life has been CRAZY lately! my mum came in on thursday and i finished work on friday. work was great! my job ended on such a high note, so much better than just a couple weeks prior, and i will really miss a lot of my coworkers. mommer bomber and i have been all over this wonderful city, freezing our behinds off. paris has gotten ridiculously cold (it's warm by wisco standards, but so cold for me...i have turned into a marshmallow, as my mother likes to call me) and there is not enough vin chaud in all of paris to keep me warm. when i return to madison, i will die. you will find me, in my baller rainbow moonboots, frozen on the sidewalk, with my tongue stuck to a metal pole. i can't wait. at least ill be wearing a foxy cap.
so what have my mother and i been up to? the better question is, what haven't we been up to? (hookers and midgets would be the answer to that question.) i took her to see the glory of the tour eiffel and it's twinkling goodness on the first night she was in town. she was able to go into a very cool establishment that i had an all-access pass to before (not anymore, minou's badges have been turned in) and mingle with government folks at a christmas partay. we have hiked around by the seine, seen 'le roi lion' (yes, french lion king, very unique and great!), and checked out my favorite place (lafayette) and all of it's christmas lights. i have shown her the most beautiful red lancel bag that i am dying to have. we have eaten tartes and macaroons and breads of all sizes. i took her to my market to meet my cheese ladies, and she even has an admirer - an old arab man who gave her free raspberries. what else? oh, montmartre with my dear friend marie, as well as a trip inside sacre coeur (i hadn't even done that - it's super neato!). we went to place des vosges today and wandered about in the jewish quarter. ooooooh i had the yummiest salmon bagel and an israeli beer. (i want to learn hebrew, this is my newest desire.) we have peed in bhv. we have watched little french children go sledding down a hill at hotel de ville. we have had many-a-trips to monoprix (heaven on earth). we sauntered up the champs elysees and admired the christmas lights. we walked through the outside part of the louvre and checked out the pyramid. she has worn a beret. i have worn a beret. we eat cheese. lots and lots of cheese. cheesecake, too.
she loves paris. she will be smoking like a chimney and prattling away in french by the time next week is over.
i am pooped.
leslie comes tomorrow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
CANT WAIT! merry christmas to me!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
the third time will be the f-ing charm.
one thing that drives me crazy in this city is the copious number of beggars. i can handle the people who do nothing, sleeping on the metro steps with their cats and dogs perched next to them. i can handle the musicians who wander through the metros, staying in your car for too many stops, playing sometimes horrible music (sometimes very good), hoping for a few euro cents (see, this isn't begging - it's working). BUT the beggar i can not handle is...
...the gypsy.
who is the gypsy?
the gypsy is the lady or child dressed in long black clothes who comes up and asks, "do you speak english?" or will stand in the metro station and yell, "does anyone speak english? i need someone who speaks english." AND the gypsy will often set up shop in a touristy area, such as sacre coeur or the eiffel tower, and come up to those people who look western (and by western i mean, american and rich) with a sign (written in perfect english) asking for help because they a) are from some wretchedly impoverished eastern european country, b) have ten children who are back in the slums starving (which is just bullshit, however many little gypsy children mama gypsy has, they are out hustling just like she is), or c) have just a general need for help and food.
let me take a moment here to turn away from the gypsy and turn to the general beggar population in general: i wait with beated breath for the day that i see a beggar with a sign saying, "j'ai soif," (i'm thirsty) rather than, "j'ai faim" (i'm hungry). i think that i would actually give someone money for their habit if they just came out and said they were going to go buy a cheap handle of vodka and get loaded.
back to the gypsy and my general dislike-edness. and to one gypsy in particular.
i had gone to concorde last week to meet up with a girlfriend for lunch. i got off of the metro at concorde, wearing what another friend calls my 'morbid habit,' black from head to toe. sexy black patent leather pumps, opaque black tights, short black sweater dress, black scarf, long black coat, black suede gloves, black bag. i did have bright green glittery hoop earrings in, just to give it that extra kick. apparently this is the outfit for 'rich.' oh, and i had my ipod going, which is just a little accessory for the 'rich.' i got off the metro and was approached by a woman. said woman DID NOT appear to be a gypsy. she asked if i spoke english. i just kind of starred at her, trying to figure out what she wanted. then she asked if i spoke french. i honestly thought that she was going to ask me for directions. i said, 'english,' giving her the benefit of the doubt. she then replied with a smile, 'i need money.' i could not have turned around and strutted off faster.
i wonder what it feels like to have so many people just walk past you, not giving you the time of day.
oh wait, i tried to sell books door-to-door. that was my experience being a beggar. IT SUCKS.
ok, so last week was incident number one with said gypsy woman.
i took a long stroll today. i started off at home, wandered towards republique via rue du faubourg de temple, and then took rue de temple to hotel de ville. it was a lovely sunny day, and i opted to be in transit above ground, using my legs, rather than taking the grungy metro. i wandered on the right bank of the seine, taking it all in, enjoying the view. once i had gotten past the louvre and to concorde, i crossed over and found the metro. my legs were getting tired and i really was desiring a nap. down to the concorde station i went. i searched for the 8 line. i whipped around a corner. i was on a mission. then i heard, 'do you speak english?' and saw the same beggar lady up in my face. there was a moment, just a split-second where i could see in her eyes that she knew she had asked me before, and that she knew better than to ask me twice.
she better know better than to ask me a third time. here is what will happen if she does...
"do you speak english?"
"yes."
"i need money."
"GET A FUCKING JOB AND STOP ASKING ME FOR MONEY!"
i actually kind of hope the third time occurs. maybe i will say, "CHERCHER UN PUTAIN DE TRAVAIL ET ARRETE ME DEMANDER POUR L'ARGENT!" which is the same sentiment in french. perhaps i will add, 'salope,' to the french version. 'bitch.'
hahaha je suis such a salope.
...the gypsy.
who is the gypsy?
the gypsy is the lady or child dressed in long black clothes who comes up and asks, "do you speak english?" or will stand in the metro station and yell, "does anyone speak english? i need someone who speaks english." AND the gypsy will often set up shop in a touristy area, such as sacre coeur or the eiffel tower, and come up to those people who look western (and by western i mean, american and rich) with a sign (written in perfect english) asking for help because they a) are from some wretchedly impoverished eastern european country, b) have ten children who are back in the slums starving (which is just bullshit, however many little gypsy children mama gypsy has, they are out hustling just like she is), or c) have just a general need for help and food.
let me take a moment here to turn away from the gypsy and turn to the general beggar population in general: i wait with beated breath for the day that i see a beggar with a sign saying, "j'ai soif," (i'm thirsty) rather than, "j'ai faim" (i'm hungry). i think that i would actually give someone money for their habit if they just came out and said they were going to go buy a cheap handle of vodka and get loaded.
back to the gypsy and my general dislike-edness. and to one gypsy in particular.
i had gone to concorde last week to meet up with a girlfriend for lunch. i got off of the metro at concorde, wearing what another friend calls my 'morbid habit,' black from head to toe. sexy black patent leather pumps, opaque black tights, short black sweater dress, black scarf, long black coat, black suede gloves, black bag. i did have bright green glittery hoop earrings in, just to give it that extra kick. apparently this is the outfit for 'rich.' oh, and i had my ipod going, which is just a little accessory for the 'rich.' i got off the metro and was approached by a woman. said woman DID NOT appear to be a gypsy. she asked if i spoke english. i just kind of starred at her, trying to figure out what she wanted. then she asked if i spoke french. i honestly thought that she was going to ask me for directions. i said, 'english,' giving her the benefit of the doubt. she then replied with a smile, 'i need money.' i could not have turned around and strutted off faster.
i wonder what it feels like to have so many people just walk past you, not giving you the time of day.
oh wait, i tried to sell books door-to-door. that was my experience being a beggar. IT SUCKS.
ok, so last week was incident number one with said gypsy woman.
i took a long stroll today. i started off at home, wandered towards republique via rue du faubourg de temple, and then took rue de temple to hotel de ville. it was a lovely sunny day, and i opted to be in transit above ground, using my legs, rather than taking the grungy metro. i wandered on the right bank of the seine, taking it all in, enjoying the view. once i had gotten past the louvre and to concorde, i crossed over and found the metro. my legs were getting tired and i really was desiring a nap. down to the concorde station i went. i searched for the 8 line. i whipped around a corner. i was on a mission. then i heard, 'do you speak english?' and saw the same beggar lady up in my face. there was a moment, just a split-second where i could see in her eyes that she knew she had asked me before, and that she knew better than to ask me twice.
she better know better than to ask me a third time. here is what will happen if she does...
"do you speak english?"
"yes."
"i need money."
"GET A FUCKING JOB AND STOP ASKING ME FOR MONEY!"
i actually kind of hope the third time occurs. maybe i will say, "CHERCHER UN PUTAIN DE TRAVAIL ET ARRETE ME DEMANDER POUR L'ARGENT!" which is the same sentiment in french. perhaps i will add, 'salope,' to the french version. 'bitch.'
hahaha je suis such a salope.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
batteries and toothbrushes
today is saturday. there are certain activities one does not do on saturdays. one does not wake up early. one does not do work. and one especially does not go shopping (unless, of course, one is a masochist). but as christmas is fast approaching and as my mom will be arriving in less than a week, i had to finish up a few christmas gifts. now, i must say, i really hate christmas shopping. there is nothing more annoying than not knowing what to buy for someone, but feeling obligated to, as it is christmas and i would look like a total shmuck if they gave me something and i had just a big smile to give them for their present. alas, i went shopping. i made it to lafayette because there were certain things i wanted for certain people (myself being one of those certain peoples - i can buy myself christmas presents, too). even after only being open for 30 minutes, it was getting packed. i become the biggest scrooge in that store on saturdays. i don't think the french would understand if i just said, 'oh, bah humbug,' but perhaps i will try it the next i am there on a saturday. i found a few things and peaced out before it got busier. i made my way to lafayette maison to check on a gift idea, but opted to peace out as the crowds were increasing.
i made my way towards the madeline (what is the madeline - besides a cookie? does anyone know? im too lazy to look it up.) and then towards concorde. place de la madeline (i dont even think it's spelled correctly) is fabulous. it is a foodie's paradise. the famous parisian gourmet food shop, fauchon, is located here and it is just beautiful. yes, you can window shop in amazement at a food store. the pastries and tartes and cakes that they have there, oh my! it really is beautiful.
i circled the madeline and found rue royale. i have a love/hate relationship with this street. actually, this whole part of town. it is the super glamorous ritzy area. rue royale has all of the big name designers - dior and gucci look so beautiful this time of year. la duree is right there, too, with lines of people waiting to pick up their scrumptious macaroons (which i still have yet to try - i love macaroons so i hope la duree is not a let down). i made my way up rue de rivoli, searching for a gift idea i had seen a few weeks ago. i had no luck with said gift and wound up wondering why i was walking up rivoli on a saturday. rue de rivoli is on one side of the louvre. of course this area is going to be jam packed with tourists on a saturday. i found the metro and made my way home. on the metro, i had an interesting fashion experience...
there was a man, reasonably attractive, who was wearing the most god-awful pants i have ever seen. it wasn't even the pants - it was the pants on his legs. these were the epitomy of skinny jeans. and the thing is, this dude was just not that skinny. don't get me wrong, he was not large and in charge, but he definitely had some meat on his bones. skinny jeans on the right body can look amazing. a stylish guy in skinny jeans who has a nice ass, mmm, it's just fashionably delicious. but on the wrong body, rubbish. this poor guy's pants were skin tight at the bottom (as they should be), but as they approached his crotch, it just got all wrong. they were far too tight in front, i felt bad for the poor sap and wondered how he got any blood circulating in such an area. and then i saw his ass. and this is where it's just wrong. they were not tight on his behind and it just looked like he had pooped his pants. i'm sorry, no self-respecting 20-something would leave home looking like they couldn't hold it in. it was just all bad.
i noticed this man's pants dilemma while we were waiting for the 11 metro at hotel de ville. i believe he caught me admiring his, eh, hot ass (?), as when the metro arrived, we sat facing each other and there was this very awkward starring contest going on. i was trying desperately not to look at his pants, but every time i did, he would look away from me.
the moral of this story: do not wear skinny jeans if they make your ass look like you never escaped the diaper years.
i made my way to villette, went to my favorite boulanger for my favorite retrodor aux grains, and then visited my egg/cheese lady for this week's supply of eggs. i had just a lovely little conversation about how i hated buying christmas presents and that i have no room in my suitcase for them. and then i bought eggs and said my 'bon journee, au revoir, a la prochaine,' and came home to concoct my famous garlic and onion soup. yes, i am feeling a tad sick. nothing cures a cold like eight cloves of garlic. or scares of sexy men who want to make out with me.
it is a rainy day in paris. but as nothing is open tomorrow, i opted to get groceries today to avoid starvation tomorrow. i ran down to lidl, forgetting that i have rainboots, and days like today are what they live for. i bought a bit too much stuff to fit in my sac (you have to buy plastic bags here, i do not buy bags - i bring my own) so there i was, in the pouring rain, with a 12-pack of TP, a jumbo-pack of yogurt, and a big bag of green beans in my right hand and arm, heavy longchamp bag of food on my left, trying to open my umbrella and not spill everything in the street. i dodged puddles and laughed the whole way home. nothing says class like walking home carrying a big bag of frozen green beans.
lidl does not have bonne maman jam, which is only the best condiment ever (i would lick this stuff off of anyone, yes, even hitler). if there was not a weight limit on my suitcase, i would just fill the whole thing up with bonne maman. it is amazing. there are an insane amount of flavors. there are jams made out of fruits i have never heard of. i needed to buy more of this so i made my way (with rainboots on, this time) to franprix. i found my jam. and then i had another mystery...
batteries. i have an electric toothbrush and it has died. i cannot buy regular toothbrushes because i tend to do random household chores while i am brushing my teeth, and then forget that i was brushing my teeth and end up clenching my toothbrush in my jaw. if you have ever seen a kendra toothbrush, you have laughed and asked how long i have had it. you can't clench an electric toothbrush in your jaw - it is just too heavy. (believe you me, though, i have tried it) so, i was on a search for batteries. i found light bulbs, and generally, batteries are not far away. no such luck. i tired of looking and gave up. 'ok, ill just get a regular fucking cheapo toothbrush and have my mom bring me batteries this week.' then it got interesting...i couldn't find a fucking toothbrush, either. i found toothpaste. i did not find a toothbrush. aren't they complimentary products? i was at a loss for words.
i got in the checkout. there, in the glass case behind the register, were a whole slew of batteries and a whole slew of toothbrushes. i wondered if they knew that i would be coming to buy supplies for my oral hygeine and that they feared i would steal it all. i really have to say that it is a pain in the ass for the customer, as well as the cashier, to have to go behind the register and pick out stuff like this. maybe i should have just gotten a toothbrush - that would have seemed funnier than batteries. i mean, some of these toothbrushes were mega cheap.
which leads me to say, this is france. not target. they hold certain things, such as toothbrushes and batteries, to a very high esteem and will lock them up.
i wonder if the states have a high rate of toothbrush theft...
OH, and i also picked up a box of lion cereal. (cuz im so ferocious, right) lion bars are my favorite candy bars. they are british (i think) and just delicious. i tried the cereal, not too bad. just like your typical cocoa pebbles. it is the french version of lucky charms, for me.
oh lucky charms, how i miss thee.
i made my way towards the madeline (what is the madeline - besides a cookie? does anyone know? im too lazy to look it up.) and then towards concorde. place de la madeline (i dont even think it's spelled correctly) is fabulous. it is a foodie's paradise. the famous parisian gourmet food shop, fauchon, is located here and it is just beautiful. yes, you can window shop in amazement at a food store. the pastries and tartes and cakes that they have there, oh my! it really is beautiful.
i circled the madeline and found rue royale. i have a love/hate relationship with this street. actually, this whole part of town. it is the super glamorous ritzy area. rue royale has all of the big name designers - dior and gucci look so beautiful this time of year. la duree is right there, too, with lines of people waiting to pick up their scrumptious macaroons (which i still have yet to try - i love macaroons so i hope la duree is not a let down). i made my way up rue de rivoli, searching for a gift idea i had seen a few weeks ago. i had no luck with said gift and wound up wondering why i was walking up rivoli on a saturday. rue de rivoli is on one side of the louvre. of course this area is going to be jam packed with tourists on a saturday. i found the metro and made my way home. on the metro, i had an interesting fashion experience...
there was a man, reasonably attractive, who was wearing the most god-awful pants i have ever seen. it wasn't even the pants - it was the pants on his legs. these were the epitomy of skinny jeans. and the thing is, this dude was just not that skinny. don't get me wrong, he was not large and in charge, but he definitely had some meat on his bones. skinny jeans on the right body can look amazing. a stylish guy in skinny jeans who has a nice ass, mmm, it's just fashionably delicious. but on the wrong body, rubbish. this poor guy's pants were skin tight at the bottom (as they should be), but as they approached his crotch, it just got all wrong. they were far too tight in front, i felt bad for the poor sap and wondered how he got any blood circulating in such an area. and then i saw his ass. and this is where it's just wrong. they were not tight on his behind and it just looked like he had pooped his pants. i'm sorry, no self-respecting 20-something would leave home looking like they couldn't hold it in. it was just all bad.
i noticed this man's pants dilemma while we were waiting for the 11 metro at hotel de ville. i believe he caught me admiring his, eh, hot ass (?), as when the metro arrived, we sat facing each other and there was this very awkward starring contest going on. i was trying desperately not to look at his pants, but every time i did, he would look away from me.
the moral of this story: do not wear skinny jeans if they make your ass look like you never escaped the diaper years.
i made my way to villette, went to my favorite boulanger for my favorite retrodor aux grains, and then visited my egg/cheese lady for this week's supply of eggs. i had just a lovely little conversation about how i hated buying christmas presents and that i have no room in my suitcase for them. and then i bought eggs and said my 'bon journee, au revoir, a la prochaine,' and came home to concoct my famous garlic and onion soup. yes, i am feeling a tad sick. nothing cures a cold like eight cloves of garlic. or scares of sexy men who want to make out with me.
it is a rainy day in paris. but as nothing is open tomorrow, i opted to get groceries today to avoid starvation tomorrow. i ran down to lidl, forgetting that i have rainboots, and days like today are what they live for. i bought a bit too much stuff to fit in my sac (you have to buy plastic bags here, i do not buy bags - i bring my own) so there i was, in the pouring rain, with a 12-pack of TP, a jumbo-pack of yogurt, and a big bag of green beans in my right hand and arm, heavy longchamp bag of food on my left, trying to open my umbrella and not spill everything in the street. i dodged puddles and laughed the whole way home. nothing says class like walking home carrying a big bag of frozen green beans.
lidl does not have bonne maman jam, which is only the best condiment ever (i would lick this stuff off of anyone, yes, even hitler). if there was not a weight limit on my suitcase, i would just fill the whole thing up with bonne maman. it is amazing. there are an insane amount of flavors. there are jams made out of fruits i have never heard of. i needed to buy more of this so i made my way (with rainboots on, this time) to franprix. i found my jam. and then i had another mystery...
batteries. i have an electric toothbrush and it has died. i cannot buy regular toothbrushes because i tend to do random household chores while i am brushing my teeth, and then forget that i was brushing my teeth and end up clenching my toothbrush in my jaw. if you have ever seen a kendra toothbrush, you have laughed and asked how long i have had it. you can't clench an electric toothbrush in your jaw - it is just too heavy. (believe you me, though, i have tried it) so, i was on a search for batteries. i found light bulbs, and generally, batteries are not far away. no such luck. i tired of looking and gave up. 'ok, ill just get a regular fucking cheapo toothbrush and have my mom bring me batteries this week.' then it got interesting...i couldn't find a fucking toothbrush, either. i found toothpaste. i did not find a toothbrush. aren't they complimentary products? i was at a loss for words.
i got in the checkout. there, in the glass case behind the register, were a whole slew of batteries and a whole slew of toothbrushes. i wondered if they knew that i would be coming to buy supplies for my oral hygeine and that they feared i would steal it all. i really have to say that it is a pain in the ass for the customer, as well as the cashier, to have to go behind the register and pick out stuff like this. maybe i should have just gotten a toothbrush - that would have seemed funnier than batteries. i mean, some of these toothbrushes were mega cheap.
which leads me to say, this is france. not target. they hold certain things, such as toothbrushes and batteries, to a very high esteem and will lock them up.
i wonder if the states have a high rate of toothbrush theft...
OH, and i also picked up a box of lion cereal. (cuz im so ferocious, right) lion bars are my favorite candy bars. they are british (i think) and just delicious. i tried the cereal, not too bad. just like your typical cocoa pebbles. it is the french version of lucky charms, for me.
oh lucky charms, how i miss thee.
