Heere Kitty Kitty

I have been lucky enough to have found myself a French family. Jonas and his family have welcomed me into their lives and their home as if I were their other daughter, their American daughter. Naturally, I try as hard as I can to be a gracious houseguest while still making myself feel at home. However, I find myself at times not knowing what to do in certain situations due to my lack of knowledge of “family rules” so to speak. This morning, for example, I awoke to such a circumstance where quite frankly, I’ve never felt so horrified or mortified.

I woke up sometime between 10:30 and 11:00 this morning and came downstairs to an empty house. I didn’t think anything of it, they had courteously left coffee and bread on the table for me to eat at whatever hour it was that I decided to get up. After pouring myself some coffee, I decided to step outside to test the weather (gray skies and rain can be so deceiving, right ?). As I stepped out into the crisp morning air I suddenly felt something rub up against my leg. I looked down and saw the house cat Pica run past me. Momentarily confused, I tried to remember if I had ever seen this cat outside before. Does Pica know how to live outside ? Yeah, I’ve seen him outside plenty of times. He always meows at the window while we’re eating dinner. Or wait, that cat has always been black . . . Pica is white . . . I didn’t even know Pica existed till the last time I was here when I accidentally sat on him . . . shoot, I don’t think this cat can be out here, I better go catch him.

At this point Pica hadn’t gone far. He was still in sight and just sitting at the edge of the yard doing whatever it is that cats do. Barefoot and still in my jammies, I squatted down and started talking to him in my cat voice, heeeere kitty kitty kitty, wait, does this cat speak English ? Viens ici chat, tu ne peux pas être dehors . . . The cat just looked at me as if I were the dumbest thing to even try to communicate with him. Seeing that my efforts were going to waste, I caved and decided I would just have to venture out and pick him up despite my allergy to cats. A couple steps away from him I bent down to try to pick him up but as soon as I got close, he hissed and ran away. Absolutely panicked (and unable to feel my feet) I went chasing after this cat all around the yard until he jumped over a fence that I was not about to hobble over. Contrary to popular belief, I am neither as agile nor as graceful as a cat and I don’t think the neighbors would react the same way to a barbaric looking American girl tumbling over into their yard. Conquered, I went back inside anxiously waiting for Jonas’ parents to come home while figuring out exactly how I was going to explain to them that I lost their cat.

I tried to think of anything I could do. Seeing as I no longer have a cell phone, there was no one I could call and I had no way of getting a hold of Jonas’ parents (Jonas won’t be home till the day after Christmas). I sat there confiding in Téo (T.O. as I call him, the family dog) hoping his golden retriever eyebrows of wisdom would somehow bring Pica back to me. All of a sudden Téo started barking at the door, announcing that Édith and Jean-Claude had returned. I immediately started frantically explaining to them in detail how worried I was that I let the cat out and how I had tried to get Pica back but was scared that he was lost on the other side of the fence forever. They exchanged looks with each other with these smiles on their faces as if it were the most unbelievable story they had ever heard (which in retrospect it probably was). Édith then calmly said to me, “So Pica is still outside ?” And I responded, “YES yes I’m SO sorry I didn’t mean to let him out, it was an accident !” Édith then walked to the window, opened it up, and who popped their white little head in? None other than the infamous Pica. Pica nonchalantly made his way through the window as if to say, yes I Pica am back from my adventure, I will now grace you with my presence as I parade slowly across the table before heading into the other room for my midmorning nap. Édith and Jean-Claude both started chuckling as if they were trying to decide who would be the one to break the news to me that Pica in fact is an indoor and outdoor cat and he may come and go as he pleases. The thought of me running across the property barefoot through mud, sludge and snow threw them for a loop and has provided them with jokes and laughs to tell anyone and everyone who comes our way.

I was relieved to find out that I didn’t lose the family cat and in fact I did absolutely nothing wrong. But I still can’t help but want to curl up and hide in a little ball every time the story gets retold. Everyone thinks it’s cute, naturally, but I just feel like a clown for making a giant scene over a stupid cat. I don’t even like cats and I nearly lost all my toes to hypothermia trying to rescue a cat that didn’t need rescuing. Ugh, another lesson learned : don’t go chasing cats, unless you are a dog, of course.

Bottom of the Food Chain

What is it that makes us foreigners so distinguishable amongst the masses of people that fill the streets of Paris daily? Apart from us speaking English, we really don’t stand out that much, do we? It can’t always be the way we dress - some of us abide strictly by the Parisian fashion laws, blending ourselves in with the neutral blur of people. Is it our culture-given mannerisms that give us away? I know our reactions are much more exaggerated but it’s not like I walk around Paris as a constant chain of reactions. Whatever it is, it’s noticeable. Not to us, of course, but to the native city dwellers we might as well be walking around with a flashing TOURIST sign hovering over our heads. It’s not a bad thing really, we are in fact foreign and no matter how hard I try I never will be French. But I find myself loathing the status that comes with being a foreigner. Because to the natives, being a foreigner is no different than being a tourist. And even though I no longer classify myself as being in the “tourist” category, the French people don’t acknowledge a difference. So there I go, always pushed right back down into the bottom of the food chain.

Whenever I see or hear people in the city speaking English I always wonder if they’re tourists, or like me. Me being someone who is making their life is this country, slowly but surely finding their place. At times it’s obvious : the fanny packs, the oversized Paris metro maps, the hideous hiking boots, the American flag sweatshirts, the southern accents. Other times it’s a little more difficult (like I said, some of us do achieve some degree of blendingness). But it makes me wonder what people think when they see or hear me in the midst of my daily routine. I assume people around me on the metro think I’m French when they see me reading various French novels, but what do they think once I answer my phone and start speaking in English? I’m sure I’m not that convincing, but I like to flatter myself with the idea that at least some people get confused when they see me juggling both languages.

But what really gets to me is when people stop me on the street and immediately start speaking in English. Most of the time when this happens I’m alone, I haven’t been speaking with anyone in any language, and I feel like I have finally mastered the icy look of indifference that the French carry regularly. What gives me away? I’m always being targeted to give someone some kind of donation for God-knows-what purpose, stopped and asked where I’m from or if I speak English, or simply hassled for being a touriste américaine. Even when the far from attractive Arab gangsters try to hit on me and I say and do absolutely nothing they immediately respond, “Oh, you speek Eengleesh ? Yoo ah not Frenzch?” What are the French girls doing that I apparently am not? Am I really supposed to tell these guys off every time? I was under the impression that saying anything just egged them on, but if blowing up in their faces makes me appear more French then I’m willing to give it a shot.

The absolute worst though, is the infamous eye-roll. As soon as I open my mouth and that adorable American accent comes pouring out people do one of three things : 1) respond in English, which 99% of the time is way worse than my French, 2) respond in French but every couple of sentences they throw in basic English vocabulary such as “left” or “chicken” (like they’re really doing me any favors), or 3) roll their eyes and rid themselves of my presence as quickly as possible. I try to empathize, I really do try to see how me speaking imperfectly accented French so severely affects their day. But as expected, I just don’t see it. But every time a French person rolls their eyes at me my ego takes a little blow. After four months here I really am proud of the progress I’ve made and I love to show it off every chance I get. So when the French give me that annoyed look saying ugh, another damned tourist to deal with I can’t help but feel at least a little discouraged.

But after all is said and done, life as a foreigner isn’t all too bad no matter how many eye rolls I’ve collected during the day. I almost always only have to pay half of the posted cab fare, if any at all, I get into various night clubs free of charge every weekend and never have to wait in line. And I can get away with just about anything, all I have to do is drop the, “Oh I didn’t know, I’m not from here I didn’t see that sign!” line and all is taken care of. Yeah it would be nice to eventually one day be indistinguishable and be able to manage life here as comfortably as I do in the US, but quite frankly, neutrals just aren’t my color.

