Unsolicited advice

I forgot to post this a few days ago when it happened, but I'd just like to draw your attention to two incidents that took place on Monday that I think sum up why part of me hates this country.

Incident #1. While waiting for the bus with a friend, a little old lady beckoned me closer so she could tell me something. I thought she was going to ask me when the bus was coming. The conversation went a little something like this:
Little Old Lady: You're very pretty.
Me (uneasy, thinking, aw crap, I know where this is going): Thanks.
Little Old Lady: But you have to lose weight! (called it) Do you know why? You have to lose weight for your health. I have a niece, she's fat too. But she has four children, and after she had them, she just let herself go. When I was young, I worked in a big apartment building, cleaning. I would go up and down the stairs, carrying big piles of linens, and I would be so busy, I would forget to eat! And when you eat, you have to eat the right foods, and not too much.
My friend, out of the corner of her mouth, in English: Do you want to move?
Little Old Lady, to my friend: Now, you should be listening to me, too. (Back to me) But really, you can't go through life fat, you need to eat right and work, and--

Then the bus came. Oh, man. I don't even know where to start. I don't know what's worse, the fact that she thinks it's acceptable to lecture a complete stranger on her weight - I know, she's an old lady, and old ladies can pretty much do whatever they want because, really, who's going to yell at an old lady? (I was this close, though. If the bus hadn't have come, I might have let loose.) - or the fact that she opened with the "you have such a pretty face" line. It's the second time it's happened to me here. The first was by - get this - a wino at the bus stop in the 17th with rotting teeth and permanently purple lips. I couldn't understand everything she was saying - something about rice, maybe? But the male wino sitting next to her told her to shut up, so I gave him 80 cents as a thank you on behalf of humanity and all those with even the least bit of social grace. Ladies, listen. If I want your opinion on something - anything, but especially on my weight (which, let's face it, is NEVER going to happen - I'm never going to go up to you, whom I've never met before in my life, and ask you, "excuse me, do you think I'm pretty? And what about this whole central region? What do you think of that? How would you suggest I get rid of it so men will like me and I can finally fulfill the dream of every sane woman of finding the perfect man who will love the newly-reduced me and give me beautiful babies and a house in the country so I can finally, once and for all, be a happy, well-rounded-but-not-actually-round, loved human being?), I will ask you. Don't just assume that because I'm fat I don't know how to fix it, or that I'm ignorant of my situation and need you to remind me once again of my rotund status, or that I'm not happy! Jesus Christ, lady. I am happy. Well, I was happy, right up until you had to go and piss on my day by telling me I had a pretty face. At least the senile woman on the first floor thinks I'm pretty - all of me. Probably so much so she'd chop me up and feed me to her cat, but still. She likes me just the way I am, so there.

Also, I call bullshit on anyone that "forgets" to eat. You don't forget to eat like you forget where you put your keys, or like you forget to run to the bank. It just doesn't happen like that, I'm sorry. Even I've been so busy that I made the conscious decision not to eat because I had too much shit to do and not enough time, despite the very noticeable growling coming from my stomach, but never in my life have I ever just forgotten to nourish myself. Bull. Shit.

Incident #2. After my friend's thesis defense, we went out for lunch at a café down the street. It was so nice outside, so we grabbed a table under an umbrella. Then the waiter proceeds to take away the umbrella, even though we strategically sat there so we wouldn't get skin cancer but could still enjoy the nice weather, without even asking us. Then - oh man - then he asks if he can move the tables over a little to give the people next to us more room. Fine with us, so he picks up the table with a carafe and two full glasses of water on it, and CRASH. Nothing breaks, but there is water all over our table, me, and my expensive leather bag. Does he apologize? No. He says something, then, ça arrive, but never do the words "sorry" or "excuse me" come out of his mouth. Then he yells at one of my friends for trying to go up to pay him, since he's taking forever to come back. Well, I'm glad we don't feel obligated to tip. And I'm glad that in two weeks I'll be back in a country where - even if it is artificial - people have the decency to at least be pleasant for the sake of not sending people into a rage over a spilled glass of water and a forcibly removed umbrella.

My mom gets in tonight, and we're leaving on Friday for about a week and a half (Madrid, Barcelona, Avignon), so I probably won't be posting until I get back. But expect some pretty pictures when I triumphantly return to the blogging universe. A bientôt!

Paris hates me.

Paris hates me.

Let me take you through the succession of events that brought me to that conclusion:

This morning, I was on top of my shit. I had a plan. I woke up early, got ready, got my stuff together, and headed to the library at the actual time I had intended. I got there an hour early and plopped myself down near the front of the line, feeling content that I would only have to wait at most an additional fifteen minutes past the normal opening time of the library to get in. And then, at about 11:40, a couple of women who work at the library came out with stacks of fliers and started distributing them to people waiting in line. The top of it read (in French) "Strike on May 15 to defend civil service", followed by an almost page-long explanation of why some of the staff would be on strike today. A little later, a man came out and said they still hadn't decided whether there would actually be a strike or not, but the decision would be made in the next fifteen to twenty minutes. Lo and behold, at about ten after twelve, a man inside the library came up to the glass door and held up a piece of paper with the word GREVE written on it, underlined. He did it with the same gravitas and regretful expression on his face as a little journalist gopher would when coming out of a courthouse to announce the verdict of a high-profile murder case to the anxious masses outside. Also, he made that throat-slitting gesture, and someone behind him kept making X's with his arms. It kind of reminded me of the universal disappointment after O.J. was declared a free man.

