Gretchen C. Hohmeyer's Blog, page 53

Perusing Poetics: The Best Equal Person

This week I’m talking about the well-know Walt Whitman, who I keep confusing with Walt Disney even though they are not the same person. You’re welcome. We read his (Whitman’s) preface to Leaves of Grass this week and WHOO BOY

‘MURICA

This guy was a crazy patriot. A. Crazy. Patriot. We’re talking the kind of ‘MURICA loving redneck that is made popular on TV kind of patriotic. But, I mean, he was also really smart and had some good ideas.

Except. What he said didn’t really match up with what he was saying.

I’m going to paraphrase here, because Whitman isn’t exactly the easiest person to quote. Basically, he believed in an American where everyone was equal and the same kind of everything, and through our poetical prowess we would lead the world into a new age with a new religion led by “poet-priests.” Cool, right? Except Whitman keeps talking about poets are the same as everyone yet are the only ones who can see this, the only ones who can guide, the only ones etc.

Er. You can’t be the best of the equal minded.

I give Whitman his patriotism. In the time of Manifest Destiny, Americans had earned it. Honestly, I’m kind of glad no one is as overtly patriotic as him these days. We get ourselves into enough trouble as it is. But the idea of the poet as the best equal person? Make them the best or make them equal … but they can’t be both. It creates a kind of tension in the piece that its angering and ironic.

It was an easy read. Because I skimmed a lot of his list metaphors. Otherwise? No, Whitman, no. I’m sorry there pal. You tried.

Perusing Poetics: The Stories We Never Tell

I have considered that that title sounds rather ominous. It does. Oh well. Soldier on and I don’t think you’ll regret it! (Unless you have issues with either the destruction visited on Native Americans by white settlers or non-Nazi Germans. Those topics are about to independently come up here.)

This week, I’m talking about an essay by William Cronon called “A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative.” Now, though I’ve found all of the readings so far interesting, I dare say this is one of the ones that I’ve enjoyed the most. Maybe because I understood it. Maybe because it got me thinking. Or both. Both is good.

This long essay is about narrative, why humans use narrative to structure their lives, and how each narrative is really just a choice on what to include and what to exclude (since telling a complete story is impossible)–just to brush over a few topics. I want to focus on that last one–namely the exclusion–for this particular, personal blog post.

One of the issues with narrative is that, as Cronon says, “it inevitably sanctions some voices while silencing others” (1350). For his example, he uses the lives of Native Americans in most of the tales about life in the Great Plains around the time of the Dust Bowl. Such stories of pioneers and free land could only be written, of course, if they obscured “the conquest that traded one people’s freedom for another’s” (1352). One of my classmates brought up that, although we are taught about this in schools, what we are taught does not directly link the actions of the white settlers to the destruction visited on the Native Americans. In this, schools deliberately forgo narrative in order to leave these events as unconnected as possible.

The problem with these kinds of narratives is that they can create their own power, since they draw on stories we’re already familiar with. The erasure of the Native American-white settler connection has been ingrained in our society for so long, it’s almost unnoticeable unless you choose to be consciously aware of it. Certain stories have a certain power that “not even the historian as author entirely controls them” (1352).

My professor asked us all at the end of class what similar narratives we told–or did not tell–in our lives that we cut or mangled in order to tell something better. You could think of embarrassing memories you want to forget, the story of the fight with your sibling where you leave out how mean you were in return–those are simple examples. For me, though, it’s the story of my grandfather’s life.

I don’t remember running into this so much before college, but the last three years … woo boy. When we talk about heritage, I state proudly that my grandparents are German–right off the boat German. They both worked really hard to achieve a dream that my family still keeps alive today in the form of a 25 acre resort and retreat. I love them both very much, though my grandfather is now dead. So I say it, and don’t think a lot about it. Almost every time I’ve said this, someone in the vicinity of me has said something to the effect of “Well, I’m Jewish.”

