y2k11

Christmas, Dave and Emily’s visit, New Year’s in Paris, Foosball world cup, masquerade ball! So much has happened since I last updated – hand it to me to drop the ball… again. Let me try to recap in the least boring way possible.

Christmas day was spent at Keri Ann’s house with four American girls and one British boy. We got there around 3 pm, at which point we popped the champagne and started our day with mimosas. Basically the entire day was spent drinking, cooking, eating, dancing, singing, and playing silly card games. What better way to forget that you’re 4300 miles from your family on the day you most want to be home? Around 1am I took my computer outside into the freezing, dark night to skype my family chez Helgeland (Keri Ann’s internet was only working outside). Illuminated by a streetlamp I got to spend a good 15 minutes on speaker phone with the entire Helgeland clan (minus my immediate relations). The fact that all I could see of myself in the video window was my face on a black background was made slightly creepier by the fact that Torger doesn’t have a webcam, so I couldn’t see any of the 11 or so people addressing questions to my floating head. Regardless, it was definitely the highlight of my Christmas, making me perhaps equally happy and sad (not to be there). Another highlight came just before, when in the last ten minutes of Christmas I declared that we should all sing our favorite carols. We went around the circle and as a group sang each person’s favorite song. After maybe 3 classic Christmas favorites, we arrive at Misty, an assistant from Idaho. When asked her favorite Christmas carol, Misty, without hesitation, launches into a song which begins “America, America, how can I tell you how I love you.” No, Misty, CHRISTMAS songs. She starts again. We skip her, finish up the circle and at 11.59 sing Silent Night in at least 2 languages (at this point my French neighbor has joined us). Then we learn Misty’s Christmas favorite:  America, America, how can I tell you how I love you? You have given us your riches. We love you so. Sung to the tune of Rose, Rose (alternately, Hey-ho Nobody Home, or the Delta Gamma Round, for the anchor inclined). After learning this song, Misty and I proceeded to improvise several new classics, mostly revolving around the theme of washing our hair, feet, hands, and various other body parts, in snow. Apparently white Christmas is the most hilarious thing, ever. Fortunately most of these songs made it into videos, so we can publish them and send them to all the major Christmas labels.

boxing day morning - the graveyard.

Between Christmas and the New Year, my good, nay, great friend David Davidson came up from Spain with his girlfriend (and also my friend/physics lab partner extraordinaire) to check out France and visit one Lindsey Arrington. We passed a leisurely few days exploring Nantes and living the French dream. Sadly for Emily the weather was very ‘Nantaise,’ aka exactly the same as Salem, Oregon. Grey, drizzling, and cold. Sorry, Em. New Year ’s Eve we got up bright and early to catch a 5am train to Paris, where we spent the day checking out the tourist sights and snacking. After seeing far too many people posing as if to hold the pyramid at the Louvre in their hands, I decided that from now on every time I’m in a picture in front of a famous monument, I’m messing these poses up.

why didn't you guys tell me it doesn't look like i'm holding it?