You have got to be kidding me. On a personal level, it pisses me off because I was counting on this day to finish up some research for my thesis presentation on Monday, and I really do need the WHOLE weekend to work on it. I don't have time this weekend to waste standing in line to get into the library just so I can read books I can't take home. On a less selfish level, would it have killed them to make this decision ahead of time? And maybe put it on their website? And then maybe they should add "whenever we don't feel like working" to their list of days they're closed.

Also, who thinks libraries shouldn't be allowed to strike, especially during finals? Because, really, that's just cruel, not to mention an exacerbation to the problem of poorly-educated, failing students. Seriously, France, step up your game! I'm all for liberal politics and people being rightfully compensated, but if you're going to do shit like this, the least you could do is give students a break for being unprepared in class. How can they be prepared if you close the library on them?

So, after everyone dispersed, I headed to the bus stop and thought I'd go to my café, do a little reading with a crème, then go home to finish up some other work. But the bus never came. And it was raining, in 80% humidity. And I didn't have my umbrella because I thought I would be spending the day INSIDE THE LIBRARY. So I walked to my metro, resigned to eating lunch at home and finally getting through my last academic paper ever (which I have still yet to finish). So I, of course, had to blog about it first, as it's impossible for me to get any work done without a considerable amount of procrastination beforehand.

Voilà, c'est tout. Back to the grindstone. Ugh.


EDIT, 12:20 am : Who SHUTS DOWN THEIR DATABASE AT NIGHT when someone needs it to get biographical information they need to finish their paper?! Fuck you, BPI. Fuck you and the sadistic bastards managing you. You all suck. Next time I go in there, I'm dog-earing all the books I use. Take that, civil servants!

JeansQuest

Edinburgh was a nice vacation from stressful, bustling Paris life, as I expected it would be, even though I seriously freaked out on the plane ride back. There are pictures up on facebook if you care to look, and if not, here is one of my favorites:


I got up this morning to go to Pompidou, since I'm ten pages short of finishing my ten-page paper due sometime in the next two weeks, but the line was way too long, and I figured it would be more efficient to take care of some other things rather than wait in line for two hours only to not find the book I was looking for or to do two hours of work and get bored. Of course, today wasn't a prime example of efficiency for me, but I did manage to go grocery shopping, which really needed to be done.

I do have a lot of philosophical-y thoughts going through my head, but I don't think I could manage to make any sense of them, or at least make them make sense to you right now, so I'm just going to skip over those and bitch about not being able to find jeans that fit me. Call me size-ist, but you skinny people can just ignore this because you don't have this problem, ever - not in Paris, and certainly not in the States. I don't even really have this problem when I'm in the US. Yeah, my selection is not as vast as normal-sized people when I go shopping, but there are specialty stores that carry things that fit me (Torrid for the younger crowd, Lane Bryant for the more mature ones, or for work clothes, and Old Navy goes up to size 20? 22?) that I don't have to go to the eighth circle of hell to find. Department stores also have big-girl departments (with the exception of the really snotty ones, which in some cases really blows, if you're looking for a dress for a black-tie occasion), but those can be a bit pricey, especially when what you really need are some decent jeans because you wear holes in the thighs every few months or so. Clearly, I can't be dropping $120 or more on a new pair of jeans every few months, so I usually end up buying jeans from places like Torrid because a)they're relatively cheap, b)they fit me really well, and c)they don't make me look like a soccer mom. But Torrid doesn't exist here, and neither does Old Navy. So far, the only stores I've come across have been for old ladies or too expensive or both.

This, as you've probably figured out, is a problem. It's a big problem. It's an increasingly big problem. It increases in size as the holes in my jeans do, and considering only one of the FIVE pairs of jeans I have here doesn't have holes in the thigh/crotch region (and these are dressy jeans, at that), it's moved up the scale to a HUGE fucking problem. Granted, I live in jeans here. I wear pretty much nothing else, unless the occasion calls for something other than denim, so it figures that eventually I would wear all of my jeans out (and really, I was only off on my jeans ration by about 9 weeks). But now that I actually have no more jeans to wear, I find myself becoming frustrated, frantic, and of course, depressed that I can't find pants! Come on! I've already ironed on patches on two pairs, but they look ridiculous since the fabrics don't match, and it's not like I wasn't already self-conscious enough about my clothes in this city.

So, today, after deciding to not put up with the usual library bullshit, I headed to H&M, where they have a tiny plus-size section called BiB (Big is Beautiful). The clothes they have there usually make me feel like a second-class citizen because, really, would it be that hard to make the same thing that the normal people buy in a larger size? Bigger people don't automatically all have a thing for poorly-constructed tops and flowy bottoms. Some of us, probably most, actually want to look like everyone else, instead of feeling like we don't deserve "normal clothes" or can't have them. And last I checked, we've never had a meeting where we all got together and decided, yes, please do make us stand out as fashion pariahs in bland t-shirts and high-waisted jeans. Like I said, we get enough crap from people already. Anyways, back to my quest for jeans. Obviously, H&M had nothing. They had loads of jeans in the size below me, which is the last normal size, but nothing my size that didn't feel like it could be used for a parachute or hammock. I caught the bus and headed to the shopping center at Place d'Italie, knowing there was a plus-size store there. After that proved futile, and after half an hour of scrutinizing every store's goods from outside the windows, I thought it would be best to just see what I could find online and drown my sorrows in a café crème and some Stoppard.

Cut to a few hours later, when I'm sitting in front of my computer, flabbergasted that it'll take four to six weeks to get a pair of jeans from two different stores online. Seriously? I just don't know what to do. I see bigger girls around all the time, and they're not naked. WHERE ARE THEY HIDING ALL THE FAT GIRL CLOTHES?! I mean, aside from the crap they sell by Châtelet. I think I'm actually going to have to resort to having my mom send me stuff so I don't look like some crazy lady with patches all over her crotch.

That's my rant for the day. I'm going to watch some horrible French television instead of making progress on my paper because I'm such a dedicated student. Dammit, is it August yet?

Who's got the dunce cap?

You know, after almost two years of being immersed in French academic life, I still can't figure out their system of education. Any American student that has ever taken a class at a French university will probably agree with me when I say that it seems like the system here is made to set people up to fail. In a way, it's a genius Darwinian plan - it weeds out the idiots and the slackers and leaves room only for the elite few that deserve to progress in their quest to be part of the pretentious French intelligentsia. Ok, so maybe I'm being a little harsh. But when I get French translations back with a grade of 6/20 and am told that's fairly normal for this professor, I start to wonder: if the educator's job is to educate and facilitate the student's academic journey, why does he do everything he can to shoot the student down and make her feel like a complete and total moron? I really don't understand what the harm is in congratulating a student for a job well done or using a tone in class that doesn't seem like the professor thinks everyone is a mentally disabled chimp. He goes over translations, and 90% of the time, he goes off on why choice A is bad, and choice B is worse, and why choice C isn't even possible in French, but half the class put it down anyways. Rarely does he commend a student for an interesting proposition, and never has he commented positively on my or my friend's French. Alright, ego trip, I know. But seriously - I know we don't speak perfect French, but when everyone else we meet says we have a bon niveau de français, I expect to hear it as a little bit of encouragement from my professors, instead of a mini lecture after class about how this class is practically useless for us and how we need to work on our French. Also, he said he would grade us as if we were French people translating into English. And now I understand why French people suck so much with English.

It's the same with basically anything. Because of the system they've set up, where all you need is a 10/20 to pass, and the highest you can possibly get is an 18 - and even that would be like Stephen Hawking winning gold for the high jump - they've basically constructed a Petri dish of mediocrity. No one cares enough to do well, just well enough. Here, they say that the best student will get an 18, the professor would get 19, and only God would get a 20. And they grade things on such an arbitrary scale, too. How can you grade a translation on a conversion chart? One point off for a misconstrued idea, a half point off for being too inventive, another half point for using the wrong tense. They get mad at you for using calques (verbatim translations), but if you try to be a little more interpretive, they tell you you've strayed too far away from the original text. How can you get anywhere with that? Jesus, France. Loosen up a bit and let me have some ideas of my own!

And with that, I must return back to my weekend of translation. We're nearing the completion of the first draft of the Stoppard translation, finally. My job for the next few weeks pretty much consists of proofreading everything and making sure not too much got lost along the way. Did I mention this play is 91 pages long and includes page-long tirades involving 19th century pre-revolutionary Russian philosophy? Yeah, I know - you so wish you were me right now. I also have a presentation to do for Monday, one of those bitches of a translations for Tuesday, and a plan for my thesis for Wednesday, as well as some other various busy work. I went out last night with some friends, and tomorrow half my day is consumed with the translation meeting, so I don't think I'm going to make it to pub quiz, which is finally back this week. I've been looking forward to it for literally 6 weeks, which sucks.

Man, I'm so ready for the real world already.

Sláinte!

Is it possible to die of a chlorophyll overdose? Because I just ate a lot of green beans. I mean, a LOT. More green beans than any one person should physically be able to eat in one sitting. So if my skin mysteriously turns green tomorrow, like that guy who turned blue because of his medication, that will be why. But can you blame me? They were so delicious and fresh and... delicious!

Anyways, speaking of green things, spring is here! It was sixty degrees outside yesterday! I forced myself out of the apartment to go in search of a couple of plays I need for my essay, which of course were nowhere to be found. At least it got me out of the apartment, because I spent the rest of the day toiling away inside so I could justify going out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We went to this Irish place (there are probably a thousand pubs in Paris) in Saint Germain, and I didn't realize till I got inside that I had, in fact, been there before and that I had, unfortunately, puked there before. (I confirmed this when I went to the bathroom and ended up in the same famous stall I barely made it into before hurling on the blue-tiled floor.) It was just as crowded and hot, but not as smoky, as I remembered it. You will not be at all surprised to know that I had a Guinness, but you probably will be surprised to know that I a)finished it to the last drop and b)was the first one done! Seriously, it was an historic night. And on top of that, when we left to find another bar that actually had some vacant seats, I had yummy sangria, and I didn't get sick! I know, I'm still in disbelief.

