Paris, Paris...

It was my first visit to Paris, and of course I had to start somewhere, so I figured why not with all of the traditional tourist attractions?

Let’s see, there was the Arc de Triomphe (bigger than I had imagined), the Louvre (putting my meager art history education to use!), Notre Dame (imposing architecture on the outside, really dark on the inside, and gorgeous stained glass), a stroll down the Champs Elysees to lécher les vitrines, which is the funny French phrase for window shopping. The literal translation is “to lick the windows.”

Everything was great. But I do have some regrets, first and foremost with FASHION.

When I was packing my suitcase, I was aiming for practicality. Bad thinking. What I completely forgot that--hello! I was going to Paris!--A parisienne would never wear a windbreaker… sacre bleu! I felt when I was walking down the street it practically screamed, “I’m American!” Or that whenever I went into a shop, the salespeople automatically identified me, touriste. Okay, granted, I could have taken it off, but then I would have been cold and uncomfortable and…wind-bitten. So in some ways I embraced the fact that yes, I was indeed, a tourist. (Like when I awkwardly turned around in the middle of a street after realizing that I was heading in the wrong direction of where I wanted to go, I thought, “Oh well! It’s okay, I’m a tourist!”) And for example it was kind of fun to see the look of surprise on some people’s faces when they realized that contrary to my outsider appearance, my knowledge of the French language expands outside of the phrases found in guidebooks. At the big attractions, I didn’t particularly stick out in comparison to the camera-toting, polar-fleece-wearing, white-sneakered tourists. But in other parts of town I didn’t exactly want to look like an easy victim, so to try to make up for it I emphasized my scarf, tying it around my neck in the fanciest French manner I could muster.

I am happy to say that Paris was even better than I had expected it to be, because I have heard of a lot of people who come to the city with high hopes and end up leaving disappointed. But the city did offer me some SURPRISES; some good, some bad, and some in-between.

One was how many other tourists there are in the city. I knew there were going to be a lot, but not exactly that much. It’s kind of crazy, because the Louvre is overwhelming e-nor-mous. And yet with everyone else milling about, I felt quite claustrophobic. When I finally got to see the Mona Lisa face-to-face, it was like getting a glimpse of a Hollywood celebrity. The enormous crowds of jostling people were like paparazzi trying to steal a snapshot.

The highlight of my Parisian food experience? In fact, not with the quintessential baguette or croissant. Rather, it was found in my first bite ever of falafel in the quartier du Marais—warm pita bread with a slightly gooey interior, raw crunchy cut-up veggies, fried balls of falafel, and “special spicy sauce” (that’s what they actually called it!) on top.

The Eiffel Tower, too, at night was a little different than I had expected it. They’ve rigged it up with these multi-colored lights that blink and alternate in all sorts of ways—which gives it a kind of cheesy grandeur, different from the romantic emblem I always had in mind. Aside from that, well, the city is gorgeous in daylight. So at night, it becomes magical, with all the streets and sights illuminated and shimmering in the water of the Seine.

To get from Paris to Geneva I took le TGV, which stands for “Train a Grande Vitesse.” It was a bit of a disappointment because I was expecting what the name suggests: to achieve speeds of grand vitesse, and that was not the case. Nonetheless, it was agreeable to watch the French countryside pass by, despite the lack of whoosh or whizz involved.

A funny coincidence: I was sitting at a cozy café, writing my postcards to home, when all of a sudden I look up and who do I see but D (my host dad’s) 21-year old son from a previous marriage, who lives as a student in Paris. Given the city’s grand immensity, I’m pretty sure it was very statistically unlikely that our paths should accidentally cross. Because we had met only briefly before, he didn’t recognize me at first, and guessed that we had a class together, until I explained—oh yeah!—I’m the au pair. I guess it just goes to show, dare I say it? It’s a small world after all.

So I saw a lot of Paris. Yet there is so much more than I didn’t see. Which is exactly why I can’t wait to go again!














La Jaconde













Action shot: receiving my falafel (yes, I surreptitiously snapped a photo while reaching out to grab it from the guy)













Underbelly of the Eiffel Tower at night

[It was cloudy the whole time I was there, so all of my photos have a grayish tinge to them. C'est dommage.]

Luge d'Été

Coming back from glorious Paris, I figured why not experience the very best of what my home French region has to offer? Which, of course, would be MOUNTAINS.

