I got in trouble today. Beccarah was a bit upset that I hadn't posted any more photos. So, I threw some more up on flickr in no particular order. Have at it. There are so many more but I am just waiting for the laundry to finsh and then am on my way to bed. Way to big of a beast for me to tackle this evening.

Meanwhile, I am starting to see food at the supermarket with expiration dates that are on or after my flight out of Paris. In other words: departure is imminent.

I got very sad about the whole thing while on the bus today, peering out at the familiar streets knowing that I might not see them again for a long, long time. I suddenly want to rush to Belleville to eat some bad Chinese food and then speed off to the Marais to sit in a cafe for awhile before zipping up to Montmartre to walk along the quiet residential streets just one last time. Of course, most of this won't happen because a) I have a baby to take care of and b) I have a move to plan. Oh, and c) I am usually too tired to be bothered. But, but. While on the bus, I do have moments of wanting to breathe in this city fully before leaving. I know Paris won't go anywhere, and it will change little in my absence. But I also know that I will change in the meantime, and I would like to just freeze my life as it is right now so that I can take it out and look at it again whenever I please. I guess that's what a photo is for, but it would seem very odd to have photos of all the Parisian streets that hold my memories. There are just way, way too many.

One:

Things in France can take awhile, but six months seemed a long time to wait to get reimbursed by my insurance company. I had been to a few doctor's who gave me a feuille de soins instead of using my carte vitale, and after Thursday's ultrasound, I thought it doubly important to check up on my reimbursements. The ultrasound cost 90 euros (which I realize is cheap by US standards, but it dug quite a hole in my pocket) and I had to pay upfront; the doctor then said, "So this is all on your card, no paperwork for you..." It occured to me that maybe I should check into getting some of that money back.

So I called my insurance company and they said, "Yeah, you have six payments that are queued up to be sent to you."

"Wow! Good news. Do I have to do something special?" I asked, realizing that since I haven't had a carte vitale in the five years I have been using French insurance, I wasn't entirely sure on how it worked.

"No, but we'll need your bank information in order to transfer the money," the insurance lady said.

"You have my bank information, you pull out money every month from my account," I pointed out.

"Yes, but that's in order for you to pay your monthly fees. We need the account info to send money to you."

"It's the same information," I said, surprised at the stupidity of our conversation.

"I know, but you'll need to send it in," she responded.

"But you have it all right there!"

"Yes, but we need you to send it in..." even she realized that this was ridiculous at this point.

"Ok, fine. Where do I send it to?"

"The same address you sent it to before," she said, and sort of chuckled.

"Ok... so I send the same information to the same address and you're going to magically know what it's for?" I asked.

"Put a little note with it: Here is my account information so that you can carry out my reimbursements."

Only in France.

Two:

I signed up for online banking the other day. The web site said, "Sign up online!" with a button. So I clicked it, and that led me to a .pdf that I had to print out and send in by mail.

I found that sort of ironic, "Sign up online" usually means that the whole process is done online. There should be no stamps involved.

But I let it slide, as France is still a few steps behind in the internet revolution.

Two weeks later, I get a letter (IN THE MAIL) that says, "Thank you for signing up for online banking with our bank. To access your account, you are going to need your customer login and your code. Please see your account representative to find out your customer login. Your code is at the bottom of this page."

So now I have to go to my bank (which is literally all the way across town) in order to see my banker, so that I can login to my account.

Signing up online has never been so easy! It just involves printing, signing and sending a form, waiting for a snail mail letter back, and then taking said letter and yourself physically to the bank to talk to somebody about getting an access code.

I'm still looking for the "online" part of that sign up process...

A litlte busy over here. In a good way. Time is flying with the visitors. That always happens, what with the walking and the scenic outings and the outrageous conversation. Lots of activity and laughing and then I drop into bed at night and pass out cold. Mysteriously, I cannot sleep past 7:45 am anymore. Even on a Sunday.

Also, the sun just came out.

And tomorrow I have a midterm I have to study for.

Ironic, after three consecutive days of cold and rain.

My apartment has two rooms: one big main room with an open kitchen and sitting area, and then a bedroom. The main room is extremely quiet, nothing but the hum of the refridgerator. The bedroom is also quiet, but one side wall lines up with the neighbor's bedroom wall. The first two mornings in this apartment, his alarm woke me up. It is set for 8.00. I can make out the words of whatever song is playing on the radio station his alarm is set to, that's how clearly I can hear through the wall.

This isn't really a problem as he is a quiet neighbor and seems very respectful. I am a little worried about the baby crying at night and keeping him up; I think I might have a talk with him if I sense it gets to be a problem. For right now, we have a few months of relative quiet to enjoy, first.

Yesterday was an exhausting day, I can't even express how tired I was by the time I got home. I've noticed that I am slowing down some now, yet I think I am still doing just as much activity. I'm not sure how this is working out mathematically, but it means that I am steadily more and more exhausted each night.

Last night, I got home about 8.00-ish, talked on the phone some, and then opted to settle in bed for a bit and watch the second half of a "Prison Break" episode that I had had to cut short a few days prior.

I watch everything on The Boy's laptop, and I attach headphones to save him from having to listen to the tinny sound of escaping convicts. Occasionally, we'll talk a bit while I'm watching, so I leave one earphone in and one out so that I can hear him if he calls to me from the other room. He'll often just shout out requests for translations, which I provide, but I often have to ask for him to repeat the word in question as I'm usually a little distracted by the action on screen.

Last night, I thought I started getting some weird sort of interference on my earphone, and I plugged up my free ear to double-check if I was hearing correctly. No, no, the muted noises I heard weren't coming from the laptop, so I paused the show and tried to figure out where they were coming from. Suddenly, I recognized all-too-clearly the sounds of my neighbor and his girlfriend in bed. It took me about 2 seconds to figure out what was happening because, as I have said, I can pretty much hear everything.

I jumped up and ran into the other room and said, "Hey! Guess what! You can hear the neighbors having sex!" The Boy looked at me like I was crazy and said, "I'm working..." but giggled a little to himself. I clarified, "Remember how clearly you can hear the radio? This is just as clear!" And it's true. I definetly heard the intimate details of their love life for those 10 total seconds it took me to both hear and understand what the ruckus was.

So then, being a perv, I ran back into the bedroom to double check.

"Oh. Well. That didn't last long," I said, curiously disappointed.

So I might have a harder time having that is-the-baby-bothering-you conversation with him in a few months. I mean, now that I know something so personal about him. I feel a little sorry for his girlfriend, too.

I am at the kiosk, buying two magazines (for research purposes, mind you) today. It's sunny, unseasonably warm, and people are (gasp) smiling at one another for NO REASON AT ALL. The kiosk worker, obviously enjoying his work much more now that the sun has come out, says an enthusiastic "4,99" as I simultaneaously plop down a five-euro note.

"Merci," I say firmly and gather up my things, making it clear that I don't really need that 1-cent back. But, having encountered this phenomenon repeatedly over the years, I leave a slightly open window of opportunity in case he should misunderstand my signals. The "Need a penny, take one..." mindset so common to Americans is just completely lost on the French.

One time, I dropped a 2-cent coin**, took a half second to find it on the floor, and then another half-second to decide it wasn't worth bending over to pick up. Call me lazy, but I hate "pennies", no matter what the currency. As I started to step away, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Mademoiselle, your coin is right there. I saw you looking for it..." So then of course I HAD to pick it up. But Jesus, what good is it going to do me hanging out in the bottom of my purse alongside all those other pennies (which, I'm sorry, I am never going to put into a roll and take to the bank. I'm just not. It is not worth the headache for 1,22 euros)

"And here you go," says the kiosk man, holding out a coin. Damn, I think, They just never understand... I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE PENNY!!!

But I like his smile, so I return one and thank him for the change.

"Oop-là!" he says, "That's a 2-cent piece!" and he frantically grabs a 1-cent piece in exchange.

I laugh and say, "I don't really care about 1 cent, in the end. It doesn't make a whole lot of difference, does it?" I'm trying to be jovial while still pointing out that, hell, this is just a cent, people.

In response, he looks at me quizzically and wishes me a good day.

Ok then.

**I've said it before and I'll say it again: why oh why did they make a 2-cent coin?

Two things:

1. At metro Strasbourg-Saint Denis, there is a poster for that Owen Wilson movie called "You, Me and Dupree." The poster is annoying, in the same way that Owen Wilson films are annoying (yes, I said it). There are probably 15 of them lining the wall, but I love one of them in particular. Scribbled across the top part of the poster, in the typical felt-tip marker style of cheap graffitti, somebody wrote in French, "I prefer Jules Verne." And honestly? I sort of love Paris - and by extension all of France - for even *thinking* of writing that kind of graffitti, let alone actually going through with it.

2. My regular supermarket is huge, the closest thing that Paris gets to Wal-Mart. The top floor is all clothing and home goods, and the bottom floor is all food items. I have the store mapped out in my head, so much so that The Boy - on the FEW occasions he goes grocery shopping with me - just goes into a strange sort of sub-space while I pluck things through the aisles and work my carefully plotted and efficiency-tested route from vegetables to dry goods.

