London Calling

Well, I'm back from my holiday in London! 

Here's the lowdown: London was great, but get me to the freaking Lake District already!

But really.

No, London was wonderful! I felt a *little* unwelcome at first, especially when the lady at border patrol interrogated me and thought my French lover was kidnapping me and dumping me in jolly old England for the rest of my life. Gosh, she was so rude. But I digress.

LONDON!

Roland got down to business immediately. (Happy Birthday, Josh!)

So the first day here was absolutely splendid, and quite possibly not even real. I'm still having a really hard time deciding if I'm actually in Europe right now or if I'm dreaming.

I stayed with a lovely Russian woman and her adorable baby for the weekend. Surprisingly, I felt that we didn't interact with too many Brits, but maybe that was a good thing. Who knows--I could have run into Mr. Darcy and gone away forever to his dingy flat on Holloway Road, never to return. 

We did, however, meet the most wonderful service attendant at Hyde Park named Martin. We became fast friends. He liked to put his hand as low as possible on my back when Roland wasn't paying attention. 

Our boy Martin. Hyde Park worker liked my hide.

Well, surprise, surprise, I was SUPER tired the first day. Actually, we were sick the entire weekend, but I'm not going to be a downer in this post. Only happy memories. So, being as tired as I was, but REALLY wanting to get my Hyde Park experience in at its finest, I suggested that we pay the exorbitant bike rental fee and ride bikes through the park.

I'm a genius. I don't think I could have picked a better way to take in London on my first day. I was having a hard time talking and riding bikes with Roland at the same time, so I thought I might as well take advantage and listen to some music. 

Picture this: me, pedaling down the forested lanes of Hyde Park at sunset, the Jane Eyre soundtrack sweetly serenading me as warm breezes caress my face. I turn down the lane, stop. Kensington Palace. The spirit child of Queen Victoria filling my entire being and transporting me to another time. 

To make a cheesy passage short: anglophilia overload. 

This is what a body possessed by Queen Victoria's spirit child looks like. 

I really don't think I have ever experienced something so enchanting in my life. It filled my whole soul with indescribable joy. Then, on our ride back through the park, THE WHO was playing a show! No big deal. Just hearing echoes of THE WHO as I pedal through the paths of Hyde Park. I would definitely deem the first day a success. 

The second day was our tourist overload day, and let me tell you. I am just not cut out to be a tourist. Everything I write here does not include my violent, hangry manifestations of misery that Roland had to endure every day, but for my blog's sake, let's just assume that every part of my London trip was rosy. And it was! It really, really was. But hangriness is a real disease.

We started at Buckingham Palace and just barely managed to show up at the changing of the guard. It was such a perfect London moment, and I honestly couldn't believe I was actually seeing such a historical tradition play out before my eyes. We walked around the entire palace but didn't manage to go inside. I figured that the best parts were being hidden from our view anyway, and I didn't want to give those royals the satisfaction of banishing me to the servants' quarters for my view of the place.

Our future home when Roland makes the big bucks. 

Naturally since Roland was there with me we had to go to Chinatown. I had never really imagined my first trip to London involving a trip to Chinatown, but I was actually very pleasantly surprised. We stopped for Chinese food there that Roland deemed inauthentic, but I have yet to see Roland deem any Chinese food authentic, so I wasn't too surprised. (Side note: food in London is terrible. Terrible terrible terrible. France for the win.)

Yummy.

Well, as we made our way to Oxford Circus, things really started to get fun. It just so happened to be London's Gay Pride Parade, and we just so happened upon it. It was wonderful to be there and to see the celebration, especially since the day before the U.S. Supreme Court had just legalized gay marriage across the United States. I was touched to see solidarity in celebration. Even though I was miles away from my own home and an opportunity to celebrate with U.S. citizens, it was a great experience to witness the outpouring of love from the LGBT community in London.

#Lovewon

After wandering our way through the most hoppin gay pride parade ever, I finally got Roland to cave and buy tickets to Mama Mia. They were SO ridiculously expensive, but so worth it? ABBA-solutely! I think going to Mama Mia in London was definitely one of the highlights of this trip. The cast was fabulous, and the music was everything I could possibly want in life. The best the encore at the end when we all stood up as an audience and danced our brains out. Seriously, the greatest experience of my life. I was beyond tired, but nothing is better than an infusion of ABBA and a bunch of Brits dancing round the stage in wetsuits. Ah. Heaven.

