Re-Entry

In 12 hours, I will be waiting outside my apartment for a shuttle to pick me up at take me to Charles de Gaulle for the last time in the foreseeable future. This morning I packed up the kitty and we took the RER and then a bus to some remote freight area at CDG. When I walked up to the office, the agent poked his head out the window to welcome me. After the days I spent on the phone with this guy, I'm sure the only little girl holding a baby blue pet carrier would be me. After swiping my credit card (and holding my breath until it cleared) and filling out some paperwork, his assistant drove Puck and I over to a warehouse to pass him off. Something went wrong with his paperwork. I didn't even bother to ask what was happening, mostly because I was too busy trying not to vomit everywhere. My some miracle, they let him through and the assistant dropped me back at the RER station. I will be freaking out until I pick him up in San Francisco. Or I get the text message that he's been put in quarantine and hence held hostage in the UK. Fucking England and their ridiculous laws.

I came back today to my quiet, messy apartment and tried with all my might to take a nap. The hum of nerves has kicked in and I was only able sleep about 20 minutes. So instead I've been packing up all afternoon, and soon I will be cleaning. All of my stuff seems to fit in my bags, so that's a good sign. At 7:30 tomorrow, cross your fingers, the shuttle will pick me up and I'll be gone.

I don't even know what to expect, or how it's going to feel. The way I deal with things is to throw myself into the present and push out any longing for the past. So I've basically, totally forgotten what my life in San Francisco was like and totally thrown myself into this life in Paris. I know that 9 months is a drop in the bucket and that I'm no where near calling Paris my "home," but I'm so entrenched here that the thought of starting over -- again -- is terrifying. That's what I do, I make a life. I go to school, I work, I find a gym, I pin-point which supermarkets sell which stuff and the best place to buy beauty products (it's the Champion at the Italie 2 mall, so you know). I've triangulated which newsstands are open on Sundays so I can always picked up an Elle or Glamour on the way to the gym. I have my favorite restaurants, favorite crepe stand, favorite boutiques. I'm comfortable here.

I haven't romanticized Paris in the least. Before this year, I'd already spent two weeks doing the "ooh, ahh" touristy thing, and this time it was just about making a life here. I don't have endless pictures of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame and all the other places. In fact I don't have many pictures of it at all. The past couple days, I thought about going to buy souvenirs and take pictures and visit my favorite places again. But instead of doing all of that right now, while I'm a nervous wreck, I'll save it for when I come back.

So this blog is more or less dunzo. I'll post about my re-indoctrination into American life, and I will definitely post the completely tales of Lauren and I's adventures in Greece. Until then. . .à plus.

Débrouillarde

So the calm and comfort I was beginning to feel on Tuesday was unceremoniously smashed upon calling up British Airways to reserve a spot for Puck. Before booking I had checked to make sure they accept animals, but apparently even though he is accompanied, Puck cannot fly in the baggage hold during my flights. He has to fly unaccompanied as cargo, a whole mess of rules and regulations that I was not prepared for. Least of all was I prepared for the price -- about 500 euros. To get him here was supposed to cost $175 but by some miracle ended up being $70. Anyway, this 500 euro price includes two flights and an overnight stay in London, because the only plane going from Paris to London the day I leave isn't leaving until 5 pm.

