the magazine. At Cosmo, the beauty editors desks were piled with empty beauty product bags that they were testing.  It was much more chaotic than I anticipated, but the excitement in urgency made me like it even more. 

London hasn't disappointed, but I'm planning on going back one more time before I leave. I didn't get to tour the Tower or have high tea. However the obvious and most important reason to go back one more time is to buy a commemorative something of the Royal Baby's birth. Until then, happy Royal Baby watch. 

The Longest Weekend That Ever Was

Over the past three days, I have traveled from Oxford to Tintern Abbey in Wales, up to Grasmere in northern England, then down to Oxford, over to London and finally back to Oxford. It was a weekend that I could have never planned and will never experience again. My body is exhausted, but my heart is happy.

Saturday was the longest and most dramatic day of my weekend. I woke up in a quaint little cottage in Grasmere, England. Breakfast was all homemade by the inn keeper, Kate. Since I was in the English country side I opted for the "full english breakfast" option. It included ham (yum), sausage (yum), a poached egg (yum), tomatoes (yum) and mushrooms (yum) and baked beans (unexpected but also yum). Of course, it was all washed down with a cup of English Breakfast tea.

The precious inn we stayed at in Grasmere. 

After breakfast, we headed to Dove Cottage. My trip to Grasmere was apart of the excursion for my Romantic Literature class. The romantic poet, William Wordsworth, lived in Grasmere and wrote most of his important works there, specifically in Dove Cottage. The house was cute and old and full of history, but it was a typical historic museum house.

Following Dove Cottage we went to Wordsworth's manuscript museum. Museum is too harsh a word for this place. I think of museums as sterile places where you aren't allowed to touch anything. There is a glass wall between you and the history you came to see. At the Wordsworth Trust, Jeff, the curator, showed us one of Wordsworth's small writing books. This tattered blue book that had more creases from being bent open for writing than actual pages was incredible. The book was this nugget of history.  Inside, there was the handwriting of Wordsworth, his wife and his sister. There was line after line of Wordsworth attempting to translate the genius within his mind into poetry on paper. I eventually closed my jaw and suppressed my nerdy excitement, but it only got better.  

These are a few manuscripts copies that we worked with. 

Jeff asked us if we'd be interested in seeing a manuscript they had gotten in on Wednesday. Besides the employees and interns at the museum, we were the first to see it. The manuscript was a letter written by Dorothy Wordsworth, William's sister, to her doctor. Jeff then gave us a long white sheet of paper and had us decipher the handwriting from the original. I found out that 1) I can never be a school teacher, because I am terrible at making out handwriting and 2) there is so much more to these handwritten letters than the finite words on the page. We then discussed the letter and its place within the museum's collection. It was a once in a life time experience and something I'll never forget.

Once our session at the museum was over, our professor said we were going to take a little walk. At first I thought it would be a casual stroll around Grasmere or a maybe an easy trek around one of the lakes. I have never been so wrong.

Our little walk was actually a hike up a mountain. Also, we didn't know the hike would be so extensive or that it was going to be on year's the hottest day in England. So there I am in my trusty leopard print ballet flats, skinny jeans, and white blouse – not ideal hiking gear. It took about an hour and half of rocky paths and steep inclines to get up the mountain, but I have to say that the view from the top was well worth it.

The view from the top. 

At the top of the mountain, we walked over to a valley that inspired one of Wordsworth's poems. Our professor read the poem aloud and let us take in the scenery. It was absolutely beautiful. The color of the rolling hills in northern England redefines the color green. We slowly made our way down the mountain in an hour or so with no broken legs or sprained ankles – a success in my book.

The day should have been over after the hike. We were headed to the bus to drive the six hours back to Oxford, which we would happened if everything didn't go so terribly wrong.

About ten minutes into the bus ride, one of the graduate assistants on the trip got sick. Not the end of the world. We stopped, got her some water and let her do her thing. I was hopeful that she was just dehydrated and overly exhausted from the hike and just needed to, how do I put this delicately, "restart her systems." After our impromptu break, I put in my headphones and immediately fell asleep, because I am a champion road trip sleeper.

I wake up an hour later completely oblivious to the world, and we're at a rest stop. The poor girl who was sick before was still sick and had been for the entire ride. We took a break for her and a restroom break for everyone else. We all head to the Starbucks at the rest stop for some snacks. Then our driver sheepishly gets my professor's attention and pulls her aside to talk. After a long chat, she comes back to tell us this thrilling news:

There is a leak in the gas tank. The leak is so large that it is pouring gasoline onto the engine, which is overheating, and if we were to continue our trip with that bus, there would a risk of explosion. The driver called for another bus which would be there in at least three hours. Thus began our camp out at the Starbucks in the middle of no where England.