Recently, however, the store has undergone a transformation, and they are entirely remodeling the bottom floor. At first, they shut off the veggie station with massive plastic barriers, and I looked on suspiciously as wiring became increasingly exposed along the ceiling. Next, they moved all of the refrigerated goods into the section where they used to have pots and pans, and let me tell you -- the Frenchies were NOT down with having a reduced cheese section.

The first trip to the grocery since the renovations began was pure chaos. The same amount of people were cramped into a smaller-than-usual spac, all of them turning in circles or second-guessing where to find canned corn. I was disturbed because, as a creature of habit, I could no longer do my veggies to dairy to meat to dry goods loop, as the dairy was now split in two on opposite sides of the store.

As they have finally started getting things in order, I've been redrawing my mental map. Some things haven't changed, but I did find it funny to note one new development: the diet/heath-food aisle has been placed directly opposite of the candy aisle. I would think somebody would have interjected during the meeting on how to set up the new store, saying that maybe this wasn't the most practical solution. But really I think they're taking a sick pleasure in watching those health-food types go through the mini-war each and every time they choose the rice cakes over the Malamars. I wouldn't be surprised if they installed a surveillance camera, just for shits and giggles during staff meetings.

Did I take this too far in my head today? Probably. Maybe they really just weren't thinking.

They've put up these new television screens in the line 38 buses -- apparently the 38 is one of the testing lines for this new navigation and entertainment system. Two flat-screens hang down from strategic positions on the bus, offering a variety of information: the name of the upcoming stop, possible intersecting bus lines, GPS images of the route we're taking, and so forth. This is all very fancy, and I like having the visual guide along the way - especially on a bus whose route I don't have memorized.

My favorite part, however, is when the Parisian bus-TV-maker-people decided to "mix it up" a little bit and provide little tidbits of information alongside the more practical transportation info on the screen. I couldn't help but notice how overwhelmingly French their little newsflashes were. The ones I took mental note of were:

1. How to tell when your meat is perfectly grilled, and the dangers of overcooking your meat.
2. Which wines are most sought after at the moment
3. Fish - it's what's for dinner. But what should the side dish be?

I couldn't help but think that the American equivalent of something sort of in-transit entertainment/information system would most likely feature sports scores instead of gastronomical advice.

ETA: They have apparently put these in on the metro line 1, too, but I haven't seen them. Anybody else?

So it's official: I have been initiated into French society. There is a fine line between the foreigner who knows the country well and he/she who is fully accepted. That line?

Tarot. The Frenchies are obsessed with it.

Not the divinatory kind of tarot that you're thinking about. No, no. Tarot the card game. The game with points and suits and strategy. With the funny deck and the crazy terminology and the scoring system that makes no sense.

I come from a long line of card players. Much to The Boy's chagrin, I could play cards every weekend, all weekend, and probably not get sick of it. Our family is an active card-playing family, and my parents are even the kinds of bridge players who go to championships. Who TAKE PLANES to go to bridge championships. They've even won a few (seriously, they're obsessed -- deserves-a-whole-blog-post obsessed).

So when my Frenchie friends suggest they teach me France's favorite card game, I got all bubbly and excited and ready to rumble. I figured I catch on quickly to card games, thanks to my extensive background, and it can't be that hard, right? Except that, damn -- I had to figure out the deck, first. And oh, aces are low. Stop thinking they're high! And by the way, there is a whole other suit - and it's always trump. And an additional face card, for a total of five.

And also? It's every man for himself, except that each turn its actually everybody ganging up on one person. By the way, you can't organize your cards before you place your bids (what the hell kind of rule is that? Shouldn't that be my own choice???) And? This is the real kicker: YOU CAN'T FREAKIN' SHUFFLE.

The explanation process was a little long and difficult (ok, five minutes, but it was totally overwhelming), and I started getting the hang of it after two or three rounds. They assured me that I was learning extra-quickly, but I felt like a dumbass nonetheless. At one point, Vegas fake-suggested I do something and I didn't understand he was being sarcastic, and I said, "Oh... ok...." and put down the card as indicated. Everyone erupted in laughter: ha ha! Look at the girl who STILL doesn't know how to play! On her second round! I said, "Shut up!!! I'm still learning!!!" But it was all in good fun.

Now, however, there is a small, tarot-playing beast growing inside of me. I keep reconsidering rounds and thinking of tactical possibilities. I'm also on the lookout for a cheap tarot deck, and possibly the English translation of the French terminology so that I can teach my family how to play at Christmas. That would be one more game to play together, and that can't be a bad thing.

Ok, I'll just come right out and say it: I'm going to study up over the next few days and TOTALLY CRUSH MY FRIENDS at our next tarot meeting - currently set for a week from now. Hell, with online games, you can really advance quickly. That is, I assume so. I've never really tried. But I've got a mission.

Bring it on, Frenchies!

Actual conversation in the metro today as I refilled my Pass Navigo (transportation card):

A man walked up behind me and I turned my head casually to acknowledge his presence. To my right, a young girl zoomed up and stood against the wall, watching me refill my card without any discretion whatsoever. She was maybe 5, and absolutely adorable. She was mixed, and had that awesome hair that some mixed kids get - incredibly curly and wild, with tinges of blond thrown into the brown chaos on her head. She wore oversized glasses and was eating an ice cream cone that was, I swear, as big as her face.

She looked at me and smiled, happily eating her ice cream cone, and then we had the following conversation:

Girl: Why did you look at my dad that way? (I should point out here that she used the informal "tu" - which, alongside her enormous smile and obvious pride in her ice cream, made me immediately want to put her in my pocket and take her home with me)

Me: Oh, you know, I was just turning my head to see was behind me. I didn't know he was your papa.

Girl: What's the matter, though? Isn't my papa handsome?

Dad giggles in the background

Me: Oh, he's very handsome.

Girl: (nods approvingly towards her dad and smiles at me) So you could look at him longer than that if you want.

Me: (turning to talk to the dad) She's funny.

Dad: She's a little talkative...

I finished my business and wished them a good day, but I swear I wanted to hang around with them for another couple minutes. I smiled the whole way to work.

Actual conversation in the taxi last night, after dropping off a good friend on the way to my house. The taxi man was young and smiley, and most of the conversation is just sort of goofy and lighthearted. Until the end, that is:

Taxi man: So, did you girls have a nice evening?
Me: Um... sure, why not? It was nice that it rained and everything got cooled off a bit.
Taxi man: Yeah. I guess you stayed out late to make the most of the weather, huh?
Me: I suppose so. But after a certain point I just wanted to go home.
Taxi man: Wny's that?
Me: Well, past three am or so, it's not very fun to be one of the only girls on the street. The men are just gross after a certain time.
Taxi man: Were the men bothering you?
Me: Yes. I hadn't seen my friend in almost a month, and we just wanted to hang out together. Why can't they understand that? (giggle)
Taxi man: (laughing) Yeah, they can be pretty determined. But you're beautiful, so I can understand...
Me: Well, thank you.

Pause

Taxi man: (turns on the light on the inside of the car, and looks at me in the rear view) No really. You are beautiful. That's why I picked you up tonight.
Me: (realizing that I am in his car and he could sort of drve me to some random semi-abandoned area, getting uncomfortable now, trying to change subject...)You choose your clients based on their appearance?
Taxi man: No. Just you. (turns of the light) Do you want to go get a drink with me?
Me: No. I want to go home.
Taxi man: Just one drink.
Me: No.
Taxi man: We could have a drink at your house.
Me: No. I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much. (laughing, trying to make the weirdness of the conversation go away)
Taxi man: Oh, how long have you been with your boyfriend?
Me: Six years. Almost seven.
Taxi man: Is he French?
Me: No, he's Congolese.
Taxi man: He's black?
Me: Yes.

Beat

Taxi man: I used to have an American girlfriend...

(here he launches into a story about when he went to the US to be with her, yada, yada, yada. Mainly, I feel relieved because he has let the getting-a-drink-together thing go, and we are only a few blocks from my house. We begin discussing cultural differences and what not, and I am happy we're in far more neutral territory. And then...)

Taxi man: I was serious though, about you being beautiful. You're exactly the type of girl I look for - physically, I mean. You're definetly my type.
Me: You can just drop me off right here.
Taxi man: Ok.

Pulls over

Taxi man: Eleven euros, please. (turns on the light and turns around to see me)
Me:Ok (fishing in my bag for that one extra euro)
Taxi man: I'm serious about the drink. (puts his hand on my knee)
Me: (Pushing off his hand) Look. I said no. Here's your money. (handing him the money)
Taxi man: (TWEAKS MY NIPPLE with the hand that I just pushed away while taking the money with the other)
Me: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR? ARE YOU SICK OR SOMETHING? I said no, and you have no right to touch me like that. (gathering my bag together and stepping out the door of the car)
Taxi man: Thanks (for the money). I didn't mean to upset you, but at least now I get to watch you walk away angry. That's so hot.