And so it was that I experienced the French-style roller coaster known as luge d’été, or “summer sledding” (sans the snow). Two person per one seat, so I was with Ar the whole time. It was pretty much this: we mounted steeply to the top of a mountain, strapped into a sled-contraption attached to metal rails, and then descended downwards (with plenty of curves thrown in for good measure).

To be honest, I’m pretty sure most real roller coaster aficionados would proclaim it to be completely lame and pathetic, but for me (and Ar who was right beside me), it was quite the thrill. Maybe a bit too much so for Ar, as I, for one, love SPEEEEED, and it was also me who controlled the lever to slow down….which I didn’t do too much of, even when we were at the hairpin turns. The whole time Ar was squeaking, “Ali! Stop! Break!” while I pretended that I couldn’t hear. But no worries, she is hardly scarred for life, as afterwards I saw a look on her face of ravished contentment from all the adrenaline-filled excitement.















Climbing upwards (that would be Ar's pink-speckled hat in the foreground)

My Halloween in France

In previous years I was hardly grateful or appreciative of Halloween. It was something I took for granted. Although in France some of the traditions of the holiday are gaining popularity, it is all still very foreign to them in general. When I explained to the girls how every year as a kid I had gone from house to house in my neighborhood getting candy, dressed up in a costume, saying “Trick or treat!,” their eyes were wide-open in amazement. “Really?” When I talked to the their grandmother (a native Parisian, born and bred) about the concept of Halloween, she was disdainful; “trop commerciale,” she decried. If I was living in the US I would have agreed. But being abroad has made me nostalgic for the fun-hearted traditions and celebrations of good old Americana.

So we decided to throw our very own Halloween party. That is, we decorated the house and then the girls had all their friends over for an afternoon.

The preparations the day before were quite the affair: we baked spice cookies in the shape of pumpkins and witches’ hats, and to add something really special to all the other party décor of black and orange streamers and garlands and fake cobwebs…we carved a jack-o-lantern!

In fact, it was the very first time they had done it, so when we finally sawed around the top of the pumpkin and pulled off its hat, they were surprised to see all the guts that were inside. Ar’s reaction was “Déguelasse!” (That’s disgusting!) She retreated over to the next room, complaining that it smelled bad. Her disgust deepened a couple minutes later when she observed me scooping out the seeds with my bare hands. “How can you do that?” she cried; never mind that I had done it ever since I was little.

Luckily we found a book at the town library to use for ideas and inspiration, and that is where we also found our party menu. Here it is, in French, with English translations and explanations following down below. The explanations are important because otherwise it doesn’t sound too appetizing!

MENU des FRISSONS
Menu of Shivers

Entrées

Yeux de Chauves-Souris Variés
Varied bat eyes
(A mix of black and green olives)

Champignons du Bois des Sorcières
Mushrooms from Witches’ Woods
(Mushrooms)

Plats

Les Vers d’Égout
Worms from the Sewer
(Spaghetti with pesto sauce)

Boulettes de Crapaud au Jus de Vampire
Toad pellets with vampire juice
(Meatballs and tomato sauce)

Desserts

Bave Gelée de Limaces d’Égout
Frozen Slime of Sewer Slugs
(Vanilla ice cream)

Crottes de Chauve-souris Momifiées
Mummified bat droppings
(Chocolate fudge sauce)

Our pumpkin in progress

These are a few of my favorite things...

Favorite pastry: Pain au chocolat.

Granted, croissants are good by themselves. I mean, put lots of butter with anything and chances are the taste buds are going to be happy to eat it…Hence the classic French cooking rule-of-thumb that you can never have enough butter. But for me, add in some CHOCOLATE, and then you have the next thing to heaven.

Favorite cheese: Roquefort.

I love the pungent, knock-out flavor. Never mind that there are blueish green fuzzy dots within it, which look exactly like the mold growing on the stale bread in the refrigerator…

Favorite paysage: The view from my bedroom window.

We’re elevated up on the mountainside, so when I look out down below at night, I see the lights of Geneva and the surrounding area, sparkling and twinkling. The pinpoint-sized pools of light are like an exaggerated mimicry/magnified reflection of the stars above. Environmentally-inclined folks would reject it as mere light pollution, but I admire it each night when I close the shutters to my windows. I usually find a grand blinking light making a steady trajectory amidst the stars, coming from an airplane departing from the airport.