Yeah, the sign holds true.

True love is a grown man sitting through Mama Mia after a long day and restraining his girlfriend from jumping off the balcony and onto the stage during "The Winner Takes it All."

Now, onto the story of my kind of day in England. We hadn't really made any plans for our last day in London, so the next morning Roland concocted a plan over a breakfast of fish and chips. To keep me out of the loop he concealed the day's plans from me, taking me from one tube station to the next, then to the train station, then suddenly clear out near Wimbledon. From there we got on a random bus and made our way out of London and into a more traditional village. Our bus broke down on the way, but we were going straight up rogue, so nothing could deter us.

Though it had pouring rain earlier (SURPRISE!), we kept trucking through this unknown town. We noticed a forested path and decided to see where it would lead. At the very least Roland wanted to give me a break from the city, and I would have to say that this was a dream come true.

Completely immersed in the woods hand in hand with my lover, I imagined myself to be every heroine ever from every book I had ever read. I couldn't even handle it. As we kept wandering, Roland took my iPhone and made a song suggestion. He put the song to "Your Hands Are Cold" from Pride & Prejudice, wandering far away from me into a vast field.

I walked through the blanket of trees over me and into the most magnificent open space. It was literally a scene straight out of Pride & Prejudice, and Roland timed it perfectly. Walking towards me ever so Darcy-like through the field, he took my hands in his and kissed them. And then he kissed me, and the sun peaked through the clouds for the first time that day in glorious splendor. The only thing that would have made this moment better is if Roland had proposed but... well, he missed his chance, sadly. All of my impatience to get engaged aside, it was a perfect, perfect moment.

My own personal Mr. Darcy.

Forbidden fig tree. 

After our tryst in the forest, we somehow miraculously made it back to thralling London. We really didn't have time to see everything that I wanted to see, but we did manage to make it to Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. All I can say on the matter is this:

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth, Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

After a long, exhausting day filled with crappy fish and chips and Indian food and London rain we wound our way by train out of London and back to Paris. It really was a magical weekend, and one that I will store in my heart forever. After years of dreaming of London, nights in which I wet my pillow with tears of longing to go, I finally made it to that great city. I will find my way back one day, but for now I think I am content to keep Paris as my home. 

You Are a Tourist

To conclude this week of Parisian adventures, I relate the stories of the Louvre and reliving my teen girl fantasies at the Death Cab for Cutie concert.

First of all, the Louvre just isn't real. Second, it's also too massive to do in one day. Now I'm not saying we visited absolutely every part of the Louvre in one day, but it sure felt like it. Next time I go (if I can muster enough strength for a second round) I'm definitely going to bypass the Egyptian and Greek stuff. Lovely artifacts and sculptures, but my goodness. I wanted to cry about an hour into the visit.

The most exciting part of being in the Louvre was when I could find a chair to sit on. (KIDDING. I really did love it.)

Seeing all of Napoleon's chambers really put history into perspective for me. I have been particularly troubled by the ostentatiousness of it all. It's obviously magnificent to look at in our day, and I certainly do appreciate every facet of the culture's wealth and the beauty that that wealth produced, but I cannot help but feel disturbed when I think of the exploitation of individuals behind all of the grandeur, whether that be in the Louvre or around Paris. It's just...unsettling. Alright, getting off my meditation box now.

Gosh, Napoleon. Make yourself a dang quesadilla. 

All of my negativity aside, I wouldn't be a humanities student if I didn't have some favorites (which were, to my pleasant surprise, not La Jaconde or Winged Victory or the Venus de Milo, though those certainly were awe-inspiring).

Since I'm not an Art History student I'm not going to take the time to analyze these paintings or explicate them further, but I certainly will add them to my post to make my blog prettier:

Grande Odalisque, commissioned by Napoleon's sister, Caroline. Seeing this in real life was too good to be true. Love me my exotic Romanticism.

Painted by a Dutch painter. The name escapes me, but I love nudes. So this one made the cut.

