Leaving on a jet plane

Well, I think I'm packed - think being the operative word. I tried to get everything into one big suitcase and one little one, which means I had to stuff my poor little pound puppy in the big one because I don't have anything else to take on as a carry on, and I am not happy about that. Whenever I pack, I get really anxious and paranoid that I'll forget something really important, or that I'll leave something behind that I'll end up needing. I don't think it'll be a problem this time, but I'm still freaking out anyways. Maybe it's because I'm going to end up leaving my apartment in such a state of disarray that my landlord will think I'm a total slob who can't take care of herself if he comes in during the break to fix stuff. And that I just cannot have, so I'll probably end up staying up until the wee hours of the morning making sure things look like they're reasonably organized. Although it'll still look ridiculous, but what can you expect? I grabbed things randomly here and there as I thought I would need them, and what's left makes it look like I grabbed whatever I could and fled for some unknown reason relating to one or several crimes.

At least I'll be home tomorrow, and that's all that really matters. Nevermind that I have 17 hours of travel to go through before I get there. I'm really looking forward to being home with family and friends, and, frankly, a population that doesn't speak French. I know I'm going to miss it, and I will probably end up seeking out French meet up groups while I'm home, but I gotta say, I really like being in an environment where people don't automatically think I'm a stupid tourist. Although yesterday a mom and daughter stopped me and a friend in the Marais and asked if we were from around there so we could give them directions, so that was nice.

I don't know what I'm going to do. I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my life ever since I got here, and I still can't decide what to do. I won't lie - I love living here. And if I could find a nice cushy job, I would consider staying. But finding a job is hard enough for a French person, let alone an American. And I'm not so sure I could deal with this French bureaucracy shit again... I've noticed that, in general, I'm happy here, but there are so many daily annoyances - rude people on the metro who never smile, strikes, expensive everything, five flights of stairs, etc. - that I keep telling myself, I can't live here. Well, I mean, longer than I'm going to for now. But then something will happen - a nice bus ride, a pleasant interaction with someone on the street, cute Christmas markets - and I think I never want to leave. But I don't have a solid group of friends here, not to mention the lack of family... So I think what I'm going to do is just scrap everything and spend the rest of the time here as if I'm not coming back. I'm going to stop thinking about it so much and just live. Sound like a plan?

I should start cleaning and grab some dinner. See you on the other side.... of the Atlantic. HA! Ha.... ha. A plus tard, crocodiles.

Enfin

I still have one more week of classes and exams before I can officially declare myself on winter break, when I'll be on my way back home to sweet sunny California, where the people are nice and the coffee comes in pint-sized cups, but I checked out a while ago. I don't know what it is, but I just can't bring myself to do work in my apartment, and since it's crappy outside, I don't want to leave, especially since I'd just have to wait in line outside for who knows how long to get into the library. So my time has been filled mostly with Grey's Anatomy instead of note reviewing, like it should be. But anyways...

Last night, after finally seeing Enchanted (so freaking adorable, by the way), we went out to Caveau de la Huchette to celebrate a friend's birthday. I'd never been there, but I knew it was a really famous place, and really instrumental (no pun intended) in the 1950s-60s Paris jazz scene. But last night there was a swing band, and even though I didn't dance, I had a really good time. It's not exactly the kind of place people my age go to meet other people, which is kind of liberating, actually. The time flew by, and at 1, I looked at my watch, then around the dancefloor and noticed there was a pretty big number of geriatrics out there doin' their stuff better than the young ones. Except that one guy with the hat... and maybe the sweating guy, who at one point sat on my lap and kissed me. Ok, so it was on the cheek, but it provided hours of laughter, nonetheless. It felt good to be out and social, and I found out my night bus goes right by there, which is very useful, although I think I might have been slightly less sketched out if I'd just walked the twenty minutes home. But I got home, trudged up the stairs, and pretty much collapsed in bed.

I've been thinking a lot about this semester, looking back on it and whatnot, which I guess can be expected since a)it's almost over, and b)it's the end of the year, so I'm thinking of ways I can... make my life better when I get back? First thing's first, I'm listening to more Ray LaMontagne. I'm going to find every song he's released and put it on my ipod. Really, if you haven't checked him out, please do. Nothing calms me down or makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside like his CD. Alright, back on track... this semester... It's been good, I guess. I kind of feel like I fell back into the exact slump I was trying to avoid this time. The reason I came back, really, was to redo the year and do it right. But so far I feel like I'm failing miserably. I could go on and on about why, but they'd just all be excuses, and like I was telling my brother, no matter what you ask me or suggest I do, I'll just find an excuse to brush off my own responsibility. So I think that might be my resolution this year, to not make any more excuses. I think if I did, my life would be a lot easier, probably happier, who knows. All I know is that I feel like I'm living in Paris without actually LIVING in Paris, which, I know, doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But the other grad students get it - we have so much work to do, and with all the strikes and other bullshit, we spend so much time trying to get from point A to point B that we never have time to sit for a minute and appreciate it, or even really participate in it. This weekend is an exception to the rule, probably because I just stopped giving a shit about work, knowing that I can get the grades I got on other exams doing relatively minimal studying, which isn't tooting my own horn, but more a critique of my classes. I'm getting off track, but I do want to say this so people don't think I'm totally wasting my time - I am learning a hell of a lot here, I am, it just doesn't feel like I am all the time, it doesn't feel like it's in any way formal. But I'm learning. Trust me, I am.

But back to this weekend's activities. We went to Printemps yesterday to see... wait for it... an igloo on the roof of the building. Yes. An igloo. Not a real one, per se, but definitely a good interpretation. I also did a little bit of holiday shopping, and bought myself a totally useless item that is my first kitchen tool. MY first kitchen tool, all to myself, and it's a whisk made to look like a squid, with eyes and all. I love it. When I get my own place and get to furnish it, I'm going to have to be careful, because I seriously could have spent my college tuition on kitchenwares alone.

I was supposed to interview someone on what it is to be French last night, but I got a migraine and couldn't do it. I could, however, go to the movie and the club, but that was only after I rested and ate and took advil. The person I'm supposed to interview told me I might be able to hang out with her and her friends (if the timing works out) on Sunday, and I could do the interview there, which is pretty cool, considering they're all Jewish. She also told me about a Channukah party tonight in the 3rd that I might go to, but it's 15 euros, and I just went out last night, and tomorrow is pub quiz, so I think I may want to conserve my funds a little bit.

