The Cat's Meow

If you ever want to make a French person smile,

walk around the city dressed as a cat.

Friday, October 31st: 9am
Wake up, put on whiskers, adjust black ears.
Running late. Take a Taxi to school.

At school: 10am
Monsieur Melin (the director of my school) pets my head, calls me the "le petit chat".
Walk into Grammaire Classe...
Half the class makes cat calls, the other half laughs.

...

Ellen and I didn't think it would be a big deal to dress as cats to school, but when we noticed there weren't any other students wearing a costume- we quickly remembered that the French don't celebrate Halloween.

At first it was slightly embarrassing, but after some dingbat accused me of being a mouse, I quickly owned my feline persona and responded in a very French sort of way:

"Je ne suis pas une souris. Je suis un chat."
(I am not a mouse, I am a cat).

Back at home, it's not very surprising to see people dressed up in their costumes. It's the norm.
But here. It's like Christmas.
The Frenchies were so incredibly delighted! Everyone would smile at us and sometimes they'd even meow. One school kid actually hissed at me.
I flashed him my teeth.
Maybe they were smirking *Oh look at the little Americans in their cat costumes* or maybe they didn't even notice us, but either way the people of Angers were smiling. I can honestly say that I have never seen the French people smile as much as I did on Halloween!


Check us out!

I.H.O.K.

What happens when...

you identify a Romanian as a vampire?
He bites you.

you are cornered by a Kazakhstani after class?
He recites his monologue of "sentiments" during which his eyes don't leave yours and his face gives way to nervous twitching.

you give a Russian your number?
He actually calls you.

you take a Ukrainian to an Irish pub in France?
He takes hold of the microphone, guitar, and the Alaskan too!

Welcome to the International House of Kim!

Check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9H1Nmi7VdHc (part one)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzOH-9lX1aI (part two)

Coastal France

This past weekend I visited the coastal city of St. Malo as well as Mont Saint Michel (a spit-like land mass with a kajillion stairs that eventually take you to a monastery).

Mont Saint Michel was nothing special- I had been there before and there's really not much to do or see other than visit the monastery. So that portion of the trip was only slightly insignificient and repetative. Thankfully, St. Malo lent me a different experience.

I had been to St. Malo once before and I don't remember being very impressed by it at all. In fact, I remember finding it a sort of insignificient and placid town. But after being there a second time, I feel much differently. It's a very romantic, Scottish quarter with your usual French, narrow cobblestone streets and small shops but it's also unlike any other French city I've visited. It's more quiet, slow, and familiar. It is somewhat of a 'sleepy' town but I think that it's calm pace is what shapes it's lovely nature. There was a certain charm about the place that made it absolutely impossible to be in any sort of ill disposition. Perhaps the beautiful weather or the town's seaside location is to be at thanks, but I quite literally felt more at ease and happy while I was there.

Maya and Ellen

Ellen and Kim

Kim and Ellen

My Male Models (not really, they just let me pose them):


the Russian

From Oregon

Bitter? Me? Never!

Bonjour tout le monde! I'm having the time of my life here in the hip city of Angers. Between , beautiful French men, pain au chocolat, and beautiful French men I hardly have time to think! And if you thought I was excited about that, just wait until I express my full appreciation for the legal drinking age!!

Kidding. Kidding. Wipe that grimace off your face.

According to Ellen's (my roomate) French boyfriend from Oregon, Angers is the least happening place in the country.

Obviously, he's never been to Les Ponts de Ces.

Les Ponts de Ces is about 20-30 minutes outside of Anger and is considered the "country side". Everything (meaning all 15 of it's shops) closes before 8 o'clock and it's distance is easily walked in less than ten minutes. Now you ask yourself- why is this significient and why is Kim ranting about it. Well, simple answer. Three words.
I live there.

You know, it's incredible the amount of irony in my short lived life. I decide to hold out until the next pit stop, which is supposedly right around the corner, to take a leak but what ends up happening is that the the leak turns into the Hoover Dam and the right-around-the-corner stop turns into a corner twenty miles away. Or, because it hadn't rained all spring, I decide to take the rainjacket out of my back pack and on my walk home we have record breaking rain fall.
It's just my luck to flee small-town Eagle River only to end up in an even smaller town in France.

To get to school I have two options: I can either walk 3/4's of a mile to a bus that has regular stops or I can wake up before the roosters crow to make the bus next to my house. There aren't really any roosters...yet.

