Archives: November 2004
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Yesterday I pissed Eleanor off. I mean, she was livid.
The Boy and I went to Belgium to visit The Little Guy for his eighth birthday. Did you hear that? Eight. When I met The Boy, TheLittleGuy was not yet three. Aka STILL A BABY.
Freakiness of how-quickly-time-flies aside, we had a pleasant Belgian day. There were lots of legos involved in much of the afternoon, and at some point the boys decided to put on their rollerblades and start a competition. Later, The Boy wrestled with TheLittleGuy and his brother while TheLittleGuy's mom - hereby known as FreakishlyTinyforRecentlyHavingaBaby - and I looked at baby pictures.
Baby pictures. Let me just say this: FreakishlyTiny has three beautiful, beautiful children. TheLittleGuy is going to hurt women soon with his gorgeous eyes and pensive manner.* His (half) brother, SuperBlondBoy (6), has gorgeous, gorgeous eyes that laugh genuinely. He is an incredible sweetheart, sort of like a walking, talking cherub.
And then there's the baby. Oh my God, the baby, Mini SuberBlondBoy.
Read more »Last Thursday, the girls and I went to eat at "Dans Le Noir." Translated literally as "In the Dark," I had read about this restaurant's German equivalent a few years ago and had never forgotten about it. The LongIslander, out on visit from, yes, Long Island, proposed we go to the Parisian version after reading an article on it in People.
The idea of both the German and French restaurants is simple and the same: eat in pitch darkness. Execution? Not so straightforward.
We arrived at the restaurant and checked out the menu. We ordered with the guy at the door and then stood around and waited. My cohorts began getting a bit nervous before we walked in, but I was just giggly. When our name was called, we stepped up, and then a big, black, blind man walked out from behind the curtain.
"Ladies," said the man who had taken our order, "This is Jean-Claude, otherwise known to us as Barry White."
"Hello ladies," Jean-Claude's deep, deep voice pitched in.
"Jean-Claude is going to be your waiter this evening, so if you need anything, just call out his name. If you have to go to the bathroom, do not get up. Call for Jean-Claude and he'll take you there. Now, Jean-Claude, you have three diners here this evening. One got an appetizer and main course, and two got a main course with dessert. There's a bottle of rosé that goes with the order."
Jean-Claude had turned his ear towards the waiter to register the words in what must be a pretty well-organized mental waiter pad, and then nodded. "Ok. Are you ladies ready? Form a line behind me, each person with their hands on the person in front's shoulders. And we're off."
We walked through the curtain and then through another one. We turned around a corner or two and suddenly it was pitch black. I mean, truly, no light whatsoever. Being guided by Jean-Claude, we found our table.
"Here's one seat," he said, and guided each of us individually to our spots. Feeling out the table and chairs, we managed to sit down. It took some getting-our-bearings time, but we all called out to one another, felt for each other's faces, and scooted our chairs up to the table at the proper distance.
Read more »Situation: Introductory class in which students ask one another get-to-know-you questions. The first question is "Have you broken a bone?"
Me: "So who else has broken a bone?"
Celine: "Joseph has broken a bone."
Me: "Joseph, what did you break?"
Josephe: (pointing) "I broke my this and my this."
Me: "My this?" (pointing to arm) "What is this?"
Class: "Arm"
Me: "Right, you broke your arm and your..." (pointing to feet)
Class: "Foot!"
Me: "Yes. Foot."
Joseph: "No. I not break my foot. I break... my... fingers of my foot."
Me: "Your fingers of your foot? What do we call 'fingers of the foot'?"
I LOVE my job.
The girls and I went to a nightclub yesterday. I haven't been in ages. Mainly, I find it too expensive and the men too annoying, but we gave it a go anyway. We went to a HUGE club near Pigalle. It has three different floors, each with a different type of music, and the line to get in was long and well-picked-over by the guardsmen at the front door.
Inside, the story was surprising. The average age had to be 19. We felt like old hags in there next to the 16-year-olds in their mini-skirts and tube tops. I'm not sure how many people were coked out or high on Ecstasy, but I'd say more kids were than weren't. Some of the people there were just downright sketchy.
