Did you know that Cameron Diaz is 5'9" and weights 118 lbs? Or that Julia Roberts is the same height and only weights two pounds more?

Yes.

I thought this strange, as I am a comfortable 5'10" (and a half) and I certainly don't weight 120 lbs. But I recalled calculating my BMI at one point and I found myself - on a scale that goes from underweight to normal to overweight to obesity - on the low end of normal, with a BMI of 20. That puts me at about 1.5 points away from underweight and 4.9 points away from overweight, which means that I'm doing ok.

But I did a quick calculation for little Miss Cameron Diaz and she's got a BMI of 17! On the main chart page, it doesn't even start until 18.5. She's off the charts.

And for that matter, so is Julia.

And because I am a psychopath, I went ahead and calucalated all of Charlie's Angels. Apparently, Drew and I have the same BMI (although she's six inches shorter than me and hence several pounds lighter) and Lucy enters just into the realm of normal weight, by 0.4 points. Lucky Lucy.

Naomi Campbell, however, is drastically underweight with a BMI of 16.2 - she's my height but weighs only 13 lbs more than the 5'0 Lucy Liu. Naomi actually has a BMI that is lower than Kate Moss', who figures in at 16.9.

But the most disturbing part of it all? You can actually just enter:

(star's name) height weight

in a google search and you can have every megastar's measurements. I would hate to be famous. Curiously, I couldn't find Nichole Kidman's. But that's because she spells her first name without the h, and I did manage to find Nicole Kidman's. She's also underweight. But that's no surprise. She's a high school dropout, too. Something I didn't know, for a change.

So anyway, just further proof that the people we watch on television and in the movies are actually considered, by medical doctors, to be physically sick and dangerously underweight.*

What ever happened to the woman with the luscious curves and sexily thunderish thighs? I guess she died just as mysterious a death as Marilyn.

*I would just like to note that I have friends that are naturally this weight and I understand that it's entirely possible to be very healthy and extremely skinny. But I think that is more of an exception than we realize, and that it should remain the exception instead of the model. Just had to clarify so I don't get any angry comments.

Today I encountered a bum making sculptures with beer cans. There was also a women with a strong accent ringing of southern France saying "Dou-ce-ment, dou-ce-ment" ("Slowly, slowly") to her hyperactive little pup. And of course there were the hundreds of schoolchildren dressed in their fancy little French outfits, excitedly greeting their friends outside the elementary school doors.

I suppose it's only logical that the more I gulp down the lovely taste of fresh morning air, the more I find myself getting up early despite myself. Even on days when I don't run, I still wake up before my alarm, springing out of bed instead of lazily clinging to it like I do in winter.

This morning, for example, I woke up at 6.40 - no alarm, no loud noises, nothing. Just me, and my open eyes, and my body ready to start the day. In just a few short weeks, I have made such a turnaround that I can hardly remember how I had been before; I'm looking back at myself just awhile back and wondering why I hadn't taken some of the proper steps to take care of myself, to get myself active and animated and energized. It's so easy, getting up early and going for a jog, yet it had never occured to me to do it. And because of my inactivity, I just wallowed, instead of doing something productive that would make me feel good.

All of this got me thinking about spirals: we all know about the downward spiral, by why don't we ever talk about the upward spiral? Things just keep falling into place, and I keep looking stupidly around myself wondering when somebody is going to pull the rug out from under my feet. My energy is up, I'm laughing more easily, I've got goals and questions and things I want to do and places to see and people to talk to. Those burdening questions of who I am and what I am doing are just sort of fizzling into the background while I make my way semi-daily to the Luxembourg Garderns for my morning jog. And I carry that feeling with me all day long.

It feels really, really good. So good, in fact, that I want to keep it up until - yes, I've set a date - June 30, 2004. I figure that gives me a year, and if I hate it by the end of the year I'll just stop. But between now and then, a lot of shit will go down, and hopefully I'll still have the comforting Parisian morning to keep me company. That's reassuring.

Set One: The Scholastically Apt
Geek, Nerd, Dork (possible additions - although slightly different in meaning - weirdo, freak, and Role-Playing Guy?)

*Set Two: The Sexually Loose Female
Skank, Ho, Whore, Slut, Bitch (possible additions - hussy, homewrecker, Golddigger?)

Example fill-in-the-blank sentence: No seriously, Anna Nichole Smith is a ____________, point blank.