Monday, December 3, 2007
a pussycat? in pussycat's apartment?
it was any other typical night at my apartment. i had returned from picking up my dry cleaning, went back out to grab a retrodor aux grains from my local boulanger, and came home to wind down for the night. i finished up some writing and was about to take a nice hot bath. then i heard a noise. meowing. i listened. more meowing. 
was there a kitty outside my door? yayayay a kitty! kitties melt my heart. my cold, baby-hating heart loves kitties, and the smaller, the better. i went to my door and began to open my locks. then i looked down at the ground. a tiny little black kitten walked out of my bedroom towards me. it was purring and let out a couple squeaks. where had this creature come from? it was just precious!
my first thought on where it had appeared from was a little vent i recently saw in my bathroom, above my shower, next to the ceiling. i had never seen it before, but as it has been getting colder, i heard it blowing hot air into my bathroom this weekend. im guessing that my upstairs neighbors just turned on their heater. anyway, my guess was that the kitty had come from the vent.
i didn't care, i had fallen madly in love. i had the biggest smile on my face. i gave my new kitty some milk. we played on my floor. i petted the beautiful little kitten, wondering where on earth i could find a little box in my neighborhood. i remembered that i had a can of tuna in my cupboard, and i was ready to open it up.
then my doorbell rang. my doorbell never rings. i knew it was kitty's owner. TRISTE! he was a very nice young man and the look of relief on his face after me opening the door and holding his little kitten was wonderful. the kitten's name is bibo and he lives on the third floor.
between the gay man who loved my karen millen and the little kitten that would, my heart has been melted. my heart is happy.
mom, can i have a kitten from christmas?
was there a kitty outside my door? yayayay a kitty! kitties melt my heart. my cold, baby-hating heart loves kitties, and the smaller, the better. i went to my door and began to open my locks. then i looked down at the ground. a tiny little black kitten walked out of my bedroom towards me. it was purring and let out a couple squeaks. where had this creature come from? it was just precious! my first thought on where it had appeared from was a little vent i recently saw in my bathroom, above my shower, next to the ceiling. i had never seen it before, but as it has been getting colder, i heard it blowing hot air into my bathroom this weekend. im guessing that my upstairs neighbors just turned on their heater. anyway, my guess was that the kitty had come from the vent.
i didn't care, i had fallen madly in love. i had the biggest smile on my face. i gave my new kitty some milk. we played on my floor. i petted the beautiful little kitten, wondering where on earth i could find a little box in my neighborhood. i remembered that i had a can of tuna in my cupboard, and i was ready to open it up.
then my doorbell rang. my doorbell never rings. i knew it was kitty's owner. TRISTE! he was a very nice young man and the look of relief on his face after me opening the door and holding his little kitten was wonderful. the kitten's name is bibo and he lives on the third floor.
between the gay man who loved my karen millen and the little kitten that would, my heart has been melted. my heart is happy.
mom, can i have a kitten from christmas?
the gay man who stole my heart
a couple weeks ago, i spilled lebanese garlic sauce on my long black wool/cashmere coat. no big, i had been meaning to get it dry cleaned anyway. i took it to the cleaners on friday and will retrieve it after i finish writing this. but as it is monday and i had to go to work, i was left with no warm coat to wear. paris isn't that cold, but i am a wimp, and therefore wanted my long black coat.
i opted for my beautiful karen millen, utterly chic yet completely impractical, coat. that gorgeous creation that makes me so happy to see hanging in my closet. i wore an extra thin suit jacket underneath, just to stay warm. this coat is amazing. it is a piece that you would wear in antarctica because it is so beautiful and because it would keep the fire in your heart burning and alive, even though all appendages, chic as they may be, will be frostbitten.
i left work early with the hopes of catching a calm metro. i strutted my way down to the platform and i saw this man with a very nice ass, but this ass was just sticking out in the most unusual way as he gawked at a metro map hanging on the wall. i pondered the reason for this - simply a person could bend their knees and crouch down to see which lines needed to be taken to get where one needed to go. but no, this man clearly stuck his ass out like it was going out of style. what was not going out of style was the way he was dressed - skinny leg levi's with that great wash, perfect fit for that protruding ass, cream-colored chucks, army fatigue jacket. when the metro came, i noticed that he had gotten in the same car as i had. i stood there, having an idyllic moment with my ipod. i noticed him grooming himself in the window of the metro, combing through that greasy black hair, speckled with long grey strands. he fixed his collar and then re-fixed his hair. once he was satisfied with his appearance, he turned to me.