Venus on a Winter Backdrop. Best rendition of Venus I've seen in awhile.

What happens when Roland gets a turn with the camera.

What happens when we catch our reflection in a mirror. Yummy. 

And last but not least, this cool girl. I just couldn't stop taking pictures of her. Talk about the female gaze! Oh, and the Mona Lisa (Jaconde) in the background was pretty cool too.

So after an exhausting, eventful day I can officially say I have been to the Louvre! It really is just too massive to take in all in one day. I will definitely need to go back to truly appreciate every work there. It was touching to walk through and encounter works that I had discussed in my Women in Art class nearly three years ago, and that is what makes me grateful for the chance to be here. I finally feel like all of the preparation, all of the books, all of the history, all of the French classes were actually worth it, and I wouldn't trade this experience for anything in the world.

Speaking of experiences I wouldn't trade for anything in the world, we saw Death Cab for Cutie tonight! And in Paris. No big deal. Only my DREAMS coming true all OVER the place! I can't handle it some days--I really can't. Needless to say, Ben Gibbard played an amazing show, and I felt transported to my pre-teen roots again. The nostalgic feels were overwhelming. At the end they played "Transatlanticism," which was too fitting for this moment in my life. And yes, I did bawl my eyes out. It was just this joyous moment of being with my big brother at the concert of a band we loved through our teenager years in a city that we have adored our entire lives. And then there was the joyful realization that I was also listening to the band that inspired my dreams of my future man, and there was Roland, holding me closer than anyone would ever get. Perfection. Fulfillment doesn't even begin to describe how I felt about being at that concert.

Why, hello! (I need you so much closer...)

All I can say at this point is that I am one lucky girl, and I don't deserve to be here, though I do in the sense that I have studied my fanny off my entire life to appreciate this experience. I will be heading to London bright and early and making all of my anglophile dreams come true this weekend! Europe is the best place, to quote an old lady from the Little Women movie. But really, it is, and I don't think I will ever get enough of it.

Mission Reunion at Moulin Rouge

Hey again! This is part two of my ultra-exhausting week of tourist extravaganza.

Featuring my long-awaited first encounter with the Moulin Rouge and about a million other Parisian landmarks and neighborhoods (I literally walked halfway across town in one day):

Be very, very excited. 

This day ushered in the presence of our dearest traveling companion, Elder Riff (née Raphaël). We met up at Les Halles, a joyous and long-awaited reunion since the mission, and not long after I was forced into my first experience with French McDonald's (NEVER AGAIN). Roland proposed the names of a *few* places we could visit, and again, my poor, jiggly legs and I naively agreed.

Just roaming round by the Louvre with two Frenchmen. Teenage me would definitely be geeking out right now, but adultier me definitely played it cool. 

The idea was that we would eventually make our pilgrimage to Sacré-Coeur Basilica, but we somehow ended up taking nearly as many treacherous detours as the Pilgrims' Crusade crusaders (and I definitely died). We started at the Tuileries, perhaps the most majestic place for this 18th and 19th-century fanatic. It was somewhat chilling realizing that I was walking the very grounds where Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI were held captive during the French Revolution, the blood of the Revolution perhaps once tainting the very paths we walked. Casting morbid thoughts aside, the Tuileries are just plain magnificent, in spite of aggressive street vendors accosting you from all sides. C'est la vie in Paris, I guess, as I am quickly learning.  

Not sure if this is real life.

And thus commenced the endless day of walking. Roland noted all of the museums we would be visiting at some point during the summer: la musée d'Orsay, le Louvre, l'Orangerie, etc. etc. It felt unreal to be seeing famous landmarks in real life, literally at every turn. My personal favorite was definitely the cast of Rodin's famous Le Baisser (The Kiss). The bodies create such an elegant, powerful line from absolutely every single angle, breathlessly beautiful and highly evocative in its Parisian realm. 

Every. 

Angle. Glorious.

From the Tuileries we walked all the way to l'Arc de Triomphe, and yes, I did cry. Not for the joy of finally walking the Champs-Élysées for the first time in my life, but because of the sheer pain. And jetlag. And self pity. And not speaking English for hours on end. Alright, I confess, I'm the world's most difficult person to travel with. But I was tired! So all of this to say that the Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe didn't make a huge impression on me. One fancy, over-priced shop after another? Yeah, no thank you. Maybe I'll like the Champs-Élysées more when I make the big bucks as a professor and can return flush with cash.