It really wasn't that bad. Especially when you consider the alternatives were getting stranded on the side of the road or spontaneously exploding. The rest stop had a Starbucks and free wifi. What more could ten American gals ask for?  The workers at the Starbucks even took pity on us and gave us free muffins. English hospitality is no joke.

The bus eventually came three hours later. The remaining five hours of our bus ride went by seamlessly, and we were back in Oxford at 1:30 a.m. It wasn't the 9:00 p.m. arrival time we expected, but we were all safe and now have a fantastic story to tell everyone at home.

I got back to my room, jumped into bed, slept for about five hours and then groggily got up to go to London for the day. I'm already a third of the way into my stay here. I wasn't about to let a near bus explosion and insufficient sleep to hold me back!

Have I been here for a week already?

I've been in Oxford for eight days already. In those eights days, I've celebrated Independence Day with the very people we claimed independence from, I've visited a palace, and I've had class in what looks like a castle. Here's a quick recap on it all.

You might ask, "But Sara, wasn't it weird being among those retched Red Coats on the fourth of July?!" To which I'd respond, "Nope, it was awesome." 

Since America declared its independence 237 years ago, Britain's managed to get over the whole thing. Like all my interactions thus far with the English, they were incredibly polite and thoughtful the whole day. The porters at Trinity College wished us a happy fourth of July on the chalk board at the entrance of Trinity. I really can't imagine UGA wishing the French foreign exchange students "Happy Bastille Day." 

Polite British manners at its finest. 

That night, I went out with some of the other UGA at Oxford students. The city was taken over by Americans. Besides the workers at the pubs, I don't think I talked to a non-American the whole night. From a distance, it could have looked like we were in the U.S. Most people were dressed in red, white, and blue. I even saw the ever so classy "Back to back world champions" t-shirt. 

My fourth of July in Oxford didn't include fireworks or a BBQ, and even though I'm so far away from home, the day somehow felt rather homey. Leave it to the British to make me feel at home on the fourth of July. 

Less than ten miles up the road is Blenheim Palace. It has been the home of the dukes of Marlborough for the past 300 years and was the birth place of Winston Churchill  On Friday, I convinced everyone to go to the palace with me, because princesses.

The garden view of the Blenheim Palace.

 It was overwhelmingly grand and beautiful. The state rooms were covered in large portraits (everything was framed in gold) and extravagant furniture (yet nothing looked like it had ever been sat in).  Amazingly, the 11th Duke of Marlborough still lives at the palace but only for part of the year. I can't imagine what his secondary residence looks like. 

Earlier today, I went to my first class with my Oxford professor. At first, I was nervous I would be intimidated by my professor's lectures, but once I got to class, I was just intimidated by the building class was held in.

It looks better than Cinderella's Castle, doesn't it??? Yep, that's where I had class. It was actually a great hour of lecture over Pre-romantic literature and what we thought of it. Tutorials at Oxford are the professor, two other students, and yourself. My professor was the sort of person that was so intelligent on the subject that it terrified you but in a good way.

When we first entered her office she said she left her window open, and that's why an ivy started to grow within her office. Instead of being upset or pestering with the plant, she quoted Coleridge. What?! Then about twenty minutes later she referenced Twilight to make a point about pathetic fallacy. It was quite a class. Her knowledge about the subject of Romantic Literature just made me more conscious of my thorough  knowledge of absolutely nothing. 

The last week in Oxford has been amazing, but it has made me feel a bit inferior. I hope I'm able to take  full advantage of this place and grow over the next six weeks. Who knows? Maybe I'll be quoting Coleridge by the beginning of August... Probably not, but a girl can dream. 

High Table Dinner Monday: Week One

There are moments when you find yourself somewhere that you obviously don't belong, but by some turn of fate or small miracle you are. That was last night. 

Every Monday evening we'll be treated to a guest speaker and a high table dinner. Last night, our guests were the Oxford professors who will teach our courses over the next six weeks. We met with our professors briefly and then headed toward the Trinity College gardens. 

Fun fact about about Oxford: it's really uppity about its grass. The back gardens of Trinity are a perfectly manicured lawn cut in the middle by a neat gravel path and surrounded by floral bushes and tall green trees. Its pristine appearance isn't an accident though. Trinity maintains a quirky set of rules to keep the gardens looking perfect. 

Blankets are not allowed on the lawn as it might kill the grass. Red wine is also prohibited on the lawn, because its dark color could stain the grass if it's spilled. Finally, frisbee and football (both kinds) are forbidden. Croquet, however, is perfectly acceptable. You know, because it's England.

The gated entrance to the back gardens of Trinity College.  

Now enough about gardens rules, back to dinner.