The Young, The Rich, and The Ignorant

I just had one of those moments when time literally reduces itself to being so insignificant it ceases to represent any true form of reality. I just left my friends' houses and the entire journey home was an experience that only either 1) a mind could track or 2) a camera could track and unfortunately I had not the latter but the former will have to suffice. I felt as though this tiny insignificant portion of my life could have been a protagonist-fulfilling scene from a movie that, at present moment, does not yet exist.

A little joy fills inside me every time I step into a metro car and music is playing. The metro performance could be the worst in the world but anything that dramatizes my environment gives me a little moment of happiness before bringing me to my next destination. Stepping onto this metro made me feel as though every person had been placed precisely by the director or cinematographer that is choreographing my life. There was an Italian guy sitting next to the door strumming the melody to various American songs on his guitar. I kept anticipating lyrics to be sung but, realizing that I was most likely the only person on the train who not only recognized the tune but also knew the lyrics, made me accept the fact that all I would be hearing tonight was the melody. All the people that surrounded the guitar player were so happy. And I don't want to say that I don't think French people are happy, because I know deep down they are, but being able to physically see a cheerful emotion on another person's face made me envious of becoming part of this group's circle. It was contagious.

Sitting across from the most perfect looking boy didn't hurt the setting, either. I always choose my spot on the metro by which cluster of seats has the most available. His having 3 and me always wanting to sit by the window resulted in us sitting face to face. He was a typically French looking boy. Blond mèched hair, piercing deep blue eyes, had not shaven in a day or two, and looking rather sad or at least not displaying any sign of positive emotion. Had I been in this exact situation in the United States (poppy background acoustic music and attractive young apparently single guy across from me) I would have struck up a conversation. I would have commented on any insignificant thing that would have ignited conversation between myself and the people surrounding me, particularly him. But instead we chose to play eye tag, either avoiding eye contact or staring just long enough till the other returned the look and after locking eyes whoever looked away first lost. I always won. But I always win. He (and they, n'importe qui) always looked away first. Whether it be he had a girlfriend, he was gay, or simply he was too shy to hold prolonged eye contact with me, did not signify or take away from the never-ending moment I was experiencing. It was just an additional element adding a sense of purpose to the ride. As if there was a reason I was sitting there; as if I had a goal to achieve.

A group of Americans caught my attention from behind the guitar player. I listened to their every word from both the American and French perspective. I realized how superficial and meaningless their conversation was and how of course they assumed no one would understand them from the American side of me. I noticed how much louder and more noticeable they made themselves from the French side of me. I couldn't help but want to lecture them for being so ignorant to not realize that there were of course English speakers on the train (as there are on every train) so they should have some kind of filter while babbling on in a public space. But I also wanted to simply talk to them, and find out where they were from and try to get an insight on their perspectives, how they viewed this seemingly irrelevant moment in time that evoked so much inspiration within myself.

It wasn't until a crazy old French woman sat diagonally from me that the beautiful French boy and I had any interaction at all. The woman (who was completely decked out in a pumpkin colored hat and plastic dangling red earrings and a giant fur coat) was not from Paris and this was undoubtedly her first time on the metro. She was telling her friend the exact, precise directions she was given on what to do to get from point A to point B. The boy commented to her that said route was not the quickest and her remark was so funny the four of us couldn't keep from laughing. It was at that moment that I realized that the three people surrounding me (the beautiful boy, the crazy old French woman, and her friend) all had no idea that I wasn't French. That I am not one of them. It was a moment between strangers where the reality of the situation was so completely masked by the present front. Four wandering paths crossed that will undoubtedly never cross again. A moment in time shared, but never revisited, never registered, but forever existing in my little moment.

I stepped off the metro to the tune of Fur Elise. It seemed a fitting way to end the scene, till I was greeted by the ever-so-French accordion player in the passageway of the metro station that made me feel as though my entire life truly was a never ending movie. Something about always having a soundtrack no matter how pertinent to my feelings makes me feel as though my eyes are a camera, filming everything I experience. But getting onto my last metro to go the final three stops to my house was finally the reality check. I remembered that my life is not a movie, my thoughts are not a narration to a book, and I am in fact living in the current world. One stop away from my station two guys got on the metro carrying a twin size mattress complete with sheets and stains. They propped the mattress up against the pole I was holding and one of them asked me if I thought the mattress looked expensive. I laughed a little to myself and shook my head and he told me that it wasn't, but he had won the bed off his friend since Algeria had just beat Egypt in a soccer match. And that is what ended it. That is what really brought me back into reality and ended the perpetual moment. He was so proud of his country, so proud of his team, and so proud of his mattress. And I remembered what I recently have been feeling about pride.

His pride inspired him. His country inspires him. But what really is inspiration? What suddenly provokes thoughts and ideas out of a person unintentionally? What is it that inspires me? And that exactly is what brings me here. The little insignificant moments that I come to appreciate bring more satisfaction and happiness to my life than I feel many people ever get the chance to experience in their own. And it's these little moments that I fear are overlooked, that people will never appreciate fully, that people will continue to blind themselves to their surroundings. It's a shame that people tend to stray away from solitude, and don't enjoy every moment they spend alone with their thoughts to the fullest. Because even though our lives aren't all captured on film and not every single moment is significant, we create our own soundtrack, and it's always worth it to keep on listening.

Club USA

Paris is so peculiar in all of its little nuances and attitudes. Americans have this reputation as being so proud of their country and being completely dedicated to the USA. When people tell me this and ask why we are SO proud to be American, I never really know how to answer. My general response has always been, "Well aren't you proud to be French?" I've never particularly noticed that Americans are any more or any less proud than the rest of the world. But the French have pointed out to me that it is just so bizarre that every morning before school American students pledge their allegiance to the American flag. Quite frankly I had never thought twice about doing it, and I never questioned the purpose of such an act. I never even associated the pledge of allegiance with pride to be an American, it was just something that we did no questions asked no justifications needed. Once all this was brought to my attention I started to subtly observe demonstrations of French pride in Paris and tried to figure out what it is that is so starkly different in the United States. And what I've been finding wasn't exactly expected, but not surprising either. Just different.

Point blank the French aren't an overtly proud people. Rather their pride is expressed through the things in their culture that are exclusive to France (the gastronomy, their scarves, etc). You would never see a French person running around yelling "I LOVE FRANCE IT'S THE BEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD" but instead the occasional eye-roll or bof to things or acts that just aren't (and never will be) French. However, that is not to say that I particularly find that Americans are vastly prouder than the French. Yes we are a prouder people in general but compared to other countries Americans might as well be French. Compared to Egypt, for example, Americans look tame and indifferent to their country at all.

Last night while walking down the Champs Elysées with one of my friends we saw riot police everywhere; patrolling the sidewalks in groups of 5 or 6, police cars and vans driving up and down the Champs Elysées pulling people over and trying to contain the public. I don't know how this event manifested itself, but I swear every single Egyptian on this side of Egypt bombarded the Champs Elysées running around chanting "Egypte, Egypte" raising havoc and making chaos. Everybody was hanging out of their cars waving giant Egyptian flags, honking their horns ceaselessly. It felt like we had just walked into a giant Egyptian parade on the streets of France. Stores were closing their giant metal doors to prevent them from entering, people were throwing their babies in the air. It was contagious, really. Had Brittany and I not been the only fair skinned, blond haired girls on a street full of Arabs I would have sworn that I too was Egyptian, just SO proud of my country for whatever reason.

The mood and the vibe that radiated from the scene is really impossible to explain. I have never experienced anything like that in the states, and I honestly don't know if I ever will. As it turns out, the Egyptians were going crazy because Egypt had just beat Algeria in a soccer game that put Egypt back in the running to qualify for the World Cup next summer. I guess being proud of your country in terms of a sport is a whole other playing field than just being proud of your country on a daily basis for no reason in particular. But even so, America loves its sports teams, but only on a national level. We don't really care how or what our country does on an international level, we care more about what goes on inside the border. Call it American ignorance but I think that is the defining difference in American pride versus the rest of the world. We're obsessed and proud of what we Americans do but not if other countries are involved. America is like its own exclusive little club that shuts the rest of the world out, literally. And personally, I'm not sure if that's something to be proud of.

