je pouvais faire pire // i could have done worse

Three posts in two days? Don't get used to it!

For those of you who have not been kept up to date on my (mis)adventures with my language exchange partner...

T. & THE CREEPER

A Play in Five Acts

CAST OF CHARACTERS

T., our clueless hero

M1, friend from Princeton

M2, friend from my university

J., friend from Amherst

Creeper, language exchange partner

ACT I: EARLY WARNINGS

T: Hey guys! I'm off to meet with my language exchange partner!

M1: The one we met in Normandy?

M2: The older guy who's not even a student? T., don't go. It's sketchy. I'm pretty sure that he wants more from you than just a language exchange.

M1: Aww...he was nice! You're too suspicious!

T: And besides, why do you need to assume that any friendly Frenchman is sketchy?

M2: Because American girls have a reputation of being easy.

J: How old is this guy?

T: If he wants an easy girl, he picked the wrong one! And probably late twenties, early thirties?

J: He wants in your pants.

T&M1: Guys...really?

M2: Yeah. I'm telling you this as a guy. Guys are constantly thinking of this.

ACT II: THE FIRST MEETING

CREEPER walks up to meet T. It is raining, and CREEPER'S hair is slicked back in a slightly greasy looking manner. In addition, CREEPER has grown a pedophile mustache and beard since T. last saw him.

CREEPER: (doing the French kissing thing) T! How nice to see you! Did you have a good weekend with your parents? Take a lot of pictures?

T: Yeah. How are you? (T. is slightly weirded out by the bisous, but chalks it up to the fact that a. she's a prude at heart when faced with strange men, and b. Frenchmen do this all the time)

CREEPER: Fine, fine! Let's sit down at this café here and have a drink. You like fruit juice?

They end up at Paradis des Fruits. T. finds out that CREEPER does not drink or smoke, a first (and a rarity) amongst Frenchmen. To her, he seems nice enough, and she begins to relax...

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah...I used to date this one Japanese girl that took pictures all the time.

T: ...oh, really? Hahahahha.

CREEPER: So you are full Vietnamese? Completely Asian?

T: Yes, although a lot of people think that I am wasian.

CREEPER: Yes...your eyes look different, like you could be Eurasian. How old are you, anyway?

T: Twenty.

CREEPER: Really? I could've sworn you were at least twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three.

T: Yeah, people think I'm older. How old are you?

CREEPER: (smiles creepily) How old do you think I am?

T: ...I don't know.

CREEPER: Thirty-one.

There is an awkward silence.

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...my Chinese girlfriend...blah blah blah blah blah.

T: (to herself, after the third reference to ex-girlfriends who were Asian) Fuck! Guy has an Asian fetish! (to CREEPER) ...I'm sorry, what was that?

CREEPER: ...blah blah blah blah blah...Why do you study politics? Me, I came to my job rather by accident blah blah blah blah...

(At this point, the waitress comes by. It has gotten dark outside and the café has dimmed its lights. She proffers a single lighted candle, to be placed in the middle of the table.)

CREEPER: So, T...do you have a white boyfriend or a Vietnamese one?

T: ...what?! ...none at the moment...why? (It occurs to T. that perhaps she should've said, "He's actually big and black.")

CREEPER: I just wanted to know. Some families have a problem with dating outside your race. I had a Chinese coworker once--her family took a very long time to accept her Indian boyfriend.

T: ...right. Well, my parents don't have a say who I date.

The meeting continues. Near the end, CREEPER makes a comment about how the French joke about sex much more easily than do Americans. T. responds, saying that she jokes about sex all the time...with her friends. CREEPER says that in France, you can even joke with strangers. Eventually, after resisting the urge to check her watch for the umpteenth time, T. leaves. The meeting ends with, of course, un bisous.

ACT III: MIDWEEK

T. is in the middle of a crowded supermarket, recounting her horribly awkward experience to her friends, when her phone rings.

M2: I told you that he wanted in your pants.

T: Possibly. But he could just be really friendly! Hang on....(taking out her phone) hello? Oh hi!