Usually it’s said like a joke, but I don’t find it funny. I tend to omit that my grandparents

No. Stop. Right now.

came over right after World War II ended, but people know enough of history to guess. The funny thing is that I have nothing to hide. Yes, my grandfather navigated a bomb sweeper in the English Channel during the war. He was trying to escape to America at the war’s start when Nazi officers put a gun to his head and convinced him otherwise. My grandmother was a nurse, constantly being bombed by Allied troops. Both of them were so disgusted with the war that they left and never looked back, and when my grandfather was awarded the Iron Cross (kind of like the Purple Heart), he refused to accept it and instead left it to the German government. He spent his final years writing a handwritten novel about how Hitler screwed up Germany.

This is the first time I’ve ever put that in writing. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever said it. It is a narrative that I never tell, because I can’t start it without someone applying a better known narrative on top because they think they know what I’m going to say. German grandparents who are not Jews mean Nazis. Make another incinerator joke, I’ve heard them all. I honestly can’t tell which of us this is supposed to be more offensive to. Also, the irony is, these interactions are always happening between two people who weren’t there–these are not own our personal life stories.

I’ve gotten better at tackling these encounters, and they’ve become less frequent, but mostly because I don’t talk about it anymore. I introduce myself and leave people to infer whatever they want about my heritage. I tell other people I’m related to the captain of the Mayflower (it’s true, on my mom’s side) because that’s easier. The World War II connection is apparently calm enough to make jokes of, but not enough to completely erase the “othering” of the Germans of the time, who were all made into an enemy we needed to fight.

Now before anyone gets freaked out, I’m not saying that World War II was wrong or something or that I don’t like Jews or … whatever. I’m only saying that I have a story I can’t tell, because people assume the ending before I’ve finished the beginning. They hear my name and apply to me a narrative that is out of the control of either of us.

My favorite quote of the entire piece is Cronon’s assertion that “we tell stories with each other and against each other in order to speak to each other” (1373-1374). Well, here’s my foray into the field. It’s not a scholarly work or a vast study of behavior. Just me, personally, telling you a story–one I refuse not to tell this time.

Perusing Poetics: 50 Shades of the Sublime and Other Stupid Trends

Before you freak out: yes, I’m going to be mentioning 50 Shades of Grey in this post. No, it’s not because I like it. Get ready.

BUT FIRST, time for my poetical entrance into this topic. This week, one of the readings was from On the Sublime by this Greek guy named Longinus. (This is hopefully the last Greek guy I will be blogging about.) What he actually means about the definition of the sublime is something I’m still not 100% clear on (I’m like somewhere between 70-80) but where I am up to speed is what is NOT sublime. Specifically, this quote:

“All these ugly and parasitical growths arise in literature from a single cause, that pursuit of novelty in the expression of ideas which may be regarded as the fashionable craze of the day.”*

Ugly and parasitical growths coming from stupid, crazy trends? Of course I’m thinking 50 Shades of Grey.

To be fair, I’ve never read these. I’ve read sections online. I’ve watched the movie trailer. I’ve read the criticism. I’m on Tumblr. I’m not sad that I’ve never read these, and I never plan to. I DO know, however, that the author got her original idea from Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series and this is actually a really bad riff off that.

I hate to agree with Plato, but this kind of imitation is really annoying. What’s ever worse is that it’s something that I, as a reader of primarily YA, have to deal with ALL THE TIME. One of my most popular blog posts was actually on this, specifically about the amount of love triangles that popped up after Twilight��(otherwise apparently known as the root of all evil).

Okay, that last parenthetical statement is a lie. Twilight did cause a lot of crap to come out onto the market, but it’s hardly the only one. How many wizarding school books followed Harry Potter? Did you, like me, get hellishly sick of dystopians after The Hunger Games? And yes, of course, there were all those vampire books that erupted after Twilight. More than any other genre, YA is full to the brim of trends that produce a handful of good gems around a bunch of hastily and/or badly filler.