I slam the door on my way out.

What upsets me about this story is that I know, I just know, that he has done this before. And that he'll do it again. It's gross, and it's wrong, and I am totally berating myself for not checking to see what his name was before he got all creepy-perv on me. I'm not really traumatized by it or anything, but I worry he would be far more persistant in the right circumstances. He is NOT the type of person I would want picking up any girl I know at 3 am. The whole experience was creeporific. I knew from the second he turned on that light to "get a better look at me" that SOMETHING was up. I'm just glad I yelled at him and that I made it home unscathed in the end. What a dick.

Over the weekend, the boys and I went out for what turned out to be a rather extensive evening. I've pretty much stopped bar- and club-hopping for a variety of reasons (the first of which being financial, the second of which being my sanity, and the third of which being my health) but somehow I got sucked into a Friday night of fun that lasted well into the wee hours of Saturday morning.

We began our evening on one cafe terrace, sipping beers and sweating. It was too hot and too humid to do much else. Afterwards, we ate dinner on a nearby terrace (more sweating), and then had another drink on yet another terrace (cool down).

I was ready to call the end of the evening right there, as the boys has made it clear that I wouldn't be attending the second half of the night's events (which consisted primarily of scoping out ladies for Mr. Sarcastic)**. But at the end of the meal, we all began arguing - them urging me to come along, and me insisting my presence would hinder their hunt. Eventually, I agreed to go, and it turned out to be a lot of fun.

The highlight of the evening? It occured just pas 3:30 am. When the bar was at a 9:1 male:female ratio, I just began turning down boys looking to dance with me without a whole lot of grace. Sitting on a bench, dripping sweat from at least 120 consecutive minutes of dancing, I really just wanted a break.

After five minutes of sitting in peace next to a silent, quiet type, yet another suitor tried to get me to dance. I declined, and turned back to look at the people on the dance floor. After a moment, the guy next to me leaned over and said, "Why not just dance with the guy? Make him happy..." His tone was warm, sort of giggly, as if to suggest he was in on the joke.

I turned to him and said, "I can't dance with men who come up to my shoulders. Physically, it's not possible. And it's uncomfortable. I'm just too tall for him."

The guy smiled and said, "Oh, come on. He's not all that short. And you're not all that tall. Why not just dance?"

"No really. I'm really tall."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"Stand up."

So we stood up and guy was pretty much eye-level with my chest. We just took one look at one another and started cracking up, and then we sat down together.

"Ok. I hear you. Don't dance with him. I'm not gonna ask you, either!" he laughed.

**What do you all think? If two guys go out alone, do they have more or less of a chance of finding a girl if another girl is already with them? Part of me thinks it's harder, but then another part of me thinks girls find a group of three (with one female present) less menacing, and might be more open to discussion/conversation than if approached by two guys. Not sure about this one.

Brazil: ELIMINATED.

Oh my God the euphoria! Oh my God!

We really were freaking out. This is huge. HUGE!

The boys and I watched the game, absolutely riveted. The French earned their victory -- they weren't just playing soccer, they were DANCING on that field. Well-orchestrated, masterful moves, and an all-out stellar performance from Zidane. They owned that stadium, no question about it.

After the game, we descended into the streets, where people were honking, clapping, and smiling stupidly. It was exciting to be a part of such collective happiness, and we decided to work our way to the Champs.

I read today that 500,000 people were on the Champs-Elysées last night, and the crowd had the whole spectrum: little kids sitting on their dads' shoulders, 100% football fans wearing jerseys, old, young, in-between. Near the Arc de Triomph, the crowd was a little bit violent -- something I will never understand about the French is why EVERY large gathering of people always has to result in teargas. But otherwise, the rest of the avenue was peaceful and simply swarming with fans.

I tried to take pictures but they just don't do the party justice.

We got home at 4-something in the morning. I'll admit to having a hard time walking by the end, after almost eight hours on my feet at work, followed by two hours of sitting in front of the television tearing my hair out, and then five hours of walking around town, I was absolutely exhausted. It was a thrilling evening, but I've got blisters to prove that we covered some serious ground.

I think I'm going to take it easy today and save up my energy for the SEMIFINALS.

Because yeah... the French are in them. Because they eliminated BRAZIL.

Side note: my neighbors are Portugese and have hung a Portugese flag out their window. Last night, right after the end of the match, I opened my window to watch everyone spill into the street. My neighbor was standing on her balcony, so I said hello and we chatted about the game. Then I said, "I see you've got a Portugese flag out," and she winked and said, "May the best team win..." My response was, "Are you kidding? This is war!" Wednesday is going to be intense.

Holy shit, it's hot here. We didn't get any warning, either. It was like, "Ok guys, we're gonna do the cold spring thing for awhile - cloudy days and all - and then we're just going to springboard directly into summer!!! Who's with me?!?!"

But I think I can speak on behalf of most people when I say that this change was a little too sudden. Where were our 76°F and sunny days? Could we get some of those, first?

I'm about to go to work where we have no air conditioning, no circulating air, nothing. It's going to be great. I also run up and down stairs a lot while carrying piles of books.

Speaking of running up and down stairs a lot, I spent out first scorching hot day helping a friend move. He's an artist, and the majority of the things we moved were paintings. Big ones. That we had to carry a certain way. Up lots of stairs. There were only three of us, and we were just disgusting by the end of the whole ordeal, literally dripping sweat. The best part was that I couldn't go home directly afterwards, so I got to hang out with my own salty skin for awhile. It reminded me a lot of when we were in Cambodia and we could inspect the salt lines on our clothes at the end of the day.

Apparently, it's going to be this way at least until Wednesday...

UPDATE: I was wrong!!! So blessedly, wonderfully wrong!!! My "office" has air conditioning. I wore a sun dress to work and was COLD. This is awesome!!! I want to work every day!!! More exclamation points needed, after this sentence!!!!

The Scene: The Boy and I are walking home from dinner at one of my favorite Lebanese joints. We walk along the Ile de la Cité, and stumble upon La Conciergerie.

The Time: Roughly 1 am.

The Temperature: Impending-spring-feeling air.

The Moon: Just shy of full.

The Dialogue:

TB: I know what the Palais de Justice is for, and I know that there is the Sainte-Chapelle, but what exactly is La Conciergerie?

Me: Not sure. I mean, I know it used to be a prison, but what is it now? I don't think I've ever even noticed that little entrance before. If they hadn't put that big red sign out there explaining what it was, I wouldn't have known.

TB: Maybe it has something to do with weapons? Or Marie-Antoinette? Or the police station?

We walk three steps and spy two young, handsome police-y guardsmen standing outside their little booth in front of the Palais de Justice.

TB: (always the shy one) Let's ask them! I betchya they don't know.

Me (internally): They have to know. They're standing four feet away from the door.

TB: Hello. Excuse me. Can I ask you something?

Guard 1: Um... ok.

Me (internally): These are some strapping young lads!

TB: Well, my girlfriend won't stop annoying me about this, so we need to get to the bottom of it.

Me: What?

Guards look at me.

Me: Annoying you?

TB: (ignoring me) I thought you might know the answer. So - can you tell us: What is La Conciergerie?

Guard 1 steps back and looks away.

Guard 2 strokes his imaginary beard.

Silence

Guard 2: I think they taught us about that once.

Guard 1: Um... something about the king?

Guard 2: We stand here all day, every day... we should know this.

Guard 1: I think you guys should go online tonight to figure it out.

They were obviously quite embarrased, but we weren't intentionally trying to do so. Notice, however, that at no point did they actually outright say, "I don't know." Interesting.

For those curious, here.

It sounded like gunshots. Then screaming. As I ran to my window, I saw maybe 50 people in black, hooded sweatshirts running up Odessa Street. They jumped on cars, broke their windows. Storefronts closed quickly, efficiently, as several hundred other people followed their leaders, trailing behind the lightning-fast black mob. The followers didn't break anything; they clearly weren't a part of the smallish group at the front. However, the noise and chaos was enough to scare the locals - everyone ran into the nearest shop or restaurant that hadn't yet pulled down their grill. Other non-protesters ran down the street - in the opposite direction - I suppose assuming that it is better to go where the action came from than where it's headed. When the attacking mob got to the end of the street, a serpent-like motion formed, and they jumped onto one of the local cafe terraces. I couldn't see what they did, but I assume it wasn't positive, judging by the screaming of the patrons.

It took maybe five minutes to destroy the street. Glass is everywhere, a few shops have what I assume is a couple thousand euros worth of damage, and the kids are most likely off to their next location.

Now the riot police are downstairs, filtering people down to the plaza. It is filled with young demonstrators (?) milling about. Traffic is a standstill, sirens are blaring, people are yelling. Oddly, I had just noted this morning that for some reason, the riots haven't been happening in my neighborhood this time. Even though my area is a gathering place for many protests, I figured that the demonstrators were sticking to the Sorbonne area to do their damage. But now I see it's spreading.