I'm going to try to get some reading done. I can't wait to get home and see everyone, and watch movies, and read, and not have to do work. Well, I do have to write a paper and do some research, but it'll work out. There will be sun and almost-guilt-free Starbucks and In-n-Out and friends and family and a one-story house instead of five flights of stairs. It will be awesome.

Two in One

Paris and I have come up on some tough times recently. It was love at first sight, and now it's deteriorated to a love-hate relationship, more manic than... well, let's just say more manic than I am when I'm PMSing - and if you know me, you know the waves of contradictory emotions can be pretty damn ginormous. Let me take a few steps back.

My mom came in last Friday, and after I took a bitch of a midterm during which I'm relatively sure I permanently damaged the muscles in my hand (writing for three and a half hours straight can do that), we set off for Bruges. We missed our first train because the cabbie took the long way (and didn't even help with bags, the bastard), and then the ticket distributor decided it didn't want to read my card. I only learned later, after waiting in line for 15 minutes, that the machines don't take American cards, which makes perfect sense, considering that was the card I bought the tickets with online and nowhere on the site did it say the machines wouldn't accept them at the station. But I digress. The woman at the counter found a way for us to get on the next train, which we almost missed because it took her so long, and three hours later, we were in fucking freezing, but beautiful, Bruges. Oh man, if you thought Parisian drivers were crazy... The city was beautiful, even though it rained the WHOLE time. We went to the chocolate museum, walked around a lot, and bought lace. It was so relaxing to get out of Paris for a weekend, like I've said before, so I won't say it again. But when we got to the hotel, as I threw myself onto the bed, I said, "Man, I don't want to go back to Paris." Because when you're in Paris, you tend to forget that life exists outside the Periphérique, that the world goes on and on, and that just a three-hour train ride away, people don't understand you if you say "quatre-vingts-dix" for 90, and people manage to get by without big boulevards and an efficient public transportation system.

Which brings me to the hate part of the love-hate relationship. When we got back into Paris, it was pouring, which I really didn't care about that much, but it was cold, and it was obvious that winter had just dropped itself on the city like an unwelcome obnoxious friend that just drops by unannounced and wants to crash for a few weeks while he gets his life back on track, subsequently eating you out of house and home, using all the toilet paper, never putting the toilet seat down, leaving windows open, and just being a general nuisance that you would really rather just kick out onto the street. So. Paris. Monday and Tuesday were uneventful days, but everyone seemed a little more stressed than usual, as the whole city was preparing for the massive transit strike, like the one a few weeks ago that resulted in absolutely no changes to Sarkozy's policies, only this time the grève was going to go on for an "indeterminate" amount of time. So Wendesday, instead of catching the metro at 9 in the morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 7 and went to get a Vélib at 8, not knowing how many there would be left, or how long it would take me to bike to school, which is a little over 4.5 miles away. I know, 4.5 miles on a bike is not that long, but in sub-freezing temperature, early in the morning, biking through Paris, as much as I love it, is the last thing I want to do. Anyways, to shorten this ridiculous story, I had to bike home, too, on Wednesday and Thursday.

This strike is absolutely ridiculous. And similarly to last time, it's not a complete strike. Certain unions are on strike, which means some trains are still working, but not at a constant rate. No. In the morning, most trains are running at some reduced capacity, from one every five minutes, to one every hour. But later in the afternoon, only a few lines might be working. So you never know how you're going to get where you need to go, often resulting in fights over Vélibs (I witnessed 3 on Wednesday) and extremely crowded streets, as well as two-hour long taxi lines (I know because I waited in one last night with my mom).

Now, I understand why these people are on strike, but I still think it's absolutely ridiculous. France is so resistant to change, to modernization, that it's being left in the dust by every other Western country that actually realizes and accepts the potential that modern technology and policy can bring. And this fucking grève is such a pain in the ass. It's not like the one twelve years ago, which apparently went on for a month, but it's severely pissing everyone off. It essentially immobilizes the city, but in a totally useless way. Come on, we already knew how important public transportation workers were. We didn't need them to all go on strike to prove that. Jesus Christ, just go to work and stop pissing us off. We get your point, but not driving the metros - which only consists of pushing a couple of buttons, by the way - is not going to get you anywhere. Or us, for that matter.

Originally, people were predicting this would be like the strike of '95, or whatever year it was, and that it would cripple the city. Well, it hasn't been as bad, but still not great. Additionally, the unions' goal was to keep it going until Tuesday, when civil servants are striking - that's teachers, the gas company, the post office, water, sanitation, and G-d knows who else. Now THAT is a crippling strike. There may be power outages, lack of water, and other disagreeable side effects. WHAT COUNTRY AM I LIVING IN?! It's a good thing I don't have anything to do on Tuesday, so I can just stay in with all the work I have to do, maybe by candlelight, if necessary.

I can't tell you how many times I've uttered some version of the phrase "I hate Paris" in the last week. It's true, the city is beautiful, and there is no place like it, and I love living here, but I hate it. This French bureaucratic bullshit is really getting to me. Three documents to get a cell phone? Chest x-rays to get a visa? A reservation to get into a library? What the shit is that? Every time I think about it, I get angry. I want to yell things, very bad things, to people I see in the street. Mostly to middle-aged women in the 16th and the 8th that look me up and down, like they're wondering what I'm doing in this city. Oh, story:

Mom and I went shopping. Well, we tried. Tuesday and Friday were my days off, and I haven't really been shopping since I've been here, for two main reasons: first, I'm poor, and I've learned not to be so frivolous with my money like I was last time; second, and also something I learned from last time, they just don't make clothes for fatties in Paris. They make them for older women with either no taste or too much, and no 22 year-old could afford any of it. But I thought I'd check out the one or two brands in the grands magasins that I knew carried larger sizes, and I really needed a new pair of shoes (no, really, my old ones have holes), so we ventured into the sea of women and their emasculated husbands and boyfriends, but ultimately came up empty-handed. In the Galeries Lafayette, there are two brands with larger sizes, both for older women and astronomical prices; in Printemps, only one, which is also at Lafayette. We decided to eat at Printemps, in the restaurant under the cupola, one of my favorite architectural spots in the city. So, this restaurant is a very trendy spot, apparently, for all the business people in the area, which I did not know. And most of the tables, like in many Parisian cafés and restaurants, are very close together. Alright, enough description. The point is that there was this elderly woman eating by herself, next to us, that kept staring at my mom and me the whole time, in a very judgmental way, and the woman on the other side of us did the same thing - and when we left, I was trying to be nice and move the table back, and she basically dismissed me, saying "bye bye," even though I was speaking to her in French. I don't know why, but it was the first time I've actually felt bad and aware of the fact that I am a FAT American in Paris. I mean, yeah, I notice it all the time. I look at the things women wear and think, "that would look so stupid on me," or, "that only works on skinny girls," mostly with boots. Damn my meaty calves! But generally, I haven't really been overly self-conscious like I used to be, maybe because I just stopped caring about it, or because I'm so busy thinking about other crap that I haven't had the time to sit down and actually give serious thought to what I look like in relation to everyone else. And I also haven't been getting harassed by men on the street or regularly discouraged when I go try things on, because I've stopped doing that. I don't know... it's just that since Tuesday, every time I notice someone looking at me, I can't help but think they're being judgmental or feeling sorry for me, and even that they just don't like me, simply because I'm fat.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Anyways, Friday, I gathered my sources for plus-size stores in Paris, and found a gem of a boutique in the 17th, not far from where I used to live. We spent more money than I'd care to disclose, but I got some very key items, including a pair of knee-high boots that actually fit and don't kill my feet (see remark about 2 hour taxi lines above). I wish I had friends to tell about that store, because it was so great. The woman was helpful and nice, not to mention patient. Sure beats the mechanical stick figures at the grands magasins who don't know their own stock. There are a lot of women in Paris who could use a store like that, because after all, French women DO get fat.

Thus ends the bitching for this week. Tune in again next week when we'll discuss: neon-orange dog shit on the streets, unhelpful police officers, the nonsensical absence of plastic bags in supermarkets, washing machines that take two hours, and other aggravations of the City of Lights.

Thursday morning?

Life is pretty much back to normal. School has loosened up a little, and I'm back to being just one and a half readings behind and not having started the book I was supposed to have read for yesterday. Well, I'm on page two, so that should count for something. Anyways, my friend came in on Friday, and then her friend who's staying in Germany right now decided to meet us here (and subsequently crash at my place, which was a little presumtuous of him to think he automatically could, but he turned out to be relatively nice, so it wasn't that bad). We didn't get to do everything I wanted, but that's ok, because it was her visit, and after we did the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, she was ready to go. I didn't get any work done over the whole weekend, but I figured it was alright, considering how much work I'd done during the weeks before. And now this entry is turning into a yawn-fest, so I'll just keep moving on...

Some friends and I went to the Comedie-française on Monday night to see Le Mariage de Figaro, which was pretty damn good. The guy playing the count was the same guy who I saw play Cyrano a year and a half ago, and he was simply amazing. Figaro overdid it a bit, but the Countess was good. It was nice to get out, go to the theater and laugh a bit. We should all try it and get used to it, considering that writer's strike may fuck up your TV plans, and you may be forced to seek alternative diversions to books, conversation, and - gasp - the work you're supposed to be doing in the first place insteead of watching TV. It'll probably be a good thing for me, since then there really won't be anything for me to do on my computer to procrastinate, and I'll have to actually buckle down and do work. But trust me, I will be the first one to curl up in a little ball of cold sweat and shivers in withdrawal of my favorite shows. No more Office? Grey's? UGLY BETTY?! Please, I'm already starting to feel nauseous, let's not start thinking about it just yet.

My mom is coming in tomorrow, and we're going straight to Bruges for chocolate and lace. Hopefully I'll get some reading done on the train, because I have 500 pages of Zola that aren't going to read themselves.

I think I'll come back to this sometime next week when I haven't just woken up and don't know exactly what I'm writing. But at least I'm writing, right? I don't get much time to do anything except work or procrastination - and that does not include writing - so I guess it's alright if this is just rambling. It's warming up my fingers for the good stuff.

That sounded incredibly dirty, didn't it? Ah well. Occupational hazard.

Une pause

Well, it's been a while. And the sad part is not much has happened since the 18th.

Every semester there's that week or two where all of a sudden you have mountains of work to do and it seems like you'll never get out alive, and the only hope you have, the only thing that lets you see the light at the end of the tunnel, is knowing that as soon as it's over, you can party, sleep in, or do whatever it is you do to celebrate the end of Hell Week. Well, my friends, my Hell Week has just ended. I had two huge exposés to do on Wednesday, and thankfully, it is now Friday, which means Wednesday - and my exposés - have come and gone and I don't have to read anything more about Haussmann or Don Juan. As yesterday was Toussaint (a Catholic holiday which is also a national holiday here - so much for Church and State, right?), I was really looking forward to sleeping in until who knows when, maybe taking a stroll in the Jardin des Plantes, and generally just chillaxing until ultimately having to start the behemoth of a novel that is "Au Bonheur des Dames." But then I remembered I'd agreed to work on the translation of the play, so I did that for four hours with another girl instead of seeing how long I could spend in bed before I really got sick of staring at the ceiling.

After that, I caught up on Californication and headed out to watch Superbad - Supergrave in French - with some friends. I don't really understand how this works, but the French people laughed more than the Americans. Maybe it was the mistranslation/omission of half of the dialogue (which was kind of interesting to read in subtitles), but the French thought it was hilarious! They didn't get the awkwardness, though, like when that creepy guy goes "Are you Jimmy's brother? Because you look like him. You really do. ..You really do...." or when Evan says "samesies", which is perhaps my favorite line in the movie. Well, no, it isn't, but still funny. Anyways, I just thought it was interesting that a movie that was so blatantly American managed to be a success in France. Especially since they like to pride themselves on the fact that what they do is "art" and what we do is "business." Please. Like France doesn't have rich movie stars and producers? Excuse me - Juliette Binoche, Daniel Auteuil, Guillaume Canet, Vincent Cassel, Monica Belucci, Jean Dujardin, Marillon Cotillard. And need I mention the movies Les Bronzées 3, Taxi 1, 2, and 3, OSS 117, and Camping? Come on, France. Let's be a little more hypocritical, shall we?

