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 . . .