In order to do my laundry, I have to throw it into a suitcase and lug it with me to school in order to do it afterwards OR on a weekend I can walk two miles (with the suitcase) to get to a bus that will take me a 1/4 mile shy of the laundrymat.

The latest I can stay out on a weekend is 12:30 because I have to catch the night bus to get home and even then I have to walk two miles in the dark to get home. If I miss that bus, I have to take a cab and that costs me a finger and then some, so you can imagine the problem I have with taking cabs.

I shower in a carpeted bathroom which is complete with a 2x3x2 tub that has a handi cap hose whose mantle is broken.

Have I forgotten anything?

Oh.

Yes...

The food's great.

Your eight-fingered friend

-Kimberly

Den Haag prt.I (from a purely observational, non-bias stand point)

There are two attractive male species that inhabit Den Haag.

Specimen 1: late 70's Revivalists

These long-haired radicals sport sunglasses on cloudy days and bright, reflective shirts when it's sunny. This particular breed has also been known to wear pants so tight, they put Mick Jagger to shame.
American Example: Metro Station



Specimen 2: Euro Boy

Meticulously groomed male figures whose images, from billboards to bus stop advertisements, are everywhere. Button-up shirts and argyle sweaters are found accompanied by fitted, god sent, dress pants in which every assless man and on-looking female is thankful for.
American Example: The Jonas Brothers or "Chuck Bass" of Gossip Girls


As of late, I'm prefering the Revivalists- they're less intimitating and more.. um..available? <- (a.k.a not gay). Though to be completely frank with you, I haven't actually interacted with either breed of male... But I have spoken many times with my gentlman neighbors! Unfortunately, I have made absolutely no progress with them either. Yes they are quite dashing and there are plenty of young ladies that have gone out with married, 90 year old men- so it's nothing that hasn't been done. But for the life of me, I can't get passed the false teeth. Call me shallow, but a girl has to draw the line somwhere.
For me, it's 60.

Which brings me to my next subject! Chez moi! My house! My place of residence! During the first week in which we arrived, my mom had a habit of looking out the window. From our window you can see people, dogs, cars, bicycles, and all that's happening outside of our apartment complex. On about Saturday, she says to me "I can't look outside the window anymore."

Me: Why? Does it make you think about Alaska too much? ( I was worried she was getting homesick)

Mom: Mmm.. no. When I first started looking, I only saw older people. After a couple of days, all I saw were old people. So I said to myself "Do we live in the senior citizen complex?". I walked with Ruby yesterday and we met some neighbors. They're all senior citizens! I feel so old. It makes me depressed to see all of them. I like old people, but I don't want to be old. Look at my face Kimmia, all of these wrinkles...

And so and so on. But you catch my drift. This isn't quite the cabana party abode I was hoping for prior to arrival. It's everything but muscles and youth here. Our across the hall neighbor's name is Louis. He's at least 70 and his wife is 56. Down a floor lives a separated 80 year old by the name of Corey. I could go on, but this blog would become less about the excitement of life and more about my mom's oncoming (or perpetual? we're not sure yet) mid-life crisis. Oh the irony of life. Hopefully I'll have better luck in France. So anyways! Yes! I live in a Senior Citizen Complex! Jealous?

Besides the extreme demographics, the apartment is pretty sweet. My room is of modest size and there is a shower and sink literally in the bedroom. There's also a porch attached to my room that overlooks a small pond and numerous weeping willows. Check it out for yourself:

Here's the seriously awesome Dutch toilet*

and our kitchen

So that's some of my life so far Dutch boys, elderly homes, and toilets. I'll be updating this week again with some more exciting footage and awe-inspiring photos of flowers and shopping...

*If you want to see an insightful film I made on the Dutch toilet, check it out!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wytrja8YXTM

9 hours translated: "The Rest of Your Life"

"Due to last nights late arrival, flight 6067 to Frankfurt, Germany has been delayed until 6:oo pm."

I didn't board the plane until 7:30 that night. By the time I did settle in my seat, the pilot's voice pops up over the intercom and he announces that the plane's hydraulics were leaking last night and just in case they begin to leak again, the plane needs to be within 1 hour of an airport at all times, to land. Meaning that rather than flying directly over the Atlantic to Frankfurt, the plane will fly so that it could hug various countries in case of a mechanical malfunction.

