Au Revoir, Paris

And so closes a too-short chapter of ma vie. I can't help but wonder where I'll go from here. Will I ever flâne through your streets again, rainy Paris?

I cannot even begin to describe the emotions I'm experiencing right now. It's a little bit like leaving behind a friend, or a lover, for an indeterminate amount of time, but it's more than that, even. I'm leaving behind a part of myself - because I discovered so much about myself here, and I have discovered that so much of me is here.

It's very similar to the way I felt when we moved from the only house I'd lived in for 18 years. Except in that house I spilled oil on the rug, I drew a self-portrait on the wall, I chipped off part of the countertop when I busted my lip on it. Here, I don't feel like I've been able to leave my mark, so the departure is more like ending a relationship to which I'm just beginning to devote myself.

I cannot imagine who I would be, what I'd be doing, where I'd be going today if I had not studied in Paris. Being here, away from every jugement, every sticky-situation, and every important life-changing decision, is like being stuck in time - time allotted specifically for me and my self-discovery.

I feel so incredibly lucky to have had this experience, and I know it will affect the way I live the rest of my life. I love Paris.

Yes, this is real. and creepy. and so very French.

Latest ad:
Orangina on a soda machine. I didn't really take note of it until a few days ago, when a friend pointed out how ridiculous it was. Just goes to show how little is shocking here. Click on the image to get the full, close-up effect.

Ô, comme j'adore le français

Paris, je rentrerai bientôt...mais à ce moment, j'ai besoin de soleil, j'ai besoin d'amour, j'ai besoin de ma ville, alors même qu'elle est ennuyante, c'est toujours chez moi, et j'en ai besoin.

On dit qu'on ne parle pas couramment avant qu'on commence à rêver dans la deuxième langue, mais moi, je ne rêve jamais de rien; mais l'autre nuit j'ai rêvé; j'ai rêvé en trois langues, et je n'en ai aucune connu.

Paris, tu me fatigues, mais je suis dévouée, je suis attachée à toi. Pourquoi est-ce que tu ne m'aimes pas? Ou ai-je tort? Tu ne me montres jamais ton soleil, et ma peau change à l'orangé, tes nuages pleuvent comme je pleure quand je pense au départ.

"The Waltz" Auguste Rodin

J'avais des liaisons, des aventures, avec tes écrivains: tes rues que je connaîs si bien. Et mes amants me manqueraient si je les avais quitté, mais ils voyagent mieux que toi, Paris, ils ne me laisseront jamais.

Paris, je comprends pourquoi tes écrivains sont si solennels - c'est la pluie qui crée cet effet, c'est ta pluie qui crée tes grands écrivains.

This is where it's at, my friends, this is where it's at.

Continuing on my "french ad" theme...here's a new one I found in the metro. This is one of my personal favorite types of cheese, and the ad alone makes me salivate every time I walk by it.

School Spirit

Umm, yes please.

Response to "5 types of Facebook Trolls"

5 Types of Facebook Trolls, and what to do with them

Troll type: Old-time Nobody Confirm or Ignore? Confirm

Agreed. It's actually kind of fun, in my opinion, to look up people you haven't seen since before they hit puberty, just to see what they look like now, if for no other reason.

Troll type: New service addict Confirm or Ignore? Ignore

I can't honestly say I've ever had this problem, though I agree with the verdict. Can't have too many pointless web-related emails spamming my inbox - I draw the line at requests to join vampire fb games.

Troll type: Bar friend Confirm or Ignore? Confirm

Hmmm...this is a hard one. Confirm, but added to a list that doesn't include my address or AIM. Besides, you could even argue that fb profiles are created for these types of people - those you hardly know, but that you would like to think of you as "sexy." This is why photos are carefully tagged/untagged in a selective form of self-promotion aimed towards those people who don't know "what you're really like."

Troll type: The stranger Confirm or Ignore? Think first

I've only gotten these types of requests a handful of times, and usually I send a very polite message apologizing for forgetting where we met. If they respond with a reminder, I confirm, if not, I ignore.

Troll type: The ghost Confirm or Ignore? Remove

I have to admit, when I first read this label, I thought it meant those people who you are fb friends with and have since passed away. The kind of ghost the author refers to, though, is someone completely different, and I agree with the verdict. However, I think we should consider what to do about my version of "the ghost." It's very strange to see them pop up on your friends list or especially "birthday reminder" sidebar, but I particularly find it interesting that their walls and pages become an homage to their lives. I think for that reason, these "ghosts" should be a "keep."

Any thoughts?

we apologize for that brief interruption...

we will now return to your regularly scheduled broadcast.

l'homme nerveux

You can always tell who are the tourists on the metro: those grey-suited businessmen nervously clutching their fanny packs, glancing suspiciously at the other occupants of the car. They never can anticipate the jerks of the train, and they make uncomfortable faces when they inevitably tumble onto the people they previously expected to pick-pocket them, and they check their fancy American watches every minute or so to make sure they're not running behind - to make sure the metro isn't running behind.

But then, that's how we all started out, I suppose. I remember holding tight to my zippered backpack, glaring at anyone who got too close. I suppose the man could have been starting a new job, a new life, in Paris, and was in the first stages of the adjustment period.

And then he got off at Trocadéro. Clearly a tourist.

love the french

French ads never cease to amuse me...this one is just pretty:

Looking for a new game?

latest chuckle-worthy french ad:

This is how much I love my school...

Okay, as boring as the following "poll" and subsequent text sounds, read it, and let me know how you feel after you find the blatant back-woods uneducated mistake made by this university supposedly "on the same level as the ivys."