We all walked out onto the lawn dressed for the night's formal dinner and were greeted by a table of champagne, which happens to be my favorite kind of welcoming. While standing in the gardens with a glass of champagne in hand and looking back at the beautiful Trinity housing, it hit me. This is the classiest thing I've ever done. Then, the night got even more swanky. 

After champagne on the lawn, we all streamed into the dining hall for a four course meal. Dinner started and ended with a grace said in Latin, the silverware was hundreds of years old, and the hall was lit by a decadent chandelier and several candelabras.

Once dinner was over, we were invited to the beer cellar that is directly underneath the dining hall. This cellar alone is reason enough for me that Oxford is one of the finest institutions in the world.

The night was incredibly grand and made me very appreciative of this opportunity I've been given. Most people don't get to learn from an Oxford professor. Most people don't get to drink champagne in the Oxford gardens. Most people don't get to enjoy an elaborate meal in a 17th century dining hall.

I'm definitely not use to all the pomp that Oxford has to offer. Until last night, the only association I had with candelabras was Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast, and I use the word "swanky" for goodness sakes. I am a far cry from a posh Brit, but these Monday night high table dinners are definitely something I can get use to.

To Oxford I Go

So, I'm in my seat.

My phone is off. My magazines and chocolate are within reach. I've already looked up the in flight movies and am debating between When Harry Met Sally and Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Then it finally sinks in. I'm going to England.

I whip out paper and pen. The endless rambling in my head likes to breathe in ink every once in a while. I start writing out goals for the trip. You know, because I watched too much Oprah as a kid.


Goals
The obvious:

• Go to London 
• Go to Paris 
• Go to Amsterdam 
• Befriend Kate Middleton  

The Sara Specific 

• Eat a crepe under the Eiffel Tower 
• Don't lose your headphones
• Don't break your sunglasses
• Convince yourself to enjoy beer
• Perfect your already terrific British accent 

The not so obvious

• Never get bored. You are in Europe for goodness sakes! 
• Don't let the fact that you're tired be the reason for not doing something.You can sleep when you're in America.* 
• Don't just be a visitor. Explore everywhere you go.

I've been more than lucky in my life. I've traveled to through Japan and around Europe. Most likely, this is my last time out of the country for a while, and I don't want to miss a thing. 

When I was a senior in high school, I joked with my parents that I was going to go to the University of Oxford after I graduated. It's three years later and that's exactly where I am now. I know I won't be a Oxford grad by any means, but I hope the next six weeks are everything my 17 year old self hoped for and my 20 year old self set goals for. 

Hello from Oxford.

*The exception that proves the rule: anything that is illegal, could endanger your academic standing,  or could result in bodily harm. 

To Italy and Back

I’ve been in France for four weeks. While I like to say I have travelled and can adjust to any culture, the French have worn on me. Please don’t mistake me for a weary traveler. I have  traversed the prison like chamber that is the JFK airport with ease and rode in hot underground trains with what seemed like the entire population of Tokyo. France, however; is a different beast. 

One of my first days in Cannes, I ordered a crepe from a street cart. I thought I would try to use some French as not to be that American tourist. I say, “Je voudrais un crepe.” The French woman stares blankly at me. Maybe she’s hard of hearing? I ask again, “Je voudrais un crepe.” Still nothing. Maybe I’m not committing enough, so with my best faux-french accent I say, “Je voudrais un cr(insert stereotypical French phlegm sounds here)epe.” At last, she understands. 

Sure there might be an actual difference between crepe and “crghghghrrepe”. I don’t know, but the difference can’t be so vast that a woman WORKING AT A CREPE STAND wouldn’t understand what I was trying to say. Needless to say, my weekend in Italy was a welcomed change to my stay in France. 

My first attempt at speaking Italian was a complete failure. Delirious from waking up at 4:30, I stumbled into at cafe after getting off my first train in Italy. All I wanted was a cappuccino, but all my brain could muster was a string of strange French phrases. Every “Merci!” was followed by a “Errr, I mean…. Grazie!!! Clearly some language adjustment was needed. 

I was only in Italy for forty eight hours, but I managed to pack in a tour of Lucca and Pisa, a trip to the beach in Viareggio, and a hike up a mountain that made me want to call bullshit on the jaunty ending to The Sound of Music. (Sorry for the two Sound of Music references in two posts, but in my opinion you can never get enough of the Von Trapps.) 

To say I loved Italy would be an understatement. Even on the train ride, I was drooling as I looked out the window onto the ocean and then the country side. Then I got to listen to five old Italian women gossip while I ate my breakfast. It was a perfect introduction to northern Italy.

Lucca was beautiful. Kayla and I got lost in the winding streets. Luckily for us though, the city is surrounded by a medieval wall. When all else fails you just keep going straight and you will eventually hit the stone walls, that or some Italian designer store. I wasn’t complaining. 

