Spent

Well, that's over with.

The last few days I've been killing myself trying to get ready for my thesis presentation and finish up a few last minute academic things, like my last research paper EVER (which I got an A- on and am very happy about). I was the first to present my thesis, which was incredibly intimidating, but someone has to be first, and it might as well have been me. I actually think it was better this way, because I didn't have the opportunity to get freaked out by anyone else's presentation, constantly comparing it to mine, which I would inevitably deem inferior to everything ever written or presented in the history of NYU. But the truth is, I rocked it. I rocked it hard. I'm really happy with my grade, and everyone on the jury thought it was a great presentation - very interesting, well-organized, and delivered well. So basically, in conclusion, I rock. Hard.

Last week was crazy, apart from working myself up about this thesis thing, but because of the other work I had to do, the library strike, and various other annoyances that come with the luxury of living in Paris. However, we did finally do a reading with real actors of the play we're translating, which was definitely the highlight of my week. (Sorry, I still can't tell you what it is for confidentiality reasons, but if you ask me in person, I'll probably tell you.) It was a group of actors Gérald is working with on this show, and they were all extremely nice and forgiving of my inefficiency at reading lines in French. Additionally, a couple of them were quite attractive, hence the highlight of my week. One was named Aymeric, who was probably the most adorable-attractive person I've ever met. You can tell he was an irresistibly cute kid, and lucky for everyone he kept those pouty lips. Then there was Julien, who was actually pretty American-looking, which is funny because he started paradoxical conversation about how the domination of American English in the world is actually going to lead to its demise. Alright, so maybe not the brightest tool in the shed, but great eye candy and a deep, sexy French voice, and I've always wanted to date a Julien, so what more can you ask for?

My brother and a friend are coming in on Thursday for their first stop on their Grand Tour, which is very exciting! My apartment currently looks like a tornado hit it, as per usual, but I'm working on it. Slowly but surely it will once again resemble a habitable space.

Ok, so I just hit a wall and can't write any more. I'm so burnt out from all this academia and worrying about all this academia... I should get some rest. Or at least relax just a bit with some trashy TV.

P.S. Who's excited for the new Indiana Jones? I think I actually want to see it more than Sex and the City. Sacrilege, I know.

Procrastination? What's that?

There's something about the way Paris smells in nice weather that just makes me happy. It's some mixture of freshly baked bread, various flowers, goodness, puppies, and sex (masking the usual urine/dog poop/diesel/alcohol concoction, which also includes bread and sex, but sex somehow becomes more pungent in the summer. I think I'll stop this hyperbole now.). Unfortunately, nice weather does not make me want to do work, even though when I got back from Scotland, I was going to get up early and go to the library and write that paper and clean my apartment and make real food because it's nice outside and that puts me in a good mood. End result: I'm supposed to turn in a paper tomorrow (no official due date given), but I'll be lucky if I get it in by the end of the week because a)it's the last two weeks of classes and every professor is giving us assignments, b)it's summer in Paris, c)I have memoir shit to do, and d)my life is currently in large part consumed by translating Tom Stoppard, which is fun, but it's been about 7 months now, and I'm kind of ready for it to be done. Although there's supposed to be a reading of it with real actors in a couple of weeks, and I'm really looking forward to that. We also got to work outside today for a few hours, sitting on picnic chairs on the grassy knoll on avenue Foch, which was a really welcome change from the sometimes dungeon-like obscurity of the director's ground floor apartment. And I got a free lunch, which was, as always, awesome. I could be a billionaire, and I'd still be pleased when someone offered to buy lunch - cheap or just cheerfully grateful?

I'm coming back to the States in less than two months, and after I finish my thesis, I'm going to start some serious job searching, but, um, I kind of don't want to work. Especially not for the corporate monster (ugh, I can't believe I just said that. ok, I can.) or some company where I'll be photocopying and answering phones all day. After watching a bunch of Jake and Amir videos, I'm pretty sure collegehumor.com would be the most amazing place to work, but I'm also pretty sure they're like a secret society and I'd have to drink raw eggs and brand myself and possibly perform sexual acts to secure a desk. So, please give me some ideas and I'll think about them, and maybe the person that comes up with the best one will win a free meal and get to experience that aforementioned cheerful gratefulness/cheapness.* And if you can actually land me some super-cool, highly-coveted job, I might just throw in dessert and a movie.** Something extra if it pays really really well.***


*Dinner at the following places: McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, or any other respectable establishment with a dollar menu. In-n-out not excluded because it is awesome.

