While living in Paris last year, I went to Morocco with my family when they came to visit me between semesters.  I’m definitely going back to Morocco as soon as I can.  It’s a beautiful city with beautiful people.  They’re so welcoming – and it’s not fake.  They are genuinely interested in you and where you come from.  They love to show you what their daily life is like.  They love to take you away from the touristy stuff and invite you into their homes for mint tea and biscuits.  They treat you as a good friend, and those are the kind of people you want to meet while traveling.

Everywhere you turn there’s an amazing opportunity for another beautiful photo.




It’s so incredibly easy to get lost in the maze of narrow winding streets that are the back alleys of Marrakech, but it’s cool because it kind of makes you feel like an explorer.  I suggest dedicating an entire day to exploring the back streets (although you won’t have even scratched the surface after one day).  Don’t forget the essentials – comfortable shoes, a bottle of water, and most importantly, your camera.






The building in which we stayed was absolutely gorgeous and we were treated like royalty.  This was clearly a place where tourists stayed, but it was amazing nonetheless.




I really enjoyed photographing this city because it’s  full of color.  Quite different from the Parisian winter I had left behind.




Rooftop café with my beautiful mother.



A visit to the Ben Youssef Medersa Islamic College.


This mosque is exclusively reserved for the muslim religious practice. (Private) Thank you.





Making friends.




The orange pressée is beyond delicious.  Regular (American) orange juice didn’t cut it before, and now it definitely doesn’t.


Yes, those are mountains in the background!




This shot of the two boys on the rooftop is one of my favorite shots from this trip.










We were on a mission to buy one of these gorgeous handmade rugs, but got side-tracked.  The lovely woman gave us a free lesson on how she makes them.  Very complicated.  Props to her for doing that all day every day.



Leaving early in the morning to catch our flight back to Paris.

Morocco was very good to us.


Garde le pour toi.

Ça fait longtemps, hein ?  It was midterm time and so the past month I’ve been busier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.  I’ve missed blogging!  Anyway here’s a (somewhat funny) story for you:

One day after class, Elena and I were wandering around near Etienne Marcel looking for a place to eat dinner.  We turned down an alley and came across this café – everyone was seated outside à la terrasse.  We weren’t really feeling the outside seating that evening so we hesitantly walked inside, not sure whether there was some unspoken rule known by all Parisians that stated that inside seating was only available between certain hours.  We grabbed a spot next to the window.  While browsing the menu, I happened to notice we had company.  This little guy…


Five minutes of picture taking with our new friend and still no one had come to take our order.  It was a small café so it wasn’t like the waiters couldn’t see us – there were literally 10 feet separating us from the bar where they were all gathered.  We had even made eye contact with a few of them, but still none of them came over to our table.  Feeling intimidated and quite aware that we were the only customers seated inside the café, we decided that instead of getting up and calling a waiter over, we would just get up quietly and leave as quickly as possible.  We gave the cat one last cuddle and peaced out.  We were so humiliated – how un-parisian.

I guess you could say we gained back some cool points since we were on our way to Art Corpus (tattoo & piercing parlor) to get Elena’s nose pierced.  I followed her to the back of the shop and watched the guy clean out her nose, and finally put in the piercing.  It suits her.  Nose piercings only suit some people – she’s one of them.




It’s a shame we were too lame to stick it out at that café.  The menu looked amazing.  Instead we ended up getting some shitty Asian food from a sketchy buffet style restaurant round the corner.  Totally would’ve rather eaten with le petit chat.




Les larmes de la Seine

Qui sautent à mes pieds

Y arrivent à peine

Mais toujours elles essayent.


Une heure passe,

Deux heures, trois heures.

Finalement je me lève

Et je joue le flâneur.


Sans le savoir

La nuit est arrivée.

On se rejoint à Hôtel de Ville,

J’arrive te chercher.


Une tasse de chocolat chaud

Trop épaisse, trop forte.