In fact, the vista gives a certain rhythm to my days. After getting out of bed each morning, I open up the shutters to let in some light and take a breath of fresh air. On cloudless days, I see Mont Blanc—the highest mountain in Europe—looming out in the distance. It makes for a spectacular sunrise if I wake up early enough, when the whole scene soaks in blends of blue, orange, and pink from the sky.

Chez Voltaire

This is the house/mansion where Voltaire lived--I pass by it on the way to my French classes. A few days ago I stopped by to see what the interior looked like. Which made me wish I knew more about French philosophy, so that I could appreciate it more! But the gardens and sculptures surrounding the grounds were super pretty.

Antsy-Pantsy Annecy

A couple of Saturdays ago I headed to the city of Annecy with some fellow au pairs. We checked out the enormous outdoor market—I mean, stall after stall of fresh fruits and veggies, breads, cheese, meats, and other specialty items. Besides the food, there were some cheapish quality clothing items, mostly shirts and pants, but there were also tables of lacy lingerie out there in the open, should you wish to buy some while you pick up your food for the week ahead. Or you could even buy a mattress. Personally I wouldn’t want to, as they were lying on the pavement between the stacks of zucchini and bunches of grapes.

Of course we stopped by a cheese vendor in stocking up our provisions for a lakeside picnic. Our selections were the Bleu des Causses (a strong conventional blue cheese), alongside something that really caught our eye, for amongst the standard cheese shades of white and yellow, stood the bright orange Mimolette—a la classic Kraft macaroni-and-cheese orange. The neon intensity got my attention, because despite the enormous selection of cheese available in France, cheddar (or any cheese with annatto coloring) is next-to-impossible to find. Here is a picture so you can see the orange color for yourself:

Photo credit goes to Noah—an action shot of me in midst of eating some of the Mimolette

Post-picnic, we headed out to explore the city. Annecy is known as the Venice of France, and it’s not without reason…First of all there are the canals:

But it was the gelato that made me really feel like I was in Italy:

After a solid two minutes standing in front of the display case weighing the options (there were a lot of flavors to choose from!), I decided to try the Chocolat Noisette. So good, with crunchy chocolate-dipped hazelnuts. It was somewhat reminiscent of Nutella, but more refined.

Some other pictures:

View from the top of the chateau d'Annecy

Along the street canals

Road trip, cows, and castles

This weekend I went to France’s Loire Valley for a family reunion; they rented out a big huge country house and I got to come along to help out and watch the kids as necessary.

At first I was a bit anxious because we were taking the car. Which meant that I was in the backseat, between two kids, for five hours. But it really wasn't that bad, if not just a tad squishy for my legs. Plus I got to check out the insides of a French gas station for the first time. Yes, they sell baguettes and Camembert cheese for roadside snacks. And for two euros, you can get access to shower facilities, located next to the bathrooms.

So we finally arrived, and as picturesque as it was, there aren’t a whole lot of things there except for… cows. All-white cows, actually, which I hadn’t seen before. (I’m accustomed to the black-and-white spotted or brown-speckled varieties. Speaking of which, my personal favorite are the Oreo cookie cows—black head and tail, with a white midsection).

So basically, I’ve discovered that:

Loire Valley = bunches of cows, munching away on expanses of green grass fields + a stonehewn barn every couple of kilometers + the occasional herd of grazing sheep.

In fact, while we were in the car on our way there, we actually had to stop for a good three minutes to watch a herd of sheep, led by a tractor, cross the road. It was funny because it made apparent the difference between the slow pace of country living, to my habituation of constantly going, moving, rushing.

The trip also made for a nice change of scenery: flat terrain in which you could see acres of farmland for miles around—instead of the rocky mountains of France that I have grown accustomed to.

As lovely as it was to be putting the adjectives “bucolic” and “pastoral” to good use, the real highlight for me was the chance to see some French CASTLES, up close and in person!

Me, I think chateaux are SO cool. Part of it probably comes from my love of fairy tales, and also because that kind of history just doesn’t exist in the US—that is, constructions that date back to Roman and/or Medieval times.

