The days just keep running past me here, not matter what I try to do to stop them. Things fall into routine: Mom gets up at 6ish, bragging about how early she can wake up, Linda follows an hour or so later, while Emily and I somehow manage to sleep first until 9, then 9:30, then into the 10′s. Linda believes our strange sleep schedules are due to the walking we do each day. Then we take the Metro into Paris, see the sights, grab lunch at some random cafe/bistro/restaurant, continue around Paris and see maybe one more then, then take the Metro home just in time for dinner. Afterwards, we sit back for coffee (Italian expresso, very small) and talk for another hour or so after which I take my shower, grab a few minutes’ worth of computer time, read while Emily checks email, and then it’s time to sleep again. By this time, it’s very late; it doesn’t get dark here until 11ish.

SO. Since I have last updated, we have been to, what feels like to me, “all over Paris.” Wednesday, Marie-Joseph, Mom, Linda, and myself (Emily had to stay home with a sick stomach) went and saw NotreDame. My. Favorite. I’ve wanted to see it all my life, more then the Eiffel Tower, more than the Mona Lisa, more than anything in France. I don’t think I was disappointed. I got chills once inside the church. We walked around in a counter-clockwise circle, examining the incredible detail of the alters. It would have been magical – had it not been, of course, for the dozens upon dozens of people taking pictures with their flashcameras (you idiots, how many times do you have to be told what damage a flash can do before finally turning the freaking thing off?!), and people chattering away on their cell phones. Come on, guys, it’s Notre Dame. 

Anyway.

In the midst of our circle around the church, the priest finished his sermon and, suddenly, I heard incredible a cappella emanating from somewhere. I thought maybe they had a choir singing up front after the mass, so I rushed past the shuffling crowd to join the tourists at the alter. There was no choir, of course, just a recording echoing around the many nooks and crannies of the cathedral. But, standing there, feeling the light of the stained glass windows wash over me, I really, really was touched. There were tears. Yes, embarassingly, there were tears.

The next day, Mom and I voyaged into Paris alone (Linda stayed home with sick Emily again) to see the Louvre. It was, of course, incredible, but mostly incredibly confusing. There seemed to be millions of floors and wings and galleries. Also, according to an informationalist at the desk, most of the Impressionist paintings were at the Musée d’Orsay, which was what I wanted to see. Ah well. All the paintings and sculptures were amazing. I looked around for the Da Vinci’s (excluding the Mona Lisa) aimlessly but couldn’t find them. We wandered into a random room; I was impressed by the larger-than-life painting on the wall. It was enormous, intricate, inspiring. And that was, of course, when I turned around, and, ye, behold: A wall, and this tiny little painting in the middle, the most famous image in, perhaps, the world. Our lady, the Mona Lisa. The crowds of people gathering to take photos was the most impressive aspect: all these people, for just a face? It took me ten entire minutes just to make my way to the front to see her. It really was no big deal, especially with the light shining on her glass window making her nearly impossible to actually make out. So, no, the Mona Lisa was not my favorite.

So, we stopped for a much-needed break at Starbucks (I had my usual latte with added expresso, very unusual for me), and thus we had enough energy to continue on throughout the museum. For our last few scrounged-up minutes we hurried through the collection of French art and finally found their limited selection of Impressionist: Monet, Renoir, etc. Very nice. We made our way home safely on the Metro and ate dinner at the Bostyns as the rain poured outside.

The next day, Henri acted as our tour guide and took us through Paris to see, well, everything. We wound our way through a gorgeous part of the city (something starting with an M); the intertwining roads slanted up a steep hill for ages. We went past street hawkers (I got my finger wrapped in a piece of string before the others pried me away), gambling (Henri: “You see? The guy who wins is always his friend”) and tourist shops. I managed to get a few gifts for people, including a Chat Noir poster for my dorm room next year. We kept walking until we hit Sacre Coeur, an absolutely breathtaking basilica. This, too, I loved. The view was amazing (we could see just a little of the Eiffel Tour) and this guy was playing the violin for euros; at the time, he was doing a song I knew, “Le Temps des Cathedrales,” one of my favorites from the musical,  “Notre Dame de Paris.”

The rest of the day was compromised of an ice cream cone (a famous French brand), searching mecilessly for “L’Etranger,” sifting through posters and street gadgets, and boiling to death on the Metro. In the evening, we played an American game with the Bostyns and, though I was terrible, my team won.

How can it have already been a week?

Tonight, we attend Le Fetes de Musique, a famous music festival in France where music is found on every corner. Let’s see how this goes.