Saturday was Pisa. You get off the train, and it just looks like a random Italian city. I don’t know why, but whenever I travel I expect there to be huge signs pointing to all the famous landmarks or the tourist sights will be right next to the train station or airport. With Pisa, you have to walk across the city from the the train station to get to the tower. 

We really had no idea where we were going. We passed a piazza, a bridge, and a street packed with stores and restaurants, but no tower. I started to try to follow all the other people with cameras at the ready, and eventually the street opened up to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

I find it hilarious that something is so famous because it’s a screw up. It gives hope to middle children everywhere. In the courtyard with the tower is a beautiful dumo and church, but no one really seems to care about them. Sure you take a picture of them, but not a “Look how strong I am that I can hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa” picture. I myself opted for the much more realistic “Look at how weak I am as the Leaning Tower of Pisa starts to crush me” picture.  

Sunday was a quick trip to Viareggio. I got to shop and hit the beach for a bit before making the train back to France. It wasn’t a long trip, but the entire time I was there I just kept feeling like I wanted to stay. I was talking to an Italian woman on my train back into France and she asked me if I liked France or Italy better. Without hesitation I said, “Italy. Most definitely Italy.” 

Obligatory lamp post shot. 

The Day My Faith Was Restored In The French

4:30

My eyes shoot open. There will be no snooze button today. I need to be on time. I need to be alert. I need to not get mugged.

4:40

I look over my travel plans for the day: Juan les Pins to Ventimiglia, Ventimiglia to La Spezia Centrale, and La Spezia Centrale to Viareggio. I call these plans, but they are awash in uncertainty. All of the worst possible scenarios run through my head. What if my first train is delayed? What if I don’t make my transfers? What if one of the trains is cancelled? What if one of the trains is cancelled and there isn’t another train until the next morning? What if one of the trains is cancelled, there isn’t another train until morning and I get mugged in the interim? I eat my nutella covered croissant like it’s my last meal. 

4:45

The sugar from my nutella laden croissant hits me, and I get a new sense of confidence. It’s reading time tables and sitting. Surely I can handle this. I grab my bags and head downstairs singing “I Have Confidence” from The Sound of Music to myself. 

4:48

I pass the receptionist and offer him a much too cheery “Bonjour!” for this ungodly hour. He asks why I am up so early. I explain that I bought a ticket out of Ventimiglia at 7:48, and this first train is the only one that will get me into Ventimiglia before then. He wishes me good luck then hesitates and in a most un-cheery tone says, “Be careful as you go to the train station.” He must see the automatic panic in my face and says, “Not that you have to worry,” then switches back to his doomsday voice, “But be careful.” 

4:49

I walk the block to the train station without blinking once. 

4:50 

Walking up to the station I see that the doors are closed. Maybe they don’t open the doors until 5:00? I don’t panic, because I see a French woman smoking by the shut doors. At least someone else thinks there is a train coming. 

5:00

The station is still closed, but the French lady is on the move. I watch her get onto the platform through what is normally the exit. Since I am starting to panic and really don’t have any better options, I follow her. You know, like a mugger. 

5:05 

I see her get a ticket from the machine on the first platform. I forgot about this outdoor kiosk. Suddenly relieved that I can buy my ticket, I show the French woman how to validate her ticket. She realizes I don’t speak French. We share awkward gestures. Oh it is grand. 

5:10

I spin the dial of the ticket machine with confidence as I choose my location and get my discount. This confidence comes crashing down when the price pops up. €7.50. These remember that these machines only take coins. I rip open my purse. I only have €6.50 in change. My throat starts to close. 

5:12

I look at the ground around me praying that by some miracle a shiny euro will look back at me. I am once again reminded that my life is not a Disney movie. 

5:14 

I contemplate cheating the system. Maybe I can buy a cheaper children’s ticket? This sounds like utter brilliance until I remember I don’t know the word for children in French, so I can’t find it on the machine. Maybe I will just chance it and get on the train sans ticket? I think that since my train ride is an hour and twenty minutes that they certainly will check tickets. After four weeks in Europe, cash is diminishing, and I can’t risk a forty euro charge. I curse my gelato runs and souvenir shopping. Screw everybody at home, I just want to go to Italy! 

5:15

Times are desperate. I have ten minutes until the train comes, but still no ticket. I imagine myself walking back to Couleurs Soleil with my head down in defeat. The receptionist will ask what happened, and I will feed him a fantastical story about how I missed my train because I was mugged by a man with a hook. I try to decide if I should rip my sleeve to make it look like a hook got to it. 

5:16 

I hear a cough behind me. The French woman. In my panic and self deprecation, I forgot about her. I think the unimaginable. I, the American who speaks eight words of French will ask a French stranger for help. I walk over to the second platform preparing to get a baguette thrown at me.  