All-too-familiar with the gendarmes and their "authoritative ways," I'm not that excited to have to leave my house in 20 minutes.

I support the protests, and see the point in them. I do not, however, support well-executed attacks on small-scale merchants and innocent automobiles. It's a shame that some people have to go and attach a bad name to the otherwise thousands of peaceful protesters.

Update:

The Boy told me he went to the cafe at the end of our street. It is broken - windows and awnings and a few tables were upturned. Not good for business. It's a little weird: this is The Boy's "office" - the main place in the neighoborhood where he goes to unwind and think things over. He was pretty surprised to see what had happened, and I understand the wait staff - with whom we are both on a first name basis - was understandably upset.

Update II: From Yahoo:

So that would be what I saw.

Peaceful protesters:

Not so peaceful:

Montparnasse is a busy metro stration, and stategically placed at one of its most frequented exits is Blondi. That's Blondi, without an E, to emphasize the masculin. Blondi is of medium build, curly-headed, and potentially Brazilian, Portugese, or maybe Spanish. He is also the most energetic and enthusiastic fruit-seller Paris has.

Every day, Blondi stands at the base of the steps leading down from my street and into the metro. To his right, a wall. To his left, the continuously clacking doors of the metro exits. BOOM. BOOM! Ba-BOOM!

Blondi apparently doesn't mind, he just shouts over the noise.

"Mama mia! These orange come straight from Marocco! You've never seen more beautiful oranges in your life!!! Look, I'll open them... perfecto!"

"These avocados! Do you know how declicious these avocados are? Hey, beautiful young lady! Stop and look at the beautiful avocados!"

"Dear sir! You're going to be amazed by my strawberries. They're perfect, and so red and tasty!"

These kinds of phrases are all shouted at high volumes, his arms flailing and gesturing and holding up fruit, all in one fluid motion shrouded in a mass of bouncing, curly hair. Sometimes, he wears a hat, just to keep the hair out of the way.*

I love Blondi in a way I can't quite understand. He's part of the colorful backdrop that is my neighborhood - I see him almost daily, and his attitude never fails to be almost freakishly positive. Personally, I'm a little afraid to buy fruit from him, as he tends to make a spectacle out of the buying-and-selling process. But I can't help but be impressed by his motivation to sell, and his obvious love for what many would consider to be a horrible job.

Today, I especially liked his spiel. Mangos were splayed out on his fruit table, some of the cut open "artistically" so as to incite people to buy. His technique worked, apparently, as I saw several middle-aged women testing the mangos and nodding in approval. As I walked past, I heard the words "juicy" "delicious" and "perfect" in the shouting festival that is a part of Blondi's act.

Approaching, I saw him pick up a mango and cup it in his hand, like he would a newborn chick. With the other hand, he began stroking the top part of the mango.

"These mangos have the most wonderful skin... don't just eat it, you have to caress it to see how soft it is. Just like a woman."

So now I'm wondering if he, in fact, loves his fruit even more than I had thought.

* The Boy asked me two summers ago, "Why does that guy who sells fruit in the metro have such an ugly wig? And then I told him that it was actually his hair, and he said, "Wow, I hadn't considered that." Just to give you an idea of how wild this guy's hair can get.

The French government is proposing to provide this new sort of contract option - called a CPE - to youngsters under 26. I'm not clear on the details - something about a 2-year contract that makes it easier on the employer to fire the employee, need be, without having to justify their decision. From every single description I have ever gotten from a French person, I get three things:

1. They do not like the CPE
2. The CPE makes firing too easy
3. The contract gives you no guarantee of keeping the job forever.

I'm still waiting for someone to fully explain to me what is so bad about the contract. Obviously, I am coming from an American perspective, so to me it seems perfectly natural that you have no guarantee of keeping the job and that the boss can fire you if he/she chooses. Yes, this puts you a little bit at the mercy of your employer. However, in most cases, employers know that it's in their best interest to keep good workers. So why would they fire you if you're doing your job correctly (downsizing and budget cuts aside, of course)?

Culturally, it's a lot harder for the French to accept that somebody could fire them. This is the part of the whole issue that I don't understand, because I suppose I'm coming from the angle that a job is a job -- if you suck at it, you shouldn't get to keep it. The fact that bad workers are still keeping their jobs in this country is evident almost everywhere: this past week alone, I have had experiences with incompetent people at the post office, the bank, and the office for new companies. This is problematic not only for the business keeping the bad worker, but for its customers as well.

However, when it comes to France, in the words of my boss, "This is a country of workers, not a country of employers." While this is sort of true, I'd argue against the "country of workers" aspect when France is sort of suffocating under its 20-25% unemployement rate amongst young people.

Anyway, I'm not looking to argue about the pros and cons of the CPE. Like I said, I don't totally get it. Perhaps I don't get it because I come from a different culture, so the proposal does not seem all that outlandish to me. Or maybe I don't get it because I'm not familiar with all the details, in which case I would gladly accept someone enlighten me somewhere in the comments box. What I DO get, however, is that the French love to protest.

And today is the big day of "mobilisation" against the CPE. I only bring it up for one reason: I live at Montparnasse, an important starting or passing point for most major protests in Paris. This means that my day of relaxing and doing some much-needed work at home is no longer so pleasant, because thousands of angry teenagers and 20-somethings are setting off firecrackers on my street. There is screaming and whistles and some guy on a megaphone. And now they've started that "oh-OOOHH-oh" song that the French sing at everything. If you have ever been to a concert, after the performance ends and before the encore, this is the song they sing. Same song at a soccer game, or a drunken bash, and apparently grassroots protests.

Meanwhile, universities have shut down and there's constant debate and sit-ins everywhere. Yahoo has even created an entire sub-section of their site dedicated to the CPE. So if you can read French and want to know what all the fuss is about, go there. I think I'll go inform myself now.

From Yahoo:

There's a homeless guy in my neighborhood who goes by the name of Jacky Chan. I just learned this fact this evening.

Let me back up. First: I noticed this particular homeless man months ago. He's hard not to miss: he wears many, many layers (even in the heat of summer) and pushes an enormous, car-sized shopping cart full of what I am sure are his life posessions. From all sides of the cart dangle bags and bags of... well, I don't exactly know what. He spends his day pushing the cart up Odessa Street, sometimes he ventures down to the boulevard. He is fearless in his cart-pushing: even the bus goes around him.

The Boy and I have admired him afar for at least a few months. Mainly, we medidate on his manoevres as he glides his way through the busy (and poorly designed) intersection at the plaza just up the street. Such a massive locomotive! Such strength in his determination to get from one side of the Boulevard Edgar Quinet to the other!

After months of distant yet determined study, Dr. Jacky Chan and I were bound to meet.

Tonight, my friends, I am happy to say that that eventuality has become a reality.

Sure, I was a little tipsy (and still am?) as I wandered my way up from the metro. And yes, as I noticed Jacky Chan, I might have been moreobvious in my interest than usual. However, it was Dr. Jacky Chan who noticed me, and beckoned me from behind his overwhelmed cart:

Dr JC: (in English) Come here! I have something for you.
Me: (in French) I know you! You live in the neighborhood!
Dr JC: HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!
Me (in English): Oh, right... it was two days ago? Three?
Dr JC (ignoring me, in English): Yes, I am Dr Jacky Chan... this is my paper. Read. You will be ten years younger. Take photo now. In ten years, you are same. Is a promise.
Me (taking paper Dr JC hands me): Oh, is this for me?
Dr JC: For you! I am doctor in San Francisco (points to paper where it declares he is a doctor in San Francisco). Many secrets of health! Am in front of Cinéma Gaumont!

I took his TEN-PAGE manifesto home with me and read the first three pages out loud to The Boy. The excitement in our house was incredible. I had Jacky Chan's manifesto. Oh, and I know... he doesn't spell Jackie Chan correctly. But I am remaining true to his real spelling.

Regardless, there are a few things to know:

1. JC knows about lots of things the FBI and CIA do NOT want us to know about. They are well-kept secrets, but Jacky Chan is here to bust them open.
2. That Egyptian airline that went down? The FBI was behind it. Oh yeah.
3. Monica Lewinsky? Totally the FBI/CIA. Bringing down Clinton, yo.
4. Jacky Chan himself? Living in exile, because of the FBI/CIA

So... I am going to work my way through his ten-page single-spaced, totally grammatically incorrect and painfully incoherent piece of literature one day. In the meantime, "Dr" Jacky Chan's advice consists of:

1. Eat two bananas per day
2. Eat one orange per day
3. Eat a bowl of rice per day
4. Sweat 2-3 times per week

Apparently, you will always look young. Interesting. I have to say, Dr Jacky Chan did not have a wrinkle on him. So you never know.

OK. So the carte de séjour thing is "done."

Well, as done as it can be. Let me explain.

First of all, I actually found myself feeling guilty for writing that most of the people who work at the prefecture are ugly with bad fashion sense. The girl who helped me was cute, smiley, and rather stylish. She was also probably a year or three younger than me, but no matter. We had a little nose ring "bond" - this is the only possible explanation as to why we got along so swimmingly, considering the situation.