What really impressed me was that these castles actually had MOATS. To me, moats were strictly the stuff of stories—nice to imagine, but not actually in existence. But there they were, with lily pads and everything:

Gruyeres

My first weekend here we spent a day in Gruyeres, the town where they make the famous (and delicious) Swiss cheese. It was my first introduction to Switzerland. Some highlights of the day:

The mountains, of course!

The dessert specialty of the region: caramelized sugar meringue, dipped into the smooth rich and creamy creme de la Gruyere, with a side of strawberry ice cream, and an espresso

A mini street concert of the traditional Swiss alphorn, like in the Ricola cough drop commercials!

Going up the mountain on the funiculaire, and then to the very summit on the telepherique

Breathtaking sunset once we got to the top!

Traditional cheese fondue for dinner

Now every time I see Gruyere cheese at the supermarket, I think about our little trip!

Apple Rumble Crumble

When walking the girls to school, we pass by some apple trees growing by the side of the road in a neighbor’s yard. They’re in full form right now, with multitudes of lovely apples hanging from the branches, emitting a sweet apple-icious perfume. (Or more likely the scent is coming from the apples that have already fallen, lying streetside, being feasted upon by worms in varying levels of decomposition.)

And as I discovered a couple of days ago, when S returned home with a bag in hand after visiting the neighbor, some of these apples are edible—as long as they’re cooked first.

So marked the commencement of my first baking endeavor in Europe. My mission? An apple crumble, which I figured would be easy enough. First I had to peel them and cut out all the worm infestations. They aren’t the same apples that are sold at the grocery store—they’re mini-sized, and the flesh has an acidic tang. I was worried they wouldn’t bake well, but it ended up making a nice snack after the girls came home from school.

Pre-baked apples; looking quite Cezannesque (but note the holes)

Still Life with Basket of Apples, Paul Cezanne

Here’s the recipe I used, it’s really simple and it came out well:

Apple Crumble

¾ cup flour
1¼ cup regular oats
½ cup brown sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp salt
½ cup butter, melted
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ cup apple juice or cider
¼ cup sugar
10 cup chopped apples

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit/200 degrees Celsius. Grease large baking dish.

Combine flour, oats, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt; then incorporate butter and vanilla extract with a fork until the mixture is moist and crumbly.

Combine apple juice, sugar, and a dash of salt in a large bowl. Stir until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is smooth. Toss with apples to coat evenly, then spoon into baking dish.

Sprinkle the oat mixture on top. Cover with aluminum foil and bake 30 minutes. Uncover and bake additional 30 minutes, or until top is golden and the apples are cooked through.

Pique-nique!

On Sundays when the weather’s nice, we’ve been having a lakeside picnic lunch in the afternoon. It’s a testament to how lovely the simple things in life can be, the water glimmering with sunbeams and the mountains in the background. And simple yet delicious food: some nice sharp cheese and a bit of juicy tomato inside some crusty baguette—golden crisp and crumbly on the outside with a pillowy soft white interior (la mie); a hard-boiled egg; some fruit.

Lac Geneve on the way to Gruyeres:

Lac Genin:

My Maiden Voyage

Today was my first solo flight in the White Citroën. Prior to coming here, I was accustomed to my bright blue little Beetle (une coccinelle, en français), with its lovely, easy-to-drive, automatic transmission. Luckily, I got some lessons before I left on how to work a stick shift. But driving here is a lot different than it is back home, basically for four reasons:

A. Roundabouts (aka rotaries): Apparently the French really like their rond-points because they are everywhere! I discovered that they are especially tricky when one has no idea of the surrounding area. On the plus side however, there is a considerably less amount of stoplights, which makes driving quicker.

B. It’s Europe, so the streets are narrow. That’s what makes them look so charming. But it also makes knowing who has la priorité (the right-of-way) a requirement at all times, because if two cars are on the same street, passing in opposite directions, one of them has to stop in order for both to eventually get by. It would be almost impossible to drive a big SUV here.

C. Windy/curvaceous roads: Any sort of pre-planned arrangement of grids just doesn’t exist. It calls for a considerable amount of defensive driving, because oncoming or neighboring cars can’t be seen until the very last snake bend.

D. And last but not least, the hills: being located in a valley between the Jura mountains and the Swiss Alps, it’s pretty mountainous terrain around here. Which means that starting up from first gear on an incline is a frequent occurrence, usually necessitating the use of the hand brake; or at least I can expect to roll back a bit before picking up speed, and I wouldn’t ever want to roll back into the car behind me!