CREEPER (voice from backstage): Hello! I just wanted to call and try to set up a time to meet tonight?

T: What? Can you say that again?

CREEPER: It's me...you don't remember me? (creepy chuckling)

T: (under her breath) Jesus fucking Christ... (out loud) Of course! I just can't hear you. What are you saying?

CREEPER: I want to set up a meeting time for tonight!

T: I'm not actually free tonight...or the entire week. Only during Sunday? Can you send me an email?

CREEPER: Of course!

ACT IV: THE SECOND MEETING

They meet and font la bise.

CREEPER: If you like coffee, maybe next time I will take you to my office and make you coffee there? It will be cheaper.

T: Uh...no thanks! I like cafés just fine!

The conversation progresses much as before. T. is unable to concentrate on French, so most of the exchange takes place in English and badly broken French. T. claims tiredness.

T: I actually wanted to talk to you. You see, I signed up for this during the beginning of the year, when I didn't have many activities. Now as you can see, I am not free during the week, and only a few times during the weekend since I'll be traveling so much. I'm just not going to be able to meet you for the requisite amount of two times or three times a week. Maybe it will be better for you to find a new partner?

CREEPER: ...I understand. I like you, but it will be better for me to find someone who I can meet with more often. (jokingly) I'm sad that you don't like me enough to stay!

T: ahahahaha. Mkayyythanksbye!

ACT V: REACTIONS

T: So I got myself out of that situation.

M2: Good girl. But I told you he was creepy.

T: ...

So I guess my life wouldn't make for a very good play.

je vais et je viens // i go and i come

I always have so many "Only in France..." moments that I forget to blog about. For example, only in France...

...will you see a woman, dressed to the nines, smoke a joint as she is walking down the street.
...will said woman be wearing five-inch stilettos. On cobblestones streets.
...is the aforementioned woman at least sixty years old.

...is taking forever to bring out the entree, the plat principal, and the dessert considered good service (the waiters assume that you want to spend forever talking, which, admittedly, is true some of the time).
...will sitting down double the price of your coffee.

...will you see some of the most creative parking on Earth.

...will you see huge posters with full frontal nudity while walking down the street.
...will no one bat an eye at said posters (the U.S. is too hindered by our puritanic roots).

I have more, of course, but you get the point. Anyway, the reason that I bring this up is that today, I had my medical visit to obtain my titre de sejour. It is basically a stamp in my passport that goes along with my visa and states that I am not in France illegally.

It was quite the process to get my visa.

To get your titre de sejour, you had to have a complete dossier filled with things like: attestation of housing insurance, attestation of lodging, attestation that you are registered at a university, etc. After your dossier is complete, they send it off to the OFII office (the equivalent to the INS in the United States). Once OFII receives it, they schedule a time for you to come have a visite medical. In theory, they will also send you a convocation.

After a catfight with my housing coordinator (in which she assured me that I would not need my convocation), I went off to the OFII office.

Of course, the first thing they told me was that I needed a convocation to even enter the building.

D. was right, though, it all eventually worked out (although with a lot of frustration on my part). I think it helped that there were at least seven other kids from my program, all sans convocation. The guy eventually took pity on us and looked up our names on the computer. Thankfully, there were no mishaps and it showed that we actually were supposed to be there.

It was then that I had my first "only in France" moment of the day: despite the fact that I had an appointment and all my paperwork in order, I was told that I would have to reschedule if I did not have my timbre with me. I did.

Just to let you know, that little stamp cost me 55 Euro. A piece of paper the size of my thumbnail. 81.19 USD. Fucker. So, only in France will a little piece of paper be worth a month's supply of food.

As I was in the process of having my medical visit, I encountered a few more "only in France" moments. Only in France...

...will the doctors shout out your weight from across the room (thanks, man).
...will your vision test include famous passages to see how well you can read up close.
...will you take off your shirt & bra in front of a huge black man and have it be completely nonsexual.
...will said experience of you being completely naked from the waist up also include said huge black man pressing you against the wall that is the upright x-ray machine.