So let's scratch off the childish insults that are on record from yesterday, mmkay?

Secondly, my file was just dandy, but the girls at the prefecture decided I needed - for some inane reason - proof of having a bank account in France. Naturally, this wasn't on the document list provided (it never is) and comes more or less out of nowhere. So when NoseRingBuddy asked me for my bank card, I thought, "Oh sure, I can totally do that." The problem, of course, was that I don't carry around my card with me all the time. And today just happened to be one of those days.

So great. I was sent back home to recuperate my card, and they said that I might as well bring along my last bank statement so they could invade my privacy a little more. Jolly. And then I went back to the prefecture, waited in that long-ass line that I had woken up so early for in order to avoid, and dropped off my new "required" paperwork.

My NRB told me to sit and wait until I was called, at which point I pulled out my Arabic textbook and began a-studying. Funny thing, though. Right at the moment I opened the book, my January bank statement fell out of it. I had gotten it in the mail a few days prior and had been carrying it around with me ever since, completely forgetting to file it. In fact, and I think this is obvious by now, I had completely forgotten it at all.

As I giggled sarcastically at the irony of it all (could have avoided that trip on the metro, could have not gotten in a tiff over the hour of my return, etc), I heard my name called. Apparently, we're good to go. So the NRB gave me back my paperwork, and we had the following conversation:

NRB: Ok, so here's the original of your proof of housing, proof of money, student card, past grades, work permit, and pay stubs.
Me: Thanks.
NRB: Look over this paperwork and make sure there are no mistakes.
Me: (looks it over) Looks ok to me.
NRB: Ok, so here's your temporary carte de sejour, and here's your paper letting you know when your next appointment is.
Me: ::: a little too shocked to respond::::
NRB: You can come any day after the 16th of February, the sooner the better.
Me: But, wait. Aren't I going to get a carte de sejour?
NRB: Oh yeah, you will.
Me: So why do I have to come back? Aren't you supposed to stick the sticker in my passport now?
NRB: Oh... no. It's all changed. Ever since January 1st, 2006, you get a temporary card and then you have to come back a month later to get the long-term card. It's plastified, so it takes us longer to process them.
Me: It takes a month?

I don't find this amusing because it means I have to get two different work permits - one for the period going from now until February 16, and then another for the period from February 17 onwards. Plus, it means I have to go back to the prefecture in a month, and wait in that awful line, and sit in those nasty green chairs.

But at least my paperwork was accepted with only an hour's worth of unnecessary hassle. It has been far, far worse in the past.

Tomorrow is The Big Day. The one where somebody I don't know (who is almost always sort of ugly and with bad fashion sense) decides my fate. That's right! It's time to renew: I'm going to the préfecture.

Technically, this is supposed to be a yearly affair. I get the sticker in my passport and am gone. As Stephen Colbert says, "Three minutes, in out, that's how I like it!" But NO, I have yet to go without being told I am missing a required document (that is mysteriously not on the required documents list), signature (from the person who is on vacation for a month) or secret stamp. I'm just waiting for them to tell me I need to learn to hula hoop to live in France. They'll just shrug and say, "That's the way we do things here," as if that served as an explanation. And then they send me away with an unnerving piece of paper telling me to come back again in three months.

A few years back, I went through the process four times. You do the math. By the time I got my carte de séjour officially renewed, I didn't need it anymore. It was time for the following year's.

A good friend of mine said it best when she went to renew hers a few months back: sitting in that stifling room with a bunch of other uncomfortable foreigners pointedly reminds you just how unwelcome you are in this country. They don't want you here, and are willing to make it damn difficult for you to stay.

So I think I've gotten down the routine. I've put together all of the requested documents in two files - one of originals and one of photocopies. That way they can't get me on that point. The photocopies are picture-perfect and are in a logical order. My grades are good, my residence hasn't changed, and my pay stubs are all collected. My "proof of resources" documentation for this year is a bit rickety - partially due to all of the job manoeuvering of late - and I'm just hoping that whoever looks over my file tomorrow has some degree of mercy. Oh, who am I kidding? They never do.

I've learned by now that it's best to take the first appointment in the morning, and to get there half an hour early to beat out the other 55 people who signed up for your appointment time. The later in the day your appointment, the longer you're going to spend in the waiting room.

Bring a book, knitting, or puzzle. Something to distract you. Above all, for Pete's sake, find yourself a chair.

And pray.

That's the most important thing.

Just pray to the God of French Immigration that they don't give you shit for something in your file.

Again.

I was listening to Chris Rock's "Never Scared" today on the metro, when I realized I was grinning from ear to ear and occasionally giggling out loud. That shit is so damn funny.

What is not so damn funny is the looks you get for smiling in this town. Day-um. You would think I smelled bad or was shouting obscenities. If I see somebody laughing to him/herself because something on his/her headphones is amusing, I don't scowl at the person. As a matter of fact, as long as he/she keeps it more or less to him/herself (ie laughing silently), I usually think it's pretty cute.

Nope. Not my co-travellers. So I was faced with a bit of a dilemna - keep listening and control the laughter? Or turn it off and scowl with the rest of 'em?

Obviously, I went for the former, 'cause the latter's no fun. I even took Chris with me to the post office, and then carried my box across Montparnasse with my giggles.

Of course, a man had to stop me ("Vous êtes charmante, mademoiselle" - I have a particular distaste for this pick-up line) for the giggling, and I just continued laughing and said thanks. Then he asked me for my name and I said, "Does it really make a difference?"

He was a little dumbfounded, and managed to say a meek little "Yes..." before I got by. So I guess Paris has made me a bit of a scowling bitch as well. I mean, he was only asking.

"The immigrants - mainly North African muslims - are upset that they are being shunned by French society. They feel alienated, scorned, looked down upon. Apparently they're unaware this is a common situation known as: being French."

- The Daily Show

I'm surprised to see that the riots outside of Paris are getting coverage in the American press. I listened to some NPR stuff on it, and I read about it in the NY Times. I am 90% sure the kid quoted in the NY Times (the brother of one of the boys killed) was a former student of mine, and that makes me sad.

The rioting began in the town I used to work in - a place that the students lovingly called "le ghetto" with that strange sort of pride that comes out of actually living in one. Although I understand they're frustrated and need to lash out, I'm not sure what drawing all of this attention is doing to the kids' reputations in the long run. I know setting cars on fire and attacking people on trains is another way of "screaming to be heard," but I'm worried they're just further alienating themselves from French society. Which, whether they like it or not, they are a part of. On the first day of school, most of these kids declared "I'm Moroccan" or "I'm Algerian" when asked to introduce themselves, completely neglecting the fact that they were born and raised in France. I understand their urge - France has not exactly been welcoming - but I bet in that majority of the cases, those kids are going to grow up and have families and continue to live in France despite themselves.

I was thinking the other day about how funny it is that I have gone from working in what most consider a shitty, ghetto, crime-ridden town (I liked it a lot, myself, though) to working in a ritzy, snobby bookstore where we talk about art. I think I'm more at home in the former situation than the latter, but I make it through both more or less intact. I have a hard time, though, when the snobs from the second world make comments about those from the first; my desire to defend the people I spent just under a year with is a little ridiculous. But it's there, and I don't think it's going to go away. It just will never stop disturbing me how Parisians think of those living outside the city as just that: outsiders.

But for as much as I hate the Parisian attitude, I know it's going to be the decisive one, the one that remains in control. These riots make me crinkle my forehead up and think of the kids at that school with a new streak of worry. Most of them were tough shells with softy little insides. I don't like to think of them falling asleep to police sirens, or being forced to stay inside every night of this past week. I especially don't like to think of them not getting job interviews or returned phone calls because of the home town marked on their CV.

Update: It was particularly trippy to see Clichy-Sous-Bois on CNN, in a report done by my journalism professor. That is a mega-case of worlds colliding.

A young man comes charging up behind me near the steps to the metro exit, with a great big smile splashed across his boyish face. He's probably in his early- to mid-twenties, button down shirt, pressed slacks. Average height/weight, brown hair, reasonably good looking.

Him: Excuse me, Mademoiselle, do you mind...?
Me: ::: turning around cautiously :::
Him: I just wanted to say... this is sort of weird... (gets a little awkard)... um... I just wanted to say that I find you really beautiful. (sheepishly smiles and sort of giggles)
Me: Oh... that's nice. (internal voice: what a little dorkie-pie!) Thanks. (continue climbing up metro steps)
Him: Yeah. I just wanted you to know.
Me: Thanks. (rounding the corner and heading out the doors, internal voice: Wow, and he didn't take it a step further! So he really DID only want me to know that. Hey! He's nice! Sweetie little dorkie pie!)

Him: (Comes busting out the doors behind me)
Me: (Turns around in shock)
Him: And? And? I'm a shoe-shiner. I wanted to know if I could shine your shoes?
Me: Shine my shoes?
Him: Yes! Yes! I'll do it for free! Free shoe-shining!
Me: Um. No.
Him: Please? I'd really like to...
Me: I'm going home.

