The stereotype of the French is that they are stinky, rude and have a predilection for bad comedy, but they are also elegant, thin and have a predilection for fine art and good literature.

The French are nothing if not an enigma — a study in paradoxes. How can one wear the latest Balmain creation yet go out sans deodorant? Truth be told, the French are far more complicated than the sum of their stereotypes.

When I studied abroad in Paris I learned it’s not that they are smelly, it’s that Americans are obsessed with hygiene. The French aren’t rude, we’re just too smiley. See? It’s all about perception. Having said that, whether you plan on living, studying or just visiting France, you might want to study up on what makes the French tick. To help you out, try reading one or all of the following books. You know, so you don’t come across as a boorish American or anything like that.

1) 50 Reasons to Hate the French by Jules Eden and Alex Clarke

Just in case you’re not sure if you love or hate the French, Jules Eden and Alex Clarke give you 50 hilarious reasons to detest them. Using history to illustrate many of their points, the duo delve into the literature, art and politics of France. From Depardieu to the lack of reverence for time, you’ll find yourself disliking those frog eaters, until you realize you still want to see the Eiffel Tower and croissants taste pretty dame good.

2) French or Foe?: Getting the Most Out of Visiting, Living and Working in France by Polly Platt

When you’re in France, there may be many times when you wonder whether someone is being purposely rude to you or whether they are just being French. Polly Platt tackles the stereotype of the “rude Frenchmen” head on by explaining the differences in our cultural attitudes and mannerisms to make your stay in France oh-so-pleasant.

So when the waiter is ignoring you during your next meal, you’ll now know that it’s not because he is secretly plotting against Americans, but because he wants you to take your time and enjoy your meal.

3) Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik

If you’ve ever wondered why there is no French version of Barney the purple dinosaur or why Café de Flore is the height of chic while Les Deux Magots is the equivalent of a public toilet, this is the book you need to read.

With a splash of humor, a dollop of personal anecdotes and a whole lot of love for the French, Adam Gopnik’s essays are an intellectual take on the most simple of French habits, including their obsession with striking. You may not approve when the métro you need to get to the Champs-Elysees is no longer running, but at least you’ll understand. Sort of.

4) Dirty French: Everyday Slang from “What’s Up?” to “F*%# Off!” (Dirty Everyday Slang by Adrian Clautrier

In light of all this newfound understanding, you may find yourself making friends or wanting to flirt it up with a Frenchie. Throwing out some slang will let the other party know you’re hip to French culture. Gems like “I feel like partying (Je suis d’humeur a faire la tete), or “Damn girl your body is banging” (Oh cousine, chaud devant) will get you in the French fray in no time.

Or in spite of all this fabulous understanding you may acquire, you may still need to tell someone in no uncertain times to mind their own business. Since you’re in France, it’s only fitting you should be able to potentially curse someone out in their own language. This way they will actually understand you and you can still remain unfailingly polite for speaking in the local language.

5) French Women Don’t get Fat by Mireille Guilano

If a year studying abroad and living with a French family taught me anything, it’s that the French love food like Americans love football and artificial sweetener. The reason most French women (and men) don’t get fat is because they don’t stuff their faces 24/7. And when they do, it’s not with a bag of BBQ potato chips.

The French don’t just eat — they savor. They dine. A meal is a three-hour affair that just happens to accompany a rousing debate about politics or which boulangerie has the best bread. Mireille Guilano goes into all of this with great detail, allowing even the junkiest of eaters to revamp their habits. Read this and you’ll understand how and why the French women can eat chocolate all the time and still look like Brigitte Bardot.

6) A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle

Who hasn’t thought of leaving it all behind and running off to France? I certainly have. Oh wait, I did do that. Armed with dreamy visions of fresh brie cheese, gothic cathedrals and men with French accents sweeping me off my feet, I said no to another year of frat parties and Natty Light for the beauty of France.

Then reality hit. In my case it was in the form of dog poo on the sidewalks. In the case of Peter Mayle, it was namely in the form of a freezing winter, nosy neighbors and French bureaucracy. But through it all, Mayle tells the story with a light-hearted affection for his adopted country capturing the more comical aspects of everyday French life. At the end, you can’t help but love the French.

By Rachel Khona

About the Author

Rachel has served as contributing editor for Vaga and has written for Cosmopolitan, Inked and Ask Men. She is currently working on a memoir about being raised by a conservative Indian family, swindling European cab drivers and scaling glaciers. Find out more about Rachel at RachelKhona.com or follow her on Twitter at @RachelKhona.