What does this mean for me?
1. A nine hour flight turns into approximately eternity and twenty three minutes.
2. Further hydraulic malfunctions resulting in:
a.) An attempt to land somewhere that is NOT Frankfurt.
b.) The plane plunges into the Atlantic and Ruby and my Mom quickly learn to swim.

::: Nine hours later...::::

Kim: "Whoa, I slept through that entire flight. Nice!"
Dad: "We're still over the Atlantic... We're not in Frankfurt. Why are we landing?"
Pilot: "Welcome to Iceland!"
Passengers: " - insert expletives here - "

Explanation:
The pilot said we landed so that they could turnover the plane (a.k.a house clean). He expected us to believe that he decided to land a plane full of 120 people, mid flight, because he forgot to remind Flight Attendant Olga that they were due for a health inspection and the five year old plane's five year old blankets needed to be washed for the first time.
Hah! They may have fooled the other passengers but I was not so naive! I knew the smell of the rancid German in seat 9 E would escape the cabin and leak into the pilot pit. The turnover was a ploy- the pilot only wanted to give his nostrils a break. Nevermind the leaking hydraulics.

Iceland Commentary:
-In the cafeteria I quickly opted for a ham bagel sandwich and discovered that, other than the Japanese and Fancy Americans, Icelanders are the only people who prefer their fish raw.
-Gift shop had sweet tee shirts that said "Lost in Iceland"... but they were an unreasonable price and I valued my right arm too much to give it up.

::: 4 hours later :::

Finally! Back on the plane and ready to roll! The plane starts creeping away from the gate and then stops.

Pilot: "We need to return to the gate. We left two passengers."

I began to understand the "Lost in Iceland" slogan.

::: 3 hours later :::

It's midnight and we are finally in Frankfurt. However! In consequence to the numerous delays, everyone with connecting flights missed them and Condor Airlines ended up arranging all 60 of us new flights, as well as paying for rooms at the swanky Sheraton across the street.

::: 2 hours later :::

Our eyes were blood shot and our nerves were fried, I knew the mix of asian, dog, sarcasm, and grumpiness would be unsavory so I took a bullet for team Mauser and stayed in my own room. The fact that I kind of wanted to sleep in one of the plush rooms with the big beds without the parents and dog may have been a slight factor in my decision but honestly, the decision was for the good of the people. Right?
Okay, maybe not. But whatever. I was stinkin' tired and I couldn't resist. I deserved it. Don't judge me.

::: 5 hours later ::: Monday, September 1st, 6:00 am Frankfurt, Germany

I wake up and get some breakfast at the lobby. Croissant, an apple, and peppermint tea. Mmm.. My parents were fifteen minutes late for meeting me (that's right, I wasn't the late one) but I was okay with that. The general mood I would say was: refreshed. The night of sleep and delicious food prior to the sleep made up for the hard times with Condor. So the Mausers waed to the airport, boarded the plane without hassle at 8:00 (only a fifteen delay to turn over the plane), and we were off to Amsterdam. Or as my mom sometimes slips and says "Hamsterdam!"

::: about thirty minutes into the flight :::

My head begins to hurt and my stomach starts to turn. I can feel the color in my face drain out as nausea settles in. I don't know what happened! One second, I was fine and now I was fearing for the people next to me. I thought of what happened at the State Fair to my friend Mike. We all went on a ride called the Apollo and afterwards, he was as white as a ghost and as sick as a dog. I remember him telling me that on our way to the bathroom he became overwhelmed with the uge to purge and had to sit down. He had to mentally force himself to not puke but once that feeling passed, he felt like a million bucks. So I tried that. It didn't work. I just wanted to run to the bathroom. HOWEVER! The buckle your seat belt sign popped on and we were beginning to land. So I hung my head between my knees and thought about what I would do once we landed. Oddly enough, that position was really relaxing for me and it got me through. I got off the plane and went straight for the toilettes. Nothing happened. But I still felt nauseous.

::: 11:00 am Amsterdam, The Netherlands ::::

It was as if we didn't even go through customs. The man asked my dad why we were there and he let us pass. He didn't even look at my passport! I was incredibly relieved. We walked outside with all 700 million pounds of luggage and there we were. In Holland. The air was surprisingly clean and I instantly felt better. Looking around, there were people of all sorts and it reminded me of New York. We hopped on a Taxi and we made our way to our place of residence.

Next up! Adventures in Den Haag, Netherlands!!! Stay tuned!


Amsterdam Arrival: