I could really go for some Carpenters right about now. It’s dark, cold, rainy—a lethal combination that ensures I will never go out again! So I was supposed to have brunch and see a Karl Lagerfeld photography exhibit with Mike Fink, a Romanian/Parisian I met at my very first meetup today. However, I had my reservations as I’m not at all interested in the guy (duh) but I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. We had had dinner before (was supposed to be coffee but turned into dinner…) and he was very courteous, helping me put my coat on and such. But my feminine instinct told me the dude was probably interested. I’m starting to think I should slap a stupid “in a relationship” option on my Facebook profile just to get it over with.
It’s tough, you’re so desperate to make friends here that you accept any invitation you receive. I want to make friends, not date people. But is it possible to go out one-on-one with a guy here? I guess not, unless it’s just coffee and during the day. ANNOYING. It seems like all my friends will most likely be very young au pairs. But I digress. So when Mike called me Saturday night to confirm, I casually mentioned I had a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in awhile (little white lie, as I had just seen Kacy hours ago) and would like to bring her along to brunch. I felt this sent an effective message that I just wanted to be friends.
He got all blustery and told me to forget about our brunch, we could do it another time. Huh. But THEN (this is the clincher) told me this was “strike one.” Ahem. I really felt like telling him off at this point but I just politely ignored it. And he then proceeded to tell me a sexist joke about a cowboy and his strikes. Alrighty. Not even worth keeping as a friend at this point. Which is a shame because I really would have liked a native Parisian friend who would have helped me get my iPhone unlocked.
Men are so typical. They get so sensitive and touchy when a woman isn’t interested. You’re immediately not worth their time and they want nothing to do with you. I started overanalyzing the situation and thinking of the guy as a major creep: what kind of local loser goes to ex-pat meetups if only to pray on lonely Americans who jump at the chance for any kind of social invitation? In the States I more than likely would not have chatted as long, let alone agree to a coffee/dinner date. Sigh. Can I just wear a button that says “Not interested. Just here to make friends.”
I guess this is a stupid thing to complain about. I should be flattered, right? But I’m still just effing annoyed. It’s the sense of entitlement men get when they ask a girl out. You’re not the first guy, and you’re definitely not the last. Ugh. Annoyed. I thought about writing a very blunt email telling him exactly what I thought, but I figured that was too “forward American” behavior and I should probably just ignore his calls from now on. How do you say “passive aggressive” en Francais?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
My first and last Parisian nightclub
I met this girl named Alexia at the Jardin du Luxembourg because she wanted to practice her English. We had an awkward conversation and I left thinking I didn’t much care for her and she probably felt the same way. But now she invites me to clubs, her birthday party, and other nightlife events. Maybe she wants the novelty of an American friend, even though we have nothing in common? I finally relented to one of her requests to go to a private club called Les Bonheurs des Dames near the Champs Elysees on Thursday night. She warned me the dress code would be very demanding but the drinks free. Hmmm I do like free things.
But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:
"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "
Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)
Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”
I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.
“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”
We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.
I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.
The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.
An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.
I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.
But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:
"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "
Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)
Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”
I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.
“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”
We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.
I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.
The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.
An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.
I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Field Trip to the French Countryside
I thought I was a field trip kind of person...but I'm actually the worst because I hate running on other people's schedules, not being able to pee when I want to, and standing around listening to stuff when I'd rather wander off by myself and take pictures of rotting logs. BUT when I saw the flyer at my French language school for a day trip to Giverny, Normandy, and some serious chateau-viewing, I signed up--and convinced my friend Kacy to as well.
We met up at 7am on Saturday morning. That is to say, I was the only one there on time, and everyone else strolled in around 7:45am. I'm learning that time is very flexible for French people--especially when it's an early Saturday morning. It was an odd group, old and young, mostly awkward, about 15 in all. I thought Kacy and I would meet a ton of people, but we ended up becoming buddy buddy with a lovely girl from Nottingham, England named Annabelle. Everyone else was weird in that "smelly freshman in a dorm" kind of way.
We hopped on a huge bus (I secretly love them, as you are high up on the road and can see everything) and traveled about an hour out of Paris. It was really nice to get away from the city, and see it from a different angle. To be honest, it looks kind of industrial and shitty when you drive into it.
Though it was cold and damp, Giverny was a magical place. Monet's gardens were exquisite, and his house gets 5 out of 5 cuteness points. It was a rambling old cottage painted pink with green shutters. Inside, the paint schemes were like one delicious pastel ice cream color after another. His kitchen, decorated with copper pots and blue mosaic tile, was a country girl's dream. The more I live in this big city, the more I long for the countryside. It's just so much more relaxing and tranquil. I hate waking up to the sound of construction, people yelling, motorbikes speeding, sirens going off. I have such cliche dreams about having a country cottage with a husband and a couple of pugs. No more big cities after this.
After that we went to a tiny town in Normandy, which was the picturesque small French village. We bought some amazing French Neufchâtel cheese from an old lady in the market. It's similar to Camembert, but more earthy. It's usually made in the shape of hearts. I also bought a la chouquette (a delicate fluff ball of pastry) and decided I would rather stay in the village than go back to Paris. There is something so appealing to me about having one patisserie, one boulangerie, and one farmer's market. You get to know everyone by name, and you never have to walk far. My ideal!
Back in the bus to a ruined old castle that to be honest was not that interesting. Oh, I should also mention the entire tour was conducted in French. Guess how much I got out of it? Maybe twenty words. The woman would babble in French, and I would turn to Kacy and say, "So, this castle is really old, it used to have three stories, and there were flowers somewhere."
