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.