i couldnt help but notice him admiring my beautiful blue-grey floral jaquard karen millen piece of amazing craftsmanship. i saw him trying to figure out who it was by, just as i will secretly turn off my ipod and listen to people's crazy foreign languages and try to determine where they are from. and then he tapped my shoulder and motioned for me to take out my earbuds. he asked (in french, bien sur) where my coat was from. i had no idea what his words literally meant, but i knew what his question was aimed at. i told him i didn't speak good french and he asked if i spoke english. he asked where i had gotten my coat from, i responded with karen, and he said, 'oh yes, karen millen!' as if she was the newest dior (she is, i must say). he said he just loved it. i said thank you.
my night was made. he got off at trocadero. i was a bit sad to see him leave. i now know, however, that he is out there, changing the world, making it better, more fashionable place.
I LOVE THIS CITY!
i opted for my beautiful karen millen, utterly chic yet completely impractical, coat. that gorgeous creation that makes me so happy to see hanging in my closet. i wore an extra thin suit jacket underneath, just to stay warm. this coat is amazing. it is a piece that you would wear in antarctica because it is so beautiful and because it would keep the fire in your heart burning and alive, even though all appendages, chic as they may be, will be frostbitten.
i left work early with the hopes of catching a calm metro. i strutted my way down to the platform and i saw this man with a very nice ass, but this ass was just sticking out in the most unusual way as he gawked at a metro map hanging on the wall. i pondered the reason for this - simply a person could bend their knees and crouch down to see which lines needed to be taken to get where one needed to go. but no, this man clearly stuck his ass out like it was going out of style. what was not going out of style was the way he was dressed - skinny leg levi's with that great wash, perfect fit for that protruding ass, cream-colored chucks, army fatigue jacket. when the metro came, i noticed that he had gotten in the same car as i had. i stood there, having an idyllic moment with my ipod. i noticed him grooming himself in the window of the metro, combing through that greasy black hair, speckled with long grey strands. he fixed his collar and then re-fixed his hair. once he was satisfied with his appearance, he turned to me.
i couldnt help but notice him admiring my beautiful blue-grey floral jaquard karen millen piece of amazing craftsmanship. i saw him trying to figure out who it was by, just as i will secretly turn off my ipod and listen to people's crazy foreign languages and try to determine where they are from. and then he tapped my shoulder and motioned for me to take out my earbuds. he asked (in french, bien sur) where my coat was from. i had no idea what his words literally meant, but i knew what his question was aimed at. i told him i didn't speak good french and he asked if i spoke english. he asked where i had gotten my coat from, i responded with karen, and he said, 'oh yes, karen millen!' as if she was the newest dior (she is, i must say). he said he just loved it. i said thank you.
my night was made. he got off at trocadero. i was a bit sad to see him leave. i now know, however, that he is out there, changing the world, making it better, more fashionable place.
I LOVE THIS CITY!
Saturday, December 1, 2007
my realization...thanks to lana
i was chatting with my dear friend lana this afternoon. she studied in paris with me last year and can fully relate to my love for paris. i am considering getting my nose pierced and she reminded me that it is much more common to see nose piercings in paris than in the states. the comment, 'quirky' came up in reference to nose piercings, as well as parisians in general.
and then it hit me.
i'm quirky. i am the epitomy of quirky, weird, different, strange, out there, yada yada yada.
i can be quirky here. I FIT IN. nobody gives a shit here what you wear, you'll never see these people again. paris is diverse. paris is quirky. paris is huge. this is what i need. i feel like i belong. i dont feel like that in madison. i am a dork and i love my fellow dorky parisians.
and lana, i did think of you at the crepe place. i actually said outloud, 'now this goes out to lana!'
love you.
and then it hit me.
i'm quirky. i am the epitomy of quirky, weird, different, strange, out there, yada yada yada.
i can be quirky here. I FIT IN. nobody gives a shit here what you wear, you'll never see these people again. paris is diverse. paris is quirky. paris is huge. this is what i need. i feel like i belong. i dont feel like that in madison. i am a dork and i love my fellow dorky parisians.
and lana, i did think of you at the crepe place. i actually said outloud, 'now this goes out to lana!'
love you.
im becoming one of them
and by them, i mean, 'the french.'
