Mon Banc

This is my favorite place in Paris. This is where I go when I am able to get up early enough to walk the half mile between the FIAP and Parc Montsouris. I sit on that green bench in front of the puppet theater, and I write to you.

La Vie est Belle

Sorry to have neglected updating for a week and for leaving off on such a sour note. Really, I have been enjoying Paris very much, which is why I’ve had so little time to run down to the local park that has free wifi.

In the time that this blog has been idle, I have:

Watched four football matches
Visited the Louvre
Eaten six or seven ice creams
Toured the city by bicycle
Visited three Chateux
Toured Chartres Cathedral
Cut my hair
Purchased zero souvenirs
Walked ???? kilometers

I have also discovered that my innate charm appeals to a wide range of Parisians, as last night, I was catcalled by an eight-year-old while having an after dinner walk with my friend.

Je Suis Pleine

No, not really.

It’s a common mistake for students of French to use the auxiliary verb être (to be) instead of avoir (to have), when translating phrases like “I’m finished” and “I’m full.” This has humorous consequences.

If you were to say “Je suis fini” to a waiter, you would have just told him/her that you are (metaphorically) dead. If your waiter is a true Parisian, they will laugh at you in the face before taking your plate away.

Just to be clear, this has not happened to me. I say as little as possible to waiters here, as they are frequently (with many exceptions, of course) THE absolute rudest people possible. I’m not sure if this is a cause or a condition of the fact that tipping is not compulsory in France.

Now, what if you’re at your new French boyfriend’s house for dinner and his mother is a terrible cook? You want to be polite, so you take a few bites, smile widely, and coo “Je suis pleine.” Hopefully, his Catholic grandma is not there too, because you just told the whole room that you are pregnant.

I say all this to get to my nearly unrelated point that approximately one out of every four twenty-something, Parisian women I see is pregnant. By the size of their bellies, I’d say it was either a very cold November, or an extra festive Christmas.

This gave me an idea.

In my constant quest not to be propositioned, I have been wearing a ring on my left hand and scowling enough to make my face stick. This does not work. The predator has a keen eye, and zero inhibitions.

So, I decided to start acting pregnant—patting my belly a lot, wearing the front of my pants low, and always keeping some air in my lungs. You’d think that if it wasn’t an indication of couple-hood, pregnancy would at least decrease desirability.

I realized when I was pulled over by two male ambulance drivers this afternoon that this does not work any better. The only (very irritating) solution is to keep one of my male trip companions around whenever I leave the hostel. A single girl (or even group of girls) will always be viewed as a potential pick-up.

Des Mauvaises Choses, des Bonnes Choses

As the seriously overpriced shuttle wisked us off to Beauvais to catch our plane to Stockholm, I was beginning to have serious doubts about whether or not I really wanted to go through with the trip to Sweden. By the time we had landed, and boarded yet another ridiculous bus, I was petrified with fear to be in an expensive country whose language I do not know. That and, I discovered my camera screen had broken.

Then something amazing happened. Football.

I wasn't sure if our group was going to be able to catch the Turkey-Croatia quarter final game, but we saw several groups of people shouting and waving flags, so we figured we'd be able to follow them to a local bar with a TV. Instead, we found ourselves in one of the city squares in front of a giant screen projecting the game to at least 2,000 exuberant Turkish supporters. Fish and chips in my belly, a semi-familiar language in my ears, and I was feeling much better.

The best part of the night was that Turkey won. After pulling off an impossible tie in the last thirty seconds of overtime stoppage, Turkey crushed Croatia in penalty kicks. Even without pictures, I know I will remember tonight forever.

Un peu de Salsa

I try to keep an open mind, but I never really expected to eat a burrito in France.

Last night, however, I did just that. I might also add that it was free, and pretty darn good for a French burrito, except that the cheese was certainly not right.

I'll put up a video of the salsa dancing when I have time.

La Tour Eiffel

I'd have to say I'm with the French on this one-- the Eiffel Tower is pretty ugly during the day. Set against the bright backdrop of the Champs de Mars, it doesn't look half bad, but with the low-lying old-style city below, it's downright garish.


However, when it starts to get dark, the rest of the city fades away, and the tower really becomes glamorous.



You could even say it sparkles. :)

Versailles