*Set Three: The Excessively Asshole-ish Guy
Dick, Asshole, Cocksucker, Jerk, Bastard, Wanker (my journalism professor's fave)

Example fill-in-the-blank sentence: That ___________ needs to stop driving so damn slow in the fast lane!

*Set Four: The Dumb Guy (does this even extend to girls?)
Dumbass, Dipshit, Fuckwit, Shithead, Douche Bag (Adam Sandler's fave, and mine too)

Example fill-in-the-blank sentence: George Bush is a real _____________, this country must be full of _____________s to have elected him.
And dude, I so need this book for teaching next year.

* Notice how all the girls' names are related to sex, whereas all the boys' names are related to their generally idiotic behavior (well, I'm not sure where douche bag fits in there, though, although I don't put it past them to use the things idiotically).

The film is not at all "dirty" - the sex is never shown - but the scenes leading up to whatever sex the couple has are absolutely hilarious (discomfort in the sex shop, flirting with girls, Audrey buying hot lingerie, etc). Overall, the film was tastefully done, considering the subject matter.

The point of the film is really that nobody is too young to change, and that with an open mind and a bit of curiosity, the couple was able to discover new things about themselves (not just sexually) and improve their marriage. Audrey starts off uptight and stressed out, and due to her sexual liberation and, eventually, psychological liberation, she also manages to stand up to her mother, to people at work, and to her husband.

So I'm walking out of the theater at the end and I'm thinking, "Whoa, thank God I don't have to worry about being an uptight and stressed out mid-40's type just yet. Thank God I'm young and fun and goofy still. Yay." (this was not in reference to sex, but more just in reference to how Audrey was so stressed out at the beginning and closed off to ideas, and to how much work it took to get her even remotely interested in trying something new). With the evening sun blinding me as I walk out of the theater, I declare, "Yeah! I'm young and carefree and I'll stay that way forever!"

And right then, a guy comes up to me and says, "Hi, did you just get out of a film? I was wondering if you would be willing to take a survey?" (they do this all the time on my street corner.)

Due to my newly appreciated easygoing, open nature, I smile at the guy and say, "Sure, no problem."

Relieved, he returns my smile and says, "Wow. Great. That's nice of you! Ok, here we go...how old are you?"

"I'm 23."

Pause.

"Oh. Sorry! I'm afraid I can't do the survey; you're too old. That's too bad. Thanks anyway," he says cheerily and goes off to find his next subject.

Ouch. Young and carefree my ass. That shot me right back down to reality. Too old? WTF?

1.What is the difference between spirituality and religion? One is personal and private, the other is established and enforced by society to some degree. The two can obviously cross paths.

2. What is the difference between someone listening to what you say and hearing what you say? Hearing means it can be repeated afterwards, whereas listening means the listener is thinking about what is being said at the same time. This is true in all cases except when people say, "Do you hear me?" and the listener responds by saying, "Yeah, I hear you, man." Really, he was listening.

3. What's the difference between a Father, and a Daddy? Fathers are scary. Daddies are creepy if their children are adults. I prefer the neutral (albeit funny and all-around-good-guy) Dad.

4. What's the difference between being married and living together? Well, the Boy would argue that the difference is just a stupid-ass piece of paper that represents and outdated tradition which no longer has any purpose in our society. I would argue that the difference might just a be a ring.

5. What's the difference between growing up and growing old? Growing up is a bittersweet process. Growing old is just painful. And, depending on the person, it can be boring.

6. What's the difference between getting what you want and getting what you need? Jesus Christ, these questions are killing me. Ask the Rolling Stones about it.

7. What's the difference between punishment and discipline? Punishment indicates some level of cruelty, discipline is necessary. Discipline does not require punishment, but punishment can be a form of discipline. I'm not sure I know how to respond to this question. Thank God it's the last one.

As I come from a family of Amazons, I am rather used to having to dig through piles of smalls and sixes before finding my golden size. And most times, when I do find it, the pants are just too damn short or the ankle-length skirt looks more like an awkward calf-length contraption.

But there I was, yesterday, actually testing between two single-digit sizes. The friendly Gap man asked me what size I was, and I responded quite honestly that I didn't know. He said, "You look like either a 6 or an 8" and he pushed some clothes into my arms. I laughed and told Colleen he was full of shit, but I went to try them on anyway, snagging a 10 and a 12 on the way.

I think the last time I made it into a 6 was when I was 13 and had cut all forms of sugar out of my diet for a year or two while also maintaining an obsessive excercise regime. Back when I would wait for everybody to go to sleep so that I could run up and down the stairs for an hour or so to burn off whatever dinner I had eaten, after which I would wrote down everything I had eaten that day in a food journal (and would feel rather accomplished when any given day's list was shorter than the previous day's).