Kind of annoying to pay money for a tour and not get anything out of it, but I should have known, as it IS a French language school. We all sat down in an underground portion of the castle and lunched on baguettes, super stinky Camembert, hard-boiled eggs, and cider. The best part was the apple tart and hot coffee they served afterward.
The next chateau was more impressive as it was still standing and filled with relics. The Normandy fashion back in the day was really unusual. Large capes, super tall bonnets, and huge jewelry. My favorite part were the ancient "toys" for children back then. One consisted of a wooden runner you stuck the kid in and forced them to run up and down a span of three feet for hours. Ah, the good ole days! I truly believe children should be "seen and not heard." When are we gonna go back to the pioneer days of child-rearing when kids actually worked?
We picked some apples from the tree, bid adieu to the countryside, and I promptly fell asleep on the bus. Again, I love having a busy day and then getting home in time for dinner, hot tea, and reading. Much more preferable than going out in the evening.
We met up at 7am on Saturday morning. That is to say, I was the only one there on time, and everyone else strolled in around 7:45am. I'm learning that time is very flexible for French people--especially when it's an early Saturday morning. It was an odd group, old and young, mostly awkward, about 15 in all. I thought Kacy and I would meet a ton of people, but we ended up becoming buddy buddy with a lovely girl from Nottingham, England named Annabelle. Everyone else was weird in that "smelly freshman in a dorm" kind of way.
We hopped on a huge bus (I secretly love them, as you are high up on the road and can see everything) and traveled about an hour out of Paris. It was really nice to get away from the city, and see it from a different angle. To be honest, it looks kind of industrial and shitty when you drive into it.
Though it was cold and damp, Giverny was a magical place. Monet's gardens were exquisite, and his house gets 5 out of 5 cuteness points. It was a rambling old cottage painted pink with green shutters. Inside, the paint schemes were like one delicious pastel ice cream color after another. His kitchen, decorated with copper pots and blue mosaic tile, was a country girl's dream. The more I live in this big city, the more I long for the countryside. It's just so much more relaxing and tranquil. I hate waking up to the sound of construction, people yelling, motorbikes speeding, sirens going off. I have such cliche dreams about having a country cottage with a husband and a couple of pugs. No more big cities after this.
After that we went to a tiny town in Normandy, which was the picturesque small French village. We bought some amazing French Neufchâtel cheese from an old lady in the market. It's similar to Camembert, but more earthy. It's usually made in the shape of hearts. I also bought a la chouquette (a delicate fluff ball of pastry) and decided I would rather stay in the village than go back to Paris. There is something so appealing to me about having one patisserie, one boulangerie, and one farmer's market. You get to know everyone by name, and you never have to walk far. My ideal!
Back in the bus to a ruined old castle that to be honest was not that interesting. Oh, I should also mention the entire tour was conducted in French. Guess how much I got out of it? Maybe twenty words. The woman would babble in French, and I would turn to Kacy and say, "So, this castle is really old, it used to have three stories, and there were flowers somewhere."
Kind of annoying to pay money for a tour and not get anything out of it, but I should have known, as it IS a French language school. We all sat down in an underground portion of the castle and lunched on baguettes, super stinky Camembert, hard-boiled eggs, and cider. The best part was the apple tart and hot coffee they served afterward.
The next chateau was more impressive as it was still standing and filled with relics. The Normandy fashion back in the day was really unusual. Large capes, super tall bonnets, and huge jewelry. My favorite part were the ancient "toys" for children back then. One consisted of a wooden runner you stuck the kid in and forced them to run up and down a span of three feet for hours. Ah, the good ole days! I truly believe children should be "seen and not heard." When are we gonna go back to the pioneer days of child-rearing when kids actually worked?
We picked some apples from the tree, bid adieu to the countryside, and I promptly fell asleep on the bus. Again, I love having a busy day and then getting home in time for dinner, hot tea, and reading. Much more preferable than going out in the evening.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sri Lankans, cocaine, and the party that never existed.
I had to get up early on Saturday. Really ass-crack of dawn early. Like 5:30am. It involved walking a mile to the metro in the dark, ride it all the way to Champs-Elysees, and wait in line for FOUR HOURS to see the Palais de l'Élysée, the Presidential Palace of France. It's open one day a year to the public for French Heritage Weekend. Fine, I can force myself to do this. It's the "White House" of Paris, right? Maybe Carla Bruni will be serving coffee.
So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.
Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.
We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"
So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.
The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.
I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.
So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.
Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.
We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"
So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.
The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.
I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.
Children are gross.
This is not breaking news, but rather a thought that goes through my head about 58 times a day. Children are gross. They pick their nose while watching TV, idly eating what they find as though it were a potato chip. Every time a bowel movement is imminent, they announce it loudly to the world, "I have to take a little caca!"
They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.
If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.
If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.
The End.
They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.
If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.
If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.
The End.
A shitty poem I wrote because I was bored on the metro.
Always bring a book or an iPod. You never know when your train will break down, the huddled masses of unwashed bodies will press against you, and you fear this is your last memory before the terrorist's bomb goes off!
Ahem.
Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.
Ahem.
Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.
Let's play "Spot the American!" game
When I first arrived in Paris, (feels like six months ago, was only three weeks) my first instinct was to talk to every American I saw. On the metro, in line at the Monoprix, walking down the Rue de Rivoli. Unless you're all gawking at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, spotting an American isn't all that common. Especially where I am: the southeastern suburbs of Paris--Saint Mande.
This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.
So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.
This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.
So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.
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