Halloween/Thanksgiving in Paris

-------B
>{()}/"> <----Thanksgiving Turkey
--/ \

Hopefully that turkey turned out okay. I suppose it doesn't really look like a turkey, but, you know...HAPPY THANKSGIVING...en retard. Since (obviously) Thanksgiving is not celebrated over here, there is no word for it in French, so instead my host family just pronounces "Thanksgiving" with a french accent, "tangzgeeveeng" which, in my opinion, is raucously hilarious, and I had to struggle to control my water-up-the-nose laughing reflex at dinner when they said that. Because I don't want them thinking I'm any weirder than they already think I am.

That having been said, our school (being all-American) hosted a "tangzgeeveeng" dinner in a crypt (no joke) at a local church. I almost informed them that they were mixing their traditional American holidays, but I figured it would at the very least be interesting to see how a French Thanksgiving/Halloween goes down.

But as it turns out, the "crypt" was really just a large, echoey basement filled with bats and cobwebs (well, not really, but it was echoey and large), and we got to have a "traditional thanksgiving meal" which consisted of a French take on the most well-known American dishes - turkey, dressing, cranberry jelly, carrot soufflé (though I must admit, I like the soufflé dhall makes better), and, of course, pumpkin pie. To top it all off, a couple of guys I know dressed up as an Indian and a Pilgrim, sporting a fake bow and arrow & a fake gun respectively. I'm sure they got a lot of looks on the Métro. ...I'm surprised they didn't get arrested on the Métro (especially considering a few weeks ago a friend of mine who is black was sleeping on the metro on the way home, and the next thing he knew, a crazy lady had accused him of trying to steal her purse, and he was arrested and brought to the police station. true story).

Anywayyyyy....the rest of Thanksgiving evening passed uneventfully, my friend Maria and I tried to find a hookah bar (unsuccessfully) and instead ended up in a train station after 11, trying to find a phone book to look up hookah bars. But we lacked several key elements: 1) an open news kiosk 2) knowledge of the area 3) how to say "hookah" in French. All of which posed a problem. So we ended up dusting off a Paris travel guide we found in the only open bookstore in the Gare Montparnasse & just looked up bars that sounded like they might have hookah (how racist are we? - judging a bar's likelihood to have hookah by the name - pfft). A scolding from a cranky bookstore lady and a ride on the metro stop later, and we arrived at the Café de la Mosqué.

Unfortunately, the only thing we found there was aladin-boot fabric, 5 middle aged/eastern men squeezed around a table for two, and the best mint tea you can buy for 2 euro. But no hookah.

The next day, Maria and I played tourist and climbed the Arc de Triomphe, and then walked down the Champs Elysées, where I bought the best waffle of my life, covered in Nutella and whipped cream - definitely worth the stomach ache, even though it took me a while to figure out exactly how to eat the mountains of whipped cream without getting it all over myself. Afterwards, we went to a playhouse near the Grand Palais and saw an absurdist play called "Les Diablogues" - which was full of hilarosity (which apparently is a word, as it is not being underlined by Mac auto spell-check...oh, wait....there it goes...drat).

So that night we actually DID find a hookah bar (looked one up online, fancy that). It was in the center of the city, too, so you'd expect it not to be sketch, right? Wrong.. There was a creepy bouncer-type guy standing at the door who moved out of our way as we passed, and a glassed off room for the "smokers". The bouncer man met us at the register & ushered us down a creeky, narrow, winding staircase to a hallway that had a big rubbermaid tub filled with water underneath a leak in the ceiling. After offering to turn on the tv, he took our order and left.

Later, some friends met up with us (took a while, though, since the place seemed like such a hole-in-the-wall) and we played that game where you write down the name of a celebrity or somebody everyone knows and then pass it to your neighbor and then you go around doing a "guess who" type round of questions until everyone guesses who's on their card. Yeah, it was muchos fun. Particularly since I'd never played before.

Anyway, that's how my Thanksgiving weekend went down - not particularly eventful, but fun nonetheless.

I am so sick of parisiens

The good thing about failure is that it makes me work hard enough to prove them wrong.

jeu d'enfant

The more French I learn, the more I am amused...

An exercise in editing...

I think I may have ruined him by giving him a face

you've stolen my sleep, but I'm not sure I want it back - I loved it too much to imagine it could be as good the second time, My thoughts have fled till I can't form a sentence in french no more -> I only regret connecting thoughts - connecting across this world so grand, Funny how a squeaky pen can say more than 'I love you', But I've falsely discovered the source => discovered that I'm lost & that I don't care, that I'd rather wander down this endless track than stop for a minute to plant a seed, Chez moi=>chez moi? it's a phrase I don't connaîs no more, Mine is not a static existence=>nothing can wait till I'm 30, I will be 20 forever forever. Forever

in this perpetually pensive state - once drawn, never penned.

Counting down the days...

ahhhhh...I really think I have ADD. I can never focus on one idea. My plans for the future are so widespread and diverse, that one minute I am really excited about a new internship opportunity, etc, and the next minute I am searching online for reality shows to audition for. I mean, I want to do everything! But I only have so many years to do them in. I can't imagine giving up any of my plans, either. And the fulfillment of each would drastically change my life in a different way. gahhhh...where's dr. phil when I need him? Or maybe just a career counselor...too bad they don't have those in France.

je me suis perdue

In trying to rediscover my voice, I've found that I'm not even sure what my voice is.

I've got too many layers of paint to chip off, and I don't know if I even want to - aren't I happy? That's what I tell myself every day, so I must be, right? I've created myself like a sim, just enough of this, that, and the other, just enough so that no one can Not Love Me. It feels real, it feels false, but if it's not me, then I'm just lost.

et il pleut

Sometimes I forget how much I love sitting around with friends on a rainy day.

Claude Monet's Beard...