5:18

I approach her and ask, “Do you have a euro?” She looks at me strangely. Of course because she doesn’t speak English. I mustered all the French I know and say, “ I need un billet. I have un, deux, trios, quatre, cinq,... six. I need... seven. I need un euro.” 

She either understands that pile of garbage, or the desperation in my face must have been so pathetic that she gave pity on my stupid English speaking soul. I don’t care, because she reaches into her wallet and handed me one shiny euro. I burst into one hundred rushed versions of “merci beaucoup!” 

5:20

I run back to the ticket machine, pay for my ticket, and run back to the second platform with a few minutes to spare before the train comes rolling in.

6:43

I arrive in Ventimiglia. They never checked my ticket. Classic France. 

My Strange Addiction

Don’t ask me where it started, because I don’t know. Some of us just have weird loves. I am just glad mine isn’t heroin or watching Toddlers and Tiaras. Instead, (and please spare me from the Anchorman references) I love lamp posts.  

I have tried to think of why I am drawn to them, but I can’t come up with a very good reason. Maybe it’s because they are functional but allow for ornamentation. Maybe it’s because they reflect the city you are in. Maybe it’s because I was dropped too often as a child. I don’t know.  

I do know that when I see one I like, I take a picture of it. I am not picky about the location. I have taken pictures of them in front of a palace in Spain and a restaurant in Florida. Although I must say the selection is better in Europe. 

    Today was a great day for lamp post picturing taking. After class, I went into Antibes for the afternoon. I was expecting a little beach town like Juan les Pins, but it turned out to be entirely different. There were gorgeous sea views, ivy covered houses, an old roman fortress, roads barely big enough for both man and cars to coexist in peace, and, of course, tons of lamp posts. I will end my rambling here and leave you with my favorite pictures from the day. 

24 Hours to Italy

I’ve always thought the idea of going to the airport, looking at the departure screen, picking a city, and just going was something I had to do at least once in my life. However my struggle to book a ticket to Italy yesterday makes me reconsider my travel fantasies. 

Who are these people who just hop on planes and travel around the world? How do they even get a reservation on such short notice?  Do they ever get stranded in foreign countries because of train strikes? How do they make five minute train changes in stations they have never been in? Do they have buckets of money at their disposal? 

They must have ties to the mob. Sadly, I do not. 

Instead, I sat on trenitalia.com for hours yesterday trying to figure out how to get from Ventimiglia to Viareggio. After accidentally booking a train for Saturday rather than Friday, I contemplated throwing my computer across the room. I just had to remind myself: How often are you in Europe? How often are you and your cousin in Europe at the same time? Not too often/never. Figure out this stupid website and get your ass to Italy. I did, and tomorrow I will.  

My travel plans for tomorrow. Wish me luck! 

Mud

For a film entitled Mud, everything seems to shine in Jeff Nichols’ third film about two boys helping a fugitive evade the cops and reunite with his longtime love. 

Matthew McConaughey plays the titular character with charm and ease, while Reese Witherspoon breezes through as Mud’s love, Juniper, long enough to get her name in the credits. The real performances, however, come from the two child actors who play Ellis and Neckbone. 

After appearing in The Tree of Life, Tye Sheridan anchors the film as Ellis, a boy on the brink of the excitement and disillusionment of adolescence. Even with his parents headed toward divorce, Ellis holds on to his idealized notions of true love. They are his main motivation for helping Mud retrieve a boat from a tree that will hopefully lead him to Juniper and freedom. 

McConaughey repeats, “A boat in a tree; that’s a hell of a thing.” This may be true, but I’d argue more that Sheridan gives a hell of a performance. In one scene, Ellis receives his first kiss from the older May Pearl and immediately asks her to be his girlfriend. When she accepts, Sheridan gives one triumphant smile that captures the butterfly in your stomach feeling of first time love. Unfortunately, this smile doesn’t last for long. 

As his parents’ marriage becomes more volatile, Mud and Juniper’s relationship wanes and May Pearl turns up with an older boy, Ellis’ faith in love starts to crack. This comes to a head in a fight between Ellis and Mud. Sheridan depicts the anger and betrayal we all feel as our romanticized ideas of love are first shattered.

He doesn’t rely on McConaughey to bring the emotional drama to the fight, but rather has his own commanding presence and one hell of an arm. Sheridan’s loss of faith is convincing, but turns out to bite him (literally) in the end. 

In his first feature film, Jacob Lofland plays Ellis’ best friend, Neckbone. It would be easy for this southern accented orphan to come off as a stereotype, but Lowland delivers a well timed comedic performance as Ellis’ loyal friend who thankfully is also good with a wrench. 