The post 6 Books You Must Read Before Going To France appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

“Going down?” a voice in a thick Irish brogue asked as I entered the elevator. It was Colin Farrell.

I wished I was, but alas, I was not. “Actually I’m going upstairs. Party in the penthouse,” I replied.

“Maybe I’ll pop by there later.”

One could only hope.

Legendary studio honcho Harry Cohn famously remarked, “If you must get into trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont”.

Shrouded by well-placed foliage and hidden from the throngs of bar hoppers and wannabe starlets, the French-castle styled Chateau Marmont sits quietly above Sunset Boulevard. L.A.’s most infamous and racy hotel is not about trends or press. It is not the loudest one in the class screaming to get noticed. Paparazzi are notoriously shunned here as much as they are welcomed outside the Ivy. Instead, the Chateau is more like that quiet sultry kid with swagger. The one you know is a bad ass, swigging whiskey and smoking cigarettes underneath the bleachers, but never uttering a word about it.

This is where James Dean jumped through a window to audition with Natalie Wood for Rebel Without a Cause, Elizabeth Taylor nursed Montgomery Clift post car crash, Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the hallways and John Belushi took his final breath.

It’s all of this glorious lore that drew me to the Chateau. As someone who moved to the City of Angeles partially in the hopes of reliving its worst days of hedonism (after all I was a hair metal fan), I became quickly intoxicated with the allure of the Chateau. The Chateau represents a time before US Weekly and Star were exposing every celebrity exploit. It’s debauchery on the DL.

The Chateau Marmont dates back to 1929 when it was constructed as an apartment complex. But the Depression kept renters away and by 1931 it was transformed into a hotel. With its luxurious interiors, thick soundproof walls and low-key atmosphere, it’s no wonder the Chateau has been a haven for those behaving badly for almost a century.

It wasn’t as though I was fascinated with celebrities; I often found them dull and uninteresting. But sex, drugs and rock n’ roll was something that I had always been drawn to, back to the days when I would hide piles of metal and classic rock magazines under my teenage bed like contraband porn. Alas, when I first moved to L.A., I realized those days were long gone. Hair metal was dead and the remaining members of Led Zeppelin were old enough to be my parents and hardly riding motorcycles down hallways or pleasuring weird groupies with a shark (although if you’re reading this Robert Plant, I will always heart you).

Unfortunately, most of the good stuff had happened way before my time. So the Chateau Marmont was all I had. The last remnants of a lifestyle that had long since died. There I could at least remotely pretend that I swung from the chandeliers instead of realizing I was just another wannabe actress living with my boyfriend and shopping at Trader Joe’s on Saturdays. At any other spot in L.A. (or New York for that matter), the haves are very distinctly separated from the have-nots. Not at the Chateau. Everyone mingled together in a sort of utopian society of fabulosity. Everyone got to be fabulous — as long as you could get past the bouncers.

The restaurant, penthouses, lounge and patio served as a sort of playground for troublemaking. The backyard does not have a blaring sound system. There is no DJ. Instead, all is quiet, as people are actually able to converse without shouting over the blare of music. There are no velvet ropes. There isn’t even a bar. Instead, the tree and shrubbery-laden patio twinkles with lights at night, while the low murmur of conversation filters through the otherwise silent air, making one feel as though they are in some sort of magical Alice in Wonderland garden. Secrets are being told and deals are being made, but one would never know.

The penthouses, which boasted balconies bigger than my apartment with soaring views of Los Angeles, are where I spent some of my more entertaining evenings. It was at the Chateau that I saw Lindsay Lohan seemingly high as a kite staring off into outer space at a magazine party, Courtney Love stumbling drunk through the hallways with Frances Bean in tow and Calista Flockhart crumbling a pizza crust underneath her seat. It was also at Chateau that I met the Johnny Depp look-a-like and infamous staple on the nightlife scene, Shannon, who actually invited me to the bathroom to makeout. Tempted as I was, I had to decline.

But this was not why I cared for the Chateau. No, my favorite moment came when I was waiting in line for the bathroom at one of the many parties I was attending. As I gazed at the tall blond male form in front of me, it dawned on me that I recognized him. It was Matt Sorum, the drummer from Guns N’ Roses, one of my favorite bands of all time. I tried not to pee before I made it to the bathroom. He turned around.

“Are you waiting for the bathroom?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.” Of all the ways I dreamed of meeting the various members of Guns N’ Roses, this was not one of them.