Hier, nous sommes allés à Giverny, chez Claude Monet, où j'ai vu beaucoup, beaucoup de fleurs. (Et aussi des feuilles de nénuphar...quel mot ><) Voilà mes photos préférés que j'ai pris:

Catching Up

sept 25th

Two hours before the train leaves, a space opens in the Theatre class, and I decide to drop History of Photography. A monumental decision made a little too late. Because the train to Nice leaves in two hours, and I don't have a ticket. But at least there's a chance now - no more feeling sorry for myself, the day's suddenly gotten better. I stuff clothes in my back pack, in the rush packing way more than I need - funny how that works - overcompensation I guess. Back pack stuffed to capacity, I only need a little beret to make me look more like a girl scout…well, maybe some cookies, too. So I head down the street to wait for Maria, who is somehow taking forever to tie her shoes (so she says), though I later learn she was writing a note to her host mom in lipstick (or something). In any case, I was antsy – I mean, potty dance antsy. BUT we finally get on the metro, and a good 45 minutes later we arrive at the Gare de Lyon. *phew* (almost).

Standing in an epic-ly long line to see if I can get a ticket to Nice. At to the front, I tell the nice man where I want to go. He says, “get out” (or something) and says that it’s full. I said PLS PLS PLSSSSSSS, batting my eyelids. He just looks at me. Hanging my head, I pick up my bursting-at-the-seams pink backpack and walk sadly away, being as dramatic as possible so the mean man might feel a burst of sympathy and call out behind me, “WAIT, we can put you in the luggage hold,” but none such luck. Maria says, “I mean, I don’t think he’s lying or anything, buuuuut let’s check the automatic ticket sellers just in case.” Not yet resigned to returning in defeat to my host family that already thinks I’m crazy, I agree to try the auto-seller.

Unfortunately, dumbo-boy in front of us thinks that re-inserting his credit card into the slot 34 times will make it work. I try to convey my impatience by complaining loudly to Maria - because this method has shown such good results in the past and is bound to work doubly well in a foreign country. Eventually, the idiot in front of us realizes the futility of his efforts and plods away, sucking his thumb and dragging his blanket (or something). I go through the necessary steps (buy tickets: train leaving presto: economy: leaving NOW). None such luck. The tickets are all sold out. Too bad ticket-man wasn’t lying. In frustration, I continuously click the forward and back arrows on the screen, mostly hoping to destroy it, but willing to accept the simple pleasure of beating up an inanimate object.

And then: QUEL MIRACLE!! An available ticket appears! Maybe I do have friends in the ticket booth! Turning around, I catch the ticket man’s eye, and, as if in slow motion, he winks at me, and all the disgruntled travelers standing in line turn one by one to face me, and for one moment of pure happiness, they all grasp hands and sing the holy note of divine success! Success, Success!! Chime the heavens!! COMPLETE AND UTTER WINNNNN!! (or something).

And then I try to buy it with my credit card. One word keeps blinking across the screen: FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. Resisting my urge to kick it, I try my other card. Same result. The train is leaving in ten minutes. TEN MINUTES! Maria, whose family is from Portugal, has another card that works in the EU. She suggests we try it. After a moment of hesitation, which went something like this: “No! Wait, but, no. No, I shouldn’t. Well, maybe…are you sure?” we try the card – it worked! Now, 7 minutes to get to the train. We run. Get to the train with five minutes to spare. Maria asks about my seat number, but I have decided that I will simply ask someone in Maria and Becky’s car to switch with me.

UNFORTUNATELY a VERY SLOW (dare I say retarded) man was clumsily trying to load his suitcase into the luggage rack. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, he kept glancing around apologetically. At this point, I realize that it would be inconceivable to ask someone to switch cars with me with only 2 minutes left before the train leaves. I glance at my ticket: car 18. CAR EIGHTEEN!? HOLY FFFFFFFFFF! It’s on the complete other side of the train. And it’s on the other half – which is not accessible from this half. FFFFFFFFFFFFFF. I stuttered something about getting to my seat to M & B and leap out of the train car, nearly colliding with a man dashing headlong to the other end of the train. I run alongside him. Meanwhile, the train whistle begins to blow. I kid you not – the whistle is blowing. And I nearly shit out my heart.

At the last second, the running man and I jump onto the first car on the second half of the train, breathing heavily, just as the train starts moving. I want to high-five him, but decide not to for three reasons: 1) I’m doubled over trying to breathe 2) I don’t think he’d be the kind of man to high-five a stranger, as he’s probably French and 3) the car standing area is crowded with people who’ve just gotten on and don’t want to risk missing the train by going to their seats (fancy that). One of them is a woman who is taking up at least half the available space. She looks a little bug-eyed and frantic, but I took a chance and gasped out a question about how to get to the next car. She gestures wildly, nearly hitting a bald man in the face, and keeps telling me to wait – I’m not quite getting it, so I keep rephrasing my question, but she pulls out her own ticket, points to the “Car 18” and says, “Attendez.”

But I’ve never been one for inaction, so instead I glance around at the other passengers – one is a tall, thin, very dark man holding a briefcase and wearing a pristinely pressed suit. He seems so calmly put together that I can’t imagine him being late for anything. I follow him up the stairs to the second level. Yes! A door! Pressing the red button to open the sliding door, I would have enjoyed the schwick sound it made as the airtight seal unlocked, if I weren’t still feeling the adrenalin. I hobble through the aisle ways, unsteady on my feet as the train picks up speed, probably knocking several people in the face with my stuffed-to-capacity backpack, and come across the “meal car.” Aka traveling bar. Make a mental note to come back to this, and keep going through the cars.

Finally, I make it – I’m in the last car, last seat, part of a foursome around a table. Three middle-aged men are sitting in the other three seats, and I try to ignore them. I decide that I need a drink, yes, a drink is ver, ver necessaire right now. Stowing my luggage away, I set off in search of the traveling bar.