Where I have to disagree with Longinus, though, is his use of the phrase “a single cause.” For him, I admit, this was probably true: writers followed the examples of other popular texts because they, too, wanted to be popular and “fashionable.” These days, the attempt to be “fashionable” is a side note.��After all, if we wanted our literature to be “fashionable,” 50 Shades of Grey wouldn’t exist.

The push towards trends in YA has nothing to be with anything else but money. Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Twilight–they’ve made a lot of people very rich. These books have ranged the spectrum to books written exceedingly well to flat and dead inside (I’m looking at you, Twilight). There literally isn’t one particular thing that has worked as a formula to create the huge fan bases around these books, so the book world is constantly scrambling. Trends you see on the shelves now were decided months or even a year ago by publishers trying to create the next big cash cow.

Again, I’m not going to say that everything inside a trend is terrible. Some of them are really, really good books that deserve to be published on their own merit, and there are books being published against the trends. (I even wrote a post about love triangles done right for those curious.) This is a large, generalized observation that is, unfortunately, true more often than not. (And I haven’t even touched the trends of book covers. “Girl in dress” or “half close up of girl’s face” anyone?)

I guess the reason it makes me so angry is because I feel like there are certain books that have love triangles shoehorned in or otherwise being forced into a “trendy” mold that actually does their book a disservice. There are also books I’ve read where I wish the editors had taken a bit more time with them, at least, instead of shoving them out while the subject matter is hot. Also, as a writer of YA, I want to feel like my book(s) could be published someday because they are good, not because I magically managed to line up with tomorrow’s trend.

50 Shades of Grey just makes me angry because it exists.

Have you noticed the latest trend in YA literature? Or has “trending” created a certain kind of book or trope you can’t read anymore? Let me know!

Perusing Poetics: Plato is Annoying, and Other Reasons I Want to Apologize to Poets

You may or may not know this, but this blog was originally a poetry blog. DO NOT GO BACK INTO THE TAGS AND FIND IT. It was bad and it’s all really old now, like pre-college, beginning of high school aged. But I just wanted to preface this discussion with that.

So this week’s readings for my Poetics class was Plato’s Republic, Book X and Aristotle’s Poetics. If you haven’t read them, don’t worry. Basically the point of them–especially Plato–is to crap on the life and the work of the poet.

Plato has this point where he says poetry corrupts people, emotion is bad, and poets should be confined to hymns and praises of the gods. Aristotle is a little better, because technically he’s confirming that tragic poetry is better than epic poetry, but basically it’s all about how poetry is only good if it conforms to this little proper box. (Yes, anyone who’s read these is probably spitting fire because of over-simplification. Bear with me.)

What’s important–and frustrating–is the effect that this kind of philosophy has had on poets since Plato decided to open his mouth. You can Google lists of pieces titled, in essence, “In Defense of Poetry” or “Apologies for Poetry.” It’s ridiculous, especially considering poetry’s past power.

Confused about what I mean? Well, what do you think of poetry right now? If one person says they’re a novelist and one person says they’re a poet, who do you rank on top? Poets have been characterized as goths at coffee houses (perfectly valid life choice for poets, but not the only one) or cryptics saying nothing in the media, and that certainly adds to the effect.

I know I’m not a poet. I’ve written more recent poetry for school and I’m basically the kind of poseur that Plato would like to kick out of his Republic. I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m not a poet. But, thanks to school, I have studied multiple forms inside and out in accordance with both my English and Writing degrees and I RESPECT POETS SO MUCH. I can barely rhyme let alone formulate a sestina (look it up – the form will make your head hurt).

I write short stories and novels. This is a kind of writing I understand the conventions of. You can master a basic plot pretty quickly. Poetry? Dear Lord. I’ve studied Shakespearan sonnets since grade school and when I was required to write one for class I STILL ripped the end-rhymes from a sonnet Shakespeare had already written because I couldn’t get the rhyming down.