So today I'm going to try to clean up my place a little, since an old friend is coming to stay for the weekend. Hopefully my jeans, which I washed two days ago, will be dry by then, along with the towels I still have to wash. I have this weekend all planned out - the perfect first Paris visit. This tour includes, but is not limited to visits to: the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Sacre-Coeur, the Luxembourg Gardens, l'As du Falafel, the Champs-Elysées, and the fashion district. Also included: partying (perhaps on the Seine), and a pub quiz where we will win a bottle of wine like we did last week. But truthfully, the part I'm most looking forward to is the falafel. It's been a month since those golden, crispy balls of chickpeas have entered the vacuum of an orifice that is my mouth, and I'm starting to have withdrawals.

Also, I wanted to talk about the Opera being on strike, but I think just saying it sums up the ridiculousness of the statement. Come on. The fucking OPERA is on strike. An artistic organization, in FRANCE, is on strike. Come the fuck on!

Catch Up

I wish I'd written earlier, because there were so many things I wanted to write about, but school's been consuming my life of late, and I just haven't had the time to clog the internet with my ridiculous ramblings. Until now. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

Last Friday, I had to get up at an ungodly hour to get to the Gare Montparnasse for an early train to La Rochelle with the NYU kids. And yes, I say kids. I say kids because they are undergrads. My four years of college and dedication to the Master's program has earned me that right. Also, because most of them complained the whole time about how the cities we saw weren't "cool enough". Cool enough, my ass, undergrads! At Saintes, we saw a Roman arena, a 12th century abbey, a 1st century Roman arch, and took a cruise down the Charentes; at Rochefort, we had an amazing dinner (including wine on NYU's dime) and saw a replica-in-the-making of an 18th century ship; in La Rochelle, we got sunlight over a beautiful marina on the Atlantic ocean, we got a tour of an old eco-friendly city in a horse-drawn carriage, we got to listen to jazz by the old port, we got to explore! And most importantly, we got out of Paris! Now, I love Paris - don't get me wrong, but occasionally, it's really nice to get out of the metropolitan cage and into the open country, because, you know, there is more to France than just Paris. People here tend to forget that. I know I do. But apparently all that wasn't enough for the undergrads. At the hotel in Rochefort, from across the courtyard, we saw a group of them get dressed up in sheets and have a toga party. Oh yes, a toga party à la Animal House, complete with "toga! toga! toga!" chanting. Ah, kids.

On the train back, a friend and I applied our French facepaint in anticipation of the semifinal rugby match between France and England. As soon as the train stopped, we RAN to the metro to get to a friend's place as fast as we could. We'd already missed the first half of the game, and apparently England was winning. We finally got there, munched on some pizza, and watched in extreme stress and trepidation that France would be defeated.... and they were. It was one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Rugby players - the manliest men you could possibly find in France - six foot monoliths that reach the weight capacity of a Paris elevator all on their own - CHABAL, for fuck's sake, the missing link, the Caveman, Attila, the Anaesthetist - all walking off the field in such disappointment. Dropping to their knees and sobbing. And Chabal was the worst. I wanted to hug him, if it weren't for my fear that he'd snap me in two or eat my head. (Because he eats babies, don't you know.) So tomorrow, they face Argentina, the team that beat them in the beginning (quel honte!), for third place. My opinion is that France is either not going to care because there's no way they'll win the cup, and they'll just end up giving it to Argentina, or that they'll be so bitter and angry about last week and losing to Argentina in the first place that they'll pummel the other team, and that someone will either be paralyzed or die. Or both. I don't know. All I'm saying is that I wouldn't be surprised if Chabal ran into someone and ripped off the top half of his body. Or bit off his nose. I mean, I'm just sayin'....

Nothing else of import happened this week, except that I got sick, I'm way behind in reading, and, oh yeah, all public transportation went on strike today. France, seriously. What the fuck is up with these damn grèves? It's like a national past time. Listen, if you're going to strike, strike. I appreciate the warning and all, but really, if you're going to go on strike, go on strike full stop. Don't say you're going to go on strike and then leave half of the trains running in the morning, and then trickle them down to none except line 14 - which is completely and totally useless to 90% of the Paris population, by the way - hence screwing over the rest of the city and suburbs. I waited 40 minutes for my metro today, after walking for 20, mostly uphill. Then I found out at the end of the day that that line wasn't working anymore, so I took a vélib home. [Basically you can rent a bike for super cheap if you're only using it for less than an hour.] Actually, that was a pretty great experience. So thank you, SNCF, for starting this stupid grève. You forced me to experience the pleasure of the vélib and riding around Paris at rush hour. No, really, I mean it. I'm not being sarcastic. It was pretty amazing, that ride home. It took a while - about 45 minutes, plus walking time, but it was a nice ride. Mostly downhill or flat, which was a plus. Except all of the bikes were taken because of the strike, so I had to wait with my friend for a while. I made her ride with me because, let's face it, riding a bike in Paris without a helmet is kind of a death wish. Or so you'd think. People were actually very considerate, except the taxis, which don't count anyways because they're always assholes. I only almost got hit once, and narrowly avoided a ten-bike catastrophe in front of the Place de la Concorde.

Sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is, walking around with my blinders on, so focused on getting wherever it is that I'm going. In the metro you don't get to see it. Even on the bus, there's something off about it. Yes, the bus is infinitely better than the metro, any day, but there's still something between you and the city. There's something keeping you from experiencing the city at its best. On a bike, on the quai, riding past the Louvre at sunset, you get it all. The rosy sky, the buildings reflecting the tangerine setting sun, the breeze blowing through the leaves, giving those ones that are hanging on just by one little thread of stem that extra push to fall ever so gracefully onto the street... Well, then they get run over by a scooter, it's true, but for that moment, while it's gently floating down to its inevitable demise, while you're coasting along by hundreds of years of history and culture, zoning out the honking of the taxis, taking in everything around you, you realize how lucky you are to be living here, to have the experience you're having. Not just in general - the whole year, the Parisian life, and all that - but that one moment when you stop worrying about being hit by an asshole in a Peugot and start appreciating where you are.