But instead of a drink, I was enticed by the Toblerone. OH TOBLERONE!!! Mmmmmm. 2 euro. Yeah. It’s worth it. And I get a small cup of “l’eau plat” and go to sit on a stool at one of the bars facing a window. Everything streams by like in a dream, or like when you’re drunk, lying down to stare at the ceiling. I don’t know how much time is passing, but I’m trying to calm down from my ridiculous last few hours. A man sits down next to me, and then leaves. A woman does, too. And I’m just staring out the window. Finally, I’ve long since finished my chocolate and small cup of water, I get up and stagger back to my seat five cars away, trying to get used to the sway and shake of the train.

Finally, I make it back, double check my belongings, and sit down. Two of the men, clearly travel companions, have started playing cards, speaking it what sounds like a Marseillaise accent. The third man is wearing what looks like a pilot’s uniform and is staring off into the distance. I pull out some homework and settle down.

Eventually, one of the card players decides to go to sleep, and I have tired of my work, so I pull out my own deck of cards and start a game of portable solitaire. The third man gets up and strides off. The other card player is clearly trying to get to sleep – trying one position after another, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes closed. Finally, his curiosity - or boredom - gets the best of him, and he asks about my cards. I show them to him – casino cut, bought from a vending machine in Las Vegas, 50 cents. At this point, the other card player has woken up, and the two of them ask if I know how to play poker.

By the time the third man has returned, changed into a sweatshirt from his pilot’s uniform, we three are engaged in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em. The pilot looks from me to the two middle-aged card players. “Do you want to play?” asks one of the players, in French. “No, no, I don’t know how to play,” he responds good-naturedly. “We’ll teach you.” The first card-player left little room for argument, and the pilot joined in our game of Texas Hold ‘Em.

Finally, we tired of poker, and one of the card-players, blond, with tanned wrinkled skin, and a little bit of a beer belly, rolls up the sleeves of his button-down and asks me if I know any other games. Of course I do. I explain that I played cards all the time with my family when I was little and there was nothing else to do. So I pulled out my pocket dictionary and began explaining the game of “Spades” or, in French, “Piques.” During our first round of betting, I get paired with the skinny dark-haired card player, and the pilot is paired with the blond player. My partner bids 10, 11 between the two of us – so, we must win 11/13 tricks. I look at the pilot – his turn to bid – he asks a question, his head turned my way, but I can’t tell if he’s looking at me – wait, hold it, that is a cross-eyed pilot. Umm. I answer his question, write down the bids, and we begin the game.

Several hours later, the cross-eyed pilot has gotten off, and I am left with the two card-players. As they have been speaking to each other half in French, half in Italian, I ask where in Italy they come from. They glance across the table at each other, then the dark-haired one looks at me and says, “We live in Cannes, France, but we come from a small city on the Red Sea.” And that was that. It didn’t seem like a topic they wanted to discuss, so I didn’t ask why they’d left Italy. By the time we reach their stop, they had taught me Italian Rummy, and I shared a few more stories about playing cards with my siblings. They stand together, and gather up their Louis Vuitton luggage. The dark-haired player looks at me and asks, “What is your name?” I tell him, and he says, gesturing to the other man “This is Nicolas, and I am Stanly.” “Enchanté.” He then picks up his professional-grade playing cards and says, “I would like to give these to you.” I grin, completely taken off guard, “Oh! Thank you!” Then I pull out my Las Vegas casino cards, “do you want these, then?” “Why not?” Stanly says. He tucks them into his suitcase and they head to the front of the car, “Au Revoir.”

Thursday is as Thursday does. And this Thursday is sleepy.

Woah. How did I get so tired? ...it could be because of the jackhammers that start at 7am every morning. Or it could be because the son of my host family came home really late the other night to visit (he doesn't live here) and then when he got up extremement early to leave, he had a conversation in the hallway RIGHT OUTSIDE MY DOOR at ABOVE NORMAL volume level. Or it could be because I have been staying up much later than I should be because I get excited whenever the internet works for longer than five minutes without reseting it. Or it could be because I've been drinking way more espresso than I have ever drunk in my life, and the downside is that I have some serious crashes. Or it could be because I went to happy hour today at a bar that didn't actually have "happy hour" slash he just wanted to overcharge us...I think he slipped something in my drink.

Drat, not to mention I think I may have shrunk my blouse in the stupid French washer. MAN French appliances SUCK BALLS. That includes French computers with their French keyboards, that have French keys, but are really programmed to type like American keyboards, so you have to rely on memory to type - sucks for people who normally have to hunt-and-peck.

Also, if I EVER have to have a class on the differences between 'tout' and 'tous' again, I may just walk out, or risk suffering uncontrollable stomach spasms/vomitting. And the worst thing was that we all knew we were supposed to have our "final exam" today for our one class we've had these past two weeks. So of course, I was chomping at the bit to just take the damn thing and get it over with. If anything, I was more confused about tout & tous after she 'taught' them to us than before. At least they were clear in my mind.

Oh well, my prof thinks I'm an idiot anyway because I always lose interest halfway through the two-hour class and start doodling. Today I drew a little man on a rock on an island with palm trees and sand and an ocean. He had on a straw hat with one piece hanging out of his mouth like those stereotypical pics of farmers. Yeah. It was a good day, what can I say. If I had a scanner, I'd post the pic here. But I don't. And don't get me started on French printers.

Btw, in case you hadn't noticed, I am posting because I am bored. Which means it is solely for my entertainment and not yours. Which means that this is a meaningless, boring post that will undoubtly be a waste of your time to read. HOWEVER it does provide another way to procrastinate...and I am counting on that to be reason enough to read this entry. Yes. Fingers crossed.