i just created an account with french itunes. having a carte bleue is coming in handier and handier every day. there is this paris-born, israeli-raised singer named yael naim who rocks my world. but, of course, american itunes does not have her. but after some searching on myspace and seeing that it could be downloaded via french itunes, i opted to make my own account.
and voila, i now have yael naim, as well as vanessa paradis, to listen to.
this seems completely normal. i had a tarte and tea this afternoon and wrote for awhile. i will meet a friend at 8 for a crepe at my favorite creperie. completely normal, again.
i wore my fox cap today. i would think twice about wearing such a chapeau back in madison, for fear that the animal rights people would throw paint on it. (i dont eat animal, so i can wear it.) but here, tons of people wear fur. i kind of want a fur coat now. back in the states, never would have happened. i think fur looks tacky in the states. here, it is just chic and beautiful and warm.
and to state the obvious, i have what my dear friend calls a 'morbid obsession' with black. the word 'color' does not really exist in my vocabulary anymore, unless, of course, you consider black to be a color, rather than just space void of color. the french...black. americans...color. i even wear tons of black liquid eyeliner now. it's mad sexy and it's mad french. the french can be sexy. they are sexy. they exude sexy-ness. in america, you have to be tame, otherwise you're a slut. so rigid, regulated. sexy vs. slutty? ill take sexy, merci beaucoup.
im turning french.
and i dont even suck at the language anymore. note prior post of how i rejected a man in nearly perfect french.
what am i going to do without tarte and afternoon tea, crepes and roasted chestnuts, seedy men and chic women, bonne maman jam in every possible flavor and fruit, nutella in jars that put any jumbo jar of skippy to shame? what will i do without lidl? my cheese mongers? lion bars, milka, baguette, pain au chocolat, do not even get me started on the pastries...
i am bringing two large jars of nutella home. i will cry and listen to vanessa paradis and yael naim and eat nutella with a spoon. i will also take bonne maman home, in all the weird flavors i cant get in the states.
i love america. but i love france, too. america is so comfortable. i know america. i speak english. i fumble through french. i get paris, but the rest of france, no idea.
maybe ill have some wine, smoke a cig, and ponder this predicament i am in. and yes, it will be to something downloaded via itunes.fr.
i just created an account with french itunes. having a carte bleue is coming in handier and handier every day. there is this paris-born, israeli-raised singer named yael naim who rocks my world. but, of course, american itunes does not have her. but after some searching on myspace and seeing that it could be downloaded via french itunes, i opted to make my own account.
and voila, i now have yael naim, as well as vanessa paradis, to listen to.
this seems completely normal. i had a tarte and tea this afternoon and wrote for awhile. i will meet a friend at 8 for a crepe at my favorite creperie. completely normal, again.
i wore my fox cap today. i would think twice about wearing such a chapeau back in madison, for fear that the animal rights people would throw paint on it. (i dont eat animal, so i can wear it.) but here, tons of people wear fur. i kind of want a fur coat now. back in the states, never would have happened. i think fur looks tacky in the states. here, it is just chic and beautiful and warm.
and to state the obvious, i have what my dear friend calls a 'morbid obsession' with black. the word 'color' does not really exist in my vocabulary anymore, unless, of course, you consider black to be a color, rather than just space void of color. the french...black. americans...color. i even wear tons of black liquid eyeliner now. it's mad sexy and it's mad french. the french can be sexy. they are sexy. they exude sexy-ness. in america, you have to be tame, otherwise you're a slut. so rigid, regulated. sexy vs. slutty? ill take sexy, merci beaucoup.
im turning french.
and i dont even suck at the language anymore. note prior post of how i rejected a man in nearly perfect french.
what am i going to do without tarte and afternoon tea, crepes and roasted chestnuts, seedy men and chic women, bonne maman jam in every possible flavor and fruit, nutella in jars that put any jumbo jar of skippy to shame? what will i do without lidl? my cheese mongers? lion bars, milka, baguette, pain au chocolat, do not even get me started on the pastries...
i am bringing two large jars of nutella home. i will cry and listen to vanessa paradis and yael naim and eat nutella with a spoon. i will also take bonne maman home, in all the weird flavors i cant get in the states.
i love america. but i love france, too. america is so comfortable. i know america. i speak english. i fumble through french. i get paris, but the rest of france, no idea.
maybe ill have some wine, smoke a cig, and ponder this predicament i am in. and yes, it will be to something downloaded via itunes.fr.
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