Nuit Blanche

I'd been looking forward to last night for, oh, I don't know, let's say two years. Nuit Blanche was the single coolest experience of my year abroad at Smith, and I couldn't wait to come back and do it again, only not be lame this time and not spend the better part of two hours watching fire jugglers in front of Notre-Dame, as entertaining as that was. I got even more excited when France beat whoever they played last week and made it to the quarter finals of the rugby world cup, which, in case you didn't know (and you probably didn't because you probably live in the US, where rugby is a strange, violent sport which no one understands and everyone is reluctant to play - as they should be, because it's a strange, violent, ridiculous sport) is being held in France this year. Every week since I've been here, the city's been flooded with a different group of tourists visiting in support of their team - first it was the Scottish, then the Irish, then the English... I know there've been other countries - I noticed Spain a couple of times - but I only really paid attention to the UK and Ireland because they were so damn drunk and loud all the time. There were probably some Argentinians here, since they played at Saint-Denis, but they're much better behaved, I think. And some Bulgarians, too. But I digress.

Last night, in addition to the awesomeness that is Nuit Blanche, the quarter final was on at 9, and like every other game in the cup, it was broadcast on a huge screen in front of the Hotel de Ville. Some friends and I decided to do a pregame picnic and stay for the game - ok, so it was my idea, and I got really into it and bought facepaint and organized the whole thing - ALLEZ LES BLEUS! Anyways, the place was a fucking mob scene. Thousands of people trying to make their way to watch the game, most of them having to down beers and wine before crossing the barriers because they didn't allow glass containers. After much confusion, we finally all met up, took a squat somewhere pretty far away, scarfed down our food, and tried to watch the game. Ok, so five of us tried to watch the game, but the other three were content just sitting on the ground drinking wine and some beers some guy unloaded on us because he was going out - don't worry, they were closed, so they were not roofied. Yes, that sentence was actually uttered last night.

We couldn't see anything because of the huge crowd (see below), so we headed back to a Frenchie's place and all sat around watching the game, drinking whatever and all of what was on the table, including the bottle of absinthe from Prague. The match was SO tense! One thing I don't understand is how all the French people I talked to kept saying, "Oh, France is going to lose. No, seriously, they're going to get massacred," and yet they all - ALL - showed up at Hotel de Ville with flags and face paint! Anyways, in what was apparently a miraculous turn of events, France eventually came back from a 10-0 shamefest to a 20-18 win! Over the best team in the world!! ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!! (Sidenote: I think it's funny that their little slogan is basically the same as the Dodgers' "Go Blue".) There was a huge uproar in the surrounding buildings, kind of like when the Red Sox won the world series, only there were no cars set on fire and no one got tear gassed.

After celebrating and taking some very scandalous pirate/inflatable doll pictures, we finally set back out for the Marais and whatever was left of Nuit Blanche. I was kind of pissed that we didn't get to be there for the win and experience the absolute craziness that I'm sure ensued, but we're planning on going for the semi-final - England/France (holy crap that is going to be one awesome game/crowd, I cannot WAIT!) so that should make up for it. And I still have my face paint! But anyways... we wandered around for a while, coming across some very strange exhibits (see below), and eventually decided we needed food, so we went in search of crepes. A word of advice, my friends: when in desperate need of a crepe at 2:30 in the morning in Paris on Nuit Blanche, do not settle for the bonbons guy reheating them on the Petit Pont. Wait to get to Saint Michel where they're actually making the crepes fresh and they don't taste like cardboard.

People kind of dropped off one by one, and a friend and I walked back to my place, eventually getting to bed at around 4. So, not the literal Nuit Blanche (all-nighter) experience I was hoping for, but it was a good time nonetheless.

And then this morning I met a friend at the market down the street. People, I have never been so excited for food purchases in my life. Figs? Check. Peaches? Check. Fresh, amazing-smelling basil? Check. Garlic? Green beans? Dried fruit? CHOUCROUTE THAT I CAN JUST HEAT UP TONIGHT FOR DINNER? CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK!! Granted, it's a little more expensive than the supermarket, but once in a while, why not? When in Rome... I mean, Paris....

Pictures:

The crowd (sorry it's blurry):


I can't even explain what this was. It's in a church, obviously, and it was really weird/trippy/creepy:


Just what I've always wanted! A giant, glowing, papier-mâché jack!

Maladroit

Last night I went to a friend's boyfriend's place for what the French call a "party," celebrating the addition of one of the roommate's girlfriend to the apartment. I think it was actually the first time I hung out with a group of French people my age - no, wait, second time. I almost didn't go because I was tired, but mainly because I didn't want to have to walk home by myself at who knows what hour, even though I know my neighborhood is fine. I think it might have had more to do with changing metros at Place d'Italie, which I avoided anyways because I didn't want to have to go through winding tunnels and staircases by myself. I left with a friend, anyways, and the only trouble we had was a pair of guys outside the stop at Nation who kept saying "excusez moi, les filles, excusez moi, les filles... oh, elles ne speak pas French." I think I'm almost over the metro trepidation, especially since I'm not on line 13 anymore (i.e. sketchiest line ever).

The party was...awkward. It was Me, two other American girls, a Columbian girl, and a whole bunch of French people, one of which reminded me immediately of Napoleon. Everyone was really nice, it's just that it's hard to strike up conversation with people you don't know in a language you don't really know how to express yourself in. [Sidenote: in our Advanced Workshop in Contemporary French last week, the professor (teacher?) started arguing with us about how we're all francophones, and my main argument for why we were reluctant to think so was that we're not the same people in French as we are in English because we can't express ourselves the same way.] People asked the same general questions, about our previous experience in France, what we're going to do when we're done, etc. etc. We talked a little bit about Rugby - apparently France is going to lose on Saturday, but we're going to make a big deal about the game anyways. We didn't talk at all about politics - well, a teensy bit about communism, but I think after Sarkozy was elected, the French have been much more hesitant to verbally attack Americans for electing Bush, hence greatly reducing political conversation. (Although it's fairly safe to assume that students studying in France aren't really Bush supporters.)

Even though it was kind of weird, and I'm sure everyone there thought we were strange and antisocial, I think I'd like to do that again - hang out with French people, that is. It not only gives me something to do and makes me feel like a normal, social human being, but it also helps a lot with my French. I've spent far too much time holed up in my apartment, WITHOUT A TV or anything to do. I think it's high time I grow up and get a life. I will NOT be pinkslipped out of a group like I was two years ago. I refuse to let it happen again. This city is far too lively and the people far too sociable for me to let it pass by a second time. Mouffetard, here I come.

The Toilet Saga, continued!

So, for many of you, this will be the first you're hearing about the catastrophe that was my toilet (water closet) over the weekend. Let me quickly recap, although nothing could capture what happened.