The Last Metro Stop

Somehow I made it home tonight. I followed my new-found friends to Montmartre, around a corner and back again. We passed by the pub, but didn't stop - 2 dollar beer is not enticing enough for two American girls in too short skirts. Stop for a drink and wait.

She's there, stumbling up the walkway - bottle of wine'll do that to you. Safely past the catcalls and on the street again. Try to hold her up, hold me up, hold my head up and don't stare. Downhill, past lights and cheap sex movies. A stand selling hotdogs, and three men rolling dice. 'Just down the road a bit, it's important - you'll love him, really.'

Five off-turns, dodging a car wash, interstate traffic, illegal crossings, no turn signal, you know. Police have got him cornered, against his car. He's shaking, arms crossed, it is cold, you know, 7 degrees, you know. Celsius, that is. 'Hope you don't think he's gay. He comes off as gay. But he's not gay. He's not. I know he's not. Hope you don't think he is.'

Round-about once more, rung the bell, passed through to winding stairs, winding up and up and up (one floor up), knock, ring, knock - ring? He's answered. 'These are my friends - ' Hope she remembers my name. Why am I even here - acting like the mother hen, gather them round, gather them under, under your wings - they're only 20, not like you, you're 20, so gather them up, and bring them home. 'It's getting late, the metro...'

On three and it's down, 'Megan, right - Megan. Nice to meet you, we should get going. I know - wanted her to meet him. He's not gay. I know. Well, I don't know, but she knows. Yes, see you later.'

Ambling in the street while he rolls his cigarette. They smoke - resisted the urge to ask why, though it seemed so appropriate. And we pass the homeless man, crazed talking in his square, trashing his own bed, sifting through litter with shrewd eyes, watching us walk by. Not brisk enough. The carwash, again. And the Metro. It's 12:35. Kisses, kisses, enchanté, hope you make it home. Don't do it in any bushes.

And the race begins. One without control of the outcome - can't force my legs any faster than the metro can drive. Vomitting won't solve this one, so that stomach ache is worthless. 'Yes, I thought he was gay, didn't you? She says he's not, but I thought he was.' Stops: douze. A dozen. Twelve. Six to hers, and only one transfer. It's gonna be close. Stopped smelling long ago. It's all trapped in my throat.

Later, and bonne chance - both, one, and all four. Waiting, waiting, and scoot over. Arrivée - the start gun sounds - car doors slamming, and my flats flapping on the stairs - try not to fall, watch the step, watch it.

There, train departs, sign turns off - young man whistles, I square up - I could take him, could I, though? If he snatched my purse, I'd punch him like the other girl did, kick him in the balls and reclaim my belongings. But he's just whistling, and I'm glaring, staring, don't stare. Don't stare.

Last Train. What Was It They Said About The Metro Cars? Never empty, always someone, never sit empty, always be someone, with someone, near someone, someone trustworthy or normal looking. No sign of whistling man. Or anyone. I sit. Emptily. Stop #2 I stand. Hugging the pole, wavering a little. A lot. Chugging wine never has a good effect. So dagum tired. Hugging the pole, the sneezed on pole, coughed on, wiped on, spat on pole. Too bad I don't believe in hand-sanitizer.

Last stop, and two big men follow with their eyes. Follow with their feet. I run. Run, run - home is only two blocks away. Run, past a girl rushing in tight pants, clinging to her purse, probably neighbors. Safe neighborhood. No bombs. No muggers, voleurs, peepers - only windows on the first floor, and old ladies at bread stores.

The codebox is there, needed, and unneeded, I remember it, I remember I took the last train, I remember to shut the door behind me, and I get on the elevator to the 5th floor.

Be Happy

Quelle belle langue, la pluie.

And as my first week in Paris passes, I find myself falling into habit.

Oh, how I desire to write completely in French - the language itself is more like poetry than anything I've created. Though there is something nostalgic about my mother tongue. Something undefinably comforting, like a secret between friends. And I have come to realize that speaking English in Paris does not desecrate the city's history, but rather enhances the dimensions in which this city exists.

I am living in a place where people cross cultures to interact with each other, going so far as to learn new vocabulary and grammar rules. The only reason English-speakers are ever looked down on here is due to their refusal to blend and accept other cultures.

This city shelters truly the most civilized people, not because of their dress, their mannerisms or their jobs, but because of their ability to take part in another culture without losing touch with their own.

Certainly America is a melting-pot, but with a recipe that turns out the same thing time and again. Paris is like a fromagerie - with all kinds of exotic cheeses to choose from, each with its own unique flavor, but all with a common thread.

Paris, je t'aime.

Okay, I'm sorry, but this is just trop ridicule.

I am in Paris, on my laptop in a picturesque bedroom surrounded by polished hardwood floors, a traditional wardrobe, and fold-out secretary. At one end of the room there is an extra-long beautifully paneled white window which I have left open. A slight, pleasant breeze carries with it a classical tune on the piano and the magnified clinking of plates and silverware.

It would seem that Parisian restaurants epitomize the French experience, and, somehow, that essence has wafted my way as a much-needed reminder of the welcoming beauty of the city in which I have taken up residence. "C'est belle, la vie" the streets sing, as the piano trills.

And I have somehow garnered the opportunity to experience this story-like life.

Strangely, it seems to fit right in like a missing bone I never knew I needed to walk. And I find it all the more sorrowful because it is not a fairytale, it is not make-believe. Like every city I've visited, it is real, but this is Paris. And I can't get enough of it.

Back with a vengence

Saw the new Batman movie tonight (finally, I know) ...note to self: watching scary crazy people on screen is not pleasant, though entertaining.

Here's an entertaining scenario: me, at a tanning bed...that is having a crisis.