Even so, this was way more than the about 300 euro I'd conserved to get him home and perhaps buy myself a new cell phone. So I called around to pretty much every airline with cargo. Air Canada told me to fuck off and use an American airline. The cunt at United said I'd have to call the Paris cargo office, but suggested I look up the number online or in the phone book. The dimwit at American Airlines gave me two numbers that don't exist. There was a brief glimmer of hope from Air France, who in fact had a direct flight from Paris to San Francisco that would be unloading around the time I got into SFO myself. Unforunately, they wanted about 700 euros. How could it be so expensive for the direct flight? Anyway, I gave up and I am waiting for the all-clear from British Airways. I'll put it on my credit card, I'll pay it off -- that is life and motherhood. I can't very well leave him in Paris. In fact this whole thing reminded me that he needed another health certificate. I flew Air Canada to get here in August, where he was baggage. But I did all the EU animal immigration footwork and got him: a health certificate (in French), a 15-digit European microchip, and a rabies vaccination. Naturally, no one asked a shred of evidence when I was leaving LAX or arriving at CDG. Although now since I won't be there, I'm sure it will be. So yesterday in my frenzy, I looked up English-speaking vets in the 6th arrondisement. The woman I thought I was calling apparently handed her practice over to someone who doesn't really speak English, but as per usual, it wasn't even necessary. Same thing happened when I opened my bank account at an English-speaking branch, or tried to speak English on the phone with the Air France people. One day, I will realize that I speak French.

So this morning, Puck and I took the bus about 10 minutes down to Saint-Placide and had a short, sweet (read: 20 minutes) appointment with Dr. Rodriguez. He didn't weigh him or take his temperature, but I now have a new international health certificate for Puck, all for 50 euros. In San Francisco I usually take him to the SPCA, where they charged me $45 for the appointment and another $50 for the USDA certificate. Sometimes France is actually civilized.


So this drama all got kicked-off a couple hours before I left for Nanterre to take a final. Luckily it was my BS American Civilization class and an essay on Common Sense, which was my summer book report for AP US history (remember those good times?). If it didn't go well, I'll tell MICEFA to burn the grade sheet and pretend I never took the class.

Anyway, while on the train to the final I decided I'm going to get "Breathe" tattooed on me, probably on my rib cage (though I've heard it hurts like a bitch). I emailed my mom about it and she offered to pay for it. What has the world come to? When I was little, my mom used to see tattooed and pierced people and snicker while I chided her for being judgmental. When I was 12, after years of begging, my mom FINALLY let me get my ears pierced for my Bat Mitzvah. Then it was "nothing else until you're out of the house." A couple years later I got my step dad to take me to get second holes when my mom was out of town, which she didn't like but didn't freak out about. Then when I was sixteen there were the third holes in my ears, followed two days later by the belly button ring piercing that she drove me to (but I used my own 65 bucks). Flash to last summer and the woman is getting an ohm tattooed on her back at Sole Patch on Haight while I take pictures for my photojournalism class. My, how things change. I've also decided that I want "Débrouillarde" tattooed on my hairline, just behind my ear. I think I've earned it.

Ratée, crevée, embêtée

Save for a couple moments, I've spent the last couple of days just hibernating. The fog and fatigue of moving and disorientation is finally starting to wear off, though I'm not sure if that's because I'm comfortable or I'm just freaking out about finals and a paper so I'm forcing myself to deal.

On Sunday morning I got up at a normal time to hit up Champion. I'd already mapped out the grocery stores in my new neighborhood, but then I realized that I wouldn't be up for shopping on Saturday and that the chances of finding a grocery store on Sunday are slim. Luckily, this particular Champion is open until 1 pm on Sunday. Unluckily, the entire world was in on the secret and the place was totally packed. After I fought my way through and got back home, I ate lunch and went to the gym like a normal Sunday afternoon. Lauren got in that evening and we went out to the 11th to meet up with Mike, eat some kebabs, and wait for their friend Zac to show up. On the way to meet Mike we drank some canned prosecco that Lauren had bought on a plane from Prague, then followed it up with some limoncello in their hotel room and some South African wine on the Pont des Arts. I decided we should be very cheesy and drink wine on the Pont des Arts and watch the 1 am Eiffel Tower light show. Unfortunately Zac left the wine at my place so Lauren and I went to get it, and when we came back they had been cornered by two drunk/stoned jackasses. It was all well and good until Mike and Zac were really ready to leave. I ended up getting in a little French spat with one of them because he wouldn't give my wine glass back (and had already broken another of them). I finally realized I should give it up because the last thing I needed was to get stabbed by some banlieusard-mahgrebain in the middle of the night. So we moved our selves to the statue at Odeon and ended the night there.