But for the most part, people left us alone and allowed us to dance in peace, something I haven't experienced in a nightclub in years. It was nice, and when we went to the basement and discovered the DJs were playing 70's and 80's hits (the other two floors were techno and God-awful rap, respectively), we knew we'd found our niche. We stayed for several hours dancing our booties off, and then took the first metro home at five am.
The funniest part of it all? I ran into one of my students there. At a NIGHTCLUB. It should be funny to see how that plays out in the classroom. Hopefully, not at all.
Like the burritos we ate just a few hours ago.
So I started teaching again yesterday. It went well, but what isn't going to go so well is the fact that I have four classes from 8-12 on SATURDAYS. Shouldn't that be illegal? Yes, French high school students go to school for a half-day on Wednesday and Saturday, and that means that teachers have to work then, too. But having my weekend be Sunday and Wednesday is not going to work so well for me. Even worse? I just found out that my thesis director has scheduled an informal class (that we are "highly" encouraged to attend) on Wednesday mornings. So, I'll have a one-day weekend for the next few months. Too bad everything is CLOSED in Paris on Sundays, or I might actually be able to have some fun with my lone day off.
Scene: The Boy and I are sitting on the couch at a party with about twenty people. A seat opens up next to me, and Sketchy sits down. We have not yet met Sketchy, so he begins his introduction.
Sketchy: So, where are you from? I mean, originally.(to The Boy)
The Boy: Where are you from?
Sketchy: No, I mean, what are your origins?
The Boy: ...
Me (thinking): Oh my God this man's breath smells like vomit.
Sketchy: I'm really interested in Africa, that's why I'm asking.
The Boy: What are your origins?
Sketchy: No, I mean, I lived in Abidjan for ten years, and I worked all throughout Black Africa, and I defend a lot of Africans in their causes, so I wanted to know where you're from. With everything that's going on in the Ivory Coast right now, I just feel like I need to talk to some Africans, because I don't feel comfortable with white people.
The Boy: ...
Me (thinking): Oh my God could this guy please stop talking? Every time he opens his mouth I smell vomit.
Sketchy: I just can't believe the way white people treat Africans. They're trying to kill them, and Africa is going to die off. Africa is finished.
The Boy: No, Africa is not finished. Give me an example of how it's finished.
Sketchy: AIDS, for example.
Me (thinking): Oh shit. Not the AIDS conversation...
Sketchy: Rwanda has an 80% infection rate. In one generation, the entire population of Rwanda will be gone.
The Boy: 80%? Where are you getting your numbers?
Sketchy: They're not my numbers, man. They're from people who research this stuff for a living. But I know, I lived in Africa for ten years. These are real doctors going down and taking tests, seeing how many people are infected. These are researchers who study this for a living. You don't believe me? Come down to the CNRS (research center) and I'll show you the documents myself! Rwanda is finished! You can see the proof tomorrow!
Me: Tomorrow is Sunday.
The Boy: You have gone to Rwanda and witnessed it firsthand? How can you be sure that what some people are saying is true? 80%? That's insane.
Sketchy: FUCK YOU!!! I'll take you down to the CNRS tomorrow and PROVE it to you!!!
Me (thinking): This guy is fucking crazy. (saying, a little louder) Tomorrow is Sunday.
Sketchy: Where are you from, fucker?
The Boy: Nowhere. Where are you from?
Sketchy: I'm from France. Where the hell are you from, you little shit? Why won't you tell me? Are you French?
The Boy: No, I'm not French.
Sketchy: So you're from Africa. Why won't you tell me where the hell you're from, you prick?
The Boy: Because I don't see why it matters.
Sketchy: Because I'm interested in Africa, and you're obviously African. C'mon, man! Tell me where the hell you're from.
The Boy: No, because I don't think I want to have a conversation about Africa with you.
Sketchy: Why? Why won't you believe what I tell you? You asshole!!!
The Boy: ...
Sketchy: Fuck this! Fuck it if you don't want to hear about the future of the continent! Let your people die, I don't care!
And he stormed off.
The Boy and I just looked at each other and started laughing our asses off.
An hour or two later, Sketchy had knocked over a table, offended one of the girls pretty severely, and unsuccessfully attempted to begin three conversations with me.
And he still smelled like vomit.