Okay, a little background: I've never been to a tanning bed. In fact, for most of my life I have shunned tanning-bed goers with the self-righteousness of the very pale. Although, admittedly it could be a little bit of jealousy...since I used to look like an adopted Mexican child in my family, but went through a "not leaving the house" phase and lost my natural tan. So, here I am with an outdoors job this summer that has left me with a very tan upper body and extremely pale legs. I am two-toned, my friends...and by "two-toned" I mean, if you took a picture of me and cut it in half, you would not identify my legs as belonging to my body. AND that's what brought me to Palmetto Tan - a serious need to have my legs match the rest of me.

That Having Been Said. My first, nervous visit to the tanning bed was not destined to be peaceful. I strode up to the door and cautiously checked the hours - not open on Labor Day. darn. With a little d. As I peered around the door, the girl at the counter didn't look up, clearly busy with the red-necked client trying to hide beneath his baseball cap as he filled out the "new client" form. I stood awkwardly at the desk for a few minutes, taking in the pee-scented room and the various tanning lotions and products lining the walls. Gee, I didn't realize how many artistic manifestations there could be of the sun.

Finally, the girl looked up - "What can I do for you?"
I shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes, but finally managed, "Well...I've never been here before" Her immediate chuckle/sigh and eye roll made me laugh nervously and shift my weight from one foot to another. She pulled out a small chart-pad, ripped off the first page and smacked it on the counter in front of me. "Do you have an ID?" She was glancing over the redneck's form as she spoke, clearly not expecting a response.

The man left for one of the rooms lining the hallway, and I had the girl's undivided attention. Well, sort of. "This damn computer won't work - it stopped working this morning, and...UHHHGGHH I think I'm going to have to replace it." I gave what I thought was my best concerned look (eyebrows brought to center, mouth scrunched into a "hmm") and tried to remember what a normal person would do in this situation. Scratch that, what would my mom do in this situation? Make a suggestion. Right. But what the hell do I know about computers? Nothing. Viruses. I guess. "Did you do a virus scan?" I asked helpfully, and it was apparently enough to keep the conversation going, "I've done everything" heavy sigh "even that woman" she gestured wildly "oh nevermind." Since I was unable to adequately mask my disinterest she moved on to the subject at hand - my new membership to the establishment in which we were idling.

As the girl rushed through the explanations of each package, "That Woman" came out of door #2. Wearing a dress resembling a jean jumpsuit that covered her large frame, and a haircut the Beatles would be ashamed of, That Woman was clearly a frequent visitor to Palmetto Tan. And She Had An Opinion.
And She Had An Opinion.
As That Woman dictated solutions for the girl's computer woes, I snuck into door #2. and stood there. The girl finally got a minute, grabbed her sanitizer bottle and quickly sprayed down the bakin' bed for me. Uttered some rushed instructions, which I had her repeat. twice. And still didn't get it. But I consider myself relatively smart, and I figured I'd simply read the labels on under the buttons and make do. It would have been a poor choice had I had an alternative.

Being that my legs are so pale (as discussed above) the girl suggested I flip around ainsi que my legs would be getting the more intense rays meant for my face. okay. but the fan buttons, etc, are on that side. Okay. So I undressed and got in (after hitting the start button on the wall and locating a pair of those eye-goggle things people get made fun of for all the time). I lay there for a second. Well. Do I just sit here? I guess I should close the lid. Man, am I supposed to adjust the fans with my toes? Geez it's hot in here. Okay, deep breath, you can do this. Eight minutes. You can do this. For normalcy's sake, you can do this. Oh! There're the fans. Okay, good. *Mental slap* don't look at the lights. Sleep, okay sleep. Man it's been a while - don't think about Final Destination. See it still lifts. Geez my bum feels like it's on fire. Well the girl said it would get hot. She was right. Okay, can't be long now. Okay...Okay...yeah. BUZZZZZ
And suddenly I could hear the overplayed pop radio station again. I was out and applying lotion. More tanner lotion. Yeah. Gotta have it, right?

I finally got dressed again, and as I emerged from door #2, there were no fewer than 5 people gathered around the malfunctioning hardware. "How was it?" the girl asked with a knowing grin. "It was, uh...good" I stuttered. "Okay, well, you're all set. See you later" "Okay...uh...thanks." I sort of shuffle-stepped to the door and pulled it open.

Well. I have learned my lesson: semper ubi sub-ubi. How bout you latin scholars try that one on for size? HA.

I've already been to the mall...and it SUCKED!

Half-way through moving a set of shelves, my friend Laura and I got distracted and went to buy some CDs.  On the way back, we again got distracted and stopped by Kroger to purchase food and Blenheim Ginger Ale (this, my friends, is religion).  When we arrived, we separated in order to increase efficiency and said we'd meet up in the fresh vegetable aisle. 

After ten minutes of unsuccessful searching (you gotta hit the stores at the right time for Blenheim), I picked up brie and french bread instead (my secondary religion) and trudged unhappily over to the veggie aisle to report.  But Laura was no where to be seen.  So, I browsed a little bit and then started walking back to the soda aisle, thinking she'd gone in search of the elusive Blenheim.  

As was to be expected, I got distracted.  By the Nora Roberts/Danielle Steele aisle.  Man, I have not splurged on a grocery store book in a long time.  I browsed for a minute, searching for the most ridiculous cover and title on the shelf.  It was as I was reading the back cover of Hot Property that I heard my name called.  I looked up to see Laura with an armful of stuff...more specifically, vegetables, soy sauce, ketchup, and two 'bodice-rippers'.  We both looked at each other, armfuls of unusual combinations of food (although if I'd found the Blenheim, it would've been better) and romance novels, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.  "Whew! Oh Kroger, where it all started," I finally contained my giggles, "I remember why we're friends."