Interdit

As if the French needed to give me any more reasons to think that they are absolutely insane and totally bizarre, I came across a sign the other day that of course one would only find in France. It translated to No Singing in Public. Um . . . excuse me? Can you repeat that please, sign? No singing? I acknowledge that the French are against other normal human activities such as smiling and speaking, but what do they have against singing? Is it even allowed to publicly forbid such an act? I am curious as to who walks around Paris patrolling the singing pedestrians like that's even a job. And you know the French consider that a valid profession too. I don't even know what I would do if a French law enforcement official stopped me on the street and tried to give me a ticket for singing. I wouldn't be able to take him seriously. I legitimately wonder how the French even take themselves seriously sometimes. It's almost as if France specifically creates jobs to suck all the joy and life out of its people: Hi, I'm the no-singing-in-public law enforcer. Oh hello, I'm the man who febreezes the metro station. Hello there, I'm the little green man who picks up all the cigarette butts off the sidewalk. It's no wonder the French always seem so down in the dumps, their faces are always 15 centimeters away from the gutters. But even so, I can't help but to aspire to one day be able to execute such a distaste for life with such eloquence like it's my job. Cos you know that's a job too . . . in France.

One Night In Paris . . .

Now that my Parisian life is finally coming together - friends, school, speaking, the works - I have found that I am able to get along quite well in France, and I'm beginning to slowly but surely blend in with the French. Well, I was beginning to blend in, that is, until a series of recent events put me right back into the "stupid crazy foreigner" category.

*Disclaimer: for those of you who are unaware, I can in fact legally drink in Europe, so please do not be alarmed by this story because things do get a little out of control . . . but hey, you're only young once, right?*

It was this past Friday night, the night before Halloween which also meant the night before Rema's (one of my best American friends in France) birthday. Naturally she wanted to go out and celebrate so that she would be partying as the clock struck midnight. We started our night in typical Rema and Laura fashion - we bought a €5 bottle of rum and sat on the Champs Elysées people watching and making cheeky conversation with the passersby who just couldn't resist us. We met up with her boyfriend and one of his friends (both French) and headed out towards Le Tania club (one of my personal favorites because all the boys are rich and spoiled and there is no cover charge). Unfortunately, we didn't get in (damn boys!) so we headed down the street to Le Régine which is an even classier club right off the Champs Elysées. We danced, we celebrated, we made light conversation at our own private table and had a fabulous perfect little night to welcome Rema into her 22nd year of life. It wasn't until we decided to leave when things took an unexpected turn.

After leaving Le Régine I thought it would be fun to see if we could get into Le Tania now that it was a little later. I bypassed the line, went straight for the bouncer (again, typical Laura fashion - who waits in lines anymore anyway ?) and got in sans problem. Unfortunately for me, I didn't realize that Rema and the boys didn't follow me in and failed to pay attention to my phone AKA creating a major miscommunication with my friends. By the time I did think to call them, however, I had no service whatsoever and reluctantly left my new friends (read: new bottle service table) to search for network. Of course, I had a hundred missed calls from Rema and her boyfriend but I also had 3 missed calls from my friend Olaf (my one and only Parisian friend, because there is a HUGE difference in being French and Parisian as I have learned). I don't know what Olaf's family does, but he is the richest person I know. His house is out of control huge over looking the Eiffel Tower and the Seine River (on Quai d'Orsay for those of you familiar with Paris, classy), marble stair cases everywhere, two kitchens, two entire floors, 4 terraces - everything about him just screams "made of money." He told me he was having a party that night and that I should come. Intrigued, I accepted.

Walking into his apartment was like walking into a party straight out of Gossip Girl or The OC or The City or The Hills (if you are familiar with any of those shows). Everyone was young, beautiful, well dressed and so stereotypically French I could barely stand it. I made friends with one of Olaf's friends and he was absolutely fascinated by my American life and couldn't stop asking me questions about it as he scrolled through the thousands of pictures I have stored on my camera. A majority of the party migrated out to the biggest terrace for a smoke and my new friend suggested we climb on the roof for a better view. The two of us sat up there for close to an hour as dawn slowly approached us. We discussed politics, the French and Americans, the different cultures before finally deciding to head back inside because, oh hello ! I live in France and it was FREEZING !

However, we discovered as we climbed our way back to the terrace that everyone had already gone inside, and all the windows, doors and shutters had been locked shut. Our initial response, call Olaf, wake him up and make him let us inside. However, as we called we could hear his phone ringing on the coffee table inside which was no where near where Olaf was sleeping. Naturally I told the guy to call somebody else since obviously Olaf wasn't going to answer. It wasn't until then that we both found out that neither of us knew anybody there except for Olaf and therefore had nobody else we could call to come save us. By this time, it was 5 in the morning. The coldest part of the day. It was windy, it was wet, and I was miserable. We pounded on the shutters, screamed at the top of our lungs, we even climbed around and over the roof to all the different terraces before finally coming to terms with the fact that we were completely, and helplessly stuck on this terrace.

At first we didn't think too much of it, then an hour passed by, another hour (mind you we had been up there for an hour before that already), we kept hoping that somebody inside would wake up and realize that we were out there, but another hour passed and still nothing. Somewhere around 8 or 9 in the morning I start to get genuinely pissed off at everything that is going on. I started picking fights with the boy I was with, telling him he's French he should know how to get us off this building. I then start calling every French person I know. My friend Alex picked up and all he did was laugh at the situation, and suggested I call the pompiers aka the French firemen. I told the idea to Frenchy and he agreed, called them, was told to call the police, who told him to call the concierge of the building, who's phone we could hear ring to no avail, to which we decided to call the police again. It wasn't until 10:30 or 11 that the police finally found us from a terrace across the way. They told us not to move and help would be coming shortly. After over 5 hours maybe 6 of being stuck, FREEZING COLD on this terrace, the shutters finally open and we make our way inside. I gave the police my information as did the Frenchie and the police left. I then continued to yell at Olaf in the meanest French I could muster and spent the next five minutes getting lost in his house because I couldn't find the front door.

I can't remember the last time I was so angry. I spent the entire 15 minute walk to the metro screaming and venting on the phone to my friend Jessica, turning heads and no doubt reinforcing the stereotype of a crazy obnoxious American. I finally got home at 11:30 in the morning after not having slept a wink all night and nearly missing my stop because I had in fact unwillingly fell asleep on the metro. Needless to say it makes for a great story, and I am already laughing about it now. But it was the most miserable hours of my life. I mean, who else could manage to get themselves stuck on a rich Parisian boy's terrace for over 5 hours? Only this crazy American girl of course. I was the girl who never sleeps in the city where no one is responsible for anything. It was a combination that could only end in disaster. Ugh, damn socialists.

Your Mom is a Coiffeur

I am well aware that it has been about a month since I've last updated my blog and I'm not completely sure why that is. This past month has been one of the most eventful and exciting of my life and there is more than enough information to fill well over a hundred blogs should I chosen to have done so. But I think the two main reasons why I haven't been blogging is 1) the number of my blog views has not increased in weeks so I took that as a sign that no one was actually reading this thing and 2) I'm finding that life in Paris no longer feels like a vacation, the little things that used to surprise me are now standard and expected, and Paris, believe it or not, actually feels like home. And I think that's just it. I have grown accustomed to the little nuances of my new Parisienne life that a month ago would have sent me on a blogging rampage with me bursting at the seams not being able to wait to tell everyone about every little detail about my life. But over the course of this past week people have casually slipped into conversation that they had noticed that I haven't been updating my blog. And lucky for all you blog readers, all it takes to get me going is a little ego rubbing and I am good to go. So I will take this opportunity to promise that I will make more of an effort to routinely update my blog so as not to keep all of you at the edge of your seats.

First things first: I started school this week. NOOOOOO wake me up from this nightmare! Talk about the reality check of all reality checks being forced to realize that the actual reason I'm even in France is to go to school and STUDY. I was definitely in denial. I am so French already I could not bring myself to believe that French people actually go to school and actually have jobs and actually do something with their lives. Because they don't. So seeing students walking around campus in their fashion forward scarves and trendy winter coats (cos mind you, the high is now 50°F ! Get me out of here !) was definitely a strange sight to see. I have made a few friends at school - two gay boys from the Netherlands that I'm doing a project with, two girls from Ireland who have the cutest accents ever, a boy from Italy and a boy from Spain all of whom speak close to perfect English (well I guess that's expected with the Irish). Talking with people from different cultures is fascinating and I hope to become better friends with all these people as the year progresses, but I am however regretting my decision to go to the university I'm attending. I chose this school because it has the strongest program for foreign students and I didn't want to immediately jump right into a standard French university and end up committing academic suicide. However, the classes I'm taking are beyond easy, I speak just as good of French as everyone in all of my classes if not better than most, and I'm realizing that I definitely could have and should have gone to another school. I definitely underestimated myself and am kicking myself for that now but hey, hindsight is 20/20, right? So I'll use this semester to improve my French ten-fold without having to suffer through 3 twenty page papers and 3 eight page papers like my roommate has to do. Ha, I guess it won't be all so bad. ;)

In other breaking news I officially went on my first date with a French boy! Ooh la la ! His name is Anthony (Ahn - toe - knee') and he is a coiffeur or hairdresser for you anglophones. My life is too ridiculous to take seriously sometimes. I have a gay French friend who does my nails, a gay French friend who does my make up, and now I have a straight French boy to do my hair? Could my life BE anymore cliché ? I think not. Anyway, he's super friendly, really funny and totally obsessed with the fact that I'm American (but really, who's not obsessed with that already?). The only thing is, he's kind of short. Like only an inch taller than me and when I imagined my French boyfriend he was PERFECT. And part of perfect requires being the perfect height as well so we'll see how far this actually goes.

Fishing way back into the archives about exactly a month ago was my trip out to the French countryside to visit Jonas. I knew he lived in a "tout petit village" just outside of Vesoul but nothing could have prepared me for this. There were meadows and fields and cows and animals that stretched on for miles and miles (or rather kilometres and kilometres) and I have never seen anything like it. Jonas' house was 200+ years old and his parents Édith and Jean-Claude were the nicest most generous people I have ever met. They showed me a style of French living that I never would have believed existed had I not seen it with my own two eyes. It was beautiful. So relaxed and slow-paced. Nothing like Paris, not in the slightest. They took me around the neighboring villages and one of the nights Jonas and I went out to the movies with some of his friends then after to a bar and the next night we all went to the one and only night club in the area (which was surprisingly fun especially considering how small and isolated everything was). This little trip to the countryside could not have come at a more perfect time. Subconsciously I was starting to get homesick. I never realized it because I was always kept so busy in Paris but being in a family atmosphere with no obligations and just being able to relax made me realize how much I missed my family. And being around Jonas and his group of friends barely being able to keep up with conversation made me realize how much I missed my friends. Only hours before I was supposed to get on my train to head back to Paris I actually started crying to Jonas' mom. I broke down telling her how alone I am in Paris and how hard it is making friends and how difficult it is being so far from my parents and all the typical emotions that everyone assumes you would feel when you move halfway across the world at age 19. But sometimes you just have to let it all out before you can move on. And moms really are the best people to do that with. Nobody listens better or knows how to instantly calm you down better than a mother and even though she wasn't my mom, she knew what she was doing, and it felt just as reassuring. So Édith called the train station and pushed my train back a few hours so I could spend an extra day with them so she could be sure that I was okay before returning back to Paris. It's nice having a family here that cares about me to kind of serve as my French family. I'll be going back to spend the holidays with them but maybe I'll go back even sooner!

Which leads me to my next important topic . . . I FINALLY have started to make a solid group of friends. Half American and half French which is perfect for right now. Two of Jonas' girlfriends from Vesoul moved out to Paris a week or two after I left Vesoul and since they have been here we have basically been inseparable. It's so much fun having French girlfriends because they know stores that I never would have gone to otherwise, they teach me drinking games, explain words or phrases to me, and just spend time with me! I had my first party over this past weekend with about 12 people most of whom were French and it's so refreshing finally being able to see that I am making a dent in this city and things are coming together.

Before I started this blog post I went back and re-read some of my older ones just to refresh my memory a little bit about what I have been doing. And it was such a weird feeling reading how I felt a month or two ago and realizing that my feelings have changed completely. A month ago I was worried that I would never become fluent, and here I am a month later on the verge of fluency. My french friends are constantly telling me how well I speak French and some have even called me bilingual. That was the best compliment I have ever received in all of my life. I also saw Antoine again last weekend and one of the first things he told me was that my French has already gotten so much better which was weird to hear because I don't notice that my French gets better. It just happens little by little but when someone doesn't talk to me for a while it must become super evident how much progress I have made.

Oooh Paris. Your little wonders never cease to amaze me. I never cease to surprise myself with how completely dedicated I have become to this place. Well, I guess I also fell in love with Germany this month, and German beer, and Germans in lederhosens . . . but that is a whole other story . . .

Throw Your CousCous in the Air Like You Just Don`t Care

I knew coming here that I'd be exposed to a culture completely different from my own, but nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced last night.

Lance's mom, one of her friends, and one of his friends are in town visiting for a week and last night was their first night here. Last night was also the night Lamia, our crazy Moroccan neighbor/landlady, invited us over for couscous. Lance politely declined since his fam was here and all but I figured why not go check it out myself?

So off Morgan and I went down the stairs to Lamia's. I was instantly speechless. I was greeted by daughters and nieces and cousins and friends and husbands and babies and cats all of whom couldn't wait to grab my face and kiss it (which by now I'm completely used to since thats how they do it here in France). When Lamia's husband got home and he found out that I`m not French he came up to be and greeted me in Arabic. I guess since he knew I wasn`t French, the next logical thought would be that I`m Moroccan considering I was the only fair skinned, blonde haired, light eyed person in a room full of dark skin, dark haired, dark eyed Moroccans. At first I thought I just couldn`t understand his Moroccan accent until the entire room bursted out in laughter and they all took turns explaining to me what happened rephrasing their sentences because they thought I didn`t understand.

Which they were in the right to think. I could barely understand the Moroccan accented French they were all speaking. The only times I could make conversation was with Morgan my FRENCH friend, not Moroccan, the niece that spoke slowly to me in French, the daughter that spoke 7 words of English and 4 words of Spanish, or when I was directly addressed and was able to focus all my attention on what was being said to me. Other than that, I just sat there quietly with a big smile slapped on my face, nodding my head like I agreed with whatever was being said, and never turning away food.

And the food was unlike anything I have ever tasted before in my life. And not that it was necessarily the best food I had ever tasted, but it was definitely my first time trying authentic, home cooked Moroccan food and there`s nothing I could really compare it to. When we were finally all gathered around the table the only thing I recognized was chicken (and piles of it). Thank God everyone was serving for me cos otherwise I wouldn`t have had the slightest idea as to what to do first. My plate was full of couscous, the special sauce, vegetables, chicken, sausage (I think ?), some kind of pork (I think ?), big balls of something or other, little balls of chick pea looking things, something that I couldn`t describe even if I wanted to and bread. Eating a meal like this with a big Moroccan family was crazy. There was couscous flying everywhere, babies crawling all over me, French being screamed over each other`s conversations, mom and dad smoking cigarettes at the table . . . I was in awe admiring how different this culture was.

I was full after 5 bites. But not wanting to be rude I ate everything that was on my plate. Then when they saw I was finished they put more on my plate so I ate that too. After dinner they brought a big basket of fruit onto the table with a pot of room temperature water to wash the fruit in before eating it and an empty bowl to toss the rinds or stems or what have you. Me personally, I can never say no to French fruit. Their green grapes are twice the size as any grapes I`ve seen in the US and have 10 times more flavor. Everything about their fruit is better (except all grapes have seeds) because it is all completely natural. Nothing is added to it or changed about it at all. Fruit at it`s most primitive form, and it is to die for. The fruit was followed by some Moroccan tea. The best tea I had ever tasted. I think I drank at least 5 more cups than anyone else.

But anyway, my original plan was to go down there, eat some couscous, then come back up to my apartment and relax and read a little bit of Le Diable s'habille en Prada (The Devil Wears Prada in French). But clearly I had no idea what I was in for. The whole evening lasted for over three hours, I went down there at 8 and didn`t come back till close to midnight. Everyone was talking to everyone about everything and I was just a simple bystander. Of course, Lamia and her cousin were trying to barter for the clothes off my back and the ring I was wearing. I knew they weren`t completely serious but they were serious about buying them off me when I go back to the States. Of course I told them that I would never let them buy my clothes which they in turn took as I would give them my clothes before I leave. The poncho I was wearing maybe I`ll be willing to part with in a year and if that`s the case then I will be more than happy to give it to Lamia for all the work she does in our building. But the ring they wanted, my best friend Mackey gave to me so I`ll always remember her when I`m over here (mushy and corny I know but I kind of stole it from her more than she actually gave it to me so I guess I`m the corny one hehe) so that I will never part with.

I was there for hours longer than I wanted to be. But at the same time, I couldn`t get myself to stand up and take the ten steps it took to get to my apartment. One, because I didn`t know the proper, polite way to exit a dinner party like this and two, I was totally fascinated by everything. The decor, the mannerisms, the similarities, the differences. As tired as I was I couldn`t get enough. But once I finally decided it was time to make my exit, being home never felt so good. I have never peed longer, or slept on a fuller stomach in my life. And for that, I thank Morocco.

Finally some PICTUREZZ !!!

First ride EV on the Metro !!

Pretty little Streetz

Ross and I in front of the Pantheon (right before we got downpoured on !)

The campus I`ve been having my class in till real school starts !

Typical little French dinner at a cafe . . . wine, cheese and Ross !

The Seine River at night.

Out in the Marais with Lance (left, roommate) and Ross (right) . . . we got facepainted ! and I have no idea who the random is who jumped in the picture.

The Saint Sulpice.

Me and my roomie out to lunch :)

Le Jardin de Luxembourg . . . we got yelled at for sitting on that tree.

Le Jardin de Luxembourg . . . sooo pretty !

Le Jardin de Luxembourg again.

View of the Eiffel Tour from a boat on the Seine.

Pretty sunset <3

La Cimitière Père Lachaise

Encore

First cute little dinner we cooked in our apartment !

First dinner party with Lance's friends and Morgan's mom :)

Paul; Morgan; Me; Lance; Davide in the back : : : so cute !

I also posted a few pictures on one of my older blogs . . . but I decided it would just be easier and faster to make a new post of pictures instead of trying to scatter them throughout so go back and look at those ones too ! :)

Only in the Ghetto

The only hesitation I had when I decided to take this apartment was that the area isn`t exactly the best. My safety never feels compromised, but nonetheless, I do live in a shadier area of Paris. But in my few weeks here, I have slowly become enamored with my cute little ghetto. Every day I see people doing the strangest things that I have found I not only look for each day, but look forward to seeing.

Walking your dog seems like a normal task, people all over the world do it daily and there is absolutely nothing bizarre about it at all. But in my Ghetto people don`t just walk their dogs, I saw a man pulling his dog in a red wagon. And not just some simple, janky red wagon we all played with when we were kids, this dog had his own palace set up. The owner attached another handle to the back of the wagon to facilitate pulling his dog (which BTW was a big dog, a mutt no doubt but definitely bigger than KD), complete with cushions so the dog would be comfy and a blanket so he wouldn`t get cold. Doesn`t that completely defeat the purpose of walking your dog ? I thought the whole point was to give your dog exercise, not to put your dog`s bed on wheels.

I also once saw a man riding a tandem bicycle. It was cute actually, I`ve always wanted to ride one and riding a tandem bike in Paris just seems too cute and cliché to be real. But instead of having another person on his tandem bicycle, he was balancing a giant bag of flour. In Paris you don`t buy anything in bulk, so what was this man doing with such a vast amount of flour? Did he own a bakery ? Was he going to go home and bathe in it ? I have no idea, but nonetheless a man was riding a tandem bicycle with a bag of flour. Enough said.

My personal favorite I actually have the pleasure of seeing on a daily basis. Everyday on my way home from class when I leave the metro station I`m greeted by the wonderful aroma of freshly popped popcorn over an open fire. Only, there are no campfires in Paris, nor is anyone popping popcorn. But everyday a man stands outside the Barbès - Rouchechouart metro station barbecuing and I assume selling full ears of corn. And when I say barbecuing, I mean cooking ears of corn over an open flame in a shopping cart that he uses as a make-shift barbecue. It is the weirdest sight ever to see a man cooking corn on a street corner out of a shopping cart, but every day I can`t help but laugh to myself and think Ha, only in my ghetto.

Captivated

As if I needed to fall anymore in LOVE with Paris, today I absolutely did. In regards to my last post, I met up with Antoine today. Yes, I finally got the nerve to call him back. No, he did not answer so I wasted a bunch of time avoiding calling him. Yes, he did call me back. Yes, this time I - myself - did pick up. And, the conversation went rather smoothly if I do say so myself. Besides little errors like "where must we meet" instead of "where should we meet" but he knew what I was trying to say nonetheless.

Not gonna lie, up until this point I`ve worried a little bit that I`ll never become fluent. As much as I DO understand and as much as I CAN say already, there is still always that part of me that thinks it won`t ever happen. Mostly I feel that way because I don`t see that much improvement from day to day. It`s almost like I expect to just wake up each morning and be like, "ohmigosh, I speak French SO much better today than yesterday ! I can so totally tell !" But obvi that just won`t ever happen. I know I have to be patient. Anyway, a week from this upcoming Thursday (so the 24th) I`m taking a train out to the French countryside for a few days to visit Jonas (another exchange student I had) and I`ve been worried that I`ll get there and barely be able to communicate. Well, all those worries and negative thoughts are long and gone out the window after today.

Antoine and I met up at Chatelet - Les Halles which I might point out is not only the biggest metro station in Paris but the biggest metro station in the WORLD! I knew this when he suggested meeting there but not wanting to say anymore than what was absolutely necessary for progression of the conversation I said nothing and figured we`d just deal with it when we got there. So today I stepped out of the RER at exactly 13h00, which was the time we agreed to meet, and he called me at exactly 13h01 asking where I was. All confused and disoriented I mumbled some jibberish of having no idea where I was then the call dropped. How perfect. He called back right as I was stepping onto the street and he asked where I was and I was like, "umm. . .I`m by a foot locker . . .and a Gap. . .hmm Oh ! I`m on Rue de Rivoli !" And he knew where I was (and so did I - shocker) and he told me to wait there and he would arrive momentarily.

It`s funny, really. I had imagined myself waiting in a coffee shop someday expecting to see Jonas walk in but never did I think I`d see or hear from Antoine again. Jonas is really the only one of the exchange students we had that I kept in constant contact with. He has known I`d be moving to France in August of 2009 for years probably (well, definitely at least a year), but I found Antoine on FaceBook literally a week before I left and was pleasantly surprised to find out he lives IN Paris. In the moments leading up to me leaving for Paris I would imagine myself in situations where I`d be meeting Jonas again (or even Edouard) and it would throw me through a loop. They were the kind of thoughts that really made me realize that I was moving to another COUNTRY and how strange it was that I`d be seeing people I had only met once and not seen in four years at least.

So there I was, standing awkwardly on Rue de Rivoli across from the Gap not really knowing what to do with myself. Hmm . . . what is the least awkward way to stand . . . Hand on my hip ? No, I feel like I`m posing for somethang . . . legs crossed or uncrossed ? Should I hold my purse like I do on the metro or does that look too tense ? Hmm . . . which way will he be coming from ? Will I go walking towards him or just stand here smiling all creepily back at him till he gets to me ? Oh crap, how will we greet each other ? The standard American hug or the super cute French bise ? Is that him ? Oh no that`s some random old man . . . should I go sit on that wall ? No, my skirt might get dirty . . . and then in the midst of all my awkwardness I turn my head and Antoine is right there ! My instincts told me to be like, "OMG hey Antoine !" but my brain told me to be more composed and simply say, "Salut Antoine ! *bise, bise* ca va ?" Which I executed flawlessly. I`d have mistaken me for a Parisienne if I saw myself on the streets.

Anyway, we stood on the corner for a little bit just chatting. He mentioned that he realized after he talked to me that Chatelet was huge and probably not the best place for us to meet, and I agreed but said it wasn`t a big deal (ha! I knew I should have said somethang). He proceeded to ask me what I`ve already seen in Paris, and since I really haven`t seen anythang he proposed to go the Louvre and work our way from there. So there we were, walking along the streets of Paris (I can`t say that sentence enough . . . oh you know, just walking the streets of Paris, as always) and conversation just flowed! His French is beautiful, I could understand everythang he said flawlessly. My comprehension is better than my speaking skills, so sometimes I didn`t have much of a response to give which is totally expected, but nonetheless I even surprised myself at how much we were able to talk about.

We didn`t go inside the Louvre, but we walked along the big glass pyramids then through the garden that connects to it (totally forget what it`s called) and then we sat down at this cute little cafe in the garden and drank little coffees (which he paid for, so cute). And when I say little coffees, I mean LITTLE coffees. I felt like I was sipping coffee out of a shot glass, it was absurd. We proceeded to walk along the streets with all the big stores like Chanel and Gucci and Ralph Lauren (not on the Champs Elysees though . . . we hadn`t gotten there yet) and we stopped in this renowned French bakery and he bought me a bunch of different flavors of macaroons. He insisted that I taste a macaroon because Paris is known for them and that I had to have a bunch of flavors so I could find out which one is my favorite (including pistachio, his personal favorite).

Then, to my surprise, he had one of his friends pick us up in his car. Antoine figured that a car would be the best and most efficient way to show me Paris since a bus is stupid and for tourists and we wouldn`t cover enough ground walking. I didn`t think much of it, until his friend pulled up in what looked like a brand new convertible ! This car was beyond chic. It was the definition of class. It was a tiny little coupe convertible barely big enough for two people, let alone three. This guy had sugar daddy written all over him - Prada sunglasses, Armani belt, his car which was some French brand that I don`t remember, it started with a P. And off we went.

I never in a million years imagined that I`d be cruising through Paris riding shot gun in easily the nicest car I had ever been in with Antoine sitting in the back. It was surreal. I saw so much, learned so much, and spoke so much! I think that is probably one of the main reasons today was so amazing for me. Communicating was effortless. They laughed at my jokes, I laughed at theirs, they were amazed at how well I could speak and I cannot emphasize enough how good it makes me feel when French people tell me that I speak French well. It`s a compliment that I will never tire of hearing.

Cutting the story short, we drove around, went and got ice cream at this amazing little ice cream place behind the Notre Dame, walked around some more, drove some more, and eventually they dropped me off back home (I also didn`t even spend a penny . . . so spoiled). I will undoubtedly be spending more time with Antoine and I assume his friend too, whose name I can`t remember by the way . . . oops.

Today was the first day that I really truly in my heart feel that I am going to become a part of this culture, or rather, this culture will become a part of me . . . and there really are no words to describe how that feels. Paris, I am yours.

Umm . . . oopz ?

Learning to speak a second language has proved to be challenging, naturally. So, naturally, I make little faux pas that French people find hilarious/cute/charming etc. But I have found that even though speaking the language is difficult, other situations prove to be even more difficult. Case and point - setting up the voicemail on my new phone.

I was taking a little nap this afternoon and was woken up cos my phone was ringing. The caller ID said "Antoine" and I was so confused. I don`t know any Antoines. Did I meet any Antoine`s last night? I thought that one girl`s name was Jenny . . . could she have saved her number as Antoine ? So, not wanting to talk to this mysterious person I didn`t know, I let my phone go to voicemail. Then as soon as it stopped ringing a little lightbulb turned on in my head and HELLO LAURA !?!?! Antoine was your first foreign exchange student from five years ago doy ! I even sent him my new number in a facebook message last night so he could call me when he got back to Paris.

So, feeling my stupidest, I start to try and set up my voicemail so I can hear his message. Everythang was going fine, I could understand the little automated lady no problem but for whatever reason, I couldn`t figure out how to make my answering machine automated. I kept directing myself into recording my own greeting which is definitely not something I wanted to do. So I made my roommate figure it out for me :)

So, after finally hearing his voicemail and giggling like little girls, I try to listen to his message again to really hear and understand what he was saying. I thought I pushed the button to repeat the message . . . but the message wasn`t playing back. The automated lady just kept blabbering on about something or another then beeping and I had no idea what she wanted me to do. After a few frusterating moments I yell into the phone "PARLEZ ANGLAIS BIATCH!!!" ("speak english biatch") then hang up the phone.

Then Lance came back into the room and was like, "Did you just call him back ?" and I was like, "No, why?" And Lance was like, "I think you did . . ." then out of no where my phone starts ringing and low and behold it was Antoine.

Somehow in the midst of all the button pushing I managed to find my way into his voicemail box and left the message "PARLEZ ANGLAIS BIATCH" and hung up. Freaking out and totally embarrassed, I made Lance answer the phone and tell him I was sleeping and that I would call him back.

Phew, problem solved (I hope). So now I`m sitting here, staring at my phone, trying to get the courage to call him back so we can catch up and get drinks. It should be a simple task, but even the simplest tasks are intimidating when inevitable awkwardness and embarrassment are on the horizon. Zut.

Public Transportation . . . Sautéed

Every day there are 1.2 attempted suicides within the Paris metro system. And today was the first successful one since I`ve lived here. Lucky for me, I barely experienced all the chaos and re-routing that came with closing down part of the metro. I was leaving the bank on my way back home and was pleasantly surprised to find out the metro station I was at was also a stop for line B of the RER (the RER is an underground train similar to the metro only it`s faster, has fewer stops, and continues well beyond the borders of Paris) which is the line I try to take as much as possible because it`s so quick and efficient. However, I did in fact find out that line 4 of the metro was shut down somewhere along the route which normally is the line I take to get home if the RER isn`t most efficient (line B of the RER runs straight through the center of Paris and if I`m anywhere near the very center [Chatelet] I take the RER one stop to Gare du Nord [my stop] but if I`m not in the straight line of fire of the RER I simply take all the other metro lines making various stops and connections till I finally reach my destination God-knows-how-many-minutes later). But that`s all beside the point. The point is, someone jumped in front of one of the metros today and killed himself. The only way I was directly affected was I saw a sign indicating line A of the RER was being rerouted for one reason or another. However, many of my classmates informed me that it took them anywhere from 2 hours onwards to get somewhere that would normally only take 20 minutes. It`s an unfortunate situation, but I have seen so many creepy, drugged out wack jobs in the metro stations that I am not surprised in the slightest that one of them actually jumped. I will be surprised, however, if I find out drugs were not involved. Paris is so amazing, someone would have to be on some hardcore drugs not to love it here.

