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:
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
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.”
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, September 18, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, September 15, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
Monday, September 8, 2008
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-l
ong 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.
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-l
ong 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.
Monday, August 25, 2008
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.
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.
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