While these performances are fun and engaging to watch, the pivotal relationship between Mud and Juniper seems underdeveloped. There isn’t a problem with either McConaughey or Witherspoon’s performances, but rather a lack of screen time and believable history to persuade me that not only are they a couple, but they are one worth fighting for. This, however, is one of the only flaws I saw in the film. 

Mud explores the many manifestations that love can take. There are several variations of romantic love, each more disappointing than the next. Nichols also depicts the father-son relationship in a literal way, between an uncle and nephew and with a surrogate father figure. Another variation highlights the loving bonds of friendship. However, one is more subtle than the rest, but permeates throughout the entire film. In its execution, Mud reads like Jeff Nichols’ personal love letter to middle America and his home state of Arkansas. 

During an opening scene Ellis helps his father ride across town and sell fish out of his truck. While the job itself doesn’t seem all that pleasant, the sequence is stunning. It’s shot during that magical time when the sun starts to melt into the Earth. Everything has the blue-gold haze of summer and youth. As they drive down a highway, you can see American flags and a sign that read “God Bless America” in the background. Nichols constructs this world with a certain authenticity and beauty that only a director from the same area could achieve. 

Mud is a regionally specific film as it takes place on the Mississippi River, but Nichols does a good job of evolving his characters beyond Southern conventions. These characters are in sensational circumstances (it is a movie after all), but they aren’t sensationalized characters. They are the ordinary, the broken, the lovesick. The type of people you would find in any riverside city in Arkansas. This realism aids in the film’s mass appeal and our ability to effortlessly invest in these characters and the film.

Now I have to admit my bias. The day before I saw Mud, I met Jeff Nichols and listened to him talk about his inspiration and the processes of making this film. On top of that, Mud was the last premiere I saw in the Lumiere theater during the Cannes Film Festival. 

While I can’t deny that I had an extraordinary viewing experience of Mud, I don’t think I would have enjoyed it any less if my first screening was in a familiar cineplex back in the states. Mud is a well-crafted uplifting drama that audiences will love no matter where they watch it. 

Antiviral

     Welcome to the Lucas Clinic, where your favorite celebrity’s diseases are at your choosing. Antiviral takes celebrity obsession to new heights as rabid fans pay to inject themselves with anything from the flu to herpes in an attempt to feel closer to their famous idols. Brandon Cronenberg attempts to master body horror like his father, David Cronenberg, but falls short in this sickening and exploitative depiction of a society possessed by celebrities. If Antiviral is any indication of where society is headed, I’ll off myself now and save the trip to the clinic. 

Class and beach. Beach and class.

Sitting in class in the morning then laying by the beach in the afternoon: my life post-festival. Not a bad combination if you ask me, and a good way to get over my end of the festival depression. 

Juan les Pins is a nice little town, but it is no Cannes. It’s felt weird not going to the train station, dealing with crowds, and walking down red carpet. I am not use to this thing called “down time.” What do you do in such situations? Why go for a swim in the Mediterranean of course! Well, at least that is what I tried to do yesterday. 

After class, I did a bit of shopping in JLP. I found the quintessential European clothing store. Everything was neon and fringed. I picked up a pair of skinny jeans only to discover that I had accidentally stumbled in the men’s section, and they were meant for guys. Whoops. 

I finally hit the beach and the second, THE SECOND, I got my towel out and got situated the sun went behind a huge cloud. Beach fail. Today was much more successful. So much so that I have started my French tan. 

The next nine days will include classes (which aren’t bad, it just isn’t the festival), day trips (I have Monaco, Antibes, and maybe a night back to Cannes on my list.), and this weekend I am headed to Italy to visit my cousin. 

I am so so so excited for Italy. If I can manage the train, I will be there Friday afternoon.It will be such a nice change from France. I will actually be able to somewhat, sort of, maybe converse with people! The food will be amazing! I will get to go see the Leaning Tower of Pisa! AND (most importantly) I will be with Kayla in the Italian countryside!!! Can you tell I’m a wee bit excited??? 

My view from the beach. Not too shabby, eh?

Mystery

     A car races down a highway as it pours sheets of rain outside. The driver is a young man and the woman in the passenger’s seat is just as beautiful as he is drunk. As they exit a tunnel mid-kiss, a woman in a bloody shirt appears in the middle on the road. Unable to react in time, he crashes into her, and she slowly dies on the pavement. Unfortunately, this whirlwind scene of promiscuity gone wrong is the peak of Lou Ye’s film, Mystery. 

Mystery is Ye’s second film after a Chinese government mandated five year ban on filmmaking, While Mystery isn’t short on Ye’s customary controversial content is it short on any inventive storytelling. 