But anyway, glad I avoided it. And since I`m on the subject of transportation I might as well put in my two cents. For as much as I love the public transportation here because it is so easy and efficient, I absolutely HATE it. I`m sure my feelings towards the metro are a little biased right now 1) due to the suicide and 2) due to the fact that I had the most miserable metro experience of my life today . . . but France seriously needs to discover air conditioning like ASAP! When leaving the bank today I got totally lost trying to find the metro station because I got to the bank a different way than I was leaving and walked around the city for about 20 minutes before I finally saw the beautiful M that hovers above every stairwell to the metros (mind you it wasn`t even the metro station I originally was looking for). I decided to wear my Steve Madden boots today, which definitely was not the brightest idea seeing as the high was 86ºF today. But after walking around in the sun sweating for 20 minutes, then climbing up and down staircase after staircase, then sitting in a hot, stuffy, crowded metro before getting on an even hotter, stuffier, more crowded RER train, I was absolutely DRIPPING in sweat. Which is definitely never comfortable, but I was also wearing a thin white shirt today so by the time I FINALLY got home (not after getting lost AGAIN leaving Gare du Nord because I thought another good idea would be to leave the station a different way than usual to see where it spit me out . . . which was no where near my house and in the ghetto !) I looked like I had just finished competing in a wet tee-shirt contest . . . and lost. I don`t think I have ever jumped into a shower quicker than today in my entire life. I might have still been wearing clothes for all I remember. All I know is if I didn`t get into a pool of icy cold water PRONTO then I would have spontaneously combusted due to overheating.

And today is not an isolated experience, it simply was one of the worst because today was the hottest day I`ve experienced thus far. But I specifically do not wear certain outfits because I know there is a 90% chance that I will be sweating profusely on the metro and said outfits would not be very flattering with sweat marks all over them. But I do have a new sympathy for the French and their horrible B.O. It seems unavoidable at times especially like today (Okay, so I`m exaggerating just a LITTLE bit. I NEVER smell, and I RARELY have sweat stains, but that does not change the fact that I feel beads of sweat rolling down my stomach or back and constantly am flipping my hair from side to side to keep it from sticking to my hot sticky skin. But if I can figure out how not to smell, so can the French).

But there are in fact ways around the grueling metro rides. I`ve learned to always get in the back of the cars because the windows are almost always open so the further back in the train you are, the more of a draft you catch. I also investigate the cabs before the train stops and redirect my route to the less crowded cars if one is noticeably more full than the others. It`s also a little cooler if you stand opposed to sit, so if I am having a "hot day" I choose always to stand even if there are millions of places to sit. I purposely keep something in my purse or bag at all times that can be used as a fan (folded worksheets, Paris guide, my cell phone . . . ) in cases where fanning myself with my hands simply won`t suffice. And really at the end of the day, it becomes bearable. My first few days riding the metro I could never stop complaining about how hot and uncomfortable they were. But in more recent days I`ve learned to just accept it. I think knowing and anticipating what I`m about to be exposed to helps mentally prepare my body to keep cool.

All of this aside, the metro has its perks. France has this holiday called Every-Hot-Boy-In-Paris-Rides-The-Same-Metro-As-Me Day and it comes around every couple of days. And naturally, since France did cater the holiday to my taste, I seem to never be hot or uncomfortable when those days come around so I`m always looking my best ;). And of course it`s efficient, and cheap, and easy to figure out, and blah blah all the practical stuff. But I find that people watching is just so entertaining on the metro. Better than airports cos the metro attracts the crazy foreign weirdos and the crazy weird locals like gypsies with mustaches and unibrows.

I think one of my favorite metro rides so far was the other night I was on my way to my friend Ross' house before going out and there was a bachelor party in the same car as me. And bachelor parties in Paris are hilarious because all the boys dress up the groom in hideous outfits (I`ve seen one guy dressed head to toe in a full on full body tiger suit) that are really embarrassing and unflattering and they run around Paris making a scene . . . singing, dancing, laughing, raising havoc. And the sole purpose is to humiliate the bachelor and put him in uncomfortable situations. So the bachelor party I was "with" asked me what song I wanted them to sing and they would sing it - no exceptions. And me, not knowing a single French song I could tell them, told them I didn`t want them to sing I wanted them to dance. So the bachelor got all into it and started swinging around one of the poles that people use for balance and turned the metro car into a strip club. Entertaining to say the least. I think I`ll be sending my future husband-to-be to Paris for his bachelor party . . . as long as he promises not to jump.

So Glam . . . So Chic

This is me and my roommate Lance . . . just walking the streets of Paris in our cute little neighborhood. Looking so Diva and so Fab. This is so far the only picture I`m able to upload, but give me a few days and I`ll be sure to get pictures of my apartment, the places I`ve seen, the friends I`ve made, and the rest of what I`ve been doing !

Orange Meets French

One of the millions of things I love most about Paris is everything is ORANGE. It`s the orangeist country I`ve ever seen. There`s orange everywhere: orange fanta, orangina, orange in a can, orange in a box, orange metros, orange cars, orange lights, orange furniture, orange buildings, the big cell phone company is Orange . . . my name might as well be LORAnge ! ;D

But anyway . . . the stores here are impossible. And by impossible I mean completely out of control how-do-people-live-like-this kind of stores. For example, I went to a store today in the suburbs of Paris (my first time ever in zone 3 !) called Auchon. It was in a mall which at first I didn`t think too much about cos we were in fact going there to get linens, until I realized my roommate went to the same store yesterday to get groceries. Groceries in a mall? I guess I can get used to that. Kill all kinds of birds with one stone. But then I got to Auchon and Oh-Em-Gee let me tell you. This place had to be at least the size of four Costcos stacked on top of each other and then some. This store had EVERYTHING and by everything I mean it could fully stock and support an entire country for years. It was like your typical California grocery store meets Costco meets Super Target meets Home Depot meets Linens and Things meets Best Buy meets The Mall meets the Metro Station meets Super Sized. I don`t think I can ever go there alone. I wouldn`t know what to do with myself. I would get lost in my brain just trying to figure out what to do first before I`d even have time to get lost in the store. Note to self: bring Google Maps with you EVERY TIME you go near Auchon. NO Exceptions. Anyway, while I was looking at linens with some of my friends for their new place, this little girl came up to me and was like, "Excuse me Madame, do you know where I can find other socks like this?" (all in French of course) as she pointed to a pack of socks she had in her hand. It was the cutest thing ever. Not only was she adorable but her little French voice was adorable and the way she thought I not only had been to Auchon before but WORKED there was freaking adorable too. I just laughed to myself then told her I didn`t know because I don`t work there. We all thought it was pretty funny to say the least.

And for those of you who are worried about what I`m eating (ahem, Mother) don`t even worry about it. Before I moved into my place (two days ago) I was eating out at little cafes or going to the market and getting cheese and salami and crackers or 1€70 sandwiches. But since I`ve been in the apartment I haven`t eaten out at all. The first night Lance (my roommate), Ross (my best friend in the program) and I all cooked this cute little shrimp pasta dinner with a homemade white wine mushroom sauce with wine and cheese and a baguette (and by "we made" I mean Lance made). It was the cutest ever. And last night Morgan`s mom (Morgan is a friend of Lance`s) came over and cooked this super cute dinner for all of us (me, Lance, Morgan, David, and Paul . . . two other friends of Lance`s, all French of course). We had this cute little pizza appertizer with Malibu and this fabulous grape drink cocktails. Then salmon and rice with a sauce Morgan made with white wine. Then a plate of cheese and baguettes with red wine (only me and Morgan drank the red wine of course, we just couldn`t say no). Then chocolate souffleed rice crispies and yogurt and sugar for dessert with water. I`m sorry, was that you, Mom, who was worried about what I was going to eat ? I think I`m going to be okay . . . ;)

Well, they say Paris is the city of love. And I, for one, have DEFINITELY already fallen in love. With the city itself, its quirky little stores, and Nutella. Oooh Nutella, how did I live for 20 years without knowing your existence?