They even had a hair clip attached to the x-ray machine so that I could get my hair out of the way. But then again, I was attached to the x-ray machine.

Just for future reference: as good as the French health care system is, they do not include paper dresses for these kinds of examinations. There were also nothing protecting my ovaries when the chest x-ray was taken. I would like to have babies eventually, but I guess the French don't really care.

I also ended up undressing for an old Asian woman (she was the doctor who took my blood pressure and heart rate and all that shit). Who knew you needed to undress for a stethoscope to be useful?

I thought my French was pretty good, but apparently not enough. That second time, I only needed to take my shirt off (and was allowed to keep the bra on).

Guess who didn't realize that until much later?

First step: pressing yourself against a wall while completely naked from the waist up.
Second step: ...going to nude beaches?

Sometimes I really miss the United States and its uptight sensibilities.

d'une maison de bois // of a wooden house

Two weeks ago (see how behind I am?!), my university hosted a trip for us to go to Mont St. Michel in Normandy. It was a weekend trip with a packed agenda; over the course of two days, we visited Bayeux, Omaha Beach, Mont St. Michel, and some random chateau.

I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday morning and managed to drag myself out of the house by 6:30. I don't know whether it's due to France's location or that winter is coming or both, but it was pitch dark when I stepped outside. For a city that is usually so vibrant and teeming with life, Paris gave a pretty good imitation of a ghost town. I walked past Gare St. Lazare and traversed a good chunk of Boulevard Malesherbes without seeing more than two or three people. I'm not going to lie--it was kind of creepy.

Because it was ungodly early, I really considered sleeping on the bus. M. from Princeton, however, was awake, and I would've felt like a bad seat mate. There were also random French people sitting near us, so I just stayed up to chat. Now sure how successful that was, though, seeing as I don't really do the whole "human being" thing in the morning unless I've had some coffee.

Did I mention that I am a coffee addict?

Thankfully, after an hour or so of me blinking stupidly while trying to process sounds that were not a part of the pounding in my head, we stopped at a rest station. It's strange how downing two shots of espresso in rapid succession (the coffee was shitty and not worth savoring) can improve your mood. It wasn't nearly enough caffeine, but at least I could string together enough words to make a somewhat-coherent sentence.

It was at this rest station that I made the acquaintance of M. from Marseilles (who caught my attention because K. seemed very interested in him). From him, I found out that the French people on the bus with us came because they were interested in finding language exchange partners. Interesting, no? I had filled out a form indicating my interest in early September, but had pretty much forgotten about it. And pretty much forgot about it again as we got on the bus and headed off to Bayeux.

The village of Bayeux houses a very famous and very detailed tapestry that recounts the exploits of William the Conqueror. Various scenes depict Guillame going to war, feasting, being crowned king, going to war again, etc. The cathedral in which the tapestry used to be displayed had burned down twice (both times with the tapestry inside), so it's a huge miracle that this thing still exists at all. Due to its fragility, however, I was unable to take any photos to share with you guys.

However, here's a photo taken inside the museum.


And the cathedral. Sorry for the quality; my ISO was set really high for some reason, and I didn't figure it out until later.

Unfortunately, it was at Bayeux that I had my first encounter with Bad French Food. Normandy's specialty is the crêpe. So, apparently illogically, I thought that I wouldn't be able to go wrong if I ordered a croque-monsieur (France's version of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich) and a crêpe (citron-sucre, of course). Normandy's other specialty is cidre, but that's beside the point.

Obviously, college students' desire to save money leads them into making Bad Food Decisions.

My croque-monsieur had been frozen. The lady microwaved it. Twice. The crêpe was soggy and was obviously reheated in the microwave too. I didn't realize that it was possible to make such bad food for things that are French staples.

Luckily for me, M. from my university is a boy and will eat anything, so I ended up foisting all the stuff on him, having lost all of my appetite. Objective sources say that I was unable to do anything but repeat, "What the FUCK?!" and "Pute!" and "Espèce de merde!" over and over for the next two hours or three.

I guess it's obvious that I tend to be laid back except in matters of food?

