let's hear it for resourcefulness

Flights were--for the most part--okay. I added "for the most part" because the overnight flight, from New York to Rome, felt like this: 500 people and 502 seats. We were crammed all together, elbows touching, with the fake little airplane pillows on our seats. How do they expect us to sleep when we're in constant contact with complete strangers? Or maybe that's just me. Either way, I claimed two empty seats in the very back of the plane right before they closed the doors. I texted my dad, saying "I claimed two seats in the back. Now I'm just hoping the owners of these seats don't come running down the aisle at the last second." He texted back "Close the doors!!" Right as I was texting the words "I think I'm safe," I saw two people moving hurriedly down the aisles. Toward me. Toward "their" seats. I think I got about as far as "I think I'm s" before I started cursing and had to move all of my things--again--back into my original seat, which was about two feet wide with about a foot of legroom. The boy next to me was maybe 16 or 17, probably Italian, and as annoyed as I was. Finally I moved to the middle row, away from the window, because there were three seats in those rows and a little more legroom.

Long story not-so-short: Eight hour flights in Economy are not fun.

I'm now in Marseille, an absolutely beautiful city on the southern coast of France. I'm in a hostel in a part of town called "Vieux Port" which literally means "Old Port." I'm in a room with two other girls (at least I'm assuming they're girls; their stuff is here but I have yet to see them. From the looks of one of the duffel bags it looks like softball players or perhaps gym rats. Just my luck.) The hostel is decent with good security, which is really all I care about.

I went out earlier, just walking, and I was out for about an hour and a half. I love it in France, but Marseille is definitely not my favorite place. Don't get me wrong; I love the people, they're very very nice. It's the tourists that drive me crazy. This is why I don't go to Paris. I like helping out (which I've done THREE TIMES today), but it gets old sometimes; there are times when I just want to sit and eat my Tiramisu ice cream. (That's right. Tiramisu. Ice cream.)

I'll give you a brief explanation of what I mean when I say "helping out." After I purchased my sinfully yummy and incredibly cheap ice cream I was hanging around and talking to the very attractive man who'd served it to me. Along came an English-speaking family, and we both turned and said "Bonjour." Now when I say "English," I do not mean "American." I mean "English." Like, british-english. Let's make that distinction now because over here (and in my mind, as well) they are very different things. So Mr. Cute Ice Cream Man and I turned and said Hello in French, and the English father nodded and said it back, which was nice. It was nice because that was apparently all the French he had. He started explaining to Mr. CICM that his son wanted a vanilla-chocolate cone, two scoops. Now, Mr. CICM and I both looked at the display of ice creams and commented to each other, nearly simultaneously, that there was no option of "vanilla-chocolate" ice cream. Mr. CICM asked the man, in very broken English, if he meant two different cones of ice cream, one vanilla and one chocolate. The English man held up one finger, shaking his head, and saying, "One Vanilla-Chocolate," like it was its very own flavor. Mr. CICM looked at Mr. English, completely lost. He said to me in French "I have no idea what he wants." He wasn't asking for help because at that point he didn't know I even spoke English, but I turned to Mr. English and said, "Sorry, what exactly do you mean?" He turned to me gratefully and explained in a rather complicated way that his son wanted a cone with two scoops, one vanilla and one chocolate. I relayed this to Mr. CICM (which Mr. English could have done if he'd just come at it from a different way) and the transaction was complete.

See, I had fun helping (especially because Mr. CICM gave me a hug afterwards), but after that whole ordeal my ice cream was half-melted. Not that I was bitter or anything.

That happened at the airport today as well (just substitute "Where's the train station" with "One Vanilla-Chocolate" and you've got it). I'm looking forward to tomorrow when I go to Toulon, which is also a town on the coast, but it's not as much of a tourist attraction as Marseille.

Oh, I suppose I should explain the title of this post. My dad and I bought this converter dealy that's supposed to work on France outlets. Well, yes, it's the right plug and everything, but here's the thing: most french outlets are not like american outlets. You know how american outlets are usually just flat against the wall? So a flat plug can go right in. In France, (and I'm assuming in Germany as well), the outlets are actually recessed a bit into the plastic plate in the wall, making any large flat plug completely useless. Luckily I had a phone converter that is very small and I somehow managed to plug my Mac cable into that tiny little thing and...I won't say "forced it" into the wall...but I will say that I was very, very surprised when it actually worked. And when I didn't suddenly smell the ends of my hair burning from some kind of catastrophic feedback.

Okay, I think that's all I have for now. I apologize for the length of this post, but if you actually made it to the end, I'm impressed! I barely made it to the end in reading it and I wrote the friggen thing.

bisous!