My point is: I never thought I’d be disappointed in someone like Plato, who I’ve been told to laud as a philosopher since PBSKids morning TV shows. I understand that there is a certain time period that he’s writing from and all that, so maybe it’s more correct to say that no one has thought to update their opinion much since then. Poets remain a feature of the classroom: an annoying period of English class or a specialized class in college. They aren’t all that mainstream and they certainly don’t get the buzz of NYT bestselling novelists.

The one thing they do have going for them is their community. When I blogged poetry, as bad as it was, I was welcomed without a second thought into the poetry blogging community with open arms. I have yet to have an online experience since then that has felt as natural and warm as that. In the real world there are also magazines, retreats, etc, that might not (always) be big, but they are proud.

So you tell me. Am I crazy? What do you think of poetry? There’s a comment section for a reason! (Extra points go any comment-writer who responds in some form of verse.)

Perusing Poetics: Me, Myself and My Major(s)

Hello blogging world! I know it’s been a while, and I know you would rather this post be a contest or something. HOWEVER, I am very excited to be announcing a weekly feature on this blog called��Perusing Poetics.

Full disclosure: it’s for a class.

I am literally in a class right now called “Poetics” and part of the goal is to relate some��the theoretical stuff we’re doing to our personal stories. So yes, I am going to be mentioning some very big words every once and a while.

But also … you know me. It’s going to be fun.

What I want to talk about for my first post is … me! Actually, the majors that I’m currently studying and why I chose it. For those of you who don’t know, I’m an English and Writing double major. Sometimes, when I tell this to people, they’re like, “Aren’t those the same thing?”

In case is anyone is wondering, they very much aren’t. Until recently, I have lacked any smart what to defend this other than ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW. For last Tuesday, the class read Jonathan Culler’s��Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction. This slim book is actually a really great way to dip your toes into lit theory if that’s of any interest to you. Of interest to me, though, was being introduced to the difference between the term poetics and the term hermeneutics. According to Culler, poetics begins “with attested meanings or effects and asks how they are achieved” and hermeneutics “starts with texts and asks what they mean” (Culler 62).

Blah blah technical blah, right?

Not really. I’ll explain.

Poetics is the backbone of my writing degree. When I’m in a workshop and we’re talking about what does and doesn’t work in someone’s story, we’re utilizing poetics even if we don’t know how to express it. Talking about how metaphors cause emotion or why you love or hate a certain character–when you puzzle those things out, you’re applying poetics.

But this conversation is different than what goes on in an English classroom, in a weird way. English classrooms take for granted to actions that went into the writing process and look at the meanings of the written words. When we look at metaphor, we piece it apart to understand what the metaphor is trying to say, not how the writer said it.

Sound confusing? I promise it isn’t. You probably know that to be a reader, you don’t have to be a writer (the reverse can be true but not always wise for the writer). That’s two very different actions: absorbing versus creating.

For me, the two ideas are like a yin yang. Neither are the same, but they both help me understand the other in weird ways. Together they create a two sided coin that create a bigger idea in my head, that I personally feel makes me a better rounded writer and a better rounded reader.

I also know I’m one of the lucky ones at a college that separates the two departments. Sometimes writing degrees are housed in the English departments, and the differences between the two become almost nonexistent.

Maybe I’m so crazed about this because I know I almost WASN’T this type of double major. I was originally English Teaching, because I thought, “I already know how to write!” But what weighed on my soul that entire first semester was the utter lack of creating. The lack of sharing the knowledge of how to create a world with a group of people. For me, learning about reading and what makes this interesting to read has always led to a direct translation of application, the idea that I want to try writing like that.

Maybe I’m weird.

Whatever you think of me, I am now armed with some theoretical knowledge to defend my choices of major. (I shouldn’t have to, but people are people). It also gives me some knowledge about how my own brain works, and why it feels like Writing and English classes are such different workouts for it. Maybe I’m nerdy, but I think that’s really cool.