I just signed up for Rhapsody. The idea is so practical for me. I have no radio access, and radio stations in France suck anyway. However, my lack of knowledge about the music scene for the last five years would put my sixteen-year-old self to shame. Something needed to be done.
Enter Rhapsody.
Having access to new music, commercial-free stations, and a surf-able, sample-able place to test the waters is a great thing for my embarrassing dilemna.
And frankly, I am obsessed. It's as if I just walked into the gingerbread house on a day with intense sugar cravings. I just can't stop skipping around, saving things to my library, reorganizing my playlist, and letting my ears have their way with things.
And DUDE. How could I have not known that Mos Def released a new album? Seriously, guys, I'm wondering where I've been since 2000. I know, I know, in Europe. But that's no excuse.
Anyway. I am very happy with Rhapsody thus far. I would like to see a bigger "international" section (especially Middle Eastern and African stuff) but I have faith that it will come. Until then, I have several thousand new artists to listen to.
Read more »Women of the world, I have a message for you: if you have a baby, put it away. That's right. Just leave it in the old wooden trunk in your attic or chain it to the bathtub. Anything to keep the babies off the streets. I have seen too many cute ones in the last few weeks, and it's hurting my womb - so much so that I have had four baby dreams this week alone.
My sister and I talked about this the other night and decided we needed to name the womb. Kari suggested Eleanor, and I guess both our wombs are named Eleanor now because sisters can do that and it is only mildly creepy.
My Eleanor needs stay in her usual place - back in her closet with a deadbolt. That's where she sleeps, eats, and screams. The sounds can't be heard beyond the extra-thick iron door because I had the closet sound-proofed. I wouldn't want Eleanor's tantrums to start causing a stir at inappropriate times. We certainly can't have her upsetting the guests at dinner or creating a sharp turn in the middle of my quasi-life plan.
Because, honestly folks, Eleanor is nothing but a bother right now. I'm 25, not-fully-independant, a little lost in life, and living in a tiny-ass apartment on the sixth floor of a building with no elevator. Were Eleanor to have her way, I would be even more up shit creek financially... and I'd have a lot more weight to lug up all those stairs every day.
So ladies, please. Put the little baby booties in a shoebox under your bed. Hide the itty bitty scarves and little hats. Stop dressing the boys in little carpenter boots and the girls in petticoats. And please, if your two-year-old likes to jump in puddles, please stop parading around in front of the cafe terrace and laughing as she does it. Eleanor can't take those kinds of displays of cuteness, and Lord knows I need to keep Eleanor locked up just a little while longer.
I'm fresh back after six hours of walking around Paris (with Mom) and then dinner, after only three hours of sleep the previous night (and a 7.00 am flight this morning). Florence was fabulous - my parents are great and wonderful people, and I would go back there - or anywhere - with them in a heartbeat.
I don't have the energy to recap, but I had to write something to get the depressing post-election commentary off the top of the page. A girl can only handle so much, and I'm sure you're all feeling like it's time to just move on. We're all sick of feeling sick about the sickness of our country. I do have to say, however, that I appreciate everybody's comments and I thought the feedback was great.
For now, I just have to add this little thing I saw in CNN the other night. they were interviewing New Yorkers on how they feel about the election results. The interviewees were dems who were upset and shocked at how truly divided our country is. My favorite quote was from a short, elderly woman with a strong New York accent: "I don't want to talk about the elections anymore, but all I can say is that I've taken to swearing a lot." That's sorta how I feel.
Today on the metro, Mom said, "I've never been very political. I've always been sorta mainstream. The former might have to change now that I realize the latter has already." I also found that interesting. More so, maybe, if you knew my mom. Who, by the way, is a great person to walk around Italy with (and Dad, too...).
Being in London, six hours away from election results, has its advantages. One, I didn't waste my night away delaying the inevitable defeat. Two, I woke up bright and early (6:30) in order to catch up on news. Nevermind that I woke up to the words "...and it looks as if Ohio is most likely going to President Bush, confirming his second term as President of the United States."
Last night, Mom and I watched a documentary on Bush and the Evangelicals throughout the nation. We were both scared, Mom was surprised. But honestly, neither of us thought this would be the constituent that would make the election for Bush.
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