My first time driving—I don’t think I’ll ever forget it—it was so overwhelming! My host mom S was in the passenger seat, serving as the driving instructor, and I have to say she did an excellent job of staying calm. If I were her, I would have been pretty scared for my life! In my defense, we were heading home from Geneva, so I was driving on some fairly intense autoroutes.

So every night last week, either S or D took me out for a little tour of the area to practice shifting. It’s funny because we were switching between French and English, so many a time I find myself trying to conjugate a verb in my head while keeping my eyes on the road (which trust me is harder than it sounds, in midst of a conversation and a driving maneuver).

But now I feel I’m starting to get the hang of it, and apparently S does too, or at least she trusted me enough to go to the supermarket all alone today, with a shopping list of the food items we need: some fruits and veggies, a few cartons of milk, and of course, some brie cheese.

Thank goodness I have no dramas, problems, or funny anecdotes to report back—everything was fine. But I don’t want to jinx myself now, because I’m still learning. It’s nice though that it's starting to come naturally. It's even approaching the point of being “fun” now, when the engine kicks in just right and I get a nice zip of acceleration.

And after driving around here for a year, it’s going to make Framtown in my Buggy a piece of cake in comparison.


The White Thunder Slice

Yummyness!

I am accustomed to having crepes for breakfast, rolled up with the delicious sugar-bomb duo of maple syrup and brown sugar.

So a couple of nights ago for dinner I was excited to have my first taste of crepes in France, their nation of origin (at least I think so), of a more savory rather than sweet variety.

Words wouldn't give it justice but I forgot to take a picture, so I decided to draw a little diagram instead:



Voila!

You would never guess what I ate this weekend

So last Saturday morning I ran errands with D. Mainly to practice my stick shift skills, going from store to store. Finally, we arrived at la boucherie (the butcher shop), which, as to be expected when one is in France, is quite a sight to behold.

Red meat everywhere! Pig and cow carcasses; assorted pieces of raw animal flesh, all tied and cut up, arranged on platters in a glass display case and hanging from the ceiling and walls.

Funny how –back in the day—when I was vegetarian, I used to diligently avoid the meat section of Stop and Shop, not even taking a glance, because I was so disturbed by the sight of dead animals. Now I just swallow the disgust that naturally arises from my stomach and think of how I am experiencing and embracing French culture in its entirety.

While D was giving his order to the bloody apron-clad butcher, I decided to go look at the gourmet marinades and sauces that were lined up on a shelf. As he was ready to leave, I went over to pick up the plastic sack that was holding all our meat for the upcoming week, when I realized it was extraordinarily and unnaturally heavy.

“What’s in the bag?,” I asked.

“La langue de boeuf.”

“The what of beef?”

“La langue.”

Ah-ha.

In celebration of her birthday, Ar could have anything she wanted for supper. Anything at all. And what did she want? Cow tongue. Yummm. At least it sounds more appetizing in French: la langue de boeuf.

As it turns out, the lady who watched her when she was little was quite the traditional French cooking chef and used to serve it to her.

So it made sense why the bag was so heavy. The tongue is a muscle, after all. And for a cow, it is quite large: wide, and about a foot long. As S pronounced when we returned home, “C’est énorme!” It was her first time cooking it, and I could tell she was a little intimidated but quite the trooper. We discovered that the tongue shrinks significantly in size as it is slowly cooked stovetop overnight, as directed by the recipe, in a tomato-based sauce along with chopped sautéed onions and onions. When I went to get a glass of water from the kitchen that night, the fumes wafting around the kitchen were actually quite enticing!

Finally, as the time for supper approached the next day, my stomach was clawing with hunger and I was formulating various excuses, trying to find the most polite wording possible, and fully planning to eat only the side dishes for my meal.

So how did I end up eating the TONGUE of a COW, gory ligaments and tendons and all?

In my defense, I was drunk at the time. Okay, not really. But being in France, we have l’aperitif first, and this being a special occasion, D popped open some champagne (literally, he let the cork flew over the table). I instructed just “un petit peu” in my glass, but I ended up with a full one. [Note: the legal drinking age in France is 18.] Of course, I should have known better than to drink on an empty stomach. Furthermore (and more than anything this is probably more why I tried it, more than the fact I was a little dizzy and discombobulated from the alcohol), I was gauging the social pressure of the situation, and I could tell that it would have rude for me to refuse, to not at least attempt a bite.