To my friends' relief, our next destination distracted me enough from my misfortunes to shut me up. In the States, I am right next door to D.C., and I can say that I've never managed to find in any of the monuments what I found here at Omaha Beach. There, the air was laden down with the weight of history. Flowery words, yes, but totally true. The sacrifices that countless men made, the lives they left behind, the gratefulness that one feels for their accomplishments...it's all there. I don't know about other people, but for me, it was a very moving experience.

The cemetery where all the soldiers are buried.


A monument set up by the French.


The beaches where the invasion took place. Notice how small it actually is.

After Omaha Beach, we got on the bus and headed off to our hotel. There, I encountered another lackluster dinner (chicken was dry and there was a piece of plastic in my apple tart), but I wasn't as bitter because I wasn't directly paying for it. It was obviously, however, not my day for good food.

Later that night, we all went off to the one bar in town, where M. from Princeton took her first ever shot. Good times were had by all. Tequila sunrises, anyone? We went out for kebabs afterward, and I was happy to be able to have one good meal that day.


Sunday morning, we all loaded our things on the bus again and headed off to Mont St. Michel.

Now, Mont St. Michel has a lot of history behind it. It took a couple of centuries to build (they'd add something new every couple of decades). Is very impressive looking--pretty much an impenetrable fortress. So, with that in mind, and with the best intentions, Mont St. Michel is pretty much a combination of Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. It's a little town in the mountains that is entirely contained within the walls of the castle/fortress. There are little narrow winding walkways that lead nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

If you take out the tourists, it would look very intimidating.


The little town inside the castle walls.

Over time, the plague known as tourism has taken over Mont St. Michel. Not only has that driven the prices up (les galettes, or savory crêpes, started at 9 Euro apiece), but it also means that you find non-French things like churros and kebabs being sold next to the I Love Normandy t-shirts and shotglasses. (D. told me that the churros were horrible, but R. said that the kebabs were not that bad. Just some friendly advice should you ever head there yourself.)

After Mont St. Michel, we were all quite exhausted. Nevertheless, we trudged back to the bus and headed off to some chateau. I honestly don't remember its name because nothing important ever happened there. Still, it was a nice contrast to the gaudy luxury that was Versailles.

Pretty. Tour guide was also very good. Best I've had.

Before heading back to Paris, we stopped by a little bed and breakfast, le Genty Home (get it? Genty Home? Gentilhomme? ...never mind). There, we feasted on a variety of mini-sandwiches. I don't think the proprietress had ever encountered this many Americans before--especially ravenous college students--as she had a perpetual look of stupefaction on her face. I guess we did go through an amazingly large amount of food at an alarmingly fast rate. She was probably muttering to herself that this was why French women are so thin and Americans are obese. Kidding--she was very nice and hospitable.

Aaaaand we got back to Paris pretty late and I had class the next day.

Remember what I said earlier about language exchange partners? It's okay if you don't, because it's been a long-ass post. Anyway, a couple days later, I get an email saying that M. from Marseilles had been assigned as my language partner.

To me, he seemed nice enough, but when I told M. from my university about it, the first thing out of his mouth was, "C'est louche. I'm pretty sure he wants more from you than just a language exchange. All Frenchmen think that American girls are easy." M. from my university continued on to say that he was just looking out for me--that he's a guy and knows how guys think. J. from Amherst agreed.

Maybe they are right? M. from Marseilles is:

• old (late 20s, early 30s)
• is a real estate agent

Obviously louche, no? Especially that second part.

But I'm not easy (unless you feed me chocolate). I also have no attraction to M. from Marseilles. So there is no reason to worry.

And such is my life.

Bisous!

sans savoir où ça le mène // without knowing where it leads

I find it soothing and immensely helpful to write out all my blog entries and/or essays before I type them up. Maybe it's just me, but I think the entries end up flowing better. Words come more easily to me this way, and I like being able to revise as I am typing things up.

...but I digress.

Two days ago (as in samedi, 26.09.09), I went to Versailles. It was truly the home of the Sun King...and I was clearly in the wrong about the National Assembly being too opulent. You do not know opulent until you've been to Versailles.