Tell me that's as creepy as I think it is.
Even creepier is that I was madly looking for shoe polish yesterday to polish my boots -- something I have only done ONCE in my entire LIFE. (Obviously, I didn't find any)

On Sunday, Kathypath and I worked at the book market all day. The Aussie came to say hello, and ended up hanging out for several hours. It was relaxing and not-so-busy, and I took a bit of a break in the park next door. There I ran into an old friend, and he came back afterwards to visit with us. We called TheBoy, who showed up 30 minutes later. Some errands were run, and pretty soon we were an oddly assorted quintet of people drinking wine in the park after a day at the market.

Somewhere after the fifth glass or so, the park police began blowing whistles to signify the park's closing. I'm not sure who had the brilliant idea to hide in the bushes, but before I could really think twice, I was stifling giggles to avoid being spotted. Stupidly, our "hiding spot" was about ten feet away from the park offices, but we were (miraculously) never caught. I'm still not sure what we would have said had they seen us.

There was a magic moment around 23.00 when I realized we genuinely had the entire park to ourselves. The boys had gone in search of food (they jumped the grill and got pizza to go), so the girls and I went rolling down the hills in our underpants. We climbed trees and giggled and sang Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs. A light rain began to fall and I mumbled, while looking up at the sky from my spot on the grass, "This night is beautiful."

Of course, and hour later when TheBoy began puking and people received freaky phone calls and the entire evening took a rather sour turn, I began to question whether magic is really good or evil. But still: I'm digging this hiding-in-the-park thing.

TheKnitter and I went out for a grumpy café yesterday in the Marais. I don't know what was wrong with either of us, but we were sort of gloomy and frustrated and incapable of making decisions.

When we finally plunked down at a table at a pretty good people-watching crossroads, we began the intense discussion of what to do with our lives. This a recurring theme for my non-French friends living in this city, scraping by financially with or without the added help of outside sources. The truth is that a) this city is very, very expensive and b) it is difficult for French people to get jobs, and even more so for foreigners. Voila.

After a few minutes of sipping coffee and finally having the clearheadedness to converse, a young man asked TheKnitter if he could roll a cigarette with her paper/tobacco. After introducing himself and what not, we began a 30-minute conversation.

At first, it went quite well. The man studied an Ivy League school in the US, knew a fair amount about my field of study here, and was easy to talk to. He seemed bright, and was interested in our opinions of France and the differences between our two countries. He asked the inevitable boyfriend question, to which I responded clearly and with reasonable detail, leaving the window open for TheKnitter's benefit. She promptly closed it, mentioning her "boyfriend" and we all moved on to another topic.

When the convesation began to wane, he admitted to dreaming of directing high-quality porn films. I told him there was a market out there for it, at least for women, because it's sort of becoming fashionable for women-centered pornographic material. We discussed how maybe porn could change (less degradation and more character development) and the hurdles one could overcome when filming such a project (the stars actually need to be able to act, not just bone).

We eventually moved away from that conversation as well, and TheKnitter suggested she visit the ladies', pay the bill, and we would go. After she came back, he invited us over to his house, which we declined as gracefully as possible.

At the last minute, he asked, somewhat urgently, "Have the two of you ever thought of making love with a man involved?"

"A threesome?" asked/declared TheKnitter.

"Yeah... that could be interesting for you, don't you think?"

We both laughed, looked at one another, laughed again, and mumbled out something to the tune of, "Um... no."

At that moment I realized he had thought the two of us were a couple, and that our boyfriend stories were bogus. That's amusing to me, but even more amusing to me is how unprepared we were for his question. Later, of course, I realized that I should have mentioned that the two of us needed to work out whether the we would ever want to be together first, and THEN we could consider having a man involved. Obviously, he thought we had already jumped over that hurdle.

Anyway, it was worth a chuckle.

After several days of riding my bike around town, I've concluded one thing: my apartment is on a hill.

Ok, ok. I've come from three of the four major directional points, and all of them require massive pedaling at the end. This makes for a triumphant departure from the neighborhood, but a rather scraggly, breathless return.

I'm a little obsessed with Rizzo. I did everything on bike today. It's just as fast, if not faster, than the bus/metro. And I'm not even killing myself doing it. There are some pretty bad hills out there (hello avenue Marceau!), but what a great way to get in some exercise!

Plus, I'm really stressed out right now, and I know the physical activity is helping... it always does.

So I'm dorky enough to have marked out on a fuzzy map of Paris what I did today. From Montparnasse to Jussieu (blue line), from Jussieu to the Champs-Elysees (gray line), and from the Champs to the house again (green line). All in all, about an hour and a half of riding. A little less, in fact.

See?

The most pleasant part was without a doubt riding along the bike lanes near the Seine. The least pleasant part was getting hit on by the man bicycling behind me. I dreaded every stoplight. Another unpleasant aspect of the day was when I went over a particularly tough bump and everything fell out of my basket. But I thoroughly enjoyed snarling at the tourists who almost ran me over... that felt very snobby and very Parisian, and therefore somehow very right.

Favorite Image of the Day:

A bum, middle-aged, attempting to make balloon animals out of a condom found on the ground.

OH MY GOD!!! I got a Very Important Phone Call today from the French government people, and the dude who called me had a stutter. To make up for it, he spoke really quickly and if he tripped over a word, he just got the first thing he could out and moved on.

This was fine for the entire message he left on my machine, except that part about the phone number. I am missing two very important numbers. I have listened to the message over and over, and I just keep hearing the two numbers come out as 40-13. Which is IMPOSSIBLE. It needs to be something like 36 or 77 or whatever.

This is nightmarish because these people do not call back twice. I've learned that much over the years in France. Argh! I tried calling information (I said, "Hi, I'm looking for a judge in Paris. I have eight of the ten required numbers for his phone number. Is there anything you can do?") but they could only connect me to the general center of info concerning my problem (nobody answered). Then I called the service where I sent my Imporant Letter. No answer.

Then I sat and tried every possible combo that would maybe work with what I heard. I got lots of "This number doesn't exist"s and two French people hung up on me. One man said, "Who are you?" and I said, "Oh, I must have gotten a wrong number" and he said, "Yeah, obviously, but who are you?" That was a little spooky.

As far as days go, this was not the best. Remember, I am very greasy at this moment. I also spent a lot of time writhing around my bed in pain last night, which made for a tough night of sleep. But no worries, everyone, I am a tough cookie. I still got up this morning, on time, and put on my shoes and walked out the door like the rest of the working world.

I just had oil dripping off my split ends. No matter.

So I take the metro to Les Halles, where I switch to get on the RER (express suburban-bound train). Then I read that there's some sort of problem, and I have to go to Saint-Lazare to get the train. Once I get to Saint-Lazare, they tell me that no, I could have just taken the train at Les Halles (whatever) and that I need to go to Auber to take it now. So I do that.

I left 30 minutes earlier than usual because I happened to get up extra early for no reason. Of course, that does me no good when I spend 45 minutes going from metro to metro, trying to take my damn express train.

It is now 10:30 and work starts in 30 minutes. The express train takes exactly 28 minutes, but I have to catch it right away for that to have any value. I run through the halls at Auber to try to catch the train on time. Meanwhile, I call the school and warn them I will be between 15 and 20 minutes late.

Mind you, I only have ONE class to teach today. But if I don't show up at all, my pay will be docked. If I'm LATE, however, they won't do anything to me.

So I finally get to my damn train and hop on board. I get off 28 minutes later and it is 11:12. I still have to walk over to the high school, which is several long, boring, annoying blocks away.

(A note on long boring blocks: I have taken to just, um, counting steps. I also like to see if I can set a rhythm between cracks. For example, is it more natural for me to take four steps per cement square or five? If I just walk along the dotted lines seperating the sidewalk into pedestrian and bike traffic, does that alter my walking? Etc. This is truly how boring the walk is.)

I get to the high school at 11:18 (I booked it, man!) and head straight for the classroom. Of course, nobody is there.

Downstairs, I spot two girls from my class and ask them if they knew they had class today. They look at me blankly. I say, "There's a new schedule starting next week, but did you wait for me today or not?" Oddly, they just at me pensively as if that would answer my question, which I take to mean, "Well, we sort of waited but we would so much rather just leave after five minutes and blame you than to do sit through another class." So I guess that answers my question in the end.

Whatever.

So then I go upstairs and sit for an hour, waiting to run into the teacher who has my new schedule. She doesn't show, so I give up.

I head back (six more boring blocks in the opposite direction) and go to the train station. Guess what? Now the trains aren't working. At all. Not one single train back to Paris. Of course, the train people have no idea when the next one will be, but they like to announce, "Madames, Monsieurs, there are no trains going to Paris right now."

I leave the tracks and head back out into the world, buy myself a sandwich, shop at the Asian food store (reading labels, actually) and then wonder what to do next. Guess what? The town I work in? REALLY DULL.

