That was how the morning started off. Then it was off to the police headquarters to get my paperwork filed for this year. It went surprisingly smoothly, once I got past the half-hour wait outside the main doors in the cold. Still, it's a shitty way to start the day. An even shittier way to start the day is to get a phone call that makes you very sad while standing in line in front of the security people at the police station.

Somewhat numb, I went to work, where more 16-year-old boys tested out the three sentences they can say perfectly in English:

1. How are you?
2. You are very beautiful.
3. Can I have your number?

I laughed and told them no, but some of them felt compelled to give me theirs. I saw them later in the hallway talking to their teacher, and she asked how class went with me. I said, "They're not going to say anything bad while I'm here, so I'll just run along, now." They laughed, and I went into the teachers' lounge. Their teacher came in a few minutes later, aghast. "Did you really give them your phone number??" she asked. I just laughed. Those boys are so funny. I'm glad I had to work today because it helped me break out of my really fucked up mood.

From there I jumped onto a train to get to class on time. I found out I failed my test last week. It's ok: the test only counts if if helps your grade, not if it hurts it. But still, I would have liked to have aced my first test at the Sorbonne. Sigh. I thought I had done alright. Not well, but alright. I guess I failed, though.

Failure in hand, I met up with the Cowgirl (who is back in town for more trouble) and then quickly ran home to get an important key. Ran back and the two of us lugged suitcases up the stairs. We sat and talked about funny things while eating chocolate and drinking coffee for far too long, and soon it was time to help another assistant lug more stuff up the stairs. Ahhh... the holidays. It's really just all about the lugging.

So now it's midnight. I must pack. And at some point I'll have to say something to my boyfriend. I don't even think he realizes (or remembers) that I am leaving tomorrow. This is one shitty, shitty day (minus the coffee/chocolate time spent with The Cowgirl, of course).

Tomorrow is a flight out at 14.15. I wish I could say I were looking forward to it.

He came pounding up to the sixth floor and rang the doorbell around 19.30. "You have to come downstairs. I just met a cool couple and we're at the bar having a drink. I put the clothes in the dryer. We can run down and grab them and then go to the bar together."

I was feeling groggy and gross but went anyway. On the way to the laundromat, we had the following convo:

"You know, maybe you shouldn't put clothes in the dryer and leave them unattended. Nobody's going to stop a washing machine, but it's really easy to steal clothes from the dryer."

"Oh, it's fine. I only put them in 15 or 20 minutes ago."

"15 or 20 minutes?!? In the dryer? It only takes six or seven!"

"Oh, well, I didn't know. They'll be fine."

At this point I take off running, visions of my Victoria's Secret skivvies being fried in the dryer. They're synthetic, people! We get to the laundromat and a gay dude says to the Boy, as his boyfriend looks on, amused, "Luckily I saw you leave because you forget to press start on your machines. I went ahead and did it for you."

And just how much time was left on those machines? That's right: 40 minutes.

The gay guys were neatly folding their clothes and sort of smirking at the Boy. They could tell he had to bring in reinforcements in the form of yours truly.

"40 minutes?" I cried, "You know, our clothes would only fit toddlers if you kept them in there for 40 minutes!" I kept on yacking away while the gay boys just tried to keep in their laughter. Their towels were very clean and white, neatly stacked. I wanted to kill them for their impressive laundry skillz.

Then I looked inside the machines. "This shirt is dry-clean only!" and "Ach! Stop, stop! This skirt can't be put in the dryer!!" and other variations on those themes came spilling out as I desperately tried to salvage the clothes which had already been spinning 15 minutes too many in the machine.

His response: "Man, you act like this is the end of the world. If your sweater's too small now, we'll just give it to the homeless. No big deal."

In unrelated news: I have a chest, throat and ear infection. The doctor gave me a look that said, "Naughty, naughty girl. You should have come in sooner" when I saw him in the office today. I thought to myself, "Mean, mean medicine man. You made me wait 2.5 hours in your waiting room today." Vive la France and their 20-euro doctor visits. In the end, the guy gave me the drugs and I'll recover. Luckily I stopped listening to the voice in my head that had been saying, "It's a cold, it'll blow over." Because you know what? It wouldn't have.

1. Got my tix to go to Senegal in February. Promptly went out and bought a guidebook to read beforehand, but not to take with me. This is the way to function. I have also frequented the Lonely Planet boards, because they're the best, evah.