“You can go in front of me. I’m just waiting for someone.”

“Thank you.” I stepped in front of him, my heart bursting with joy and happiness. After several years living in L.A., I had finally had the rockstar moment I had so dreamed about as teen, and it was at the Chateau Marmont.

By Rachel Khona

[Chateau Marmont by Nels Israelson/Flickr]

About the Author

Hailing from a magical land called New Jersey, Rachel is a writer and performer living somewhere in the 5th dimension. In addition to serving as contributing editor for Vaga, she has written for Cosmopolitan, Inked, and Ask Men and been featured as an expert on How About We and the Broadminded show.

She has performed at the Word Bookstore, Inner Monologues, Standard Issues and Speakeasy Stories. She is currently working on a memoir about being raised by a conservative Indian family, swindling European cab drivers and scaling glaciers. Find out more about Rachel at RachelKhona.com or follow her on Twitter at @RachelKhona.

The post The Legend of Chateau Marmont appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

I can’t swim. Actually let me clarify: I am a shitty swimmer. I can perform a sort of freestyle that resembles a dying fish. And I do consider myself a doggie paddling connoisseur.

Nonetheless, for my next vacation I decided to go to a surf camp in the Dominican Republic.

“Are you crazy?” my friends asked, fearful that I might kill myself with my utter lack of aquatic skills.

“You’re not seriously going to learn how to surf are you?”

“Well no, of course not,” I would retort. “That would be an exercise in suicide.”

No, I was going to surf camp to get some much-needed sun, drink fruity umbrella-festooned libations and perhaps get a little writing done. I have long been a proponent of solo vacays. The thrill of the adventure and the excitement of not knowing what’s going to happen next had metamorphosed into a sort of crack-cocaine addiction for me.

Will I be carousing with Germans as I climb Masada at 3 a.m. or befriending firefighters over drinks in Costa Rica? How exactly will I get from point “A” to “B” when there are unexpectedly no buses running and I have no currency? The adrenalin rush of figuring things out and making friends on my own was completely lost when I traveled with friends. It’s like riding a bike solo as opposed to tandem. Or better yet, skydiving.

However, I was facing a serious conundrum: My backpacking-through-Europe-on-a-shoestring-days were long dead, and the last thing I wanted to do was stay in a hostel. I didn’t want to spend my time hanging out with drunk pot-smoking 20-somethings who were just out to get laid, and I didn’t want to come back to a hostel dorm to find two people having sex in the bed next to me or find a couple getting it on in a dark corner of the lobby.

And unlike my backpacking days, I actually had something I didn’t have then: some money (as well as a better appreciation for cleanliness). I had traveled solo extensively for business, but that was different. I spent most of the day in meetings and spent nights chattering with whomever happened to be at the hotel bar, all on the company dime.

While regular hotels are great for groups of people, it is hardly suitable for the solo traveler looking to make friends. I needed an alternative. After being inspired by that movie The Holiday — when Cameron Diaz does a home exchange and meets a sexy and eligible Brit played by Jude Law — I too did a home exchange. Unfortunately, not only did I not meet Jude Law, I spent most of my time by myself. After all, how many people are you going to meet staying in someone else’s apartment?

So where does an adult solo traveler go for instant camaraderie? For deep conversations with strangers about the pros and cons of Keynesian economic theory? Or the subliminal meaning of Beyonce’s latest video?

It was by accident that I stumbled onto a surf camp. Upon pouring through copious guidebooks, asking Facebook friends for their advice and scouring Trip Advisor, I came upon a cute surf camp in the Dominican Republic named Swell Surf Camp. The camp was owned by two British expats, and offered a pool, free breakfast cooked to your specifications, a billiards table, board games, a TV and assorted DVDs and best of all, a communal dinner that ensured that without doubt I would make friends. And at $70 a night it hardly seemed like the kind of place one would find college-age kids seeking drunken vomit-inducing revelry and meat market hookups. It seemed perfect for a solo globetrotter such as myself. I booked my stay immediately.

Laptop in hand, I arrived at the camp around 11 a.m. It was relatively quiet as everyone had just come back from an early morning surf lesson and thus had passed out for a mid-morning nap.

“So,” Marisa the camp manager started explaining, “Surf lessons are everyday at 630 a.m. We–”

“Oh I don’t surf.”

She looked at me as though I just said I had three feet. For the record, I do not.

“So what do you plan on doing while you’re here?” she asked.