I guess I can't complain about some of the views along the way. 

We eventually made our way to Montmartre, which definitely my weary traveler spirits. We were, of course, attacked by the crazy bracelet hagglers, but luckily I had two spindly Frenchmen there to protect me from their attacks (literally shielded by Roland by one arm as he swatted them away with the other). From there we met up with Elder Babin and had a magical mission reunion. With all of the cool people from our old Chinese district, anyway.

As we ascended the mountain (hill) to Sacré-Coeur Basilica, something completely crazy happened. We were stopped by a girl that looked incredibly familiar. We soon discovered that she had actually taken English 251 with me. Small world! It was her first day in France, and, tired and jetlagged as she was, she had been praying that she might find some nice person to guide her through Paris. Funny how our little band of Mormons just happened to be at Sacré-Coeur at the exact same time as her.

Long story short, she accompanied us the rest of the day, which I was eternally grateful for because a) girl power and b) I was so tired of speaking French. Geez. Walking through Montmartre was truly amazing, though. It just felt so French. Roland tried to find Van Gogh's studio but we were unsuccessful. Still, it's exhilarating when you think about all of the exceptional souls from history that inhabited the space you're wandering as a tourist. I don't think I'll ever get over it.

As we wound our way out of Montmartre we finally made it to the most lurid of streets: Boulevard de Clichy. Eeek! I cannot even begin to express how excited I was to be there. The Moulin Rouge, the street of my mancrush Degas, Musée de l'Erot--I mean--you know me... I shunned and forsook that *magnificent* cesspool of corruption and filth. For shame.

Okay, maybe I enjoyed being there just a little...

                  

Anyway, to make this long story a little bit shorter, we basically walked ALL of Paris with our poor, jetlagged friend. Even my jetlag was manifesting itself at this point, but the beauty of Paris is that no matter how miserable you might feel physically, the energy of the city is incredibly sustaining. We ended our day at Place des Vosges. To give you an idea of how tired I was after the 5.6 kilometers I walked from Montmartre in the disgusting humidity, I had absolutely no qualms about lying in the grass in piles of cigarette buds while munching maple cookies that Elder Riff pilfered over from Quebec.

Oh, and Place de l'Opéra was exquisite. 

The Riffer

To end our gloriously exhausting day we met up with Daniel for dinner and I convinced everyone to go to a Korean restaurant (it was a rough day, okay?). I still haven't eaten at an actual French restaurant yet... but I should probably get on that. I've come all this way to France and all I want to do is eat my usual fare.

And here marks the end of yet another exhausting day touring the greatest city on earth. So many adventures and hangry moments to come!                             

Tourist Overload

Valuable lessons learned this week:

1) Packing all of your Paris tourism into four days under the influence of jet lag is never a good idea.

2) This much tourism will probably require multiple blog posts. Bear with me, folks. 

This is my "I hate being a jet-lagged tourist face," approximately one hour into our visit to the Louvre. Already my soul is dead. Raphael is also waning. Bury my body under the masses surrounding La Jaconde.

Where do I possibly begin? I still feel like I'm dreaming. Every perfect Parisian street corner that I turn, every crepe-induced pound I've already gained... I'm dreaming right? Extra Nutella, please. 

In spite of my ramblings and complaining, I really have learned and experienced many incredible things so far in this jam-packed week of tourism. 

The first morning I woke up in Paris I definitely felt like my body had been dislocated from my brain, but I made the most of my second cloudy, drizzly, heavenly day. Roland wanted to take me on a tour of some of his favorite parts of the city, and naively I agreed. Hours of searing leg pain later, I'm still trying to decide if that was a good idea. 

Our first stop on the map of tourist attractions was la Sainte-Chapelle. I really don't think the heart can ever fully be prepared for a first sighting of the magnificent stain glass windows of its interior. Roland guided me by the hand through the winding, narrow, claustrophobia-inducing staircase, telling me to close my eyes until I stood in the very center of the room. I really can't describe the sensation that occurred when I lifted my head and opened my eyes, but I am 90% sure my heart skipped a couple beats. 