**Dessert must be some form of chocolate and movie can NOT star Dane Cook, Kevin James, Jessica Simpson, Eddie Murphy, or Carrot Top (so, no midnight showings of Chairman of the Board, ok?), OR be about a group of high school students out to lose their virginity while camping in some creepy cabin in the secluded forests of one of the Carolinas.

***TBD. T really BD if we're talking six figures.

Now back to that paper on caricatures. Funny, it feels like I've written this paper five times already, and I still don't think I know anything about the subject. Ah, academia.

A few months late, but still...

I don't really have anything important to say. School is sucking my lifeblood, Paris is springy, and so on and so forth. The ability of French academia to piss me off is an eternal mystery to me, but I've figured out that profs just don't care about the students. They yell at them and few are helpful, and not one is warm and welcoming. Oh, and they also randomly don't show up for class, without posting a note or sending out an email (oh, but since there's no collective email system for French universities, that would be too hard to do in the first place, so nevermind that). Anyways, this morning, when our professor committed this heinous crime against studentity, my friend and I bitched about it while enjoying giant crèmes in a café down the street. Crèmes are really one of the best things ever. Between that and air conditioning, I'm not really sure which one wins. We meant to get work done while waiting for our ass-raping of a translation exam at 2, but of course that didn't happen. Instead, we reminisced about TV shows and fights with friends, particularly one incident in which a friendship ended because of movie-going arrangements. And it got me thinking about things...

Well, I'm always thinking about things, but it reminded me of all the times I was not only a bitch (stop laughing, I know that's a lot), but a bitch for no reason. Or a horrible person for no reason. Or just those times when I should have kept my mouth shut or should have not done something I unfortunately did. And I really feel bad about all those little things. People may or may not have forgotten them by now, and the offended probably don't read this, but for them, and for everyone I've unfairly been a bitch to, please accept my apologies.
1. Cortney (even though there's no possible way she'll see this): I'm sorry for screwing up the "Secret buddies/sisters" game senior year of field hockey. I like to attribute it to my awkward phase, but I've since learned that it wasn't really so much a phase as my actual, permanent personality.
2. Ally: I'm sorry for being a heinous bitch all the time and starting shit when I shouldn't have. And I'm sorry for not being better with keeping in touch. And I'm really sorry for that one time I said that thing you specifically asked me not to, and during that huge "conflict resolution" type-thing, saying something else just as stupid. I think we were all a little on edge about stuff, but I really didn't mean any harm, and I'm sorry.
3. Nina: I'm sorry for taking the flower you caught at Medieval Times at my 11th birthday party and telling you my dog ate it (which, for those of you not involved, is a totally legitimate explanation for a missing flower). And I'm sorry for not mentioning that at all for the past twelve years. It's not a big deal, but I've felt horrible about it this whole time. You were so happy when you got that flower, and I had to be a selfish brat and take it.
4. Katherine: I am SO sorry about that ridiculous thing I wrote a couple of years ago when we were on JYA. I don't even know why I wrote it, but I think I was just looking for something to bitch about, and that coffee date happened to be the last thing that happened before I got home. I've also felt really horrible about this since it happened, because you are a cool girl and didn't deserve that kind of trash-talk, and I really do think that we could have been better friends had I not been so self-centered and gossiping. Also, I really envy your ability to wear dresses with belts (all asking-for-forgiveness aside, it's true).

It would have been convenient to post that at the beginning of the year, or wait until it becomes a step to recovery - let's hope it never comes to that - but I just wanted to get it off my chest now. I think it's going to be a rough summer, and I think I'd like to get a head start on letting go of some of my baggage. Figuratively, of course, because gym memberships here are 600 euros a year and there's no way I can fight the boulangerie temptation. There are some things you just can't ask a girl to do.

Now for some randomness: I really want this or this, and how cool would you be if you went walking amongst intelligentsia wearing this? (pictures below)


Pretty cool, huh? Nerdy, of course, but cool. If you didn't know what it actually was, you'd just think it was pretty, shiny, design-y jewelry. Because, well, that's what it is. Anyways, I'll just add it to my list of materialistic things I'd like but cannot have. Ugh. On the bright side, I think I found some place to go study that isn't the library or the café down the street with the ornery waitstaff! I'll elaborate later, as I should probably go visit before I confirm that hypothesis. That's all for now, folks. Back to the grindstone.

(TOTAL sidenote: I have no fucking idea what's going on upstairs, but it is either World War III or a massive orgy involving sqweegees. Also, I just heard my neighbor orgasm. Not the one upstairs; the one next door. Seriously, I'm starting to think I live in a brothel.)

Indecent exposure

Oh, where do I start? So many non-event things in one day, I can barely deal with it. But first, I forgot to add this last movie poster on the post about bad translations, and I really don't know how I could have forgotten it - it's the best one!



The word "maxi" doesn't really translate perfectly. It refers to something big, as in, bigger than normal. I guess you should say huge, or mega - maybe mega. Mega Dad. Honestly, France? I'm not going to bother bitching about this one, but I will, however, bitch about how now I'm going to forever associate sanitary pads with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. (Sidenote: who else thinks it was an awful idea to try to add The Rock's real name back into the mix? Good, I'm glad we agree.)

So, I went to the library today (BPI or Pompidou, as we incorrectly call it). I got up, I was in a good mood - I was going to the library and was going to be productive and a good student and redeem myself! I went to go catch the bus, and when I got on the bus, my good spirits quickly faded, as the driver was apparently drunk or spastic or some other adjective that explains his shitty driving. And there was traffic. I was already running a little late - if you don't get to the library before it opens, you could wait in line for literally an hour before you get in. That is, if you get in. Pompidou opens at 12 on weekdays. Yeah, don't even get me started on the library's crap hours. Anyways, I was originally planning on getting there around 11:30, but that obviously didn't happen. At around 12:05, I rounded the corner of the building to find a line already a block long. It's ok, I said to myself, I'm just going to put on my ipod and wait. All will be well. No reason to get upset. And it was fine, except for all the smoke emanating from my future cancer-patient-peers. Half an hour later (see what I mean?), I got into Pompidou and made a B-line for my books, and then I sat down at an empty table and tried to take advantage of the emptiness and quiet to get some serious work done. Gradually people filed in, and soon there wasn't a free seat in the house. I think about half an hour after I sat down, a guy sat down on my left, and I didn't really notice it at first, but he had one little book and a half-used pad of graph paper out holding the book open, but no pen. Or briefcase or bag or backpack. And then I noticed out of the corner of my eye what looked like his hand down his pants, making repetitive motions. Are you fucking kidding me? You know, I've been reading about all the public masturbation going on in the States, because Perez Hilton is pretty obsessed with it, but I mean, COME ON. Ok, bad choice of words. And he just sat there, for about two hours, taking his hand in and out of his pants, glaring at me occasionally, getting up two or three times to do God knows what God knows where, and then he just left. He never turned the page of his book or took any notes, and of course I was too weirded out to actually look at him - oh, and there's that whole making eye contact with a strange man equals making a sexual invite thing. And judging by the current circumstances, I didn't think I needed to throw gas on the fire.

I took a lunch break around 4, stuffing down a sandwich and some tomato-basil chips. Now, I know what you're thinking, and I used to think it too. Tomato-basil? CHIPS? I used to scoff and make weird faces at the concept, but actually, they are not that bad. Not that bad at all. Actually, I was thinking about stopping on the way home to get some, but then my senses thought better of it. After a quick trip to the bathroom, where you have to take the toilet paper before you go into the stall (still can't figure that one out), I continued my work next to the recently-seated normal guy doing calculus problems. I thought I was very productive. I worked the entire time, didn't procrastinate, never even sent a single text message. And somehow I only managed to read forty pages. What? Forty pages? Five hours of work and only forty pages? How is that possible? I did get information, but I'm not sure it's enough to finish the work I have for tomorrow and that mini presentation we have to give on Monday. Ah well. It's not like this'll be the first time I'll have had to bullshit my way through something.

On my way home I picked up some bread from my favorite boulangerie in my neighborhood. It'd been a while since I'd gone there since I rarely come home that way anymore, and I was starting to forget how good that bread is, especially when you get it fresh from the oven and melt some butter on it. Mmmm, heaven. It was warm today, not hot enough to melt the butter, but warm enough. It was a nice end to a very awkward day.

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.

It's the thought that counts

Yesterday at the grocery store I was standing behind a couple about my age who were being fairly affectionate, but not nauseatingly so, when I realized that the entire contents of their purchase was a chocolate bar and a box of condoms. Now THAT is what I call a "night in." If there are any potential suitors out there, take note: this may be the best Valentine's Day present ever.