So I made the decision to be courageous, plunge my fork into the meat, and forget the fact that MY tongue was in the process of digesting another tongue. It was a grayish brown color, some parts of it were smooth and others were bumpy. There was no denying its tongue-ish characteristics, no way of misidentifying it as a typical cut of meat. And even so, I have to admit: it actually tasted pretty good! (As in, I could understand why Ar would like it.)

And hey, now if someone asks me what is the strangest thing I’ve ever eaten, I have a pretty good answer.

Crossing the Atlantic

So first, about my trip: Not bad at all.

Of course it was a mad rush to Logan, and at the end I was seriously just stuffing things into my bags, rather than placing them in carefully--but oh well. The craziness of the situation took my mind off the fact that I was leaving home for a year.

Once I checked in, we had some time to kill. There weren't many people around the airport so I got the chance to walk/run with Will along the moving escalator-like sidewalks (What is the techical name for them again? It's probably not so technical!) backwards, like I've always wanted to try. It made me a little dizzy! Here are some action shots:

Goodbye Boston!

Not exactly the most attractive shot...

Thankfully on the plane to Paris I was sitting next to a youngish guy who kindly helped me lift my carry-on bag (it was heavy and chockful of stuff!) up to the overhead compartment, and then back down again when we arrived. He slept snore-free most of the way. I tried to sleep too, but not so successfully.

On my flight to Geneva, however, I sat next to an older Swiss businessman who spent the entire flight telling me how awful Americans are, which I considered to be rude, given hello?! I myself am an American, and there he was, making accusatory, too-wide blanket generalizations about a group of people I am a part of, not by choice but by technicality. He seemed to think that all Americans owned semi-automatic weaponry, and that hunting was a widespread national pastime. Luckily the flight was only one-and-a-half hours, and at least it was good practice to be listening and speaking French (albeit fragmentedly).

My connection at the Charles de Gaulle airport was smooth, except for the extraordinarily long lines through the security checkpoints, which ate up the entire hour-and-half time that I had to get from one gate to another. I didn't see much of Paris except for the airplane strips from out the window. So much for seeing the Eiffel Tower! It was nice being surrounded by such internationalism, though. I kept hearing snippets of different languages everywhere.

When I finally stepped out into the Geneva airport, I felt rather dehydrated and I had baggish pillows under my eyes, but aside from that, not too bad. When I was trying to lift one of my bags from the merry-go-round (I forget the name for the thing-y where you collect your luggage. Clearly I need to brush up on my airport vocabulary!) I nearly whacked an older woman with one of my suitcases and she gave me a very nasty look.

The real issue at that point was the transportation of my three enormous bags across the airport. It would have been helpful to have a carriage cart, but it required a 1-euro coin, which of course I didn't have. So I managed to devise a sort of luggage train that I pulled, or rather lugged, along. I must have looked slightly ridiculous, and very lost, because I wasn't quite sure where exactly Sophie (my host mom) was going to meet me. There were a lot of people and I was starting to get nervous that I wouldn't recognize her, wondering how different a person could look in actuality than on webcam.

Finally--at last! I heard an uncertain, "Ali...?" come from among the masses of people, turned around, and found S, Au, and I behind me.

And so it was all good from that point. I had made it!

First Post--Before the Adventure Begins!

Saying Goodbye

Obviously I didn't make the decision to au pair rashly--but there are just some things that I didn't think about. Like how hard it was going to be to say goodbye.

And as people who have seen me recently can attest, I am REALLY BAD at it.

After saying it so many times, I've decided the word itself is bad. Goodbye. It automatically sounds so final.

Naturally, I've also been thinking about all the French ways to say farewell and I think it's different than the way it is in English. It's more like a variation on "see you."

I can't translate the famous, "Au revoir!" literally--except to interpret that "voir" is "to see," so with the prefix, "revoir" is to see AGAIN. So it means something along the lines of "to the next time I see you again." Which is so much preferable and more appropriate for my current situation. I'm not really saying "goodbye" to anyone, just "see you later."

For me, the most accurate phrase I could use would probably be "A l'annee prochaine!" (See you next year). But a year sounds like too long of a time, so I'm sticking with "Au revoir."