No camera lens can behold this scene the way that the eye does. It fills the very soul with color and unadulterated energy. 

The fact that this magnificent gothic structure is still in tact astounds me, and I don't think my remaining days on this earth will ever introduce me to something more exquisite than this celestial chamber of colored panes. Roland and I discussed why France surrendered during the war, largely in part a sacrifice for the preservation of these precious buildings. I am grateful this holy structure is still standing. 

Soon after the peaceful spirit of la Saint-Chapelle wore off I realized that I was hangry and tired of speaking non-stop French with Roland, so I insisted we stop at a delightful Tibetan restaurant near the Sorbonne. It was invigorating to walk the Latin Quarter, and I imagined what it must have been like to be Simone de Beauvoir stalking the very same streets. Heaven.  

We wound our way up to Luxembourg Gardens eventually, wind and cool rain running across the tendrils of our hair in a sea of green and gray beauty. I fell instantly in love with the gardens, immediately drawn in by the rows of statues honoring queens and countesses, women in positions of power spanning a range of time periods. 

You go, girl.

As is not hard to guess, my favorite feature of the gardens was definitely the Medici Fountain. It's fascinating to encounter the Renaissance architecture and Italian influence in France from the 17th century--and it's all over the place. One of the things that I find truly intriguing in Paris is the patchwork of different cultural influences and architectural styles from a range of time periods. The fact that these structures have been preserved turns Paris into one grand, almost timeless history book. Every corner reveals the past, every corner has a story. 

 Beauty worth aspiring to. 

After we moseyed around the gardens for a blissful afternoon we made our way back down to St-Michel to behold Notre Dame--definitely my woman crush of all the cathedrals. Touring Notre Dame turned out to be one of those rare, peaceful moments that you seldom experience in the din of Paris. The afternoon was waning as we entered that beautiful, cavernous exterior. The windows revived my spirits after a long day of walking, but perhaps what was most rejuvenating was the half hour of calm in which I napped on Roland's shoulder. No judgement--I was incredibly jet lagged. There is definitely a spirit in those cold, Gothic walls, and one that inevitably puts me to sleep. 

I realize that I have taken enough space here, and will probably continue to document my remaining days of non-stop tourism in a new post. I just don't want to exclude a moment of what I have learned and felt while taking Paris in for the first time. My pilgrimage (perhaps not an appropriate word to use as I describe in my next post my trek to Moulin Rouge) is only just beginning, and I cannot wait to let this city's beauty wash over me. 

The end. 

  

A Waking Dream

"Don't be nervous. Relax."

My mind raced as I thought of a dozen different ways to respond to the children's literature professor who had snored at my side for the duration of the flight. How could I not be nervous? In a matter of just a few minutes I would finally be stepping onto French soil, resurrecting my rusty French, and--minor detail--meeting my boyfriend's French father for the first time. The command to relax just wasn't going to register in my vocabulary anytime soon.

Butterflies swarming from my core to my esophagus, I followed my professor friend through winding passages filled with intimidating French teenagers and stern mothers. "Well, welcome to France!" He said before a final goodbye and good luck. I watched his bald head and glasses disappear into the crowd, leaving me to fend for myself like the adult he assumed me to be.

Before allowing myself too much time to think about what awaited on the other side, I made my way for the exit. Just as Roland had promised, his reliable father was already there waiting for me. I did my best to smile through making my awkward, jet-lagged, to-bise-or-not-to-bise first impression, exchanging very few words before following behind him to the car. I calmed myself with the immediate, surprising recognition of shared traits between father and son.

Paris welcomed me with gray skies and damp air. We chatted casually as we drove through the unfamiliar landscape, telling each other details about our lives that we both probably already knew. Trying to categorize the layout of a brand new country in my mind, I decided it reminded me of Quebec, which gave me some comfort in the turmoil of brand-new stimuli.

Roland's adorable 10-year-old brother rushed to the car and gave me a shy hug before lugging one of my suitcases up to my room. The house looked just as Roland had described. Immediately I found myself wishing he could be there with me, walking me through all of these nervous encounters. Granted two hours of solitude, I immediately crawled into bed and shut my eyes to the outside world, relishing in the tranquility of sleep.