Bibliomancy for Beginners Winter Session: American Gods by Neil Gaiman

Can you believe it? TWO Bibliomancy videos over this break? We can’t believe it either! That’s why, for this episode, you get our two best Bibliomancers! (Actually this is also because Taylor is in Scotland but you know. Michaela and I are still the best.)

For this episode we read American Gods by Neil Gaiman which was a slog, let me tell you. We’ll make it interesting though, we promise! We always do.

Bibliomancy for Beginners New Year’s Special! – “The Magicians” by Lev Grossman

GUESS WHO’S BACK! In this trifecta special, the Bibliomancers welcome back yours truly from the UK and send another off – Taylor has decided he’d rather be in Scotland for a semester than with us.

But anyhow. In this New Years special we’re kicking it off with The Magicians by Lev Grossman. It’s going to be a good one, I promise!

An Open Letter to 2014 (and that London wrap up you never got)

It’s been a crazy time since I last wrote, what with finals and coming home and such. Then there was family to see an holidays to celebrate and then, without taking a beat, this amazing year has less than 24 hours left to it. (And yes, this is going to be one of those sappy, life affirming posts. You’ve been warned.)

About time to do a wrap up post. However, I don’t think I could do one about London without talking about the events leading up to it anyways, so this works out rather well.

2013 was not a good year for me. It was a year that a lot of things ended. A lot of big things. The biggest one–the one that started me on this very slippery slope–was my choice and not one I would take back, but it still led to learning a lot of things I’d rather have never known about myself or some of the people around me. Oh well.

So enter 2014. Me swearing up and down that I was getting better. That I was healing. It just seemed like every time I got a bit of clarity, something would happen or been said and I’d swing back in the other direction. By the summer I was running in circles so hard and fast I had my best friends planning an intervention. I could see the rut I was in, but I didn’t know how to get out of it and I was just about ready to leave myself there.

It was exactly the right time to put myself on a plane and stick myself in the middle of legit foreign territory.

Honestly, the beginning of my study abroad wasn’t the greatest time of my life either. I made some pretty major choices that a smarter person wouldn’t have made, ones that wrecked me out again before I could even really get started. I got there in the middle of August, and by the middle of September I was convinced I’d already fucked up so majorly that there was no going back, that the rut had followed me, and that all the things I hated about myself were maybe things I should just accept and stop beating myself up about them.

It’s a good thing I’m so desperately stubborn.

I didn’t want to be stuck. Studying abroad is the greatest time to make that decision, because you literally aren’t allowed to be. I didn’t have the time to wallow in my own self-loathing, because there was always so much to do. More than that, I had ample opportunity to overcome major fears that I’d never really been able to confront before. I’m not going to spell out every little life lesson I learned, but the major one for me was the fear that I would never, ever been able to stand on my own–in anything. Studying abroad showed me how strong I could be without even trying.

So between London, Dublin, Edinburgh, Paris, Barcelona and my multi-city Italy adventure, there was the good, the bad and everything in between. There were a few people who made my life difficult, but there were also people who were practically just acquaintances when this all started who are now the kind of friends I’d walk through fire for and trust would do the same for me. Most importantly, there is this realization here, at the end of it all, that I don’t regret a single thing–especially the bad decisions that left me in a puddle of tears at the time. Without them, I wouldn’t have been able to find the solid footing that I needed.

I actually ended up getting a tattoo a week after I got back from Paris because, even then, this journey meant so much to me that I needed to give myself a reminder. The word I got on my right wrist, Surprises, really doesn’t mean anything to anyone except for me, but that’s exactly the point.��To me, it symbolizes the past two years and is a physical reminder for the next time things get bad (because they will, that’s life), things do get better. I threw in the towel on myself so many times but thanks to the support of the friends around me I kept going just enough to get to this moment where I can say, “I am stronger now.”