A probable cause of the huge amounts of kitschy photos was the huge amount of foreigners. Due to all these foreigners, I called the UK, Emily called America, and Dave called Italy, Russia, and I think Germany, so that every time one of these accents/languages was heard, a point was gained. By the end of two major holidays in the city of lights, Emily was far ahead of both Dave and I, although slightly surprisingly, Dave was well ahead of me. Who knew the Russians loved Paris so much? We checked into our hotel, which I had booked for one person, around 5pm and decided to have a nap before heading out for dinner and the big celebration at the Eiffel Tower. On our way out to dinner, around 8pm, the doorman actually chased me out of the building when I didn’t realize he was addressing me to confirm that it was just me staying in the room. “Just one, not three – right? Just you.” I assured him I would be staying alone and we went on our way. This was going to be a problem. I was hoping that rules were as lax here as they seem to be stateside (even Canada side, where Dave theverysame Davidson and I once fit 5 into a room reserved for 2). During our meal we worked through several plans to trick the doorman, who we deduced was going to be working all night long, but finally ended up settling on the fact that he would already be t’d from having to work new year’s eve and trying to trick him would only further annoy him, thus leaving us to wander the streets of Paris all night. Around 9:30 we get on the metro, 2 bottles of horribly fruity champagne in tow, and head to the Eiffel tower. We’re scheduled to meet Annika and her family at 10, and because of the absurd amount of people at the tower, we’ve set a location, assuming cell service will be shoddy at best. I, being a genius, don’t realize that Trocadero bridge is NOT, in fact, the quaint small bridge we had crossed earlier in the day, but in fact an enormous plaza that I have never actually been too, so the meeting place is a joke. But first, we have to get out of the metro. We arrive at our stop and squeeze out of the doors into the tightest packed space I have ever encountered. Wall to wall people in every direction, moving no faster than a meter a minute towards who knows what exit. Dave and Emily and I do our best to stay next to each other, which mostly works out. Emily has latched onto a tall man in front of her, I’ve been latched onto by a not-so-tall man behind me who seems to think this is a good opportunity to pick up women, and Dave is being pushed along with the flow of people sans problème. At one point I actually fear that I will be crushed and trampled against a wall, but after maybe 30 minutes of surprisingly jovial shuffling towards the universal destination (the location of which I am entirely unaware), we make it to the street and follow the general crowd, hoping they are headed to this mysterious bridge.

not, as it turns out, a small bridge

 I try to call Annika but there is absolutely no connection with tens of thousands of people trying to meet up and one big, famous cell tower to bounce the calls off of. We decide to give up on that and settle in with a great view of the tower, eerily illuminated in the thickening fog. Surprised that no one around us is popping champagne and wary of the large groups of French Military Police milling about, we decide to save the champagne for … later. I decide to give finding Annika one last go and wander down the hill to the actual bridge, which is blocked off by yet more military police. After nearly giving up hope for maybe the 5^th time, I sight a beret, and knowing from facebook that Annika’s dad often wears such a beret (creepy), head in that direction. This is not, as it turns out, Annika’s dad, but lo and behold, Annika is right behind him. There are less police here, and the Geilens have definitely taken advantage of that fact, now into their third(?) bottle of REAL champagne, plastic flutes and everything. I embarrassedly get out our 2 euro strawberry drink and pour up 3 plastic dentist cups for my crew, and we wait for midnight. I have to say, after all the hype, 12 am rolled around and I was a bit let down. The tower sparkled. It sparkles on the top of every hour, all year round. Where are the fireworks?! Where is the singing!! Where is something special to ring in y2k11!!?!?! The Minnesotans in front of us that we’ve befriended are pretty sure that something happens at 1am. Don’t ask me why we believed a coupla northerners about the Parisian new year’s tradition, especially with something as far-fetched as a 1am celebration – that doesn’t even make sense. None at all. But we stay – why not? We still have a bottle of peach drink, after all, and nowhere to stay. 1am rolls around, and whaddya know – they turn off all the lights and the tower sparkles. I mean really sparkles. It was beautiful. It was magical. It was worth it. Out of the light mistiness of a big city night, the sparkling outline of this country’s most well-known symbol. After 10 minutes it stopped, but the lights didn’t come back on, and this was almost better than the sparkling. The Eiffel Tower is ALWAYS lit up. The city lights were diffused enough by the fog that you could still see the silhouette, and without modern lights it felt like the Paris I never imagined – the one you see in movies and postcards – old and crackling but magnificent.

magical!

 Annika’s parents graciously offered us a place to stay in their rented apartment, so we accompanied them back to the Champs-Elysees, ate some gouda and soup, and went to bed earlier than I ever have on new year’s eve. In the morning we went back to the hotel to check out, and by the look the doorman (now dubbed, ‘the falcon’) gave us, I’m fairly certain he was trying to figure out how we snuck past him, not once but twice, to stay the night but come in from outside in the morning. We spent the day goofing around Paris, just wandering the streets and relaxing, before I sent Dave and Emily on their train to the airport. Needless to say, this was an excellent visit, a much needed taste of home, and a shame to see end.  

This is already far too long, so if I update in the next month I’ll get to those other things. Probably.

Even more pictures!