So at this bar, I had a very classic Allison Superiority Complex Moment. There were five of us, and we were sitting in the corner next to a LOUD group of Americans - undergrads, of course, which we all spotted the minute we sat down. I guessed from the uniform hairstyles, fake tans, Blackberries and Lacoste shirts that they were from New Jersey, or at least some place on the East Coast, which they were (NJ and Philly). One of the guys asked me where we were all from, and that started a short conversation, but when it got to where we went to school, and one of the girls replied that she had a lot of friends in "our program," I had to specify that we were grad students, thus implying that we actually live here and aren't just "abroad" and really do speak the language and aren't just interested in going to bars and picking up scrawny, sketchy Frenchmen in glasses with horrible taste in music. I know, I know, don't be judgmental, Allison. You were there too once. Ok, but I was never loud and obnoxious in tiny bars where you get elbowed in the ass as you try to get back to your seat and can tell what religion some guy is just by brushing up against him as you find your way through the throng of drunkards sipping sangria. I never once uttered (read: yelled) the phrase "OH MY GOD I'M SO DRUNK!" or "Oh, everyone has Blackberries these days, even in France." For the record: I have seen maybe three non-American people with Blackberries or Blackberry-like objects in Paris.

Also, what is it with 35-year-old men hitting on 20-year-old co-eds? Gross. My friend and I were waiting by the jukebox while her boyfriend was in the bathroom, and this guy (please refer back to description of picking up guys in bars) came up to us, thinking he was being real smooth, and feigned ignorance as to how the jukebox worked. Please. A chimp with no eyes could figure that one out. My friend said something to him, to which he replied in English, so I thought I would be a bitch and keep talking in French, because - well, just read that whole last paragraph again. I really do hate being confused with junior year abroad kids who are just there to drink wine and get laid. Anyways, he thought I was French, which was pretty cool. And then he ignored me and kept hitting on my friend. When her boyfriend got back, he pretty much ditched us and went for the AUP kids (American University of Paris), and the only other thing he said to me was "You make line?" when I was waiting for the bathroom. Yes, motherfucker, on fait la queue. You can practice your English with kids that don't speak French. Jackass.

Tonight is our hopefully triumphant return to Pub Quiz. I haven't been for about a month, with my dad visiting and midterms and whatnot. I'm looking forward to forgetting about school for a while and hanging out with cool people, and maybe, just maybe, finishing another pint of Guinness. Or two. But let's not get too crazy there. I may just have to keep to my usual cider and call it a night.

I think I can, I think I can

I think that Apple should rent out its think tank or engineers, or whatever you call them, to other companies and government agencies that could really benefit from some of the genius that Steve Jobs makes billions off of. I'm not even talking about the MacBook Air here, although I have to admit, that's pretty damn cool, as in space age cool, as in, holy crap we're all going to be floating around in Delorians in twenty years cool. No, I'm talking about the eerie ability of the iPod to read my mind and play the exact song I want to hear when it's on shuffle songs. I mean, really, on more than one occasion, I've been sitting on the metro thinking, man, I could really go for some old school Rufus Wanwright, and then - bam - Poses starts playing. Crazy, right?

I was in the mood for some Rufus today. After sitting through two and a half hours of nonstop lecturing on the history of publishing in France, I had to meet with my memoir adviser, who basically told me I suck and my memoir is going to be shit. She said "this is going to get written late, I can feel it." Fuck you, I have until July 31. If you guys wanted it earlier, you shouldn't have given us all that time. And yes, I do understand that we get a grade for our presentation in May, and I do understand that I need a different plan for that than I do for my memoir, and I do understand that I need to start writing in May. I understand all of this because they told us in September, and I'm not an idiot. I did manage to get into grad school, remember, so chances are I can probably store away some very crucial details about the memoir that will make or break my academic career (which, incidentally, I'm pretty sure will come to a voluntary end after this year). Tell me to go faster, fine - I know I'm a slacker, and even though I'll just argue with you that it'll all get done somehow because it always does (seminar papers, anyone?), I'll appreciate it more if you have a personality when you say it instead of passive-aggressively telling me I'm a horrible student and I don't know what to do and my memoir is going to bore you. Do you even realize that the only reason they assigned me to you is because they felt bad for not including you in the whole memoir process from the start? Hey, wait. Actually, that makes me feel kind of crappy too. Well, it's not like it's the first time NYU has treated me (and the other grad students) like second-class citizens... but that's a story for another time when I'm not so enraged by my micro-managing, personality-negative bitch of a memoir adviser.

Oh, Dublin was great, by the way. We saw all the major stuff, though I didn't get to see the writers' museum like I wanted to, and I drank my weight in Guinness, which is a pretty large feat to accomplish, so I think I deserve some applause or a medal or a garish plaque to put on my wall or something. Being in Ireland was such a well-needed break from the severity of this place. It was so nice to be amongst jovial people - people that don't unabashedly look you up and down in the metro, people that smile willingly and often, people that CLEAN UP AFTER THEIR DOGS. Seriously, Paris, if I have to tell you one more time to pick up after your yappy little emasculated poodle, I'm going to do something very bad to you, most likely involving a baguette, a rump roast, and salad tongs.