2. I saw "Love Actually" and actually loved it despite myself.

3. I have developed a little "something" for someone I have recently met. Yes, I have a boyfriend and yes, I love him dearly, so the little "something" isn't really much of anything. If the whole thing just drops right now, I suppose I'd be relieved. But if it doesn't, I'll take the mysterious butterfly feeling for a little while more, provided it doesn't develop into anything more worthy of concern. I feel guilty: I kind of like the flirtation. Has anybody else ever been in this situation? Could you give me some help? I'm not pursuing anything... he's always just there and looking hot and talking to me. I can't stop the blushing or the silly giggles or the fidgeting. Naturally, I've decided not to indulge the Boy with any of this information. He'd make much ado about nothing.

4. I'm off work this week (pretty much from both jobs) and am praying that I will finally get my Christmas shit together. The countdown has begun.

5. Amazon.fr fucked me over royally when it comes to all of this Christmass stuff. It turns out that everything I ordered from them has come back stamped with "incorrect address." The problem is, of course, that the address was correct and is also the only address I have. They said, "Oh, just re-order." But folks, Christmas is like, tomorrow. Or, in my case, it's Friday, because I have to have everything done by then.

6. My sister up and announced she got something for our Grandma. Dude, I've never bought the grand'rents presents. Why are we starting now? And what the hell should I get my 'ra?

7. The Boy has been unemployed for two months now. Supposedly, this is problematic in the US, but in France, where 25% of people 35 or younger (a group which he just barely manages to squeeze his way into) are unemployed, it's not as big of a deal. And plus, you get your full salary - or almost - for the first 12 months of unemployment. I'm sure The Boy will end up finding something, mainly because he's a workaholic and can't stand not having a job. But, in the meantime, he has taken to doing the dishes, going grocery shopping, and now, for the first time in four years, he is actually doing the laundry. Lord, it's a miracle! It's also handy that at a time when I'm overworked, he's underworked. Honestly, though, you have no idea what this evening's laundry-doing adventure means to me. Our shit better not come back pink, because I think I could get used to this sort of agreement.

He made a few jokes, showed us a few bags, learned some English. It was dandy. A was having a ball with the little jokster. As they started shooting the shit, he found out that both of us were English teachers and asked us in what high schools we taught. A said that she was in her little town outside Paris, and he said, "Really? I'm more near the north. In _______."

"Ha!" I interjected, "I teach in _________!"

"Where do you teach?"

"At ________ high school."

"Really? That's where I go to school!"

"No way! You're going to be my student then, soon!"

"Did you buy the school paper?" he asked, showing it to me.

"Yeah, of course I did! I bought it on Monday."

"I made the title."

"No way!"

"Yeah!"

So, yeah, that was a great coincidence. I can't believe he works in Paris and goes to school way out there. But then again, I live in Paris and work way out there, so I guess I shouldn't be so surprised.

It turns out, though, that he won't be one of my students, because he goes to the other part of the school: the high school where I teach is half a general high school and half a technical school. I teach in the general school, he's a student in the technical school. They're in seperate buildings.

Still, it was a cool run-in. And maybe I'll see him walking through the main entrance sometime. I'll be sure to show him that I'm using the new bag he sold me.

I give her reference numbers and she goes back to get the files labelled with the approriate numbers. It's very simple. There is no calculus or phsyics involved. I believe nobody has yet thrown out a hip during file retrieval. The process itself requires no emotional involvement, no sleepless nights, and no risk of embarrassment. Overall, it's a rather banal affair.

But today she read the reference number 818 as 919. She did the same thing last week. And honestly, my handwriting is pretty good. There's no mistaking these numbers. My eights are clearly eights. So I sat there waiting to get her attention for over 20 mins, and finally she said, "I see you looking at me but I'm not going to give you any help while you have those files. One folder at a time, that's the rule."

"Yes, I know, but you've given me the wrong folder, again. That's 818 not 919."

She then let out what has got to be the most exasperated, fed-up sigh I have ever heard. The How-the-Hell-Can-You-Be-So-Annoying-As-To-Ask-Me-To-Get-You-Files sigh. The Maybe-If-I-Had-To-Work-More-Than-Four-Hours-Per-Day-I-Would-Realize-That-My-Current-Job-Is-Actually-Pretty-Cush sigh. The I-Can't-Seem-to-Recognize-That-Red-Shiny-Patent-Leather-Flats-Went-Out-in-1982 exhalation of frustration and hatred.

"I can't read your writing," she said. "And I can't take care of you right now, do you see? I'm completely overwhelmed."