On ajoute la chantilly,

On devient chimiste en quelque sorte.


Ok j’en peux plus.

Comme c’est dégueulasse.

J’ai juste envie d’une cigarette

Après tout, on s’est assise sur la terrasse.


Un café et une clope

Ça c’est la France.

Avec une vue sur la tour

Merde, on a vraiment de la chance.


Puis c’est du vin,

J’enlève une deuxième cigarette.

Je fume et je bois,

Un rideau de fumée devant la tête.


Une taffe finale,

Sors les tickets restaurants.

Allez, on y va

Direction les Champs.


Ils nous disent que “fumer tue”

Qu’on n’est pas immortel.

Franchement, on s’en fout,

C’est les petits vices qui rendent la vie belle.

Je crois que je t’aime, etc. etc.

Ah merde.  Il va me voir comme ça.  Je me suis même pas brossé les dents.  Le mascara est partout sur mon visage.  Je suis sûre que je sens horrible.  Est-ce que j’ai pris une douche hier?  Je me souviens plus.  J’ai vraiment besoin d’une douche quand même.  Merde, putain, putain de merde, il se réveille, il se tourne vers moi – je fais sembler que je me réveille en même temps – il s’ouvre les yeux-

Il me sourit et il m’embrasse.  Il me serre dans ses bras.

Tout va bien.

On reste au lit pendant une heure.  Puis on s’habille et sort de l’appartement.  On marche main dans la main jusqu’au Champs-Élysées où on descend l’escalier du métro George V.  On passe le Navigo sur le truc, on arrive à peine au quai pour prendre le prochain train.  On change de la ligne 1 à Concorde à la ligne 12.  C’est à Pasteur où je le laisse.  On s’embrasse encore une fois et je sors du métro.

Je marche chez moi comme je m’étais habillée la dernière nuit, et j’ai envie de recommencer.







Ils sont tous des cons de toute façon.

This week and next week are midterms et du coup, I don’t have much time to write one of my usual posts. I’ll post a few pictures though, they’re worth a thousand words, right?




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Oh, petit cœur

Souviens-toi de la ville,

De la tour, du vin

Oh petit cœur, c’est pas la fin.


Il n’est plus là pour prendre ta main

Tant mieux pour toi

Ça va aller, tu verras.


Il y aura un jour

Je te promets, il va arriver.

Un jour plein de joie, plein d’amour, et ça va rester.


Embrasse la tristesse

Et ton immense chagrin

Mais oh petit cœur, c’est pas la fin.


Maintenant que je ne suis plus à Paris (j’y reviens en février, t’inquiètes pas), je me rends compte qu’il y a beaucoup de choses dont lesquelles je n’ai pas pris des bonnes photos.  Particulièrement, l’Hôtel de Ville.  Je n’ai quasiment aucune photo de ce bâtiment magnifique.   Donc, ce poste va servir comme un petit rappel de prendre plus de photos de ces endroits quand je suis encore à Paris l’année prochaine.

Alors voici les endroits où il faut que je prenne beaucoup plus de photos.



























Moitié fille, moitié femme.

First birthday abroad, and mon Dieu, was it good.  I picked up my birthday package my mom had sent me, but waited to open it until I had more time.


Madeline stickers ❤

Wearing the newly purchased sweater that I found in a store behind Place des Vosges, I took ligne 6 to school from Pasteur to Raspail, a half hour earlier than usual so I could squeeze in a petit déwith Ruthie and German before class.  We went to Le Petit Broc, just down the street from school.





Smiles all around.

The day passed comme d’hab, and then around 19h Ruthie, Molly, and I went to our favorite restaurant, Krishna Bhavan.  It’s a vegetarian Indian restaurant just off of Rue Saint Jacques near Saint Michel.  I can’t remember the number, but the street is Rue Galande.  If you’re ever in the area, GO HERE.  The food is absolutely amazing and the waiters/waitresses are très gentils.  Now, I’m the kind of person who, once they find something they love, will eat/play/listen/watch/do that thing until they don’t love it anymore.  As Amir Blumenfeld says, “You know, it’s my nature to take things too far.  Some people love me for that.”  Anyway, after ordering the Aloo Channa Masala one night with a side of riz nature and a mango lassi, there was never any need to look at the menu from then on.