I took the train to Versailles on a crisp, sunny morning. My Carte Imagine R had arrived the day before, so I was in an extremely good mood despite having had to get up early. (My Asian brain releases endorphins like no other every time I manage to avoid paying for something, you see, and thus the fact that I no longer had to pay an arm and a leg for transportation effectively put me on Cloud Nine.) Upon arrival, my life was made even better as we found out that the people who had set the whole thing up for us had made reservations for us as a group. This meant that we got to skip the long line that stretched all the way to Denmark and go directly into the chateau. And thus, I began my tour of Le Roi Soleil's domain.

I was told that there is always some part of Versailles that is under construction. In addition, the wings of the chateau are not accessible to the public as that is where Le Sénat and l'Assemblée Nationale convene whenver they deign it necessary to talk to each other. But the rest of the property was pretty much up for grabs.

We started with a tour of the chateau itself.

At first, I was staring wide-eyed at everything I saw and snapping pictures feverishly. After all, it was Versailles.

This is my knight in shining armor.

Don't worry, R.B. I will never again make the mistake of saying, "some random ceiling" in your presence. Thus, this is a very impressive ceiling done by a very-impressive-and-probably-famous artist.


The famous Hall of Glass.


People were really agog over the bed of Louis XIV. My audioguide described the various entrances to his bedroom; apparently there was a small one reserved solely for courtesans.


Where do you think they got the idea to turn Han Solo into metal in Star Wars?


Trompe-l'oeil: "to fool the eye." This is a painting, not a carving.


The mirrors were kind of dirty.

After a while, though, the rooms all started to look the same to me: each and every one of them lavishly decorated, elegant, and maybe a bit over the top. Maybe I just prefer the simpler things in life?

Anyway, I stopped taking pictures until we got outside. The gardens and landscaping at Versailles were by far my favorite part of it.

One of the many "bodies of water" at Versailles. This picture was taken on the steps of the chateau.


This guy didn't know how to row. He's about to maroon himself and his girlfriend.


This is another body of water. I was just taking a picture of the landscape, but this random old woman walked in and turned around at the last moment, so this is a good touristy picture of her.


...I want to get married at Versailles...


Pretty flowers from one of the gardens.


Marie Antoinette had a little hamlet built for herself so that she could come here and pretend to be a peasant/shepherdess every time she got tired of court intrigue.

By the time we got to the hamlet, my friends and I had long been separated from the main group (we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere? Or maybe we took too long for lunch...) After a bit more sightseeing, we decided to hightail it back to the city. Back in Paris, we went to a crêperie in Montparnasse for dinner.

Après avoir dîné, because I was obviously filled with limitless energy, M. & I met up with some friends for a night out on the town. We managed to catch Happy Hour this time, so I didn't have to sell my body to afford a drink. The waiter at the bar/café/restaurant that we were at was very cute and illegally surreptitiously gave us a copy of their menu as we left. I'd like to think that it was because he noticed how much we enjoyed it, but it was probably due to the fact that K. & I were inundating him with questions about whether or not there was a paper copy/a version of it online somewhere.

Why such a big deal for a menu?

Because everyone loves franglais, of course! Also, it was nice to know that while we were incompetent in French, the French were also not as good en anglais.

In this picture, note the "salad of goat (tackle in sheet of brick)" and the "white cake in the coke, the coulis of red fruit."


In this one, note the "crunch lady" and the "tartar of Salmon has the dill."

This is how I spend most of my weekends in Paris: mostly being classy with a little bit of fun thrown in. Other times I am a homebody and don't do anything interesting.

As always, there are more pictures, including those where you can see my face clearly, on facebook.

c'est comme ça // it's like that

After almost a month in France, I still find myself mostly enamored with the Parisians. What I want from them will come when it will come, but in the meanwhile, there are two things that I would like to ask of them. Specifically, two things that I would like to ask of Frenchmen:

1. I respectfully ask the men who 35+ years of age to please refrain from hitting on me or checking me out. While flattering, it is also creepy. On the other hand, if you could, please do introduce me to your sons. They don't notice me nearly as much as you do, and it'd be nice if that changed.
2. I also respectfully ask that Frenchmen of all ages refrain from excreting any bodily fluids in public. It is just gross. Taking little Capitaine Jacques out in the middle of a crowded street is just not cool. There are bathrooms nearby.