(This is what she always says. Once, I saw that there were about ten people in the library and so she was a little flustered. But today, there were only three people in there: an elegant man who is there every day and all he does is read the papers, a college-age kid looking up some financial stuff online, and me. I'm convinced she was just drawing flowers on the papers she kept shuffling around behind her desk, just so she could seem like doing something and could make me wait just that much longer)

"Really? You can't read it?" I asked, not so innocently. "You're the first person who has ever said that to me. It's very clearly 818. And even so, the file name is right next to it, and I'm sure you could recognize that Finaxis isn't the same name as Schneider Electric, right?"

"Fine," she said, throwing a pencil at me, knowing I was right, "Write the number clearly and I'll get you the files. But I can't get them to you for another few minutes. You'll just have to wait."

"I'm not surprised," I said, "That's ok. But you can take these files back because I don't need them anymore."

I thought that was a decent enough statement, but her face puckered and she spat back, "There's no reason to talk to me in that tone, missy."

That really pissed me off. I mean, really, really pissed me off. Would she have said that to someone her age? She certainly wouldn't have said that to me were I a 40-year-old man in a suit, that's for damn sure. She's just jealous because I'm young and carefree and I wear fashionable shoes.

"What?!? I'm not talking to you in any sort of tone, Ma'am. I'm just asking you to do your job, and I'm helping you do so by telling you that I don't need these files anymore."

She let out another agonizing sigh and walked away, defeated.

So, to be a little bitch, I took her pencil and wrote in huge, exagerrated letters 8.1.8. When she came back, the dumbass actually asked, "Ok, where did you write it so that I can actually read it?"

I'm glad I don't have to go back there for another week or three. I'm a little upset about the fact that I have to go there regularly over the next four months, though. However, now that we have fully established our mutual hatred, this may be a wortwhile practice ground for the IB. Just a little yard for her to get some exercise in, if you will.

This means that this board has taken quite a lot of heat over the years: dust, rain, hail, and bird shit have collectively brought it to its current disastrous condition. The board is covered with that cheap, wallpaper-for-kitchen-countertops that is supposed to provide a protective layer over the wood, which can be wiped down with a sponge. This "protective layer" is tearing away and ripping in most places. Wiping it down would only result in furthering the damage. Without protection, the wood beneath is splintering, turning soggy, and housing a healthy population of silverfish.

The worst part of having this open chimney, however, is the cold. During the coldest part of the year, there is absolutely no diference in temperature between my kitchen and the outside. Last year, when several bums died during a cold spell, I couldn't cook for over a week; it's simply too difficult to cook with mittens on.

So finally, I had had enough. I called my landlord, a charming woman who is usually friendly and understanding. She first said, "Oh, just put some plastic up there...," as if a plastic bag stretched across the three-foot hole would not only keep out rain, hail, and shit, but would insulate, too.

After asking several times, my landlord asked her brother if he could come close up the hole and, while he was at it, replace the ugly board under the oven (small electric oven).

He knocked on my door at seven am today, armed with power tools. After investigating, he proceeded to rip out the old board. It gave way frighteningly easily, mainly because the wood itself was so warped and beat-up that it just crumbled in his hands.

Then he pulled up a few flat sheets of iron that had been under the disgusting board and said, "Do you want to see something?"

"Sure," I said, walking back into the kitchen.

There, under those sheets, were two small openings, cut out in a basket-like shape, side-by-side. These holes were made of strong, old-school iron. It turns out, I have an authentic wood-burning stove, and what I currently use as the only "cupboards" in my kitchen (they don't really count because they're so small and are down below instead of up above, but they're the closest thing I have), is actually where people used to put logs in underneath the stove. Before my very eyes, I could see my former kitchen, circa 1890. Which is when he says this building dates from.

I'm such a dork I wanted to take a picture, but I didn't want to disturb the handyman's work. Still, it's just cool to see something so old hidden under the "improvements" that have been made in the kitchen since then. And I doubt I could find an apartment in the US with an authentic wood-burning stove still in tact, just covered with a big board so that we can put modern appliances over it.

Now I love my little kitchen. I think a lot of this newfound love comes from the fact that birds can't shit in there anymore. And that the cold is greatly reduced. But mainly, it's the little secret I now know is hidden under the new "countertop."

I had come back from a great day at school, where I had taught three new classes with a reasonable amount of success. I even have students already saying "hi" to me in the hall and in the lunchroom. It's mahvelous.

I pointed out to him how unbelievable it is to me that I only have, thus far, maybe two, three white students. On the other hand, the majority of the high school teachers are white, many of them being placed there by the bizarre placement system France uses for their recently-certified teachers.