I soon awoke to Roland's father, brother, and step-mother Lawrence coming into the room to wake me. Somehow in my sleepy stupor I managed to forget all nine years of French that I had taken, greeting Roland's step-mother Lawrence with a simple "bonjour," hand gestures to fill in for lost words, and deer-in-the-headlights eyes. They left the poor, flustered American girl to get ready and collect her thoughts before leaving for lunch with the rest of the family. I stood at the window in solitude for a moment, trying to remind myself that I was in France, still not believing that I was actually there.

It was a day of failed first impressions, to say the least. Roland's uncles Philippe and Reinaldo smiled and teased me through a jet-lagged lunch, kindly taunting me for not being allowed to drink their wine, champagne, ice tea, coffee, smoke their weed, etc., etc. (kidding about the weed). Still, I had already won them over for posting that I was pregnant on Facebook for April Fool's Day, so my strange Mormon ways thankfully didn't damage my reputation too severely.

I had my first French meal on Philippe and Reinaldo's beautiful balcony. Between the entrée of heavenly mozzarella and tomatoes and flavors I had never been privileged enough to experience before in my life, rays of sunlight began to threaten the gray Parisian clouds looming over the city. It was in that moment as I looked over old stone buildings covered in ivy and elegant cracks that I suddenly realized where I was. I was in Paris, speaking French with strangers that would one day be family, nervously declining French wine yet enjoying being alive more than I have in the longest time.

The butterflies that had traffic-jammed in my throat by this point in the day completely subsided when I was finally able to meet up with Daniel. Stepping into the metros again was like walking back in time. I felt the familiar rush of anxiety wash over me that I would feel on my mission when walking into the metro, yet this time I felt liberated that I didn't have to go talk to ten different strangers in the span of a two-minute ride about the Book of Mormon and how I wasn't a polygamist.

Our first order of business was obviously to go to the Eiffel Tower. We descended at Trocadéro, Daniel making sure that I kept my eyes shut until he had led me to the perfect spot. When he finally told me to open my eyes, I just stood there in shock. I had dreamed of the Eiffel Tower a thousand times, looked at it longingly in watercolored pages of Madeleine storybooks, seen it in a million advertisements, movies, and TV commercials, and yet no matter how many times I blinked my eyes, I could not quite comprehend how giant it was. And magnificent. And so iconic I thought I would cry. Okay, I did cry. A tear, anyway. That structure is just so damn beautiful, no matter which angle you look at it from.

Jet-lagged as I was, I gladly let Daniel walk me all over the city. The gray clouds had faded, and all that was left was a perfect evening of brilliant skies and peaceful shadows. We walked along the Seine, taking in buildings that still didn't seem real, loveliness that could only be imagined. I lost my Parisian crêpe virginity at the most delightful little crêperie at St. Michel. I sat in a peaceful enclosure behind Notre Dame Cathedral laughing and chatting with my favorite brother just like any other day. Except it wasn't just like any other day. I was in Paris! The place I had wept over and dreamed about since I could register that such a magnificent place existed. The place I had studied my heart out to visit because I wanted to order a crêpe in French all by myself and impress a French waiter. The place that would, as cliché as this sounds, steal my heart forever.

When people ask me if Paris is as wonderful as I imagined, I tell them no. No, Paris is not as wonderful as I imagined. It's better.

Parisian Summer

Bonjour from Paris! (That's how the French say "hello," in case your parents didn't let you watch PBS Kids growing up.)

If you are wondering why I jumped ship and am not getting married this summer like everyone else, it's because I decided to accomplish my lifelong goal of studying French in, well, France! I am working as an intern with les Petits Frères des Pauvres, an organization that assists isolated elderly people, and will be updating my blog throughout the summer with fabulous stories that will make you intensely jealous of my life. 

Don't miss me too much--when I come back I'll be so pretentious you'll have wished I had stayed in France for the rest of my life. And don't worry, I have that part of the plan covered too. Why else do you think I'm dating a Frenchman? 

Enjoy my absence, and profit from my blog presence this summer. As the BYU study abroad girls would say, "Vive la Fraaaance!"