On the way back, we listened to "Californication" and I did dramatic readings from Hot Property.  

---

Go on then, do it

I want to see your nose crinkle,

your eyebrows furrow - 

Bite your cheek and think,

she reads what?!

But I represent the real, the norm,

the not-so-special,

This is life, folks,

and I gotta be proud of something.

You can take your fancy words

and stuff it - 

this is me.

You...villain!

Lately, there seems to be a lot of speculation about who's going to be the next batman villain.   

My guess?  Clay Aiken.  Here're my reasons:

1. His resemblance to Joel Osteen (look at the eyes)

2. His apparent ability to brainwash people (don't look at the eyes)

Thoughts, anyone?

Back to Atlanta...

Okay, so the story in Atlanta, DAY TWO cont.

After the anti-climactic trip to the consulate, we made a trip to, where else, the mall.  Mom, in her ocd way mapped out exactly where we came in and how to get back to our car so as not to run into trouble on the way out (fancy that).  We browsed the stores - walked in an Aldo that had about 10 SALE SALE SALE signs in the front & a rather flamboyant associate in the back who glared at us as we walked in.  You could see him mentally size us up: Will they buy something?  I think not. hmmph.  

Almost to prove him wrong, I did buy something - a pair of light pink pointy-toed pumps on sale for 19.98 (did I mention it was conveniently tax-free weekend? ...and somehow high heels go under "educational"), which I tested before purchasing by strutting around the store to a Mika song, irony of ironies.  When we went to the register, the man's mood had significantly improved, and he graciously moved the 3 pairs of sneakers from in front of the register so as to make it more convenient for us to pay.  yeah. 

Eventually, we met up with my sister, who kept sighing deeply in an I can't believe I just took THE Bar way and was continuously using lawyer terms in normal sentences such as "Well, he did avail himself to the state" etc etc.  

Sarah, being who she is (a rare type of creature that sheds clothes like skin, in whose natural habitat we were currently wandering), led us directly to Anthropologie.  It was there that I fell in love.

We all waltzed in (because you can't walk in Anthropologie, the store is too...noble for that) and of course, being who we are (people with jobs and bills) we went immediately to the back of the store where there was a giant "Sale" sign hoisted over three mess-hall-table-sized clothing racks full of color-coded tops and skirts and pants and short shorts and bermuda shorts and sweaters and shrugs and, and, and...basically heaven to any female who wears clothes.  Of course, there were a few boyfriends and husbands here and there sheepishly toting shopping bags full of women's underwear and make-up products, all looking at the walls and the ceiling, as if trying not too appear too interested in women's clothing.  

As I was perusing the racks, an older woman came up beside me and started thumbing through the hangers.  Man, something smells like...soup.  Startled, I glanced at the older woman.  She paid me no attention, intent on her task.  Some people just don't understand the need for deodorant.  I walked away, annoyed.  But the smell wouldn't go away.  I looked around, wondering where it was coming from.  Geez, this whole place smells bad.  Then it dawned on me.  Pizza dawned on me.  I was carrying a pizza to-go bag left over from lunch.  I stuck my face in the bag, then quickly withdrew it.  Yep, soup-pizza.  Lovely.  

Ignoring the smell, I went back to the racks.  Then I saw it - a cream-colored knit shrug with a hoodie.  Wow, that is beautiful.  And suddenly, I was imagining our future together - wearing it everyday - with tank tops, with t-shirts, with skirts and pants, it would go with anything - taking it to Paris - sporting the knit shrug with the pointless hood, I knew could feel stylish even among the fashion elite.  I was in love.  

I didn't have to try it on, but went straight to the register.  Thirty minutes later, it was mine, and we were on the road home.  

Have Heart

Okay, so I know this isn't the story about falling in love in Atlanta like I promised, but that'll have to wait because I told my brother I'd write some song lyrics by tomorrow so we can make a song.  ...Now I've never attempted to write a song before, but I write a good bit of poetry, so I can't imagine it would be too different (just add chorus and music?)  In any case, here's my first attempt [Atlanta story to be continued later]:

Have Heart

You weren't perfect -
not what I wanted,
not what I needed.

You weren't made for me,
no, no

but I didn't have experience
and your jaded heart had bite.

You told me
who you wanted
so I could mold me
so you could hold me
and tell me
I have somebody's love.

Listen, I know it's not love,
I have hands,
I have eyes,
I have lips,
I have heart -
baby, I have heart,
and I know it's not love.

it wasn't serious -
falling asleep
and waking,
it simply was -
you were,
and I was,
we were

not here

my senses were worn,
tortured, guilty,
and your rough hands taunted,
and your smooth voice soothed,

like liquor, you soothed.

Listen, I know it's not love,
I have hands,
I have eyes,
I have lips,
I have heart -
baby, I have heart,
and I know it's not love.

[Clearly songwriting is not my forte, so don't judge] >_<

the moon rises. the sun also rises.

>_<  (oh, but it gets better)

After a night well spent watching PBS' America's Ballroom Challenge, which takes place in what looks like a high school gym and is attended by droves of over-dressed latino stereotypes who catcall to the (obviously russian, but supposedly "Canadian") dancers as each pair comes onto the stage; and Discovery's Shark Week, which pretty much speaks for itself, I dreamed about zombies (which makes complete sense) and woke up in the morning feeling calm and refreshed/like my soul had been eaten.  

Okay, if you managed to get through that incredibly long run-on, I am impressed.  Here's a brownie: 

*Insert Deep Breath Here*

Hhokay, so check-out and everything goes fine, we tip the valet and climb into our car (sounds familiar...) 