Thursday: came home, found leaking pipe, etc. Then, water started pouring out of the pipe and I had to leave my apartment because A) I needed a functioning toilet and B) it was not clean water. Gross. I called the landlord, who wasn't picking up his phone, so my pseudo-landlord's assistant left a message for him. I crashed at a friend's.

Friday: Group excursion to Vaux-le-Vicomte. It was rainy out, so that didn't help anything. My pseudo-landlord (Chuck) called at about 10:30 saying it would be fixed by the time I got home. So, I got home, and nothing was fixed. It was actually worse. I fled once again to a friend's house, and my actual landlord (Steeve) came by and assessed that there was nothing that could be done until Monday. Fantastic!

Saturday: Steeve came by and said he would try to at least stop the problem from getting worse. I guess he did, because when I came back on Sunday to make sure no disaster had happened, it hadn't.

Sunday: Nothing happened with the toilet, but France kicked Georgia's ass in the Rugby World Cup, moving into the quarter finals. YES!!!

Monday: PROBLEM FIXED. At least for now. The pipes are still exposed, but that should be fixed soon. I just don't know when.

Ok, so typed out, it doesn't look as dramatic as it was. But imagine coming home to find a bucket of dirty water accumulating on top of a toilet, stinking up my apartment like the most disgusting metro stop after everyone's been on a bender (people who live in Paris will get this). It was totally uninhabitable. Even if I'd had water and a working toilet, there was no way I could stay here with the stench. But it's mostly gone now - I just need to leave the windows open a little longer, and it should be fine. PLUS! They washed my towels for me! I mean, they didn't wash them the way I would have liked them to wash them, considering they spent the better part of a week on the floor soaking up a mixture of urine, water, and wall shavings, but still! I'll just wash them again tonight and all will be well.

I'm going to go enjoy my apartment now. Did you know you can actually claim insurance benefits for "perte de jouissance" (loss of enjoyment)? I may actually try that. Oh, and I think I can get government aid for rent. Thank you, remnants of socialist France. Thank you oh so very much.

Getting into the swing of things

So, funny story. There's this water problem in my building, where some of the pipes on my side drip within the walls, causing the paint to peel and chip. It's kind of gross, but I've lived in worse conditions, and honestly, if that's the worst thing about my apartment, I consider myself lucky. Anyways, they've been doing work on the building all week, and my landlord said he would come by this morning at 9, or just after they cut off the water, to fix everything. Naturally, I expected him at 9:15 or 9:30. Hence my surprise when he showed up at 8:35 ready to start working. It figures, the one day I actually need every minute of my morning, my landlord decides to be uncharacteristically French and be early, which is actually considered rude here. But that's not even the rude part.

I came back tonight and found the corner of my toilet wall missing, exposing the big pipe that runs through the building (they can't fix it and close it back up the same day - maybe if they didn't take two-hour lunches...), and the pipe that was dripping in the first place, that is STILL DRIPPING onto my toilet which has now lost its seat and cover. Oh yes, and the outlet that was supposed to be fixed is in pieces (i.e. not fixed) and the guys used up a roll of paper towels and toilet paper.

Oh, and the best part about this debacle? There wasn't even a note to explain any of it. After calling my landlord, I found out that the drip will be taken care of tomorrow, although I don't know how, since I'm leaving early; the toilet seat had to be replaced (I assume they broke it, because there was nothing wrong with it in the first place); they were missing a piece for the outlet; and the wall will be put back up next week, as planned.

Now, how hard would it have been to just write that all out? NOT VERY.

In other news.... I've now had all of my classes, and I can say right now that this is not going to be an easy year. Whatever fantasy I had of coming back and redoing my relatively care-free year in Paris has swiftly been kicked to the curb by the mounds of reading, papers, presentations, and other nonsense I have to do for my masters. It'll be nice to be a student again, though, even if it IS all in French and will take twice as long to do.

We went to a "soutenance de thèse" (thesis defense) today that lasted three hours. It was the most boring thing I've ever had to sit through in my entire life, except maybe that one production of Hamlet I saw two years ago, but even there I had something to look at and laugh at. I guess it didn't help that we hadn't read the 700 page dissertation (and nor would I like to) and didn't understand any of what they were saying because of the technical vocabulary, but it was still kind of interesting - in the beginning, before we all started nodding off - to see how they do it, and if anything, it was a good observation opportunity. So much of what was said was formulaic and ritual. "I thank you, sir, for giving me the floor." "No, it is I who thank you." No, I'm not kidding. Directly translated from French, that's what it comes out to. Antiquated, superficial ceremonies that have to be conducted because society deems that they should.

I started thinking about that, how everything here is so superficial or artificial - everything is a ritual or tradition, done out of habit or "politesse" (politeness), but most of it has no relevance to today's culture. Everything from not cutting your salad, never switching the fork and knife when eating meat, to having to fill out mountains of forms just to get a library card - you ask French people why they do it that way, why it's not simpler, and most of them will tell you, "it's just the way things are done." There's no effort for efficacy (or you could say there's too much), just show and tell. Haussmann. It's the same thing. Make all the streets look pretty in order to hide the poor panhandlers and gypsies in the crappy parts of town. Now it's, chop up the buildings inside to make a profit, but don't touch the outside, don't let anyone know you've ruined a 250-year-old edifice. Scarves, shoes, bags - well, anything having to do with commericial culture, obviously. Hosing down the streets every week. Celebrating obsolete holidays. Avoiding very much-needed updates. Saying "bonjour, monsieur," or "au revoir, messieurs-dames." All politeness and pretense.

Ok, so I'm not saying you should be rude. The French aren't rude, actually, when you really look at it. If there's any culture that looks down on impoliteness, it's the French. I actually like it when I'm greeted every time I walk into a store, or when guys hold the door for me or give up their seat on the metro, just out of habit and kindness. Ok, so more out of habit. Sometimes they're nice, though. Sometimes.

I'm thinking about doing my thesis on this. Maybe more on a linguistic level, but I'm more interested in the cultural aspect of it, and how all of these traditions and ceremonies have absolutely no real function today. Or maybe I'll just stick to anglophone theater in Paris. I like that one. Anyways, I could go on for hours. I have thousands of ideas about my thesis, but not just a couple that I could really narrow it down to. I'll figure it out, I guess.

Tomorrow we're going out to Vaux-le-Vicomte, the chateau that apparently inspired Versailles. I've been there, but it'll be cool to go with someone who actually knows what they're talking about. Plus, we get a free meal. I'm all about free French cuisine. As should you be.