I managed to stay a precious but much-fought-for size six for awhile before realizing how good food tastes when I'm hungry and that they weren't kidding when they said the body needs its nutrients. That was probably somewhere around 15 or 16 when I was playing two sports and I figured I could eat like a cow (without the regurgitating thing) because my body had become an athletic, calorie-burning machine. That period was short-lived - just a couple of months - but it made me come to terms with the fact that that food is a good thing and not my nemesis. Even so, it took me until the age of 19 or 20 to actually start eating regularly and semi-normally, and even now I still relapse into periods of extreme constraint and an uncomfortable state of hyper-awareness of my caloric intake. Still, now I can eat dessert sometimes and not feel like I have to pay for it later, and I can even stuff my face with cookies at Christmastime like a normal daughter/sister should when her family makes 1,724 perfect batches of perfectly scrumptious chocolate chip cookies and Russian tea cakes.

Regardless, every woman has her food issues, some more than others. Me, I put myself in the had-a-lot-of-problems-with-food-once-upon-a-time-but-am-trying-to-accept-and-deal-with-my-body-the-way-it-is-today-while-still-eating-a-healthy-and-balanced-diet types. Even so, I freak out occasionally and have had to ban certain foods from my grocery cart out of a fear they'll show up in my thighs. Like granola bars, for example. I just had to stop buying them because, although one is ok for you, eating a whole box in one sitting just isn't. And invariably, that's what I do with a box of granola bars once it makes it through my front door.

With that background in mind, I'm not ashamed to admit that yesterday at The Gap I had a brief but glorious moment where I actually thought that maybe, just maybe I really had somehow just dropped two sizes without having reverted to any of my old ruses. That maybe, just maybe, I had experienced miraculous and unexpected weight loss, despite my now accepted knowledge that I will never be a tiny pine needle of a lady without once again embracing my psychotic adolescent ways. I put on the skirt excitedly, turning and twisting in the mirror, checking and rechecking the tag to be sure that yes, it really was a 6 and that yes, it really did fit (even though the 8 fit better, just getting my ass into the 6 was exciting in and of itself).

But then Colleen (another American friend living in France) said from the cabin next door, "Dude, I'm sorry, but this is a size 6 and it's like, hanging off of me! Do you see all of this space? I'm sorry, but this is not a size 6!"

So, you know, the bubble was burst, the dream broken, the illusion shattered. Just like that. It sure felt good for a moment, but the letdown made that blissful, fantastical moment feel all he more instaneous and cruel in the end.

I'm telling you people: Mind the Gap. It's sneaky as sin.

I meant they are the coolest, greatest, most wonderfullest people I have ever known. To call someone a rock star is to say that they are not only fascinating and fabulous, but that one has a lot of admiration for them in a dazzled and almost fanatical way - just as one does for rock stars. That my rock star parents could totally put on stilettos and big sunglasses, strut their stuff on a stage, and I would clap for them and ask them to give me autographs. I would maybe even faint just because I would be so in awe of their super-cool ways, or just for dramatic effect.

Never mind that the "stuff" my dad would strut would probably be some wild trivia facts or maybe one of his, um, creative papier-mâché art exhibits, I would still clap and whistle for that man if he decided to do some sort of performance. And while my mom would make a rather strange addition to the Aerosmith, I'd pay top dollar to see her strut her Jeopardy-winning, explosive-giggling, kick-ass-lasagna-baking, cultral-reference-making, funny-story-telling, hilarious, courageous and gorgeous self across a stage any ole day.

Hell, to call them "rock stars" is just another way to say that I'm their biggest fan.

They're so rockin', I might even become a roadie. Like a Deadhead or a Phishead, but I'd just become a Corneliihead. Doesn't have the same ring, though, does it?

So these are the things I meant and mean by calling my parents "rock stars." Unfortunately, when I talked to the Parental Unit a few days ago, I didn't understand that Dad was asking me about the actual term because he might have just not caught the lingo.

Instead, I clarified by saying, "No, Dad, I don't mean you're like Ozzy Osborne or anything."

And after not a second's pause, my otherwise perfectly polite father answered, "Let me just give the fucking phone to your mother."

I'm telling you guys: Rock Stars. All the way.

So that was goofy, and it left me feeling rather giddy, although I wish I hadn't been in such a rush to run over to Martine's or I would have chatted a bit more with both T-men. Ah...next time, maybe.