HOWEVER, we are preempted by four men in blue button-downs, all sporting sport jackets thrown sportingly over their shoulders, who toss their luggage in the bed of their silver Silverado (I kid you not) in a very "I'm on a commercial" way.  They proceed to pull a 56-point turn in order to get out of our way and off to what I'm sure was a business meeting in a conference room with an oval table, rolly chairs, and a good view of the Atlanta skyline.  

Meanwhile, Mom and I finally get on our way, and, without further distraction, make it to the consulate.  We pull into the parking deck of an elegant blue-glass 20-story building, walk through the black marble vault-ceilinged lobby, and stare at our shiny reflections in the elevator doors as we wait for the little arrow to light up.  Eventually, we get an elevator, and wait nervously inside for the small compartment to come to a stop.  The doors open onto a dingy, taupe-carpeted hall area, and my eyes go directly to a small table in front of a pair of glass double doors clouded with smudges.  A man too large for his folding chair and (very) obviously American looks at the pair of us with amusement and asks if I have an appointment.  Yes I have an appointment, I got here 30 minutes early, so you better not send me away.  The man in the folding chair sends my mom back to the dramatic lobby and me around the corner to a small waiting area in front of a what looks like a window from a movie theater - complete with bullet-proof plexiglass, microphone, and very small space to slide papers and money under.  I wait.  10 minutes later a girl shows up.  She sits down next to me and immediately pulls out her cell phone and begins chatting.  I wait.  Folding chair man is making jokes to a friend about how little french he speaks.  Cell phone girl gets called to the window.  I keep waiting.  Finally, the girl (who apparently was a flight attendant for Delta, which I will be boycotting for a while...) gathers her stuff and leaves, and I get called to the window.  They ask for my documents, which I provide, tell me I'm missing two things that were not listed on the site, keep everything (including my passport), and send me on my way. ten minutes later.  

...It's late again - More to come tomorrow about how I fell in love in Atlanta.  Congrats on getting through that.  You deserve another brownie.  

Well, that was anti-climactic.

The journey to Atlanta to get my visa yesterday did not start off well.

Since I had (naturally) waited until the last minute to

 get my important papers together, there was a thunderstorm.

Now, just a little history:

We moved to the boondocks three years ago, and in the first 2-3 months we lived here, our power went out literally six times. At least. So, being the rational, clear-thinking people that we are, we put about five hundred lightning rods on our roof, turning our house into what looks like the headquarters of a radio station. But at least it solved our power-outage problem because our power has not gone out since.

...Until yesterday, when I needed to use the copier.

But not wanting to wait around for the power to come back on, we decide to go to the UPS store to make copies. So we load up and hop into the car, and proceed to realize that - there ain no way we gettin out of the garage.

Well, a ladder, some pullies, and two diet cokes later, my mother and I (two minute females) manage to manually open the door, drive the car out, and manually reclose it (which, believe it or not, was the more difficult feat), and finally get the trip underway. By the time we have made the copies at the UPS store and run the errands that my mother had conveniently left until then to run, it was well past five o'clock, which put us right in the middle of getting-off-work traffic.

We did finally make it, munching on the way on burnt popcorn & chocolate chip cookie "100-calorie packs" that tasted like popsicle sticks. As we arrive into the hotel, check in and waddle, encumbered by luggage, up to the elevators, several other people have also arrived (at this point, I want you to take out your list of stereotypes and see if there's anyone missing in this crowd):

1. Family of four - the children hugging pillows and following doggedly behind the parents

2. Two middle-aged heavyset businessmen with New Jersey accents and probably violin cases in their rooms

3. Two blonde "early thirties" businesswomen being chatted up by the men, "You two look like sisters! harharhar"

4. Asian delivery man holding two or three bags of chinese food

5. Us - Vera Bradley-toting, shorts sporting, unassuming southern us.

And we all crowd into the elevator together. ...well, everyone but the asian delivery guy who stands at the back of the line to get in, then, realizing with dismay that there's no more room, backs off to wait for the next elevator.

----Okay, I'll post more from Day 2 when it's not past my bedtime.

Hella-what?

So I survived the padded table, dim lights, and hot gel of the ImageCare people.  whew.  But not without almost peeing myself as the technician pressed on my "please come with a full" bladder with the ultrasound rod and the warm gel.  ...gee, that almost sounds dirty.  Well, results to come - apparently the strenuous breathing exercises they put me through (I'm telling you, they think I'm preggers) were not good enough to make the pictures readable on the spot, but I'll let you know if there're any growths...or miraculous births.  

Other news - my vet is on vacation and my horse is still off.  BUT the best part of the story is WHERE he is on vacation and WHAT he will be doing there:

WHERE: Canada

WHAT: Heli-hiking

WHY: Well, why the hell not? 

So, if my vet comes back alive, hopefully my horse will get better.  In the meantime, here's some reading I think anyone would enjoy, picked up from the only reliable source of information, Yahoo! News (where else?): 

10 Things You No Longer Have to Worry About  

Oh, the hemoglobin!

So, going in to get an ultrasound today - and before you think anything, NO I'm not pregnant - apparently that's not the only thing they use that procedure for.  Although, the whole situation does sound a little fishy - come in with a full bladder and be prepared for an ultrasound. huh.  In all likelihood I will show up at the place and get tended to by a school nurse armed with a mercury thermometer.  "So are you sure you're not pregnant?  Because it's got to be that or mono."  Oh well, I have pretty good faith in equipment that is also used by my large animal vet. 

Eh.  Countdown to Paris begins.  (assuming I get approved for a Visa this Thursday...because I didn't wait till the last minute to get those forms in).  Apparently Campus France liked my application, though, because I applied the day after I received an email from my program saying that Campus France has been unresponsive for some students for over a month.  I was accepted a week and a half later.  Hmm, must be my finesse.  But more likely, dumb luck...and nun chuck skills.