This semester is going by way too fast. We only have two more months of classes left, and I probably only have 3 or 4 months left here. And the worst part is that I don't really know how I feel about that. I'm sure I'll go on and on about it in every post until I leave, but I'll sum it up thusly: I'm ok leaving Paris, but not leaving it forever. Some of my best thinking is done on the metro, when I'm plugged into my aforementioned telepathic iPod and zoning out into my own little universe; at some point last week, and I don't remember the thought process that went into it or what triggered it, but something happened and I said to myself, "I have got to go back home. I do not belong here." And I think I'm ok with that. And I feel like I'm an adult for being ok with that, and I think I'm ok with that too. Why am I still chasing a dream that is clearly never going to come true? I don't want to use absolutes or say never, but Paris is doesn't seem like it's ever going to be the life of sweater dresses and Chloé bags and late-night soirées at dimly-lit brasseries and sleepy Sunday brunches that I hoped it would be. I am simply an American in Paris. No French men have swept me off my feet onto their scooters, no one's offered me a life-changing, well-paying career or a cushy apartment in the Marais, I haven't magically dropped 50 pounds like that French Women Don't Get Fat woman suggested I would, and generally I'm just no longer as ecstatic about living in the City of Lights as I once was.

And I'm ok with that.

For now.

It's going to be a long semester.

First and foremost, we've got to talk about school. It's been a huge debate for decades - whether or not the benefits of socialized education trump its downfalls, or at least enough to gain superiority over privatized education. I've gone over it for hours in my head and aloud with other students and French people, and everyone comes up with the same bland arguments. And I get it. Public education is great because it's virtually free, there aren't really any requirements to get in, and there's a relatively big variety of subjects to choose from. However - and that's a monumental 'however', because it's free, because anyone can go, because there's so much to choose from, you end up with classes filled with unmotivated students who don't do their work, talk through class, and throw things at each other. Seriously. It feels like I'm back in high school, because that's kind of what it is. The professor wasted half an hour of a one and a half hour class by taking roll, handing back papers, and yelling at students. Only a third of the class was actually usefull, but it's not like I could've taken notes on anything, even if I wanted to, because the girls next to me were giggling like idiots and cursing the professor under their breath. YOU'RE IN COLLEGE. Shut your trap and learn. The professor even had to go on that whole "I'm just here to guide you, you have to do the work" spiel after she'd learned that almost no one did the assignment from last week. Look, if you don't want to be there, leave. But if you don't want to end up at Monoprix, Quick or the ubiquitous MacDo, grow up, go to class, and shut the fuck up while everyone's trying to take notes.

I do have to say, kids at Paris IV are better than at Paris III, which I don't completely understand. Education in France is basically free. I'm pretty sure students can go wherever they want in the public system once they choose a field of study. So do all of the slackers just mysteriously end up at Paris III, and the studious ones at Paris IV? Or maybe it's a Darwinian process. I'm going with that option, considering the hell you have to go through to get registered and find your classes. The system is such a bureaucratic nightmare, full of red tape, forms, and insupportable women at the 8,004 different registrars who never want to help you. Thankfully, we American students don't really count, so this time I didn't have to register. Instead, I'm kind of just flying under the radar, so as far as Paris III and IV are concerned, I don't really even exist. It's so much easier that way. I didn't have to get in line at 8 in the morning to register, only to find all the classes I wanted to take were closed. But that's not really interesting, so let's talk about something else.

Now, could someone tell me what coked-out, sadistic 18th century architect designed the ridiculously confusing and frustrating labyrinth that is the Sorbonne? And then tell me whose idea it was to block off half the hallways so you have to go up and down three stairwells - and three flights each, mind you - just to find the right hallway? I must admit, it's nice going to school in a place like the Sorbonne, someplace that's been around for so long and really feels like an institution, in the non mental asylum sense of the word. It kind of makes me feel like I go to Hogwarts, and it definitely reminds me that I'm in France, that I'm in a 1300 year old city with traditions and a set way of life. And when I emerge from that legendary cour d'honneur in the fifth, I feel a bit more like I belong and finally like one of the cool kids. Well, that is, until a girl at Paris III literally points and laughs at me while I'm waiting for the elevator and manages, in a matter of milliseconds, to undo every bit of self-therapy and confidence building I've done for the past ten years.

Basically the story goes like this: My friend and I were waiting for the coffin they like to call an elevator, which is supposed to hold three people at a time. Why they couldn't put in an elevator that actually serves its purpose is beyond me - it's a relatively modern building, so there aren't any tiny, narrow, spiraling staircases to negotiate (unlike my apartment building). Anyways, a group of three girls came up, and one of them got in line while another went for the stairs dragging the other along. The one behind me in line said, "You don't want to wait for the elevator?" The bitch at the stairs replied, while laughing and pointing, "Are you kidding? Look!" In all fairness, she could have just been referring to the line, and not the fact that it would take an extra trip since I could most likely only take one person with me on the way up. But judging by the awkward silence around me, and how people tried to politely look away as if they hadn't heard a thing, I don't think that was what she meant. It shouldn't have done anything to me. I should've just rolled my eyes and scoffed, thinking to myself, making a list of all the reasons I was better than her. But then it happened. My friend and I got into the elevator, then someone else came in, and the weight bell went off. The last woman got out and a lighter person got in. It rang again. The same awkward silence, the same awkward elevator ride up to the fourth floor. At first, I was upset. Kids weren't even that cruel in middle school! Or in elementary school, for that matter. I was distracted all through class and started a downward spiral of self analysis and pity. But then the professor said something that pissed me off, and I had a new reason to be angry. In a nutshell, when my friend and I went to introduce ourselves to her, she told us we weren't good enough, that usually she discourages American students from taking the class because it's too hard for them since French isn't their first language. I don't think she got that we were Masters students, that we speak the language pretty damn well, and that we're both working on translation for our theses - even after we told her all that. Yeah. And you think I have a superiority complex? HA.