La première soirée

Paris is perhaps the most difficult city to do Yom Kippur in, especially on a Friday/Saturday. But before even having to deal with that, I had a mini crisis of faith. You see, after making my ham and cheese omelette as my last meal before the fast, I had to ask myself, "what's the point?" Not only did my meal mix milk and meat, but it wasn't even kosher meat - it wasn't even a kosher animal. It was the one animal we're specifically NOT allowed to eat. And yet, I still decided to fast. I don't know why - I'm not religious, I never go to services (I should be there right now, and if I can't even make it to temple on the holiest of days...), but for some reason, fasting on Yom Kippur makes me feel like Jew, the same way eating latkes or matzah does. Sidenote: I think it's funny that the only way I feel part of the Jewish community is through food or lack thereof. Anyways, I decided to brave the cafes, the bars, the creperies, etc., and go out with friends.

We headed to the Marais. Let it be said right now that if I could choose any one quartier to live in, it would be the Marais. Or maybe Saint Germain. Or maybe where I live now. Ok, so I don't know. I just really like the Marais. It's so overflowing with marginalized populations, it warms my heart every time I walk the rue des Rosiers. We met at the metro, walked around, and finally decided on a restaurant that had to be good because it was packed on a Friday night at 8:30. The waitress started speaking in English to us, which never fails to piss me off. Just because we hesitate when you ask us a question does not mean we do not speak French! But I digress... Everyone's food looked so good, and I was dying there, not even able to pay attention to all the stories people were telling because I was so entranced by the food. And I don't necessarily understand why, because I'd eaten a couple of hours before. I think it's just the idea, the fact that I wasn't allowed to eat that made me want that chevre salad so bad. Oh, so bad. We sat around talking until well after 11, then found a cafe. And here, my friends, is where I turned over my nonsensical decision to fast on Yom Kippur after having a ham and cheese omelette.

Now, I didn't go crazy. Actually, all I had was water. And I feel bad about it. Very, very bad. It may not seem a big deal, but if I can't even go five hours without water, what hope is there? I'm still fasting (even though it really doesn't matter now because I broke the fast), and it shouldn't be too big of a problem since I'm going to Versailles all day. But I'm allowing myself water because it's going to be hot, and I already had some anyways. I know, I'm a horrible Jew.

Oh, but my story's not over. We called it a night around 12:30, and I decided to cab it home because I was too tired to deal with the metro. I had to walk all the way to Chatelet through crowds of drunken Frenchmen and Irishmen left over from the big screen they put up at the hotel de ville, and when I got to the taxi line, it was about an hour long, so I opted for the metro, which definitely should have worked. I got there well before the last train. But apparently, there was no train. I don't know what happened to it, but after twenty minutes of waiting, I emerged once again, at 1:30, to wait for a taxi. I talked to some people in line, and ultimately shared a cab with a forty-something year old man and what I really do believe was a prostitute, finally getting home around 2:45.

I realized that story was probably not worth telling. Thanks for reading.

À la française

The honeymoon is over, my friends. I have officially been engulfed in French culture and, subsequently, bureaucracy. Here is a list of my grievances so far:

-In order to get a cell phone (contracted), you have to have an ID, RIB (relève d'identité bancaire), and a verified check.
-To fully open a bank account - and therefore receive your bank card and checks, you must have your carte de séjour (visa), which, in my case, I will not have for at least two or three weeks from now.
-In order to get ANYTHING in this country, you need an RIB, which proves you have a bank account. This includes, but is not limited to: cell phones (contracted) and cartes imaginaires (metro pass for students under 26).
-Because my bank account isn't verified yet and I don't have a card, I can only take money out if I go to the actual teller, from TUESDAY TO FRIDAY, during normal business hours. When my cards and checks arrive, which I was just told would actually be next week, I have to go to a different branch to pick them up because that's where my account originally was.
-The people working in my building, including the landlord, keep forgetting to turn things back on. Nothing totally necessary to every day life or anything, just things like my water and the hall electricity. (So now when I come home at whenever o'clock, it will be pitch black. And I'll probably trip and break my nose or something, and then when I try to sue the landlord, he'll be all "stupid American, trying to sue me for her own clumsiness." Thanks, landlord. Who, by the way, NEVER introduced himself to me, even though I've seen him in passing multiple times and had a semi conversation with him! And has yet to fix the broken electrical socket! Ugh!)

Also, I blocked the phone that the girl who lived in my apartment last year left me by accident, and it will cost 25 euros to unblock it. But if I wait until I have a phone contract of my own, they'll do it for free. What good is the unblocked phone to me if I already have one, frenchies? Come on!

Ça commence

This weekend we went to Giverny for our little orientation/get to know each other thing. It was a weekend filled with food, Impressionism, boring lectures, long bike rides, gigantic arachnids, adorable houses, beautiful French countryside, and wine - many, many bottles of wine. It was good to get out of Paris for a little while, which I think may be a bad sign if I'm saying it this early in the game. Things are just different everywhere else. Americans (and a lot of other people, for that matter) tend to think that Paris is all there is to France, but the truth is that things are only "French" in the Parisian sense inside the environs of Paris. In the country, things move a little slower, people are a little more jovial, they speak a little less English, portions are a bit bigger and nature actually exists! And staying in a room as big as my apartment in a huge country house just made all of us depressed to come back to the city and our humble - really humble - abodes.

During the weekend, we had little conferences on the programs that we're in (there are three master's programs) and the classes we have available to us, which was good because no one in the program knew what we were doing. It turns out this isn't as much of a bullshit program as I thought it was, or at least it doesn't seem that way right now. I'm going to have a lot of work to do, but the other students are relatively cool, and the professors and directors seem relatively personable, so hopefully there won't be any crying or any problems a quick verre de vin rouge can't fix. So far, I'm taking all of my classes with the program, but I might take a film class at Paris 7 (a university here) on French cinema between 1945 and 1960 and its relation to the United States, because it kind of seems like it's exactly the kind of thing I want to study, and maybe something I want to write my thesis about. The thing is, it's at 9am on Fridays, and as of right now, I don't have any Friday classes, and I'd really like to keep it that way so I could maybe take a weekend or two to travel this semester because once I start writing my thesis, I won't have time to breathe, let alone jaunt around Europe like I did last time I was here.