Once we were stuffed and feeling extremely obese, it was time to head back home and put on our best dresses for the surprise birthday night out that the girls had planned for me.  We parted ways, freshened up, and regrouped at Saint Michel.  They lead me to this Latin club/bar/j’sais pas quoi in the Latin Quarter (surprise).  First thing I see when I walk in is naked (minus very small pairs of underwear) male waiters serving fruity alcoholic drinks to thirsty women.

After a few drinks, I look over to the bar to see Ruthie giving one of the waiters 20 euros.  My stomach fell out of my ass at that point. Despite being under the influence, I knew exactly what was going on.  Now normally at this point, I’d feel the anxiety kicking in and I’d be begging Ruthie to ask for her money back – BUT, as I’ve said before, Paris was a big year for me in terms of overcoming my social anxiety.  I say “overcoming”, but that by no means is to say that I no longer have social anxiety.  It’s still there, I carry it around with me every day.  Some days are worse than others, some days are better, but being abroad really helped me learn how to deal with it and to stop it from controlling my life.  So, with my newfound confidence, I just went with it, and twenty minutes later I was being lifted into the air by a very muscular half-naked waiter wearing a pair of orange zebra-print glasses.  (These glasses somehow ended up on my bedside table the next morning when I woke up.  Don’t worry – I pretty much just stole the waiter’s glasses.  #noragrets).

End of Oct. 2013 Paris 172

Hair completely frizzed from the heat in the club, the remains of carefully applied lipstick, but clearly still très contente.

End of Oct. 2013 Paris 170


I feel like every woman’s got to do it once in her life.  I guess after 19 years it was my time.  Happy 19th to me!


Chilled dimanche à Paris.

Saturday night was spent mostly outside in the cold wandering the streets, although the two bottles of wine German and I chugged outside Hôtel de Ville earlier  kept us warm, or at least kept us unaware of how cold it truly was.  So Sunday we took it down a notch, slept in, rendez-vous at Sugarplum Cake Shop – a really cute café near Cardinal Lemoine whose playlist I really regret not inquiring about.  I was, however, able to recognize bands like The Kooks and Washed Out – the makings of a great coffeehouse playlist, obviously.  I was totally un-European and ordered a hot chocolate.  I will admit, I don’t like coffee.  I can drink it if it’s got buckets of milk and sugar mixed in, otherwise, I can’t get it down me.  The taste is just not for me I suppose.  I have, in fact, admitted this to French people (one of whom was my boyfriend) and they didn’t shun me, but I do try to keep it on the DL when I’m in Paris.  Who the hell goes to a Parisian café and orders a hot chocolate??  Me, apparently.


Pascal, her roommate (whose name I have forgotten – sorry if you’re reading this, which you’re most likely not), and Juan joined us.  The plan was to do homework.  We told stories of drunken nights along the Seine and failed attempts of getting into fancy clubs.  Then three hours had passed, no homework had been done, and we were all getting a bit peckish.  We packed up our stuff and headed to the Marché Franprix down the street to pick up a few ingredients for our Sunday night dinner, which German had kindly offered to cook.  German is quite the cook – if you’re reading this, I want you to make me your potato curry again when you come to Paris next summer.  We headed back to Pascal’s apartment carrying bags of pasta, a block of cheese, a small box of ham bits, a bottle of milk, and three baguettes.  For good measure.


Just casually passing by the Pantheon on our way home.

German effortlessly whipped up an absolutely delicious meal for the five of us.  In true Rosie fashion, I went back for seconds before I had even finished what was already on my plate.  I was completely stuffed halfway through my second helping, but feeling guilty, I slowly shoveled in the rest and washed it down with a mouthful of Orangina, the good stuff!




