I feel bad for not writing anything in a while

Note to self: amazing Ethiopian food + Nutella crêpe + cheap beer = bad times. Nothing too horrible, but I definitely wouldn't recommend it.

This weekend kind of seemed like a last hurrah, since I envision being chained to my laptop at the library for the next few months until my memoir is done. We went out for dinner on Friday and, man, did I forget how delicious Ethiopian food is. If you're in Paris and you want some food with real flavor and spice, Godjo is the place to go. It's small, the kitchen is about the size of my bathroom, and if you're more than two people, you should reserve a table a good day in advance. We were nine, so obviously, we learned our lesson from the first time we tried to get in. They sat us in the basement, which I didn't even know existed. A couple of cow-hide covered couches lined the walls with woven tables and little wooden stools dispersed around; Ethiopian art adorned the walls and music piped in softly, but was quickly drowned out as soon as we started talking. The food was... well, I guess I don't need to repeat it. It was good. Really good. Spicy beef and chicken, lentils and green beans and carrots, even beef tartar (which we inadvertently ordered and hesitantly ate - delicious, in case you were wondering), all on this spongy bread that soaks it all up. There wasn't much left, let me tell you. And what there was left was gradually picked over until the plate was everything but licked clean. When someone moved the bowl of tartar and discovered there was more bread underneath, it was like finding out you had two more Petit écoliers left than you thought. (If you don't know what those are, please go find out, as they will change your life. No, really. Go. Now. Finish reading this, then go.)

Anyways, we headed over to Mouffetard to get a crêpe, and I was feeling pretty damn full. But who can resist a hot Nutella crêpe? Oh man. I got two bites into that thing and knew I should've stopped. But I'm a stubborn little bitch, so I kept going at it, finally realizing, with two bites left, that there was no way I could, in good conscience, finish it and feel good about myself later when I was throwing it up in some sketchy seatless bar bathroom. So I tossed the precious gooey dessert and headed with my friends to get a drink. That was the problem, I think. Being in a crowded bar on a Friday night, trying to hold and/or drink your beer with people rubbing up against you, groping you without even knowing or trying, all the while trying to digest what could reasonably be considered a meal for four. I do have to say, though, the new anti-smoking legislation has helped a great deal. I remember going into that place in October just for a second to check for some people - I was in there maybe thirty seconds - and I came out reeking of Marlboro lights. Now it just smelled like pheremones and sweat. I'm still trying to figure out which one I prefer.

We ended up hanging out there for a little while, eventually talking to some Spanish guys that seemed pretty nice. A friend was trying to get me talking to one of them, which she eventually did, but as soon as she left and a Rage Against the Machine song came on, he was jumping around with his friends and soon hitting on other girls in the front of the bar.

Ok, so banal daily happenings aside, I don't have much else. I know, I know. I keep saying I'll have things to talk about, and I really don't. However, I have discovered that the walls of my apartment are thinner than I thought. I've always been able to hear loud laughing and the music my neighbor blasts (which, oddly enough, mostly consists of chorals and classical, and sometimes Django), but never have I actually been able to confirm the rumor that he has a girlfriend. Well, my friends... Rumor confirmed. Now I know why I hear him open the door almost every night around 10 and music turned up to 11.

Just another to add to the list of Parisian hypocrisies. If everyone wants to be so private, would it kill them to build walls a bit more soundproof? I mean, I could hear them breathing, and I was on my bed, not against that wall, watching TV with the sound up fairly high. Seriously, people. Get it together. I was always scared people in the stairwell could hear it when I use the bathroom, but now I'm even more paranoid and am doing all but risking kidney infections to keep the noise level down.

I do have more things to write about, things that have happened and pissed me off (as usual), but it's late and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while, so I think I'm going to try to drift off into Hot Guys on the Metro Land before my neighbor turns his music up. This weekend I'm going to Dublin with my dad, and hopefully when I come back from that and things quiet down a little, I'll actually be able to think and string together some coherent sentences. Until then, merci et bonne nuit!