Chez Moi

Everything has finally settled down and is falling into place. Apartment? Check. Cell phone? Check. Bank account? Check. Now all there`s left to do is get me out of this hostel and into my fabulous new place!! I lucked out more than anyone else in the program in the whole house-hunt debacle. I only looked at two places and fell absolutely head over heels in love with both of them. While everyone else was running around the city stressing out because nothing was in their budgets or nothing was good enough, my biggest problem was deciding which perfect apartment I was going to call my home. I had to decide between a small, but super cute apartment in a super nice neighborhood in the 5th arrondissement, or a humungous fabulous out of this world amazing apartment in an okay area of Paris in the 10th arrondissement. After hours of jumping from apartment to apartment, changing my mind and stressing both my potential roommates out, I decided the apartment was more important to me than the neighborhood. I figured once winter comes I`m not going to be wanting to spend most of my time outside in my neighborhood being cold and freezing my butt off, I`m going to want to be all cozy in my apartment.

And my roommate is fabulous too, he`s an American boy named Lance. He lived in Paris all last year so he speaks beautiful, perfect French and since he`s been here for so long he knows Paris like the back of his hand. I`ve been spending most of my time running around Paris with him, shopping and stalking every cute boy we see - gay or straight. ;D It`s reassuring seeing how comfortable he is here in Paris after only a year . . . it`s like a constant reminder of what I have to look forward to. Having a group of my own friends, knowing which metros to take without thinking twice, and of course, speaking the language flawlessly! Ooooh to reach that point, I can`t wait to be completely in my element.

As for the rest of my experience thus far, I`ve done some of the basic touristy things. A sunset boatride down the Seine River, I visited Saint Sulpice and Le Cimetiere Pere Lachaise . . . nothing super big or exciting. I have yet to see the Eiffel Tour in person or go to any of the big museums. But I have all year, I`m sure I`ll get around to seeing those things eventually. I`m trying so hard to find my place here and not look like an American tourist that doing all the touristy things have yet to really appeal to me. But like I said, I have an entire year to discover the city and I won`t rule anything out just because it`s "touristy." There`s still so much to do and so much to see but I`m just taking it one day at a time. Babey steps. Next step - turn my apartment into my home! :o)

Les Premiers Jours

Ahhh I`m finally here ! It`s such a crazy feeling being here after all the months of anticipation. Not knowing what it would be like, not knowing what my life would be like. I mean, I`ve only been here barely two days so I by no means KNOW what my life is going to be like, but I can absolutely say that any hesitations or uncertainties I`ve had are out the window. I`m absolutely in LOVE with Paris and I`m sure my life will follow suite.

View from and View of my room in the hostel !

So far I`ve been only hanging out with the other Americans in my program which has bothered me but there`s really nothing I can do about it yet. It is nice making friends with other people who are going through the EXACT same thing as me and it is comforting being around Americans right now. Not to mention a bunch of the students in my program are super cool and I would totally be friends with outside of Paris so it is a plus that I am able to make some friends instantly. But I will admit, I get really embarrassed walking around the streets of Paris in groups of 6+ Americans all speaking English. MY game plan was to get here and stop speaking English, just speak French and figure it all out. But I suppose that it will take a little bit of time before that happens.

And as for the cliches go...every single one of you who told me that the French hate Americans...go kick yourself in the face right now for being ignorant. I have yet to meet a single snooty French person and all of them are absolutely captivated by us speaking French and asking them questions. The Americans who have encountered French snootiness are those who walk into another country, another culture, and still act American. The cultures are different and that`s definitely something that I noticed right off the bat. In America everyone is friendly out in public, you smile at random passersby or chit chat in line with strangers, but it`s not like that in France. France is a country where personal space is very private so just because a French person doesn`t smile at you once you make eye contact doesn`t mean they`re rude, it just isn`t natural for them to react that way. The French aren`t nearly as open as Americans, it`s simply a difference in cultures - not attitudes.

First little night out at a cafe and our waiter bought us roses !

As for the French being smelly, I would not disagree. I have passed so many disgusting putrid smelling men I`ve had to hold my breath at times. But it`s really just individuals not as a whole. One stop at a metro smelled rancid too, but I imagine all systems of public transport get smelly. I have yet to see any armpit hair on women but I am keeping my eye out for that.

I wanted and tried to get a cell phone today but MICEFA (the program I`m here with) informed us that most cell phones in France have free unlimited texting so naturally we all want to hop on that boat but we can`t seem to figure out how to get a plan like that. So I am still phoneless and bank accountless. . .but maybe tomorrow that will change. Getting a phone really is my priority because I need to start calling people to look at apartments (yes the dream apartment WAS too good to be true) because getting housing is my absolute BIGGEST priority. These next two weeks are going to be HECTIC cos there`s so much to be done. Not to mention EXPENSIVE. But it`s all just part of the process. After the first month and I`m all settled in is when I feel like the adventure will REALLY begin. Being on my own in an unfamiliar big city. . .the possibilities are endless!

Cobblestone street in the 5th

No expectations.

That`s the only way to do it.

Precious Moments

A week from today I will be in Paris. I don`t even know what tone that sentence is supposed to be read in or which punctuation mark it should have ended with. Every week brings a new set of emotions it`s hard to tell how I actually feel about it all. Am I nervous, am I excited, am I sad, am I scared? I couldn`t say because no one emotion dominates the rest. Last week I was ecstatic, couldn`t wait to leave. There was a little sadness because I left Long Beach and had to say goodbye to all the people who have made the past two years of my life more than I could have ever asked for. But overall, I just wanted to get back home to Nor Cal because being home meant that I was getting ready to leave. But in fact I have spent most of my days by myself inside of my house doing nothing because I can still barely walk (long story short I fell off the monkey bars at a park about a week ago). There really isn`t much left to do before I leave. In my mind everything was so hectic: I had to pack, buy luggage, go to the bank, renew my ID...listing these things off I can`t even remember anything else I thought I had to do, but even then all those things could be done in a matter of hours. I think all this alone time is making me realize what living on my own in Paris will feel like. I`m sure I`ll have more than enough things to do to keep me busy but at the end of the day, what am I coming home to? A bottle of wine and FaceBook by myself since the time difference keeps my friends, family and I on completely different schedules? That actually doesn`t sound half bad, especially since "me time" is definitely something I felt I was lacking this summer since I couch surfed the past two months. But all this is beside the point. . .

The point is I`m leaving in 6 days and these last 6 days feel like an eternity !!! I already found an apartment that is out of this world - almost too good to be true. It`s not mine yet but I kinda jumped the gun assuming that nothing would go wrong in the process of getting it and now I`m just anxious with anticipation checking my email every five minutes waiting to hear back from the owner. A two bedroom apartment in the center of Paris for 700 euros a month all utilities included - what ?! It`s a STEAL. And here I thought I was going to end up living in a studio apartment half the size of a dorm room and paying 1000 euros at least. Now if something does go wrong nothing I find will be good enough. But that`s all part of the experience. Having no idea what`s about to happen but rolling with it anyway. I can`t really afford to be picky or get upset about any situation. Because any moment I spend not being completely and utterly happy and appreciative of what I`m experiencing is a moment of the best year of my life lost forever. Because right now a year seems like a long time to be gone but I know it`s going to fly by and once I`m back in the states I`m going to look back and wish I had more time. And I hope that`s all I`m wishing for too. More time. I hope I`m not wishing I had done anything differently or more-so done something I hadn`t. So cheers to that. Cheers to never saying no, rolling with the punches, and living for the moment. Cos really that`s all life is. A bunch of little moments all stacked on top of each other, one bringing you to the next. And I, for one, do not want to miss a thing.