Apparently in China (or is it Japan? Shit, I can't remember, but please don't think I'm one of those people that thinks that Asia is a country, because I am definitely aware of the many, many countries that make up the CONTINENT of Asia, but I honestly just can't remember which one my friend told me it was, but I think it was China... anyways!) "Valentine's Day" doesn't exist (surprise, surprise), but there are two different days - first a day where girls give guys chocolate, and later another where guys give girls candy. And while I very strongly feel that it should be the other way around, I do think it's cool that there are two separate days, thus forcing everyone to give something to someone. Well, maybe not everyone, but there are, like, a billion Chinese people, so I'm guessing that's a lot of chocolate and candy given out every year.

That's about all the interesting stuff going on right now. I burned myself on my pseudo-oven that I still can't completely operate, I found a company I want to work for when I go home, the woman on the first floor who I thought had died because I never see her anymore and because a couple of days ago I came downstairs and there were four men outside and a weird smell is apparently still somewhat alive and asking me questions and having me open jars for her in the middle of the hallway and telling me "que Dieu te garde" (may God keep you/watch over you), midterm week is almost over, and school is still sucking my lifeblood. I've resigned myself to the fact that from now until I leave, I will probably not have any free weekends, random shopping days, or spontaneous trips to hidden wings in the Louvre. But on the bright side, I think I really like what I'm doing my essay/thesis on, and I'm really going to enjoy doing the research - that is, apart from the standing in line for an hour to get into the library. I just wish I could go outside and enjoy some of the unseasonable sun we've not been having but will soon be having because spring is coming!

I forgot to mention something in my last post. On Friday night when I came home, I noticed the mat outside my door was crooked, which isn't a big deal - my neighbor's door is inches from mine and someone might have just slipped on it or something, but when I opened the door, my toilet paper was sitting on a kitchen chair and my couch had been moved slightly. After my initial reaction that someone broke in was quickly tamed by the fact that nothing was taken from the kitchen and my room was in the same post-hurricane status it always is (so really, I wouldn't have been able to tell anyways) and what would anyone want with my toilet paper - the light bulb went off and a bell chimed. I ran to the bathroom to discover... a wooden wall surrounding the pipes! Finally! After nearly five months of musty, dank, gross exposed pipes, it's closed! Sort of... it's still open at the top and bottom, but it's a hell of a lot better than it was. I just wished someone had told me or called me or warned me in any other way, shape, or form so I could've cleaned up a bit. But, you know, that would've required more than the minimal effort. They had to climb up five flights of stairs with equipment, so obviously picking up a tiny cell phone and calling me would have been far too much to ask of them.

That's about all I have for now. Last, but not least, please take a look at SASSY, a new blog written by, about, and for SASSY/sassy women. My first post is up tomorrow, so check it out!

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.

Malade

More than a week back in Paris, and I'm still not sleeping well. First it was because of jetlag, which I usually don't even get, and now I'm kept up and woken up by the mother of all colds that blocks up not only my nose, but my ears as well. I'm going on day four or five of feeling like I'm underwater and having to ask people repeatedly, "quoi?" or "comment?"I really hoped I'd get to do some exploring this past week, and this week too, because you can never explore Paris too much, but I obviously haven't been able to do everything I wanted. We did make it out to the Buttes Chaumont today, though, for a wintry picnic. I didn't realize how frigid it was going to be, or how cloudy, since the météo lied - again - about the weather, so it turned out to be just about the worst idea I've ever had, not counting that time I took a ride home from the hospital with Ally from that creepy security guard or when I thought a 1-inch cigar box would fit over my brother's head, although I was, like, seven when that happened, so my idea-developing skills weren't exactly what you'd call honed when I came up with that gem. Digression aside, it actually was rather pleasant, especially since I got to take a new metro line. It's always fun taking a metro line I've never taken before. Sarah and I were talking about it, and we both said we were so excited to finally take the 7bis. On a new line, there's so much you don't know, so much to anticipate! First, you don't really know where you've going, since you obviously have never been there, you have no idea what the train is going to look like or what kind of people are going to be on it. It's kind of like Christmas, if Christmas smelled like pee and sounded like a jackhammer and nails on a chalkboard.