I've noticed that a lot, you know. Here, teachers focus on the negative instead of the positive. I don't really know why, but I'm pretty sure it contributes to the lack of motivation on the students' part. Who wants to give a shit if you're just going to get bitched at anyways? The rule here is that you can never get 100%; you can never be perfect. On a scale of 20, 18 is considered the highest grade. They say that the best students will get 18, the professor, 19, and only God is capable of scoring 20. I've actually seen negative scores on dictations and translations. So, again, when you set your students up to think they're never going to be great, why would they want to try? Especially since you can't even express your opinion as a student... but that's a different story, entirely.

Now, I'm not saying the American system is perfect. Obviously, our universities and colleges leave much to be desired when it comes to accommodating everybody. They're over-selective, over-priced, and, in some cases, over-rated. Sometimes I agree with Will: "You dropped a hundred and fifty grand on a fuckin' education you coulda got for a dollah fifty in late chahges at the public library." But then I remember that I'm a lazy brat and a product of that hundred and fifty grand education and I come to my senses and realize that nothing is true for everybody. When the Dalai Lama came to Smith last year, someone asked, "What's the best way to raise kids?" He laughed and said, "First let me have some kids, then I'll get back to you." But then he went on and said that that was a very Western way of thinking, trying to figure out the best way to do something, the easiest route to happiness. And it's true. It's diplomatic and evasive, but it's true. The free system works for some people, while others, like me, need a little (expensive) push from the establishment.

But I still maintain, Western or not, those Paris III girls need to keep their mouths shut before I go angry, bitter fat girl on their asses and sit on their petite, frail, muscle-less French bodies. You know I'll do it.

Devour? Really?

So, we all knew that the whole thing about me trying to stop bitching wasn't really going to last, right? Bitching is pretty much my natural way of life, and who am I to try to deny Mother Nature what is rightfully hers? Exactly. I'm glad you followed me on that one.

This weekend felt good. The short, shocking version of the story is that I went clubbing on Saturday until five in the morning and woke up in a guy's bed in the 12th.

Don't worry, Mom, there's more. Here's the long version.

Saturday morning I woke up feeling revived and decided to take on the city. I wanted, like I do so often, to discover something new, and I came up with a plan that would have me exploring a new part of Paris every weekend. After I lay around in bed for another hour and decided to scrap that unrealistic, idealistic piece of crap plan, I thought I'd go see a free photo exhibit at the Hotel de Ville with Stephanie. Saturday was a beautiful day. A bit cold, but hey, this is Paris. If the sun is out and the rain's not falling, you should be very grateful, and I was. We walked around Tuileries for a while, avoiding the Romanian girls who ask you if you speak English, then hold up cards with pleas for money scrawled out in rather exact penmanship. Angelina's was next on the menu, but it was still only two - an ungodly hour for hot chocolate, mind you, so we headed to the Orangerie for some Monet and other early 20th century art. All in all, it was kind of meh. Once you've seen all the major works in the Musée d'Orsay, other museums just pale in comparison. And yes, I know art people reading this are going, "sacrilege!" But please. I studied art history, I took impressionism here, I know what I'm talking about. If you're going to pay some hard-earned Euros to see some good ol' toiles, best fork it over at Orsay and get some good architecture as well. Finally, after the Orangerie and a twenty-minute line at Angelina, we sipped our chocolat à l'africain with much gusto and split a pistachio réligieuse, which was good, but not unforgettable. After that, we both went home to take a nap in preparation for the night ahead.

Steph ended up not coming. This was the first problem. This meant that, at a stoplight party - to be explained in a minute - I was going to be the only one of my friends not coupled up. First, we headed for dinner - one of those sushi train restaurants at the behest of my friend's boyfriend. It was pretty good, although I did rip my tights on the eight-foot high chairs. We killed time in a cafe, where my friend and I got 10Euro Irish coffees that were two parts whiskey to one drop coffee, which warmed us up in anticipation of venturing back into the Siberian wasteland that is Paris in February. Now, observation number one: three guys were waiting in line before us, and the guy at the door said there wasn't any room. We go up and get right in. Later, my friend's boyfriend tells us that this is a regular occurrence, and that usually, bouncers won't let guys in who aren't accompanied by at least one girl. He said that he loved it in the States because he could get in wherever he wanted, regardless of who he was with. Interesting. Also, the cover charge was 10E for girls, 20E for guys. And the plot thickens. So now, not only will the guys you meet in the club be sketchy, but they may be wealthy and will definitely expect to get what they paid for. More of that later. For now, let me explain this stoplight party nonsense. I'd never been to one of these things, so maybe they're a weekly thing, maybe everyone's been to one but me, but I'm still going to explain. You walk in and get a bracelet. Red if you're taken, green if you're single, and yellow if you don't know. How can you not know? Whatever. I took a yellow because I figured red would be flat out lying and green would invite unwanted sketchy drunkards. Yellow seemed safe and gave me an easy way out of hairy situations. Oh, if only the bracelet had been enough...