Anyway, that has pretty much set the tone for the last 48 hours. After the casual run-in, I dropped off the cartons, changed clothes (this weather calls for constant wardrobe adjustments) and set off to Martine's, which was a strange evening in and of itself. I came home, fell asleep, talked on the phone, and fell asleep again.

And although there have been some unpleasant things happening recently, I'm keeping afloat alright. I found out I got accepted to the Sorbonne, which makes me feel good and accomplished after a year of feeling like dirty mouthwash.

I've been spending a lot of time by myself, doing some stuff I've been wanting to get done. That feels good and I feel it helps me keep my head on straight when everything else is helping to keep it scrambled.

Today I went and spent an hour or so in the park, watching the volleyball tournament. I think I'll pick up the sport again when the school year starts. I miss it and I think it could be a good way not only to get some excercise, but also to meet some people. The Sorbonne has a team, but it might be more my type of thing to join a city league. I guess it depends on who asks me for more money, in the end. Those players at the tournament today were really, really good. Well, actually, the women weren't, but the men were amazing.

While I was sitting in the Gardens, the rain came in suddenly and started pouring down. Everyone ran for cover under the trees, and I liked the dark green color under which we all found shelter.

Things might be a bit hectic around here for a bit. I'm trying to reorganize Odessa Street - there's a new Lebanese restaurant across the street from my building and I take that as a sign that it's time to do some home deco. I'm learning some CSS while I am at it. So I'm sorry if things get all funny-like. I think it sort of goes along with my semi-schizophrenic state of mind right now. Please forgive me for any wackiness you might see because of it.

Then she met Horn Boy, or Clown Man, whatever you prefer. We called him Horn Boy (the other names were just made up right here on the spot, but we really did call him Horn Boy) because, well, he wore his hair in two big horns on his head, which he would dye various colors according to his mood. He was one of those quasi-punk types, who wore his wallet on a chain and a used army jacket. I generally do not like it when any man puts that much effort into looking like he puts no effort into his appearnance, but I gave Horn Boy a shot because, well, he was Goth Girl's man.

I liked him alright. He had piercing blue eyes and smiled easily. We got along fairly well, although maybe I was a little bitter that suddenly my smiling gothic friend had decided to spread some of her sunshine with him instead of me. Whatever.

The point here is that I lived with the girl, and never mind the fact that Horn Boy had his own room in an apartment just over a block away, somehow they mutually decided that they would sleep in our room. The room I slept in, too.

Fine, hey, no problem. Actually, the first few times it really wasn't. Horn Boy and Goth Girl slept in the bedroom, but I slept on the couch because I had to get up at 6.00 am. I was afraid of sleeping in my own bed because I feared I would get too comfortable there. Don't ask, it's just a method I have when it really matters that I have to get up early: I can never let myself fully go to sleep.

But then there were weekends where I sort of wanted to sleep in my bed all day, or evenings when I didn't want to have to get undressed in an uncomfortable situation, and of course moments where I just wanted some "me" time and I didn't feel like listening to Horn Boy's crappy ska crap that he kept trying to foist on me. Horn Boy asked me if it really bothered me that he slept there, and being the conflict avoider that I was (am), I just said I was fine with it.

And in a way, I was, because I knew they weren't doing the nasty, which was really all that mattered. Sure, "me" time suffered, and I never got to hang with Goth Girl without his little orange horns poking around the place, but if I had to listen to either of them screaming, I would have had to put my foot down. I didn't care if they made out in front of me, I just didn't want them bumping and grinding in the bed next to mine on a nightly basis. But I was reassured by Goth Girl that she was waiting to get married, and that Horn Boy was really understanding of that fact even though he had had plenty of sexual experience and was probably inwardly rather frustrated.

And normally, information forked over in privacy between friends is really important to me, and I wouldn't divulge this kind of information, but I might have had a drink or two, or maybe I had just too much caffeine, I don't know, but whatever it was, when Zack asked me one day in the living room, "Ugh, that's nasty, how the hell can you get to sleep when they are boning down right next to you?" well, I answered, "Zack, it's not a problem. They're not having sex..." and I managed to go into a full, detailed description of them and their feelings and how they don't want people talking about their sex lives.

And then right then Goth Girl and Horn Boy walk out of our bedroom, obviously having heard what I just said, and just walk right out the door.

Zack thought it was funny, of course, but I felt like shit.