Adultery, lies, sex, and murder riddle Ye’s film about Lu Jie's (Lei Hao) discovery of her husband’s (Qin Hao) numerous affairs, but as the plot predictably unfolds Ye’s “thriller” failed to ever thrill me. In addition, amateur looking cinematography and backwards characters hinder Mystery from being the twisted mind-bender Ye intended. 

Immediately after the opening death scene, we go back several days where Ye presents us with another car scene. This time, Lu Jie is in the driver’s seat with her young daughter in the back. She lives an ordinary life: caring for her daughter by day and tending to her husband, Yongzhao, at night. 

Her seemingly routine life comes crashing down when she sees Yongzhao enter a hotel with a young woman, Xiaomin (Chang Fangyuan). We then learn that Xiaomin is the same woman who was slain at the beginning of the film. The rest of the film follows Lu Jie as she attempts to uncover and exploit her husband in his many indiscretions.  

The camera takes on a documentary feel as Lu Jie stalks her husband. Ye uses agitated zooms, pans, tilts and rack focuses to make the camera seem like an additional investigative character, however; this approach is far too stylized for an affair story. While it somewhat works as Lu Jie stands behinds trees and peers around corners, the obvious camera movement continues even in dialogue heavy scenes. It seems like Ye’s failed attempt to create suspense out of a lackluster screenplay. Ye’s going for Bourne, but he comes off as a student fresh out of film school who wants to show you all his new camera tricks. 

The lacking cinematography drags the film down further in a sex tape between Yongzhao and his young mistress. Home video image quality, extreme close ups and blurry footage only add to the film’s amateurish characteristics. It looks like the trailer to a badly made porno rather than a brief insight into one of Yongzhao’s steamy affairs. 

More than anything, I despised the film’s female characters. Eventually, we find that Lu Jie's friend Sang Qi (Qi Xi) is yet another one of Yongzhao’s mistresses. Second wife is probably a better description as Yongzhao and Sang Qi share not only an apartment but a young son together.

Once Sang Qi reveals her true identity to Lu Jie, the two compete for Yongzhao. They actually vie for the love of a man who cheated and lied to them for years. This plot progression is as off putting as is it unrealistic. 

Over the course of the film, Lu Jie discovers that not only is her husband having an affair with three different woman, but that he has an entire second family with one of them. Despite all this, she initially tries to win her husband back through spontaneous sex and schemes to destroy his and Sang Qi’s relationship. While Lu Jie’s revenge plan is fun to watch at times, her initial plan to forgive and forget  Yongzhao’s actions makes her a difficult protagonist to root for. 

Sang Qi’s devotion is even more offensive as she endures Yongzhao’s physical and sexual abuse. Most of Yongzhao and Sang Qi’s screen time consists of him yelling, beating, or raping her. In one scene, Sang Qi talks of how her only desire is to be with Yongzhao. His character has no redeeming qualities, yet Sang Qi pathetically clings to him no matter how awful the abuse. Although Sang Qi plays this submissive role well, the message her character conveys is alarmingly reactionary for Ye. 

The film’s attempt at a final plot twist is dissatisfying and obvious. Thanks to a poorly developed subplot of the investigation into Xiaomin’s death, Ye practically gives away his surprise ending half way through the film. Sadly the only “mystery” is how such an unimaginative film could come from such an esteemed director like Ye. 

The Paperboy

In his first turn directing since Precious, Lee Daniels delivers an underwhelming and overwrought drama in The Paperboy. Daniels’ plot meanders about in Florida during the hot summer of 1969. Jack (Zac Efron), sexually frustrated and uncertain of his future, watches as his older brother Ward (Matthew McConaughey) attempts to set the wrongly accused Hillary Van Wetter (John Cusack) free. During this time, Jack falls for Wetter’s nymphomaniac fiance, Charlotte Bless (Nicole Kidman). After abandoning the initial injustice plot at the film’s halfway point, The Paperboy continues to go downhill despite solid performances from the principle cast. Daniels favors gritty, rough around the edges cinematography rather than a developing an actual storyline. 

There Goes the Festival

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, and so the 2012 Cannes Film Festival ends today. The weather is matching my mood as it rains outside my apartment in Juan les Pins. I didn’t stay in Cannes for the night partly due to the weather and partly because going to see the closing ceremonies would force me to realize that the festival is coming to an end. 

The past three days have probably been my favorite during the trip. I think it’s because I finally got a hold on the festival. I know what movies have the highest likelihood of being good (ones not in the market), where to see celebrities (press conferences), and how to get into premieres (smile and use The Secret). 

Jeff Nichols at AmPav

Last night’s premiere was my favorite of the festival. It was Mud directed by Jeff Nichols, who we actually got to meet the day before at the American Pavilion. It was a private meeting so it was just the students from my program and a handful of random pavilion goers. He talked about his career, Mud and his past films, and let us ask questions. 