Three pieces of bread for Rosie!

We spent the next couple of hours passing around Pascal’s laptop and showing each other good music.  Good music, pasta, bread, friends, Paris – what else do you need?


Juan about to try some type of Swedish food that comes out of a tube (Pascal and her roommate are Swedish).


At least we can walk off that meal!  Wait, that only works if you’re climbing the stairs.


J’ai des rêves plein la tête…

Quand je dis aux gens que j’habitais à Paris pendant neuf mois, ils me demandent toujours comment c’était.  Ma réponse c’est toujours la même: c’était magnifique, génial, fou.  C’était mieux que je m’attendais.  C’était la meilleure année de ma vie.  Ils me sourient, et moi je souris de même, mais je pense qu’ils ne comprennent pas tout à fait ce que Paris me vaut.

Habiter à Paris, même simplement aller à Paris, c’était un de mes rêves que j’avais depuis longtemps.  Alors avoir eu l’occasion d’y habiter pendant presque une année entière c’était incroyable.  Et maintenant je suis encore en Amérique, mais seulement jusqu’à la fin janvier car je pars pour un stage à Paris au début février !  Malheureusement, ils ne vont pas me payer pour ce stage, mais ça va – je serai à Paris et ça c’est tout ce que je voudrais.

Ce matin j’ai vu sur Facebook qu’un ami a posté une citation sur la langue.  J’adore cette citation et de plus, elle relie au sujet de cette poste: «Pour chaque langue qu’on parle, on mène une vie différente.»  Comme ça c’est vrai.  Je me sens complètement différente quand je suis à Paris qu’en Amérique.  Quand je suis à Paris, je veux sortir chaque soir, je veux parler aux gens que je ne connais pas, je veux tout faire.  Même une promenade simple me plaît comme si j’étais bourrée avec des amis dans le marais.  Pour le moment, j’ai cette chambre à l’université et mes pensées, et je n’arrive pas à sortir de mes pensées.  Et c’est exactement ça qui va me sauver.  Dans la tête, je pense qu’à Paris et toutes mes histoires de ma vie là-bas.  Chaque jour je me raconte une histoire de Paris, soit une soirée avec Mathieu, soit une bouchée de macarons en me promenant le chemin depuis Sèvres-Lecourbe au pont d’Iéna.  Tout ce que relie à Paris me rende tout un coup heureuse.  Je garderai ces souvenirs toute ma vie, ça c’est sur, mais c’est en ce moment que j’en ai vraiment besoin.


Une petite pause pizza quelque part entre Dupleix et Bir-Hakeim avec German.


Sur ce campus à l’université, je deviens timide, effrayée, et antisociale.  Je me trouve sans confiance et je ne me trouve avec aucun intérêt de rencontrer des autres.  Je suis parfaitement contente de passer la journée fermée dans ma chambre parce qu’à mon avis, il n’y a rien dehors qui pourrait m’intéresser.  C’est pas Paris, et du coup, je m’en fous.  Mais c’est là où il faut faire attention – pour éviter la dépression, il faut sortir, il faut m’occuper, il faut parler aux autres, et surtout il faut que je ne me sente pas toute seule car c’est pendant ces moments que j’ai trop de temps pour réfléchir sur le fait que je ne suis pas contente.  Et même si ça va seulement durer trois mois, ces trois mois ont bien le pouvoir de me dérailler.  Donc jusqu’à février, je vais écrire de Paris, je vais penser à Paris, et je vais rester en contrôle de mes pensées – particulièrement les mauvaises pensées que je vais essayer de jeter de ma tête, parce que la vie est belle, mais si c’était toujours belle et parfaite, serait-elle vraiment belle et parfaite?



Place de la Concorde.


Mathieu et Arthur sur les quais de la Seine.

C’est Paris ou rien.