Today, we went to “see a church.” I wasn’t too interested until I heard the word “Chartres” repeated back and forth between Richard and Marie-Joseph. We had studied and studied Chartres in French this following year. We were expected to know which places related to what art period for our tests and quizzes (ex: the caves = Lasceau). for “gothique,” we had Notre Dame and Chartres. I was ecstatic. It was beautiful, if course, whether from faraway or up close.  We first stopped to get a few pictures from far off, then parked somewhere closer in the town (on the sidewalk, just like everyone else). And the town! If we didn’t step into a time machine and visit 18th century France for those few hours, I don’t know what could have happened. It was gorgeous, ancient and delicate, very much ressembling the village in the film “Manon de la Source,” and “Jean de Florette.” Absolutely insane; I can still barely believe I visited it even now. They had adorable flower shops, antique shops, tiny little grocery stores (Me: It’s so cute! Marie Joseph: No, that is not cute).

Inside the cathedral, however, it was not filled with the typical reverent silence I had expected. There were tour groups, loud teenagers, etc. That didn’t, however, make it any less fantastic. The ceilings seemed about a mile high, and the statues and stained glass windows were made with the most intimate detail. I would have loved to sing in there with Masters. (Ah . . . Masters . . . why am I already getting sad thinking about it?)

We and the Bostyns ate lunch in this beautiful little restaurante, a “bistro,” even; we ordered wine, which I did not like, and a host of salads. Things can be so much simpler here.

God, even the dogs bark differently here . . .

What to say, on a day that is actually indescribable, on a day in which my head circulates not with the usual English questions but with French phrases and words (les mots et phrases francaise)? Qu’est-ce que j’ecris?

Things have been up, down, and all around. Our journey began long ago, when Noel, my cousin, first decided to host a French exchange student for the summer when I was 12. Long story short, Henri became part of the family and, before I know it, he’s asked a few of us to stay for a few weeks in France. Let me ask you this: Who passes up an opportunity to go to France? Who??

Our flight was supposed to leave at . . . I don’t know . . . 12ish, but was instead over an hour late. Thus, when we arrived in Newark, New Jersey, we had “missed” our flight to Paris and had to take one two hours later (I say “missed” because we didn’t actually miss it; it was just barely on time and we somehow fooled ourselves into taking a – much-later flight. The flight from Newark to Paris was about eight hours long. I slept about thirty minutes, which should render me useless for the rest of the day when we arrived in France at 11:00 their time. I wasn’t, somehow; I made it through our first day in Franceand now, 9:20 French time, still have not fallen asleep on my feet. My lucky stars are shining tonight. (Actually, they’re not; in France at this time of year, it doesn’t get dark until about 10).

I have discovered quite a few things on the first day/day and a half of my trip:

- You really can see stars in the sky when you fly above the clouds at night

- Some French men actually the the sweater-around-neck thing (example: Richard, Henri’s dad).

- 30 minutes is not enough sleep for a day

- Sour cream and white sugar is a great combination (our “sour cream” is their  “fromage blanche,” white cheese, and it is eaten for a dessert).

- The French do not snack, and take their mealtimes very seriously (ex: I placed my piece of baguette on the right side of my plate, on the tablecloth, and Henri took it; it was, of course, supposed to be on the left side of my plate) (un autre exemple, parce que je n’ai pas suffisamment: The cheese and baguettes are ultra important. When Marie-Josephe, Henri’s mom, realized they didn’t have enough for the day/week/etc, we took an alternate route on the way home from Scource (?) to stop at a Boulanger for several of ‘em. Richard joked that we should get out and take a picture, but we did; things like this fascinate us.

So, I’m writing on one of the Bostyn sisters’ old desk in front of their strangely slanted windows at 9:40. The last bits of light are filtering through the glass, the birds are chirping – actually chirping – and the sun is setting behind the few cottage-like homes in front of us. 

This place really, really is France, inside and out.

More tomorrow if I have time. (Potential prochaine topique: le conduissance). 

As much as some of us wanted to, Ajack didn’t have us sing. We went through the choirs talking, signing yearbooks, putting our handprints on the wall of the first practice room (mine is purple, with the inscription “Let Music Never Die in Me” and “Awake, Awake!”). Seventh hour, Ajack give the Seniors a “project:” write a letter to the incomming Freshman. I wrote mine about never taking a single phrase for granted, no matter what the circumstances, because we’re not here forever. Erin and I were a little emotional, just a bit, and so, to take that out on something, I stole one of Ajack’s sharpies and we made our own little plaque on the practice room wall: “I Am in Need of Music, Class of ’08.” We took pictures, sat on the choir couch for the last time, and just as the bell rang we hung back.