My decision is to just sit and wait for the train. I'm freezing my ass off (forgot my mittens) and am bored as hell, pissed off because I don't have anything to read on me (which never happens). Of course, today, of all days, the news stand is closed.

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, the damn train comes. I go back to Paris. On the way, I sit next to a guy who I swear has to be 7'0 tall. He's listening to AC/DC and whoa, the music really must get to him. He drums and sings along and really feels it, man. I'm usually down with people who really get into it (even AC/DC fans), but we're in a very confined space and the dude has some serious legs on him. It's a little mosh-pit-like in our four-person train pod, but he's the only one moshing. He also likes to talk to himself, but his music is so loud that it sort of turns into talking to the entire train.

So, in all, I spent almost two hours getting to work, an hour and a half waiting for various people at work, and then over two hours getting back from work. Lovely, really.

Once back in town, I called The Boy to ask if our hot water problem was fixed. No, no. Of course not. It can't be that simple. It looks like the hot water problem is going to be with us for a long, long time.

To drown my sorrows, do you know what I did? I had way too much caffeine and spent a significant portion of my Spanish class afterwards flapping my hands and trying to keep from getting to jumpy in class. I apologized to two of my classmates afterwards.

While this whole entry was one big enormous bitch-fest, I'd like to add one good thing: my Spanish class rocks, I mean ROCKS. It's a new semester and there are only five of us in the class. It is so unbelievably entertaining that I actually checked my clock halfway through while thinking, I hope we have at least an hour left! I was a little sad to see we only had 30 minutes.

Another good thing today? Um... um... I'm sure I'll think of something.

We have no hot water in the house, which we discovered when we came home to a house with no electricity. The Boy freaked ("But I won't have my blessed internet!") and we tested every circuit one by one. Turns out the water heater is the culprit, and the rest of the house is functioning fine now.

Having no hot water just mysteriously pop up as a problem is cool 'cause I already haven't showered in two days. I planned well, as you can see. So it will soon be three, potentially four, five days before we can clean ourselves. Love that early 20th century plumbing.

Mainly, I'm disturbed because our heating sucks so much that I use the shower as my heater. You know, get undressed, take a shower, and jump directly from shower to bed without passing go. If you do that, you can kinda conserve some body warmth and you won't spend the first half hour before you go to sleep trying to fight off hypothermia.

We also prepared for the no-hot-water disaster perfectly: our dishes were fairly severe (by my standards) and I just about froze my fingers off trying to pry the oatmeal off the pan.

Tomorrow, some random Senegalese dude named Neb is coming over here to come to our rescue. The Boy met him in the hallway of our building one day, and somehow he came to learn that Neb is a plumber/electrician. How does that happen?

"Hey, random guy, nice to see you..."
"Yeah, random guy, you too..."
"Hey, by the way, guy, what do you do for a living?"
"Oh, I'm a plumber slash electrician, and you?"

Anyway. The Boy conserved Neb's number somewhere in his "system" (aka pile of papers of all sizes and color, in no particular order) and called the guy to come fix things. I was suggesting we try an actual service, but The Boy says we have to help the African struggle. I thought it was funny that he applied our electric needs to the African struggle - and so militantly, I might add - but I don't care who we call, as long as I get myself some hot water. So Neb better mean business.

Transcript taken from a Big Important Administrative place that happens to be an hour away from my house. I waited 20 minutes there before having the following 30-second conversation with the Bitchy Secretary Lady:

Me: Hi, I'd like to ask for a work permit.
BSL: Yes, are you renewing or getting your first one?
Me: Oh. I got one last year, but it was for a different employer. So it's my first one for this job.
BSL: It doesn't matter. Ok, so you're renewing. You need to give me all the documents on this list, put them in this folder, and drop the folder in that box to your left.
Me: (scanning the list) OK. One question.
BSL: Yes?
Me: It says here that I need to give you a photocopy of my previous work permit.
BSL: Yes.
Me: Well, I'm just wondering. Last year, I asked for a work permit for a contract that was ending in May. Oddly, they gave me a permit that only lasted for 9 days. I got the permit in the mail in June, so clearly after the nine-day period which had been, bizarrely, for March. So obviously it was all wrong. Do you still want it?
BSL: Why didn't you come in when you received it in the mail?
Me: Because my contract was already over by that point.
BSL: Well, you still should have come in.
Me: You're saying I should have gone an hour out of my way to point out a mistake that you made, even though that wouldn't change anything?
BSL: You needed to come in.
Me: Do you still want the card?
BSL: I just don't see why you didn't come in.
Me: Well I didn't.
BSL: You should have.
Me: (laughing) Right. You've said that.
BSL: You needed to come in when you got the card.
Me: YEAH. OK, fine. But the fact is that I didn't. So what should I do now?
BSL: You really should have come in...

What are you, crazy lady? My mother? The broken record version? Anyway, whatever.

End of story: I need a whole lot more paperwork than I had originally thought. I should have known that ahead of time (we are in France, after all), but it means that I have to go ride the train for another hour just to DROP OFF the stupid folder filled with photocopies. Oh, and get this: the place where I have to drop off the folder? Only open from 9:00 - 10:45. Because that's practical. And she wonders why I didn't come in.

Last night at the bar, they put on "Sex Machine" and I shook my money maker. Then some guy said, "You don't dance like a French person." I told him that was the best compliment I'd gotten all week. I don't know if he meant it that way, but to me it can only be a good thing.

How can anyone be such an asshole that they can honk - non FREAKING stop - for seven minutes? Honestly? My entire neighborhood was about to egg the car. I considered dropping something from my sixth floor window. Were it not for fear of surprising passersby below, I might have actually done it. Seven minutes?

I don't usually get visibly annoyed at strangers, but damn if these old French ladies don't piss me off sometimes.

Today, after sleeping for only a few hours and attending three hours of lectures, I went to the library to get my year-long pass.

After standing in line for a moment, the woman at the help desk turned to me and asked if she could help. I walked up to her and began to state my case.

From behind me, I heard a voice say, "Excuse me. Could you help me first, please?"

To her credit, the woman behind the desk said, "I'll help you as soon as I finish with this young woman."

"But that young woman is much younger than I am," answered the old lady, as if the fact that she was old gives her a free pass to cut in line.

The desk woman said, "That doesn't matter. She was still in line before you."

It was so ridiculous I had to turn around and see who this woman was, and I couldn't help but shoot evil eyes at her. Then I sorta might have laughed in her face because she was being so ridiculous. Do you know how many old ladies have jumped in front of me for cabs? Or at the yarn store? Jesus. Now you want to just straight up say, out loud, that your age means no lines for you here, too? At the library?

I'm all for the senior citizens' breakfasts, and I give up my seat on the bus/metro to the elderly. But please. Wait thirty seconds. I only wanted a freaking map.

Ah... Christmas break. Coming home on the train, reading my book, feeling the stress release from my back. I switched off the train and onto the métro at Les Halles, getting onto the crowded line 4.

At Odéon, the doors opened and people began the get-on, get-off dance. Suddenly, from my left hand side, there was a sharp, loud popping sound, followed by an incredibly loud hissing. My first thought was that something was wrong with the engine, and then a slower, calmer thought of bombs or gas came to mind.

Before I knew it, our car was a stampede of crazed people running from the poison gas released in the air. Screaming, yelling, trampling... several people fell and I acutely heard one young woman yell for her mother from across the train.

My knee-jerk reaction in all terrifying situations is to see the world in slow-mo. This has come to be a handy tool, as I have a tendency to remain calm while others flip their shit.

As everyone around me furiously scrambled to get off the train, I looked over to the corner where the noise was and noticed everybody was looking at the floor. Mysteriously, the section at the heart of the noise was calmest, while the rest of the train was a pandemonium. I remained standing where I was, and the doors shut. Looking out onto the platform, frightened teenagers were crying and staring fearfully at the root of the noise.

I still don't know what it was, but I was one of only six remaining people on the train. It made me happy because I got to sit down for the rest of the ride.

If it had been poison nerve gas, however, I'd be so dead right now.

There was a mighty wind in Paris today. Might-ay, might-ay. Because we live on the last floor, and because this building is a hundred years old, the wind is a noisy thing.

"Whoa!" we kept shouting, as our fireplaces clattered and our windows shook.

It got so intense that I got up to check the streets below. Nobody was outside, but garbage was swirling upwards in little turbillons, sometimes reaching the roofs across the street.

Suddenly, I heard a loud crack! then a bang! then some shouting. Craning my neck to see further up the street, I saw a man carrying a 6'x5' piece of metal across the street, struggling against the wind. Weird, I thought, and wondered where it came from. I sat back down and got some work done, all the while hearing more crack!s and bang!s.

Then I heard a really, really loud crack! and bang! and got up to check again. Yet another piece of metal had fallen. But from where? I had to open the window and lean out a bit to see that the metal was actually pieces of scaffolding falling off the building a little less than halfway up the street from my apartment. Chunks of it were everywhere, and a few other smaller pieces of metal had already fallen on the cars below.