If 2013 was the year I broke, 2014 was the year I started building again. I know I’m hardly done yet, but at least this time I feel like I have a foundation that no one will be able to shatter as easily again–especially me. So thanks, 2014.

Such Oddness, Much Wow (Otherwise known as Barcelona)

This is it. One last trip before we head home in eleven days. I can’t believe it. However, Sam and Madison and I were hardly going to be daunted by a lack of time and an influx of homework when the chance to travel to Barcelona, Spain, came up!

In a nice change, we left for Spain on Thursday night instead of Friday morning. This meant that moving into our hostel bunks while everyone else was asleep was a bit difficult, but it meant that we had the whole weekend to really sink our teeth into the city.

In the morning, we met up with a friend from the home campus who’s spent the semester in Barcelona and ordered him to show us the sights. It was threatening to rain, but we gamely hopped around the city (dear Metro, how I love thee). One of our first stops was a market, so that Madison could replace the purse that had broken the night before. It was the strangest market we’d ever been to. You need antiques? Toilet seats? Underwear? They got it. (And Madison did find a purse.)

A few more bops on the Metro put us at the base of the National Catalan Museum of Art, which is really high up on a hill with a great set of fountains in front of it. We huffed and puffed our way up to the top and were richly rewarded with a view of the city. As we sat down to enjoy it, I just about started crying. Everything is coming to an end, and yet I’ve been so, so lucky this semester and in that moment I just felt ALL OF THAT. The guy singing on his guitar was also cool (especially when he sang “Legalize All Weed.” How … odd).

We did a bit more running around, past a few cathedrals, into a few more markets, until we finally got hungry enough to go get dinner. Though it was getting dark, we decided to buy some cheap bubbly and head down to the beach. I’ve never written a bucket list, but if I had “drinking on the shore of the Mediterranean” would totally have been on it, and now I can scratch that off. It was a fabulous night.

The next day was the one filled with the most scheduled fun. We had bought tickets to Park Guell the night before, and were not disappointed despite the rain. It cleared up just enough for us to be able to enjoy roaming around all the Gaudi art and gorgeous flowers. I’d never seen anything quite like it.

After that we shot over to the Sagrada Familia, which we did not go inside because tickets were hella expensive and it was undergoing major renovations anyways. We stopped in the rain just long enough to snap a few pictures, and then used our prime tourist location to scope out some gifts and postcards. We needed to take up time before heading back to the National Museum. Why?

BECAUSE IT’S FREE SATURDAY NIGHTS AFTER THREE.

We are the masters of “free is in the budget,” and this trip was no exception. We climbed all those freaking stairs again to get in to see a bunch of art for free. Which was great, because we all agreed we wouldn’t have wanted to pay for it. We all had this really disgusting moment where we went “You know, I’ve seen better.” Yes, only after this semester can I say that while looking at prime pieces of medieval and romantic art. No big deal.

After that, it was time for tapas. SO MUCH TAPAS. I wish this would catch on a little bit more in the US, because guys this is the best way to eat. Why have one thing when you can have seven for cheaper? After that, it was another early night for us.

The next day was basically more running around until we could get into another museum for free (more on that later). We did some more shopping, stopped by the Joan Miro park to see some questionable art, found a fantastic candy shop called Happy Pills and discovered a few more cathedrals. What was worth all this wait?

GETTING INTO THE MUSEO PICASSO FOR FREE.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the Museo Picasso is free after three on Sundays and we took full advantage of it. This is one museum we would have been willing to pay for, but THANK YOU BARCELONA FOR BEING AWESOME. So many of his most famous works are in that collection, and it was absolutely amazing. Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take pictures so here’s a Picasso (the singular Picasso) from the National Museum.

It was pouring when we left the museum and nowhere close to dinner on the Spanish timetable, so we found a bar close by and tried out some real Spanish margaritas and mojitos. I had a couple of fantastic strawberry margaritas. As far as I can tell, their recipe is 98% tequila and 2% anything else.