Anyway, word has it that they broke up sometime late the next year (Goth Girl and I lost touch when she moved in with Horn Boy and I moved in with my best friend downtown) and that she eventually went to Mexico to find some boy she was convinced she was her "Aztec soulmate" (her words, not mine), and by 22 she had two kids and was married. So...yeah...I doubt Goth Girl and Horn Boy are stressing over this memory, and if I brought it up to either of them (were I to ever see them), they would most likely just laugh. Probably because they were actually having sex all along.

That virginal and pure act is, in 90% of the cases, just that: an act.

Still, I was really nervous around both of them for weeks after that. I just felt like an absolute dumbass, not to mention a horrible friend.

Now I won't be shy and say I wasn't one of the better students in the class. Most days, I was very studious, paid attention, and rescued the teacher during the long lulls when nobody dared answer. For this reason, he usually asked me (and my other Spanish-obsessed classmate) a bit more complicated questions to keep me on my toes. But that particular day, I was sleepy, spaced out, and generally unenthused by the whole clothing chapter.

So when the teacher turned to me and says, "Lee Ann, describe your undergarments," I looked around the room blankly, suddenly forgetting what the word for undergarments was. And everybody was looking at me with a silly little grin. I leaned into the girl next to me and asked her what exactly he was asking for, and she said, "Your underwear, dude."

"You want to know what my underwear looks like?" I said, without thinking. And blushed. Blushed terrifically, in that way that only people who have a chronic blushing problem like myself can understand.

I realized after the fact that I would have saved a lot of face if, upon realization of the vocab word, I had described my underwear as being red leather panties with lace around the edges with a silver bra made of metal, but I instead honestly thought about my skivvies and told the entire class what kind of panties I had on.

The class erupted in laughter, I turned an even darker shade of red, and the worst was that it wasn't over: I still had to describe my bra. Well, black satin, too, I said, just to get out of the spotlight.

I normally don't care about these sorts of things, and had I had my wits about me I oviously wouldn't have described what I was actually wearing. But my general confusion which lead to excessive blushing which in turn lead to uproarious laughter on the part of my compadres made that moment disturbingly memorable.

In other Arabic-related news, I am very happy because our professor has decided to take us on for another semester starting next October. Same time, same place, same students, and same book - until we get to the infamous Chapter 15 (we're on Chapter 5 right now).

Our class is Beginning Arabic, and at the Sorbonne's adult education center (where I take the class), the next level after beginner is an advanced conversation class. Now, I might be able to say, "I don't know yet." or "Jamila speaks Chinese." but it takes me seven years to spit out the sentence. I'm pretty sure that means conversation is not a possibility.

Hell, I only know six or seven verbs. In the present tense.

However, my classmates and I (all seven of us) are equal in our freaky obsessiveness with the language. I would say that I am on the bottom end of the study chain, in that I spend somewhere around ten or twelve hours a week (outside of class) studying (this week being an exception, but I'm trying to bust some ass) whereas the average is probably around twenty or maybe even 25 (hence why I need to bust some ass). My professor, who is just a brilliant, brilliant man (oddly attractive, too, in his own 6'5" way) told us that we are advancing very quickly and that he is impressed with the overall group dynamic and cohesion.

Yay, we all thought, and then went in for the kill.

"Would you teach us more next year?"

We discussed it at length and the teacher agreed to it, asking us to complete a few chapters on our own over the summer (yes, I'll be brining my books back to the States with me) and ready to go forward, full speed ahead, come next October.

If we do it successfully, he said, we will be watching (and understanding) newscasts from Al-Jazeera by February/March Two Double 0 Four.

How kick ass would that be?

We all got starry-eyed for a minute, and then went back to work.

And sure, after my brief illusionary daydream, it hit me like a brick when I remembered that each verb has fifteen different possible conjugations in each tense, or that Arabic functions a little bit like Latin in that a noun changes slightly depending on whether it is a direct object, indirect object, etc, but that's ok. We're already learning some crazy-ass grammar rules and I am masochistic enough to want to learn more, more, more of them.

Teacher Man says that the Arabic language puts others to shame because it is so well structured and extremely grammatical. Almost mathematical in its logic, he says, and once you figure out the overall code, the possibilities are infinite. It's a matter of recognizing an intricate sequence of patterns, and recalling them at the correct moments. More so than any other language Teacher Man knows, he says (and he speaks French natively, and knows German and English).

He warns us that the A-ha moment is still a ways off, but that it is looming.