It wasn't long before the police came and roped off the street to passersby. Being French, nobody took to this speedy display of order too well. The cops, however, remained firm and would not let people up/down the street.

At one point, I had to leave my house to go to the post office. It was not something I could put off. As I walked out my door and down the streets, three cops yelled at me to hurry.

On my way back from La Poste, I waited in a line of about thirty people as we hoped to get home. The policeman was only letting us go one at a time, and only every 4-5 minutes. With thirty people ahead of me, I figured that would mean a long time in the cold. And I hadn't brought my mittens.

Then I thought of going through the passage on the otherside of the block. It connects my street to a backstreet, and the conncetion point is about halfway up my street, two doors down from my building.

When I came out on the other side of the passage, a good-looking policeman was there, looking stern.

"Mademoiselle?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm just looking to go home," I smiled (smiling works with men, not with women. It's a crazy phenomenon.)
"Do you live at number 10?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Go ahead, then. But be careful to only walk along the side of the walls."
"Thanks," I said, and walked away to him telling me I wasn't close enough to the walls.

Another policeman stopped me no more than eight steps later and reminded me to walk closer to the walls. Jesus, people. The metal scraps were halfway up the street.

Just then, I heard a man from across the street yell, "Attention mademoiselle! C'est dangereux!"

I was just about to reconsider my opinion that French cops are, in general better then American cops when I looked up and saw the guy that runs the computer store across the street smiling at me. He was giggling uncontrollably, obviously excited by the fact that he would be working five hours less than his usual shift on Fridays. And suddenly, I was filled with a deep, deep love for my neighborhood. Again.

Because I take the train into work very early in the morning, I am witness to some of the Paris region's most bizarre species. For one, nobody in Paris goes to work before 7.00 am, besides myself and a few other weirdos. Us early morning workers truly are phenomenal, and the further out I get from the city, the more resilient and hardy I find my co-travellers. What are we doing going out to the countryside at 7.00 am? Sometimes I wonder if these people are just trying to get the most out of their visit to their mother/brother/whatever, and that I'm the only one actually crazy enough to go to work in the boondocks that early in the a.m.

Then again, most of the people waiting on the train platform with me are men, and we all know how crazy they are anyway. The lack of women is sorta freaky, with probably only one out of every ten people being a female. My theory is that most women have the good sense not to take the train that early in the morning, and that those of us who are standing there, freezing our asses in the station, are the stupid ones. The men? Well, they're almost always clueless about any situation, so why should commuting be any different?

For reals though, I've seen some crazy stuff, especially when I take my 7.00am Saturday train. This is usually filled with three types of people: workers (on a Saturday!), mothers taking their kids somewhere and/or travellers, and drunks. The last category is definetly the most noticeable, as these people have usually been out partying all night and are catching an early suburban train to go home. For them, 7.00 am is still night.

This weekend, for example, I had a drunk man about my age walk by me as I was blowing on my hands in the way people do when they are cold.

"Are you cold, Mademoiselle?" he asked, rather kindly, I thought.
"Um... yeah," I answered, I'm not sure why. Maybe because I was cold, even though the golden rule in these situations is to just not respond.
"Would you like me to make you hot?" he asked.

Hm. Unfortunately, my knee-jerk reaction to these kinds of comments is always to laugh, despite the fact that I sort of think that kind of behaviour is technically "unacceptable." I still find it funny sometimes, especially when I'm on my way to work.

Last week, I saw a guy who was so drunk he kept trying to correct his posture. He would sorta sit to the right, and then just start bending, and bending, and bending, and eventually he would be almost horizontal on the three chairs around him. When he realized the error, he sat up immediately and overcorrected to the left, almost falling off his chair entirely. He got so far to the left that his knees actually touched the ground and he saved himself from falling by supporting himself with his hand and pushing himself back onto the seat.

And then, finally, I saw a drunk guy falling asleep in a chair with a jacket over his head. Another drunk guy came up to him and started eyeing him very carefully. I didn't know why he was doing this, but eventually the second drunk guy started sort of circling around the sleeping drunk one like a vulture. It dawned on me that he was about to rob him when he started searching the guy's pockets. I didn't know how to handle that situation, so I did the responsible thing and got up, walked away, and pretended I hadn't seen anything.

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.

Eating in the dark is a great experience, and I recommend it to anybody who has a theme restaurant like this in their area. It takes a few minutes to get comfortable. And, of course, have to get a bit more intimidate with your fellow diners than usual: the girls and I would say, "Ok, hold out your hand. Alright, I've got it. Now, I'm going to guide your hand towards my glass. There you go. Now pour." and so on. So there was a lot of touching. Which, I suppose, could make for a pretty hot date with the right type of person. In our case, it just made for an entertaining meal.

Mainly, though, the experience got me wondering about blind people. For example, at one point, TheLongIslander sort of stretched her back away from us for a second. "LongIslander!" I called out, "Where are you going?" I just felt her presence leaving, and without realizing it, had reacted to that feeling. "Nowhere," she said, "I'm just stretching my back." I started wondering how much of what I had sensed was based on hearing, and how much was just based on feeling her leaving our little zone. Do blind people sense vibes better than seeing people, for example?

Another example: at one point, Jean-Claude made a sort of sexy comment to me because I had ordered a chocolate dessert. I laughed, because it was funny, but how could he know that I would take that sort of comment well? I cannot imagine a stuffy French woman laughing it off. Could he tell just by how I said, "Me," when he asked who ordered the fish, or was it something else? Seeing people generally use visual clues to make those sorts of judgements, but Jean-Claude knew nothing of me other than that I was American and that I had ordered fish and cake. Intersting, I thought.

Food eating was obviously more complicated, and naturally things like sharing food and cutting with a knife and fork took on entirely new levels of difficulty. But after about twenty minutes in the restaurant, I found the darkness comforting and I didn't really ever want to leave. I think we stayed about two and a half hours. I left, eventually, of course, but with an entirely new appreciation for how complicated eating a meal must be for blind people in a seeing world. It must be extremely intense at times.

The only snare in our soirée was the table next to us. The people there got drunk and obnoxious and used the darkness to be rather crude. At one point, Kathypath called them on it. It was a good thing. I guess people are more willing to be both a bit more rude and a bit more confrontational than usual when nobody knows who's responsible.

Also, when in pitch darkness, you see red. I was told it was that you're seeing the blood vessels in your eyes, but I found it pretty odd.

And one more note: leaving was really, really painful on the eyes. It took at least five minutes to recover.

And I met a great seeing-eye-dog on the way out, who really wanted to be my friend, and me his.

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.

I just read something another site about the first time the author saw a dead body. Because it's 12.50 am, I'm going discuss the same.

This was not the first time I had seen a dead body, however. I had seen at least one, maybe more, before. But Jaysis, this was the first time I really saw death.

Don't keep reading if you get upset easily.

It was early, early morning, somewhere around 7.00. It was either spring or fall - the kind of morning where everything is crisp but not yet cold. Sometimes on these kinds of mornings, things are very quiet - even in a big city like Paris. It's a bit like the silence after a snowfall.

My recollection tells me that I was with someone - Cristina maybe - but I honestly can't say if this is true. Whoever I was or wasn't with, I know I was following one of my typical routes. I rounded the corner from the back alley near the rue des Lombards, on my way to the metro stop at La Place Saint Opportune. It's a nice little plaza, surrounded by old Parisian buildings. During the day, people sit out on the terrace of a cafe on the corner and tourists buy postcards from the shop opposite.

Nobody was out that day. It was so calm I remember thinking it was nice to be out before everyone hits the streets. I also remember feeling very awake and refreshed, which was a rare thing for me early mornings when I was 20.

As I came around the corner, I took two steps and stopped dead in my tracks.

There was a man lying there, an open window above him, his head split open. A pool of blood was collecting around his head... it was about three feet in diameter by the time I saw him. His body was twisted, but it looked just like he was sleeping. One leg was hiked up, crooked at the knee. His head was set on the pavement as if it were a pillow.

How should one react when they see that? He was obviously dead. There was hardly anybody around. One of the few people was on her cell phone, calling for help.

I stared for a moment and tried to process what had happened. I made myself useless and noticed details. Maybe the brain doesn't know what else to do. I saw the blood swirling with the pavement, and I wondered why he was wearing a bomber jacket. One hand was under him, the other outstretched as if it tried to break the fall. He had only come from two floors up. He probably could have survived if he had hit the pavement differently.

And then I did a funny thing. I just left. I walked over to the metro stop a few feet away and shook it off.

Apparently, I also repressed the memory, because I hadn't thought of it since, until Kathypath brought it up last night. Now it keeps coming back in loops.

Kathypath and I sat in a small bar on a corner near the Centre Pompidou. We talked about everything and nothing - vegetarianism, roomates, and movies - and the people across from us laughed too loudly. The walls were covered with magazine cut-outs, some old, some new, and a woman's voice sang below in a bluesy, melancholy sort of way.

I baptized the place with the water from my Evian bottle and declared it out new hangout. She just laughed in t