What was for dinner you ask? MORE TAPAS OF COURSE.

Then, early the next morning, that was it. Back to London and all the homework we didn’t do but should have done.

I can’t believe that the next time I get on a plane, it will be to the States. I can’t believe how soon that is. I just … can’t. This semester I’ve been to five countries outside of England, and visited Stratford-Upon-Avon and Cardiff besides just LIVING in LONDON. Maybe in a few posts I’ll be able to process that all, but for now? I have 11 days left and I have to make them count.

Paris Holds the Key to Your Heart

And all of Paris plays a part!

Yes, I know that I said I would be talking about art in my next post, but as it turns out I didn’t get around to that post and it’s better to do that in a few weeks anyways and GUYS I SPENT A WEEKEND IN PARIS AND THAT IS EXCITING.

The trip was through the school, which was fantastic, because I do love my trips being subsidized. We traveled via Eurostar train to the Paris Gard du Nord station at way too early in the morning and popped out to beautiful Paris … where it was raining.

Performance art at the Louvre.

Undaunted, we commenced upon a big long walk that started at our hostel near the train station and wandered past the Notre Dame until it ended up at the Louvre. The Eiffel Tower was almost hidden in the fog, but that’s okay because we’ll see it much better later. I wasn’t really paying attention much on this walk, because it was raining and I’m like a drowning cat when that happens, but I was still pleasantly surprised by it all. I walked into Paris with absolutely no expectations.

We went back to the hostel and chilled for a while after that, because we had big plans for the night. On Fridays, the Louvre is open for free to people under 26 after about six at night until it closes and we were most certainly going to hit that up. Seeing the Mona Lisa was important of course, but honestly not that impressive. However…

The blur is me and that is the shade I was getting.

Over the blog posts, I’ve mentioned that I am a fanatic about ancient Egyptian history. The Louvre has HUGE AND MULTIPLE SECTIONS of these kinds of artifacts. I ran through these flailing about like a moron, dragging my group past reliefs and statues and fawning over every single one. THEY HAD SOME OF THE MOST FAMOUS REMAINING ARTIFACTS OF AKHENATEN AND RAMESES II FOR GOD SAKE. Ahem. Anyways. I just about cried and I’m not ashamed in the slightest.

Despite being really tired, that night there was a full moon party in the bar beneath our hostel and a bunch of us attended that. Not going to say much about that (hi Mom!) but it was probably the most fun night out I’ve ever had.

…the aftermath not so much. I ended up sleeping in really late that morning, so I got a really late start. However, turns out you really can’t go wrong just wandering around Paris. We went back to the Notre Dame to take pictures while it wasn’t raining and then walked along the Seine for a while. It was a gorgeous if chilly day, but all that mattered to me was that I could get out my technology and record it all.

That night, we made our way to the Eiffel Tower and queued to go up to the tippy top. It was dark by the time we got up there, but totally worth it. I fall in love real hard for night time at high altitudes with the lights all down below, and so just one corner of the view from the Eiffel Tower was really worth it. If a bit cold.

When we came back down we wandered around a bit more to see the Tower do it’s hourly light show and see the Arc du Triumph. God, Paris is gorgeous at night. Then, back to the hostel for food and bed! No regrets ever where sleeping is concerned.

We didn’t really have a lot of time the next day, but Sam, Madison and I did explore a nearby market. We met the George Clooney of Salt (don’t ask), bought some super pretty earrings and then made our way back to the train station for the ride back to London.

Given that so many people had told me I would hate Paris, I was pleasantly surprised. I didn’t do as much as I could have, but I don’t regret that either. I feel like I did all the Paris-as-city things I really wanted to, and I don’t feel the need to go back. I can say I’ve done it and move on, and I’m happy with that. All in all, the weekend was absolutely fantastic. Anastasia didn’t lead me wrong.