Just for the record, the above two points are not related. But I just thought I'd put it out there.

This weekend was the journées du patrimoine in France, where all the public buildings are open to the public, even if they are not normally. This means that places like l'Elysée become really crowded, and that people stand in line for five hours hoping to catch a glimpse of Nicholas and Carla.

I went to l'Assemblée Nationale. This is effectively the building where the legislative branch of the French government works. It was not as big as I expected it to be--or maybe it was just because it seemed much more...homey?...than Capitol Hill does? At the same time, it was very opulent and lavishly decorated.

This is me attempting to look picturesque.


These are random men who have been paid to stand there and look like they are doing something important. So that tourists like me can stand there and gawk.


Opulence.


Some random ceiling.


Big hall where all the deputies live. I mean, make law and discuss stuff.

The rest of the pictures, as always, are on facebook.

After my trip to the National Assembly, we waited for a while on Line 12 of the Metro to get on and see this old, old train from the end of the 1930s. I got a free postcard! And the train was pretty cool looking. There were different cars for different classes. The first time around, I was in the second-class car. The second time, I upgraded to first class.

Up next: cooking lessons in swanky Parisian apartments and discovering long-lost relatives.

de ces soirs de lumières // of these lit-up nights

The above image, my friends, is what I would term a "foodgasm." Sure, it doesn't look like much. Actually, to be honest, it might even look...unsavory. I mean, a sort-of shapeless blob of a pastry? I know what you think it looks like. Let's not go there.

But no.

It is so much more.

This is an éclair café that I bought at my local bakery. I am not quite sure why it is an éclair café and not an éclair au café, but grammatical questions are of no import here. The important thing is that you spend a couple of seconds looking at this...and then you start envying me enviously for the rest of your envy-filled life.

Just kidding. I don't know what it was about this eclair that made me like it so much. Maybe it is because I am a sucker for all things coffee-flavored. Maybe it is because I am so happy to discover that French pastries, while often rich, are nowhere near as sickeningly sweet as the majority of American pastries. Upon eating this eclair, I first encountered a subtle hint of coffee. A bit skeptical at the beginning, I became more and more impressed as I chewed and the flavors started to merge into the perfect balance of coffee, sweetness, and richness.

Why oh why are French desserts so much better across the board? The other day, I found myself at a KFC. Yes, KFC. My friends and I were simply looking for a place to work, and KFC had wi-fi, unlike the café that we had originally settled on. Of course, you can't just sit down without ordering something. So I...went for the tiramisu. Of course. It set me back only 1,90 Euro. And that tiramisu, which I found at a KFC, was better than the majority of those that I've tried in the States.

This, dear friends, is why I can't bring myself to bake while in Paris, no matter how dearly I miss it. I am simply not brave enough to confront my inferiority.


...But let us turn our attention to something other than my inferiority food.

This picture was taken from my window, and is representative of one of the things that I love about Paris. Lest you call me a stalker, I will endeavor to explain myself:

I was minding my own business, en faisant les devoirs, je pense, when I suddenly heard music drifting through the house. My host family was (and is still) away on vacation, so it could not have been them turning on the CD player or something. And I...I was too rational to believe in ghosts, so that was out of the question.

...it took me a while to realize that it came from outside. I never said that I was smart, okay?!

For some reason, several gentlemen had randomly decided to pull out their instruments and play music on our street. They were situated all over the place; there was a man standing across the street from the one that you see in the picture, as well as two others stationed in different places. It was like...an impromptu marching band. They were playing an old love song to which I know the tune but not the title. When I asked my host-sister later that night, she could not recall the title either, but thought that it was possibly Russian.