But I love a-ha moments. Even at the mention of an A-ha moment I get all giddy and excited. I have a feeling this'll be a huge one. Worth another year's worth of work, for sure.

Get excited, kids.

Meanwhile, I went to the Picasso Museum and did the entire tour in Spanish. I was happy to realize that I understood about 92% of what that guide was saying. So apparently I understand the language, but I still can't speak it.

Still. Hooray.

It's been a great couple of days.

The cool thing about getting to know my sister more and more is being able to see somebody who has always been in my life in a new light. Like, for example, how sometime in the past four or five years I came to realize just how incredibly determined and motivated she is. Or, in many ways, how I have come to appreciate her intelligence in new, goofy ways (she's always been a smartypants, but I think her wit has grown on me). And maybe above all, I've seen how giving and caring of a big sister - and person - she really is. To everybody. To like, the whole friggin' world.

And I could go on and on about some of the wonderful things she has done for others, or of the particularly hilarious jokes she has made, or of how she has picked herself up by her bootstraps more times than I can imagine, but instead I'll give you the proof of all of those things wrapped up in one recently made decision: Kari's going to to do the Cowalunga bike tour for a second year.

What's Cowalunga, you might ask? Well, it's a 190-mile bike ride (in three days) through Illinois and Wisconsin. Bikers fundraise and their efforts go towards the American Lung Association. Get it? COW (because they're in cowville) ALUNGA (for the American Lung Association). Cute.

It's a great cause on a global level and an inspirational one on a personal level. Kari's trying to raise money as part of the deal, and she's super-excited to hit the road (again). You see, Cowalunga is representative of Kari in all her greatness:

determination - damn, did you just say 190 miles? In three days? Is that what you said?
intelligence/goofiness - well, the damn thing is called Cowalunga, for crying out loud.
caring/giving - all that biking FOR CHARITY, folks. Charity.

So if you can spare the cash, just a teeny-weeny bit, you would be making a wonderful person very happy, and her little sister happy vicariously. Vi-kari-ously. And you would be helping out the ALA and a lot of people dependent on the ALA's hard work. You can find Kari's donation page here.

Remember : I am a firm believer in karma. That's not a threat. But it is a warning.

And after meeting several Canois that are just the most friendly and open people in France, the vacation was pretty much perfect. We made the most of our small piece of sand from which we watched the volleyball players play in their endless tournaments. We eventually came to know all the players' names and positions. After a few hours of sun, we would wander over to a cool, shaded café where we would grab a refreshing drink and talk with the owner. Dogs and kids and people playing and laughing and swimming.

Not surprisingly, we quickly got on a great schedule to maximize our time on the beach. Up at 8 am, in bed around midnight - no time for wild parties or crazy discotheques, not that that is exactly my thing anyway. Still, we vacationed surprisingly like old people.

Yep, this vacation was all about sitting back on the beach with a warm bottle of water and a deck of cards, watching the little kids playing in the sand and the big ones playing on the volleyball court. After three days, we had nicknames for the ten or fifteen people we saw on the same piece of sand everyday: HotBod, HoBag, Yellow Shorts Guy, British Boy, Real Estate Man, Crazy Marc, Tao, ShyBoy...Oh, I will miss you all.

All in all, a wonderful, relaxing, mellow vacation only a few steps away from heaven. K and I were both thrilled to be out on the road with one another, and every city we came upon we navigated our way through using only our combined powerful sense of intuition.

No drunken tales to tell, unfortunately. Or maybe it was better that way: it just wasn't that kind of vacation. We did, however, taste a wonderful, fabulous rosé called somethingoranother de Lauzane, which I recommend to everyone.

I have to say a hello to Colleen for traipsing around Aix with us, helping me with logistical issues, taking us to some wonderful restauarants, lodging us and putting up with our incessant chatter right before finals. You are a kick ass, hilarious, smart, together chick and I can't wait to see you in a few weeks. Good luck with everything, babe.

All in all, a successful vacation and a moderatly successful return. I just feel good. I'm tan, slightly blond. My left arm is just a bit burnt from the hour's worth of traffic we were stuck in in Lyon, but I'm not complaining. Considering the German lobsters we saw on the beach in Cannes, I'm looking a healthy summer tan.

I never knew there were so many Germans in Cannes. And that their skin was so sensitive.

Anyway, I recommend Aix-en-Provence and Cannes to everyone. Beautiful places filled with open, friendly people. I don't have pictures but believe me, it's just gorgeous in both cities. No pics of me on the beach, either. You'll just have to hold your breath for those.