“This is so difficult,” I kept repeating, over and over, trying to make it less true. We headed out the door. Ajack said, “See you girls,” and just then I had to force myself to step over the threshold because I knew that if I didn’t then, I never would. And it was in that moment that I looked back at the rows and rows of empty seats, so many people I had met, so many songs I had sung, so many memories had been created. I gasped, and the sobs just came pouring out of me. Erin just went, “Aw,” and started crying again, too. I’m not one to get emotional over last days, either, thus our display of emotion really said something and meant something.

And I can never forget. Never, never, never.

Cough. Understatement.

Yesterday, it poured. Big, fat drops pelted my car on the way to and from school, turning into great sheets of water that were impossible to see through save the occasional slow ghosts of headlights. I kept praying that, maybemaybe, school would be out one last time before graduation. Ah, snow days. Those were definitely good times. Of course, now that I’m about to join the unknown in college, I’ll be paying for those classes when they get called off and won’t be so fun.

Anyway, Dad called to check if I was okay once I got to work. Ah, work. Lovely. I recently found out that, the day I’m attending my graduation ceremony, they have me working an all-day shift, even though I asked off for it a month ahead of time. I’m going to sort it out with Donna today, hopefully, and I won’t be in the wrong again.

And so the countdown begins: One more agonizing day of French, one more (hopefully) Stein-personal-speech in English, one more lazy day in Physics, one more choir concert, three more rehearsals for three different choirs, one last “last” note to sing. Yesterday, we supposedly sang our last song as a concert choir before Baccalaureate, “The Lord Bless You and Keep You,” and everyone, especially me, held out that last note, “A . . . men . . .” for an eternity, holding out the “n” until there was, finally, nothing.

We didn’t want it to end.

I will throw away my horrendously blue cap and down, I will set my Senior projects and papers and speeches aside, I will leave my Pick’n Save smock behind (only to pick it up again in a month). I will be gone, quite literally; the day after my graduation, we (my aunt, mom, cousin, and I) are leaving for France. This, I have come to terms with, has become this unknown and uncertain event in my future. It might be completely terrible, and it might be completely incredible.

Anyway.

I’ve been focusing so much on what I’m leaving behind – friends, choir, songs, classes, personal jokes, my childhood – that this melancholy viewpoint keeps appearing in my day-to-day life, even essays for English (including my ingeniously terrible Demian paper). I keep thinking to myself, ten more days, nine more days, eight more days to do everything I ever wanted to do at this school. This Friday is Erin’s last Friday at school, so we’re all ordering Chinese for our “lunch bunch.” We’re recording in Masters for the kids next year. Sein just gave us our last official assignment (a letter to someone influential in our life . . . did I hear cliche?).

Time’s a-tickin.

So, last night, I dreamed that I was singing “Il est Bel et Bon” with North’s madrigals in their choir room; Allison (this girl from South’s choir) and I were the only Sopranos and we were visibly struggling, though I know that song backwards and forwards. Oh dear, here come the choir nightmares again . . .

“We,” being the Waukesha West Choirs, my home away from home. We sang a few beautiful selections (You Are the New Day and How Can I Keep from Singing) and, of course, the unforgettable choral arrangement of Bohemian Rhapsody. It was nice, of course, but non-emotional. Dani and I thought we’d be sobbing during our quartet solo in How Can I, but .  . there was nothing. Last year, as we sang the last verses of “From this house, to the world, we will go, hand in hand,” the Seniors and Juniors were crying, make-up ruined, Miles pounding out the last notes of the year on the drum. While the concert was nice overall, it was not the emotional fiesta we had been hoping for.

Perhaps Baccalaureate will be different. Oh, people are thinking I might be singing my own song for it. Ajack set me up with Gretchen am Spinnrade (my solo piece) on Friday and told me to get it really good. Why? I don’t know; why does Ajack do half of the things he does? The most likely situation is that he’ll forget about it.

Meh . . . end-of-the-year crap invading my mind .  .

Jade was gone today, and apparently Jesse’s been texting her. This was all the information Erin passed on. I’ve been emailing her and obsessively checking for her reply, but alas, no such luck. I’m starting to get a little – a little – worried. I’m not even sure why. Anyway, I’m beginning to feel that I really do care too much and refuse to let my numberless guards down. I recently read a short little ditty the other day – not sure who it was by – and the characters absolutely inspired me. They waded through live in a positive, yet unpredictable, haze, joking yet caring at the same time. I want to live like that. I do.

Sigh. I should really get back to the Holocaust. Grimnessss.

At the moment I am attempting to piece together a Holocaust presentation without being dramatic about it, and, in addition, without being too nonchalant. At the moment AP English is the devil.

I can’t believe I’m majoring in English next year.

you. idiot.