Almost four hours of dancing later, I still found myself toute seule in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by my coupled-up friends and newly coupled-up strangers. Over the course of the night, I'd gotten to experience true Parisian clubbing - people feeling me up on their way through the crowd, guys spilling their drinks all over my shoes, people knocking their elbows into my head. Oh, it was a blast. And then I met Stanislas. I never actually got his name, but that's what I'm going to call him; he just had a Stanislas air about him. Obviously drunk and definitely sketchy, he came up to me smiling and kept trying to dance with me. My friends succeeded in sending him off a couple times, but when he came back a third time and started grabbing my arms and leaning in to say things into my ears, I said "fuck this" and went over to the first guy I saw leaning against the wall. I'd also noticed this guy hanging around us for a while, looking at me like he was going to come over and ask me to dance. Even though this was the least attractive guy I've ever seen in France, I thought it was better than being badgered by Stan. So I thought it would be a win-win situation, and actually, I'd be doing him a favor (not because of the unattractive thing, because of the shy thing). But, in my fleeting moment of ballsy awesomeness, I forgot that in France, when a girl asks a guy to dance, she's really asking if he wants to sleep with her. Silly me, I forgot that the women's rights movement didn't really cross the Atlantic. Five minutes of the most awkward, horrible dancing - I mean ridiculously awkward 7th grade dancing, no contact, looking around to avoid eye contact, dancing - went by, and I couldn't do it any more. I told him I was getting back to my friends and that he should go keep his friend company. Pretty pimp if I do say so myself. Such a tease. A few minutes later and we were waiting for someone to get back from the bathroom when he came back, after a lot of coercion from his friends, and started dancing behind me. He put his hand on my hip and I turned around, just in time for him to say something to me I didn't quite get. I told him, no thanks, I'm leaving in a few minutes. "Oh, you want to leave?!" He looked so excited, like a dog when you go to get the leash off the wall. I said, "No, I'm leaving with some friends." I turned away, and then we left. I ended up at a friend's boyfriend's place and slept in his bed while they went back to my friend's place.

And so, nothing of real import happened this weekend. But the next day I realized what the guy in the club had said. "Tu veux que je t'engouffre?" I wasn't aware that you could say "do you want me to devour you?" in the middle of a crowded club to a girl you don't know. But then again, this is France, and I did ask the guy to dance with me in the first place, so I guess I deserved that one, right?

More updates on school and such at some point...

A funny thing happened on the way to the metro

I've noticed I bitch a lot on this blog. I mean, we're talking a sizable amount here. And I've realized that I really don't have a reason to bitch, so I've decided to try to stop complaining so much. I took an objective look at things and came up with a full list of things that really should void my bitching possibilities: I live in Paris; I live in a nice neighborhood in a decent apartment of which many people are jealous; I'm going to grad school at one of the most well-renowned universities in the world; I have food on my table, clothes on my back, and many pairs of shoes on my feet. I've pretty much got my bases covered, and for as much as I love bitching about all the hypocrisy and inconsistency Paris has to offer, it really is a phenomenal city, full of little bits of happiness and rainbows around every corner. Ok, well, maybe not every corner - I'm not that optimistic, and I never said anything about losing the cynicism. But anyways, life in Paris is kind of like Space Mountain, if you'll excuse the cheap simile. It's fast and full of twists and turns, some of which are fun and some which seem to break your ribs, and the best part is that you really don't know where any of it's going to take you.

I don't really have anything to expand on that, but I just wanted to write about one of those little jolts that brought so much pleasure into my life last night. We were walking to Nation (metro stop), and as we approached the corner with the condom dispenser on the wall, we noticed a van stopped in front of it. A guy in a denim jacket and grey sweatshirt jumped out of the passenger side and jogged to the dispenser, then fished some money out of his pocket and put it in the machine as we walked by. Now, there are a lot of condom dispensers in Paris. They're in almost every metro station and in bathrooms just like they are in the U.S., and I know people must use them and I'm glad they do. I've just never seen someone actually use one. Yeah, it's not a big deal. It wasn't some life-changing experience that'll win me a Pulitzer. I'm not going to go and write the Great American Novel because I saw some guy buy a rubber on a street corner. But it was just so... odd. We all had the urge to yell back at him, "have a good time!" or "good screwing!" much like you would say "bon appetit" to anyone eating a sandwich or crepe on the street. But of course, that would be rude. But based on the French principles of personal space and the fact that buying a condom on the street is an act in public, therefore for everyone to see, I really don't see a problem with it. In fact, I bet that if we'd said it, he would have laughed. I don't know, I just think it's weird. The dispensers are there for everyone to see, but I somehow imagine that anyone that uses them waits until everyone's gone until they put drop their cash in. Don't you think it's kind of bizarre to buy a condom on the street? Or to see someone doing it? Go to the market, you can get a whole lot more than one or three. But then again, buying a whole box would mean you knew it would happen more than once, and I guess if you have to stop on the street and jump out of a car and leave it running to get a condom, you don't really have the time to do it more than once or three times anyways.

On the subject of contradiction, though, I forgot to add this one little quote into that whole long rant. It's from I, Lucifer, which is a pretty good book about the Devil's last chance at redemption, which, inevitably, they're making into a movie. Anyways, this is what Lucifer has to say about France: "France is the flower of civilization, and also the home of revolution which will lop off the head of that flower." Just something to mull over while I go experience the city a bit more and hopefully have some more interesting things to talk about, because I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little tired of me trying to make a mile of bullshit out of an inch of life.