I really don't know what I want to do with my life, and that's starting to become a problem. It's not just the actual tangible issue of not having any plans, which worries some people (ahem, parents), but it's a major difficulty when talking to people here. I was talking with one of the professors who was supposed to assess our language level and make sure we were taking all the right classes for what we wanted to do, and I had no idea what I wanted to do, so she had no idea if the classes I was planning on taking were going to help. We kept going 'round and 'round in circles, "Well, this is something I'd really like to study more," "Oh, well that's good! You can definitely write a thesis on that." (five minutes later) "Well, I'd really like to study that too," "well, that's a good way to go too." When I tried to explain to her that I study for love rather than obligation, she just came out with the French philosophy of it all: "You have to figure out what you're going to do before you can pick what you're going to study." And, yes, this does make sense from a logical, efficient point of view. But for someone as indecisive, ambitious, and interested-in-everything as I am, being forced to pick your career at age 12 like they are here is extremely problematic. Yeah, I know how much everyone hates that word, but it really works in this situation, so deal with it.

Last night was the first meeting for the theater company. I thought there were going to be 15 of us, but there were only five, which I think actually worked out better for the director. He wants to kind of streamline the company into a core group of people that actually care, and make it into a more professional group than it has been in the past. The whole time I was sitting there listening, thinking, "ok, well I'm just a temporary member, I'll help with what I can, blah blah blah," and then towards the end he said, "well, we're five for the moment," including me as one of the main people. It made me all warm and fuzzy inside, even though I know I won't be doing as much work as everyone else. He finally revealed his big project which is, in a word, monumental. If we pull this off, it will be the single most important production for the company and for anyone that works on it, and if it's a success - which I think is inevitable, it'll catapult the company to actual company status, I think. I really want to talk about it, but because nothing is final and I don't want to get into legality issues - and really, this is HUGE, I won't. I'll just say that I'm really excited to work on it, and hopefully I'll be able to make it into some part or the whole of my thesis, because it's kind of perfect.

Classes start at Paris 7 this week, NYU next week, and everywhere else either that week or the week after. Sometime this week I'm touring the big academic library, taking a boat ride, and seeing the gardens of Versailles with all of the fountains on and music playing. Other than that, I have some free time, so I'll do some more exploring, I think. I have some bureaucratic stuff to take care of, like my metro pass and museum cards, but for the most part, I have nothing to do. I'd go to Germany or something if it weren't for the fact that I can't leave the country until I get my residence card (silly rules). I think today I'll head up to Notre Dame and maybe over to the Marais. It's nice out, so maybe I'll be French - excuse me, Parisian - and bring a book to sit on the bench and read, after stuffing my face with the best felafel in the world.

I have a very good feeling about today.

Le Retour

I think part of the reason I was so nervous about coming back was that I'm not being spoonfed everything by NYU like I was by Smith. I hardly heard from anyone from the program, so it was kind of like going in blind, and when relocating to another country, let alone one run by French bureaucracy, you really should have one of those stick things to hold out in front of you so you at least know when you're going to run into trouble like, oh, I don't know, finding an apartment. Anyways, I digress.

The problem is that I didn't really prepare myself for this big move, and, needless to say, that was not a good thing. It's not only a big deal because I'm moving to Paris, but it's the first time I've ever lived on my own, without friends down the hall to procrastinate with, without rules to live by, without everything all planned out for me. And that scares the crap out of me, as it damn well should. So before I got on the plane, when I was talking to my brother, I was saying "I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what I'm doing," because, really, I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know how to live on my own, cook for myself, clean for myself (obviously), make sure everything gets done, etc. I know, I know, you're probably going, "just suck it up and deal with it like everyone else," but everyone else doesn't have to learn how to be independent while all of their family and friends are 6,000 miles away. And the fact that this just all kind of feels like I did it on a whim, like I woke up one day and went, "I think I'll move to Paris, rent a fifth-floor walk-up, and try to be an adult" (sidenote: carrying two fifty-pound bags and one 25-pound bag up five flights of stairs takes about fifteen minutes, just in case you were wondering). I know it has to happen at some point, and Paris is probably one of the best 'jump in at the deep end' places to do it (really, if you can navigate French formalities, you can do just about anything), but I'm tired and I'm hungry, and I don't want to make the bed or cook anything.

Oh, in case anyone wants to know, the flight was relatively smooth and painless. I did think we were going to die for about two minutes, but that's par for the course, and actually a really small amount of time in relation to ten and a half hour flight. The couple next to me was a very stuffy French couple who brought inflatable pillows and wipeys (not inflatable, though that might be cool), and the woman behind me kept tugging on my chair every time she got up, down, or did anything, making it very hard to sleep. Once I got all my bags and realized someone else's something peach-scented blew up all over my carryon, I grabbed a taxi driven by who was probably the nicest cabbie I've ever met. We talked the whole way into Paris about the French (he's Portuguese) and how expensive it is to live here, and then he told me I was cute, which was where it turned a teensy bit creepy, then I picked up my keys, and he dropped me off and "faired la bise" (that french cheek-kiss thing), which is where it got more than a teensy bit creepy.

After visiting with my old French advisor who's now the director of the Smith JYA program, and after taking care of a few housing formalities, I walked around St. Germain and back into my apartment - oh mon dieu, I forgot about the apartment!! It is absolutely perfect. It's just enough room for me, it's bright and gets a cross-breeze, has all the necessary amenities, and - the best part - I have a clear view of the south side of Notre Dame from my bedroom. Yes, I get to wake up to that every morning, and yes, I know how lucky I am.

I'm writing way too much, but I haven't written anything in a while, so I just can't help myself. Anyways, it's weird being back here. It's strange to come back to a city like Paris and just feel like you're coming home. It makes me a little sad, actually, to think that somewhere between being a tourist and mastering the metro, I got used to this city. I stopped seeing the beauty and started picking out the blaring sirens, the smell of urine on the streets, the squished neon dog crap on the sidewalks, the guys with little man purses and a sense of entitlement. Maybe it's just because I've been up for over a day and I'm cranky and jaded and have no more of that wide-eyed, anything's possible, today's a new day attitude left.

Oh, and in case you were keeping bets, on the way home I bought a bottle of Bordeaux, a mini camembert, and a demi-baguette, all for consumption tonight while I unpack and relax a bit. Oh, Paris, how I've missed you.