The kids have already started joking about race and their personal backgrounds. They're so amazingly diverse, I can't wait for some of the discussions we'll have. In our activity, I asked how many people speak two or more languages fluently. In each class, there are maybe one or two students who only speak French; the rest make up a rainbow of languages, Arabic being the dominant one but also a lot of Creole, Lingala, and Wolof as well. (I would like to point out that spell-check doesn’t recognize Lingala or Wolof).

Anyhow, I was blabbering on about how great the kids are, how excited I am because they all seem pretty motivated to learn, yada, yada, and The Boy said, "Yeah, but it's all sort of pointless."

"What is?" I asked.

"Well, what are they going to do with their studies? Do you think they're off to get doctorates? You may be excited about those kids and their futures, but I think they're pretty dim."

That was quite a blow, but I braced myself for the storm that was obviously coming. The Boy argues that France, and maybe even all white people, have set up a system that purposefully excludes non-whites, and that because this system makes up the foundation upon which everyone functions, it's not going to change. As soon as someone sees that a job candidate's name is Halima or Salim, they're going to be less likely to hire them, regardless of experience. These kids aren't going to be in positions to use their English, and, if they do get jobs which require English, they're going to have to take further classes because their level is obviously not up to par yet.

I started to protest when he said, "How many non-white students are in your classes at the Sorbonne?"

I thought for a moment and said, "God, not a lot."

"Right," he said, "There are hardly any. So where do you think these kids you're teaching go to after they graduate? They're not going to university. They're not coming into the city. They're going to stay in their little poor, isolated community and work at some low-paying job because once they even attempt to get a job or further their studies, they're going to come up against a system that makes everything as difficult for them as possible. Life is going to be a constant swim upstream for them, just because they're black or Arab or Vietnamese or whatever, and because their names betray that fact. Maybe one, maybe two of them may find greener pastures, but most will just continue living the way they always have. Minorities are meant to stay in the ghetto. Forever. That's just the way things have been set up."

"Maybe," I said, "But you made it out."

"Yeah," he shot back, "But it nearly killed me. And I fight every day. And I was fortunate enough to not have anything else to fall back on. No family in France, nowhere to go. I could only do things for myself, which served as motivation. And anyway, you saw for yourself how hard it is for me to rent a respectable apartment. Those who have control just don't want to open the doors to a black man with a funny last name, regardless of his professional status. Everywhere I go, I'm the only black man. At school, there were only a few once you got past the first year or two. At work, there aren't any. How do you explain that? Where are all of those people who make up entire high schools of diverse students? Really, where are they? Where? They don't just disappear, but they are conveniently kept out of sight."

I don't know why I'm babbling about this. I guess because I’m realizing that I’ve never been confronted with issues of race so directly. I’m not so naïve as to think these problems don’t exist, but I can say I’ve never lived through them myself. Sure, my high school was racially diverse, and yeah, we had racial awareness stuff and Martin Luther King assemblies and crap, but the fact of the matter is that the town I grew up in is a fairly well-off little community. People are educated there, there’s no real ghetto. Blacks and whites and Asians and Arabs live reasonably peacefully side-by-side, probably because on a socio-economic level, we’re all pretty much the same. And I guess I’m just thinking that in France, or in Paris, anyhow, that’s just not the case. The gorge separating the economic classes is growing, and it’s clearly divided along color lines (although this is, granted, a chicken-or-the-egg situation). How else can you explain that I may be the only white girl on my train to work, whereas my boyfriend may be the only black man on his? Maybe I'm seeing things as too black-and-white (no pun intended), but the more time I spend in France, the more people I talk to, the more I watch the way things tick around here... I don't know...the more I think The Boy is right.

And I guess I just have this sort of mother hen reflex now with my students. Damn, I really want the best for them. I hate to think that some of the kids in my classes – especially the quiet, shy, hardworking ones - are up against something that may intimidate them out of being successful. It bothers me that not only have I always had the luxury of living in a place with reasonably good schools, of having parents who could afford to pay for my education, etc, but also with the unspoken luxury of being white, whereas my students have everything working against them: poor living conditions, crappy schools, racial injustice. Pulling yourself out of the economic factors working against you is hard enough; it crushes me to think that someone may dismiss those kids who manage to do so just because their last name sounds too African or suspiciously Arab. The emotion I feel is not pity; it’s anger and outrage and frustration. I want these kids to arm themselves with whatever sort of artillery they may need to go out there and fight - be that some type of knowledge, a particular skill, or just a shit ton of inspiration - because I'm pretty sure they're going to need it.

Unfortunately, I don't have the slightest idea how to give that to them. I haven’t been through it myself. Life, by comparison, has pretty much been served to me on a shiny, silver platter. So I'll just give them the best I can, and hope. But that feels so terribly, dreadfully insufficient, because it is.