Being the super cool kid that I am, I sat in the front row, and I am so glad that I did. Jeff Nichols was so wonderful to listen to. (I'm gong to use his full name, because I have too much respect for him to call him Jeff, but he seems too laid back to be called Mr. Nichols. So Jeff Nichols it is.)  He managed to come off incredibly humble in his achievements (Mud is only his third film, and it is in competition. Last year, his film Take Shelter won the Critics’ Week Grand Prix at Cannes. Oh yeah, and he’s only 33.) but incredibly confident in his abilities, and after seeing Mud, he has every right to be. 

Twelve years ago he actually worked as an intern in the American Pavilion, and last night, he premiered his film in the Lumiere. Earlier during the festival I made a goal to comeback to Cannes and stay at the Majestic. Not necessarily during the festival, I just want to be able to sit in the lobby whenever and wherever I want (the possibility of sleeping on the same mattress that Brad Pitt doesn’t hurt either). After hearing Jeff Nichols’ story, I feel like my “Return to Cannes” goal sounds pretty lame. 

I hope Mud gets picked up and does really well in the states, because I loved it, and it got an incredible response at the premiere. To be honest, every film that premieres at the Lumiere gets a ridiculously long standing ovation no matter how spectacular or god-awful it is. However it wasn’t just the standing ovation at the end (which was crazy long), but you could tell people loved it before the credits rolled. During the film, I heard people laugh, cry, gasp, and cheer at different points during the film. At one point, someone tried to start a slow clap, but was quite unsuccessful. It turned into one guy clapping alone for far too long at the top of the balcony.

The best part of last night’s premiere was my seat. No, I never made it down to the orchestra, but I’m not complaining. Instead, I got a Corbeille ticket. I had it one time before but it was a row or two below the balcony. It was more like balcony plus. Last night was different. Way different. 

Jeff Nichols at the Mud premiere. *Note the famous people. 

I knew something was up after I saw I had a seat number on my ticket. For balcony or “balcony plus,” you don’t get a seat number. It’s just an area they point to, and you can sit wherever. My seat ended up being in the lower rows of the Corbeille where you could peer over the edge and see where the celebrities sat. 

It was especially cool because we had just met Jeff Nichols  the day before, and he seemed so down to earth. Seeing him stand next to Reese Witherspoon and Matthew McConaughey only twenty four hours later was surreal. I know I have used that word too many times in this blog and on this trip. It’s starting to bother me, but I can’t find another word that so perfectly describes what this festival has felt like. If you have any alternatives to suggest, please let me know.

Yet another plus from last night, I can add Reese Witherspoon and Alec Baldwin to my celebrity sightings list. I had seen Alec Baldwin on the screen at the Lumiere a few times during the festival, but never with my own eyeballs. Unfortunately he was so far away I couldn’t ask him to sign an autograph or call me “Lemon.” In hindsight, the distance might have been a good thing.  

Since it was my favorite premiere, it made the fact that it would be my last premiere in the Lumiere a little easier to bear. 

How To Successfully Stalk Robert Pattinson

I’d like to think of this blog as a place of no judgement, so indulge me as I recount the day that I met Robert Pattinson. The fourteen year old version of myself has never been so happy. Now I myself thought I was above such school girl fantasies, but apparently not.

We waited in front of the press conference room for one in a half hours. Not too terribly long, but enough to make you question your priorities in life. Since it was inside the Palais it was mostly press and only a few fans. It was definitely not the screaming crazy girl crowd Rob (Forget Robert, we would go straight to Rob.) is use to. 

As it got closer to the conference people were getting antsy. We were in the very front of the crowd, and everyone behind us started to push forward. It was a odd group of people too. There were TV station reporters, European fan girls, and one grandmother who was just trying to get an autograph for her granddaughters. 

First Sarah Gadon came through the hallway. She is Rob’s costar in Cosmopolis and incredibly sweet. However it was weird hearing all the paparazzi yell “Sarah!” Yes, I know it wasn’t for me and it’s a common name, but when was the last time you heard a room full of paparazzi yelling your name? 

Then it was time for the main event. I am pleased to say there was no screaming, storming, or general insanity when he walked into the room. It just seemed so unreal that someone SO famous was standing SO close to me. 

I forewent the autograph route and instead tried to simultaneously take pictures and burn everything I saw into my brain. It lasted only a minute or two but my friends got his autograph (just a flourished “R”), and we said thank you for stopping so we could get autographs and pictures. He seemed to laugh a bit when he got to us. Our wide eyes and shaking voices let him know we were definitely not with the press. 

Then it was over. 

I saw Robert Pattinson’s face with my face. 

Crazy.