I also did a little museum-ing, and finally got to the Courbet exhibit at the Grand Palais right before it closed and the comic book exhibit at the museum of Jewish art and history, which were both pretty cool. Courbet was such a bad ass, you know? He painted everything, including still lifes, landscapes, his friends, paysans, whores, and, of course, the famous vajayjay, not to mention he convinced everyone to pull down the colonne de Vendôme during the Commune in 1871. The coolest part, to me, at least, was seeing a couple of paintings from the Smith collection on display, both with audioguide entries. As far as the Jewish museum goes, I'd never been there before, so I had to see the whole thing. It's weird - I kind of have a problem with them calling it a museum, because museums are usually dedicated to the past, to things and cultures that no longer exist, at least when they're not simple receptacles of art and natural history, although, there it is again - history. We're still alive, we're still continuing on, and especially in a place like Paris, with such a rich Jewish culture that's still visibly present (though some may argue that it's in the process of dying out, which is kind of, sadly, true), I wouldn't expect to find a museum of Judaism. I'd rather call it a cultural center, because that's exactly what it is. It's like any of the other countries' embassies here, or their maisons de culture, like the Cervantes institute or even the Swedish cultural center. It's a meeting place for members of the community, where they have exhibits and colloquium. It's a place that is very much alive. But anyways, it's also a bit bizarre because it's not only a sort of pilgrimage spot for Jews visiting Paris, but it's also a kind of crash course in Judaism. Along the walls of the main exhibition halls are plaques explaining all the different holidays and customs, above various documents and objects that illustrate them. When I was walking around, there was actually a guy taking notes down - important names and dates and such - for all of the major holidays. When I finally made it down to the comic book exhibit, I found a much younger crowd there. There was a bunch of twenty-somethings, mostly guys, gathered around display cases of original Superman comic books from the forties, trying to follow the English. The last room was dedicated to more contemporary comics and European comics; I had no idea comics were still so popular and culturally relevant! I found one called Le Chat du rabbin (The Rabbi's Cat), which was absolutely adorable. The story is basically about this rabbi's cat, who wants to have a bar mitzvah. It's not only really cute and funny if you get Jewish humor, but it's actually quite philosophical. If a cat can talk and was raised Jewish, is he Jewish? Can he have a bar mitzvah? Can he study kabbalah? I found the first volume at the Virgin Megastore, and I've yet to sit down and read it, but I'm definitely looking forward to it.

Other than that, I've been doing a lot of sleeping. And cross-stitching. I bought a kit on impulse and am finding it very relaxing, or at least would if I had a comfortable chair to sit in. I've also been watching a lot of movies. Of note, there's No Country for Old Men, which scared the crap out of me but is amazing; Atonement, which is beautiful but will make you feel like crap - thanks, Ian McEwan, you suck once again; and Imagine Me & You, which I've seen I have no idea how many times, but love more and more each time I watch it (not for you conservatives - because I know so many - but it is a wonderful love story).

On the academic front, I'm looking forward to this, my final semester of academia, or so it seems for the moment, unless something happens in the next few months and I decide to write a thesis. I got permission, from the professor himself, to take a Masters seminar at the Université de Paris X about theatrical translation, even though I'm technically supposed to be taking classes two years below that level. I'm extremely excited because it's with Jean-Michel Deprats, the foremost Shakespeare translator, otherwise known as The Man. I mean, if there's one person to talk to about my memoire, it's him. Ok, and maybe Judith Miller, the head of the French department at NYU, who'll be in Paris later this month. But still, for translators, this is like taking a film class taught by Scorsese. And I'm taking TWO classes with him. Ah, after all that bitching about the system, it's finally worked to my advantage. Score!

Sorry this has been so boring. I really haven't been up to much and don't have very many observations to make, except this one: why can I not find ANY good ethnic food in Paris? Like, at all? There's the Vietnamese place down the street that's pretty good, but it's subsidized by the embassy, so that doesn't really count. I know there's the Ethiopian place by the Pantheon that's good, but other than that, every place I've been to has, for lack of a better word, sucked. I had sushi on Sunday at a place in the 7th (and lived to tell the tale, yes), which was pretty tasteless, and pastitsio yesterday that really resembled more of a lasagna than a traditional Greek dish (though the dolmades were good, albeit too oily). And don't even get me started on Indian. So far, I can only count three or four good ethnic restaurants that I've been to, and in a city as diverse as Paris, that is a major problem.

I'm sure I have plenty of other things to say, and actually, I could go on and write them now, but I'll just save them for a later time. Because my blog entries are like good chocolate: sweet but bitter, and best savored slowly, in small doses.

Oh, if only my creative writing professors were here!

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!

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.