One day I will hum you that song, and perhaps you will know. Or maybe not. I'm amused that I recognize all these French (and apparently Russian) songs, but cannot do the same with American music.

I like that there are impromptu concerts in the middle of the streets in Paris.


For those who are interested, I am still going through orientation. Orientation currently consists of two classes: French and méthodologie. In French, we haven't been doing much but for some grammar review and random discussions about cultural differences. In méthodologie, we are (re)learning the structure of the French dissertation. One of my teachers looks like a younger version of Alan Rickman.

Classes at Paris I start in early October. I am in the process of choosing my classes for that. We will see.

de la bouche du metro // from the mouth of the metro

Between today and yesterday, I learned all manner of things:

1. The sex district of which I spoke of is in le 9è arrondissement--only about a ten-minute walk away from my house. This is good to know, I guess, should I ever have a need for taking sketchy pictures ("Mom! Dad! Guess where I am?!") Or should there ever be an affaire between myself and a Frenchman, I will know where to get us sex toys and lacy lingerie. Additionally, I like to culture myself--the erotic museum will surely accomplish that.
2. Frenchmen are incredibly feminine. I really love them only for their accents. There have been two instances so far when I have thought that someone was a woman until he opened his mouth. When I mentioned the lacy lingerie in No. 1, I was not necessarily implying that I would be the one to wear it.
3. Despite their Eurotrashy tendency to wear pants that are tighter than my own, Frenchmen still occupy some sort of pedestal on my head. Being hit on by Frenchmen in the sketchy part of town feels just as greasy as being hit on by Mexicans in downtown Los Angeles, and yet, on some level, it feels somewhat classier. Maybe it's because it is done in French.
4. I have a pretty good head for direction...sort of. I can't really understand why or how I am learning the layout of Paris so much faster when I never could deal with New York City. Paris is not straight city blocks, but narrow streets of quaint charm and occasionally, understated elegance.
5. I must be pathetic, because I have a phobia of appearing touristlike and so am embarrassed to whip out my camera and take pictures. But no worries, I will get over myself soon. In any case, it's been really overcast/raining the last two days--I tried taking pictures today and it started pouring a minute later. Pictures of Little India will come when I manage to find it again, and I promise that you guys will have photographic evidence the next time I go to Les Champs-Elysées or L'Arc de Triomphe.
   
6. I am going to get completely spoiled in Paris. And also as fat as a tub of lard. I've been pretty good, but soon I am going to give in to the tempting calls and smells of the four boulangerie-patîsseries and two marchés within five minutes from my apartment. Foodgasm.

Madame and Monsieur are an old couple living near the border of the 8th and the 17th. I was under the impression that they were both retired, but apparently Madame still goes to work on certain days of the week. They both come from large families, and have four children of their own. I have already met several of their children and grandchildren.

The Du P. family is incredibly photogenic. Every single one of them could be models. Even the ones that married into the family. The grandchildren are the cutest beings in the world--they are the sort that makes you go, "Babies! I want one!" upon seeing them. There is one woman who had given birth to three children and still had a flat stomach. I just don't understand how Frenchwomen are so svelte. Also, Madame might be close to being a retiree, but I'm pretty sure that she is more sophisticated and fashionable than I am. By far.

Madame and Monsieur are incredibly nice and accommodating. Madame makes it a point to ask me how my day is and what I did. When I ask her for suggestions, she always has a lot of recommendations for me. Monsieur is a little quieter, but fiercely intelligent. I really enjoy talking to him about current events. I have also promised to show him how Skype works.

They have spent time in the States, so they know English well enough to give me some help when I stutter for too long. I adore them.

I find myself dealing with a weird dichotomy. During the day, it is French French French, and I feel my language skills really improving. At night, simply due to the blog or friends and family, I speak a lot of English, and then it feels like I am not. I don't know if I actually am, but it's an interesting thought/realization. Maybe you guys will just have to suffer through more of my sprinkled-in French, both in blogs and in talk. I feel better when I add in random French, comme si I am making more of an effort or something. It's probably the "or something."

It's only been two days, but...Paris, je t'aime.