“I just came here to write and drink a few cocktails. I figured this was as good a place to do that. But I do other stuff!” I pointed out lest she thought I was just totally nonathletic. “I also ride bikes and do yoga.”

“In that case, there is a yoga class that meets down the street, although they haven’t really gotten their schedule together yet.”

She showed me to my room upstairs that overlooked the pool. With two double beds, a closet and spotless bathroom, it was a vast room for what it cost. I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t thought of this before. It was total genius.

But would there be anyone interesting to talk to or would I be stuck hanging out with couples gazing googly-eyed, college kids on drunk/makeout patrol, or even worse, socially-stunted types who had no choice but to travel alone?

After a brief nap, I headed downstairs to the communal kitchen. Marisa was playing a spirited game of poker with a 40-something gentleman sporting glasses and a shiny bald head.

“Rachel”, Marisa said, “Meet Nate.”

My experience with men of a certain age flying solo in warm locales is they are looking for one thing: prostitute punany.

Surprisingly, Nate was not that guy. A self-made man, he had retired early and came down to surf camp solo several times a year to kite surf. Razor sharp, Nate was like a walking encyclopedia of everything that had ever happened in the known universe since the beginning of time.

The rest of the guests were equally as interesting, intelligent, and mature. There was Adam, who had just spent time in Haiti doing non-profit work; Jacob, a banker visiting with his shy girlfriend; David, who had decided to treat himself to a vacation post-divorce; and Linda and Mark, fellow New Yorkers who were taking a much-needed vacation before their pending nuptials in a year.

It was just what I was looking for: mature, intelligent, sociable adults of all stripes and nationalities. Over the next few days, we ate dinners together, went through copious amounts of beer and wine, played pool and went through many rounds of poker. In between, we would take dips in the pool or lay out. I was quite pleased with myself for discovering this new secret of solo travel and made it my mission to visit surf camps in other countries as well.

There was one other person staying at the camp: Brad. Brad was the 22-year-old tall blond surf instructor at the camp. He was on a post-college jaunt around the world, with the Dominican Republic just being one of his many stops. He was intelligent, funny and very cute. He also drank too much, had $10 to his name and spoke in that special dialect only reserved for those who are either surfers or are under the age of 25. Nonetheless, he seemingly fit in with everyone else despite his younger age.

So, after a night of drinking when Brad flipped on the TV and invited me to sit next to him, I didn’t hesitate. Slightly tipsy, I sauntered over to Brad.

“What’cha watching?” I asked.

“Mad Men“, he said as he patted the bean bag next to him and took another toke off his joint, “Watch it with me.”

I poured myself a glass of wine from the kitchen and plopped down next to him. He left so little space for me that my leg was now grazing his.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

I couldn’t help but giggle. Was he seriously hitting on me? I couldn’t remember the last time a guy actually used that as a line. I think I might have been 22. I looked at him through my tipsy gaze. He is really so cute, I thought to myself.

I’m not sure what was said next, but in a matter of minutes we were furiously making out. Omigod, I thought to myself, Am I really making out with Brad in the middle of the den floor? What on earth am I doing? The security guard was making his rounds and I anxiously tried to avoid him catching us. Brad was sliding his hand up my skirt when all of a sudden we heard a splash.

I turned around. It was Nate. He was casually relaxing in the pool reading a book as if nothing was going on, yet he was fully facing us. I wasn’t sure if he saw anything, but regardless I wanted to melt into the floor from utter embarrassment. I hid my head in Brad’s chest.

My skirt was hiked up, my hair was a mess, I was drunk, Brad reeked of weed and I was this close to having sex on the floor with a 22-year-old surfer. So much for trying to escape drunken collegiate types. A wave of shame engulfed me. I had become exactly what I was trying to escape. But then I remembered one thing: Unlike in my younger years, I actually had a room. A private room.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered.

“OK,” Brad replied.

And with that, we scampered upstairs.

By Rachel Khona

About the Author

Hailing from a magical land called New Jersey, Rachel is a writer and performer living somewhere in the 5th dimension. In addition to serving as contributing editor for Vaga, she has written for Cosmopolitan, Inked, and Ask Men and been featured as an expert on How About We and the Broadminded show.

She has performed at the Word Bookstore, Inner Monologues, Standard Issues, and Speakeasy Stories. She is currently working on a memoir about being raised by a conservative Indian family, swindling European cab drivers and scaling glaciers. Find out more about Rachel at RachelKhona.com or follow her on Twitter at @RachelKhona.

The post My Unplanned Romantic Adventure At A Surf Camp In The Dominican Republic appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.