Oscars and Bitching

Three days later and I'm still on Los Angeles time. I slept for nearly thirteen hours on Saturday night, but that still didn't reset my system. But on the plus side, I discovered the cheap coffee maker (one of three technical coffee-making devices found in my kitchen) actually works and can make coffee that doesn't also work as an astringent or paint thinner, so I am very much looking forward to tomorrow morning when I can wake up and enjoy a steaming cup of strong but not steroid-enhanced java. I mean, I enjoy a nice espresso or café crème once in a while (or, ok, more than once in a while), but sometimes it's nice to drink coffee that doesn't make you wince as if you were drinking whisky every time you take a sip and cause you to pee every five minutes like an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day.

Being back is a little weird. Somewhere over winter break, when I was in California, the novelty of Paris wore off. It's strange because you would think that would happen here. You'd think I'd be walking along the Seine and suddenly become disillusioned with it all, or I'd be somewhere in the 20th thinking, man, this place is dirty. But it happened somewhere between the time someone asked me if I liked Paris and when I answered, "yeah, it's cool," instead of my usual, "yes, I love it there." Something snapped and I saw Paris from a Parisian's perspective. Well, I didn't really because I don't think you can see things from a Parisian's perspective unless you're actually Parisian, but I think living here for a year and a half has given me at least a little bit of credibility. Like I was saying, I started looking at Paris as a metropolitan capitol, as the chaotic hub of numerous industries where everyone's running to get somewhere but going as slow as they possibly can just to piss you off, where the buildings are quasi-homogeneous and old, the women are skinny and the men are jackasses, the cabbies are bitter, and the dogshit is technicolor. But it's also the place where people take time to exist, pleasure in what they do, and nothing in their coffee, where the scenery makes you want to write sonnets and ballads, history comes alive around every corner, and the smell of fresh bread emanates from underground vents like the Devil beckoning you into some darkened street corner you know you shouldn't go into but just can't stay out of. It's the best of times, it's the worst of times; it's the season of Light, it's the season of Darkness; we have everything before us, we have nothing before us; she's my sister, she's my daughter - I mean, we're all going directly to Heaven, we're all going the other way. This place is like a black hole of hypocrisy. On one block you have multi-million-Euro apartments drowning in antique chandeliers and Louis XVI chaise lounges, but just down the street there are three clochards sleeping on the stoop of the post office and dining on a healthy diet of Kronenburg and two-buck-Chuck. No one wants anyone else to know about their private lives, but apartment buildings butt up against one another and no one bothers to close their curtains. The French get mad at Sarkozy for bringing in American capitalism to French society, but they invented the department store and consumer capitalism (and still practice it). You can't wear a veil or an ostentatious religious symbol to a public school, but All Saints' Day is a national holiday.

And yet, I can't help but love it here. Maybe it's because everyone is just as bitter and cynical as I am. Or maybe it's because I'm just as much a hypocrite as they are.

Now, for some non-Paris commentary. The Oscar nominations are coming out as I write this. So far all the big categories have come out, and I'm pretty happy with them. I'm kind of surprised Juno was nominated for Best Picture, but really ecstatic nonetheless, especially for Ellen Page's nomination. There really aren't any shockers though, except that now people will legally be able to refer to the crapfest that was Norbit as Oscar nominated Norbit since Rick Baker picked up a nomination for makeup. I really hope "Falling Slowly" from Once wins for best Original Song, partly because it's an outstanding movie which I recommend if you haven't seen, but also because Enchanted has three songs up for that award, and I'd kind of like to see the Academy give the finger to the corporate monster (even though I admittedly loved the movie). As much as I'd love to see Johnny Depp finally win one (this is his third nomination, after all) Daniel Day-Lewis will probably win for There Will Be Blood, which I have to see before Oscar night, or there really will be blood. I think best actress is kind of a tie between Julie Christie and Marion Cotillard, judging by what everyone else is saying. I hope they don't give it to Cate Blanchett, despite the fact that she's a great actress and seems to be a genuinely nice person, but come on - if you saw that trailer, you knew right from the get-go the only reason they made that movie was to go Oscar fishing. If Ellen Page wins, I'll be really surprised and a little disappointed that Marion Cotillard got shut out by a 19 year old, although I'll still be very ok with it. If you saw La Môme or La Vie en Rose, you know what I'm talking about and will be cheering for the Frenchie on February 24. For the supporting categories, I hope Javier Bardem gets it, just so we can hear another one of his very gracious and oh-so-adorable acceptance speeches. "I feel like I won the lottery"? Swoon. As for directing, I really don't care, but Schnabel will probably win for Le Scaphandre et le papillon (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), another one I have to see. Original Screenplay will probably be Diablo Cody for Juno, which I guess I'm ok with, even though I sincerely believe she will never write anything as good or successful ever again. I don't know, I just have a feeling about that one. Out of all the scripts I read, that was my favorite, along with Lars and the Real Girl, which is also nominated. For Adapted Screenplay, I really have no idea - all the movies are supposedly fantastic and deserve awards.

Finally, I know I already did this category, but can we talk for just a minute about how happy I am that Keira "I'm just naturally that skinny" Knightley wasn't nominated? I have one word for her: OVERRATED. For serious.

I really hope the show still goes on so I can watch it. I missed it last time Jon Stewart hosted, and I'll be really upset if it's canceled.

I think that's about all I have to say for right now. I was supposed to do some work on the translation with someone, but she kind of flaked and pushed back our meeting to... oh, whenever she feels like calling me. Don't even get me started on what the French consider punctual. And I'm always late? HAH!

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.