On Monday morning, Lauren and I woke up after about 6 hours of sleep and hit up Starbucks before seeing the 10:25 am showing of Sex and the City at UGC Danton. It was a very American experience. And after we met up with the guys to get some crepes and so they could help Lauren get her to stuff to the bus station.

After they left, I listened to a voice message from my ex-property manager, telling me that the studio wasn't clean enough the way I left it. Of course I nearly vomited because the last thing I want to do is give up part of my security deposit for cleaning. When I moved out of the Villas they had a professional cleaning crew come in before they could turn the apartment over, and I feel like an hour or two with one person cleaning after a 9 month stay isn't totally ridiculous. But unfortunately I think I'm going to have to pay for it. The property manager said that she'd explain to the cleaning lady that (in French) "the current generation of young people has a different understanding of house-cleaning." How fucking insulting. I know she's trying to help me out but I don't think my age has anything to do with it. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that even though I asked her to, the property manager never came before I moved out to tell me what needed to be done in the apartment. My lease is according to California law, therefore I am entitled to a scheduled inspection. Oh well. I'll probably end up paying for it because my landlady hates me and jumps at the chance to get hysterical over any perceived mistake.

So I tried to take a nap yesterday but it just wasn't happening. Instead I tried to soothe my nerves with sedentary eating and Queer as Folk. It sort of worked. However today I have a final that I need to at least brush up on before I take it. Although I also slept 11 1/2 hours last night, so I think I can handle it. And then on Thursday I'm making up the final I missed last week. I'm resenting this whole week a bit because it's just making me want to leave Paris, but I know that I don't actually want to get out of here. When I get back will be a whole new set of drama with apartment-finding and moving and summer school and work. It's just never-ending no matter what you do.

Movin' on up

Today was the culmination of about three days of nerves and paralysis. Whenever I get overwhelmed, I turn into a sort of vegetable. In this guess, I blew off some schoolwork because I was too numbed to think about anything but packing and cleaning. This morning I called a cab to take me to my new apartment (at 23 rue Dauphine in the 6th, for those interested), dropped off my magnanimous bags and the kitty, then took the metro straight back to Mouffetard. Before heading back to the studio for the daunting task of cleaning, I got an egg, cheese, and chicken crepe and it was fucking incredible. I've only eaten a handful of crepes in the last 9 months and while that seems strange, I actually don't regret it.
Anyway, I returned to my almost-not-anymore home to eat my crepe and fire up the laptop for a Queer as Folk/heavy-duty cleaning marathon. After about 4 hours of scrubbing, sweeping, and lint-rolling, I was all done. At one point I sat in my foyer with my doormat and a roll of packing tape, practically waxing the thing to get all of the cat hair off of it. I had to do the same thing to the desk chair and the bedroll. Ironically, you wouldn't even know I had a cat right now, because he hid himself under the sink in the new studio this morning and I haven't seen him since. The only reason I know he's still down there is because I reached down and accidentally pulled his ear when I was looking for him. This is his way of punishing me for jostling him so much. Oh and making him ride in the car.
Anyway, I called myself cab #2 of the day around 4:30 and took the rest of my shit to my new place, stopping at my property manager's office on the way to shove my keys in the mail slot. She called me earlier and I just flat out refused to speak French in my frazzled state. I also called the English-speaking cab company. Sometimes you have to punk out. I did speak to the cab drivers in French though, so there.
Anyway, here I am in an even smaller apartment in a much chicer neighborhood. As much as I hate moving, I'm almost glad that I ended up having to sublet my last two weeks here. It would've been impossible to thoroughly clean my apartment with my stuff still in it, and I am determined to get all of my deposit back. This is feasible as long as the property manager doesn't notice the corner of the bed that my cat destroyed (whoops!). Also, moving is such an exorcism of any affection you once had for a place. Once you've spent days packing up all of your belongings, and then worked your ass off scrubbing and sweeping the place, you are just done with it. It's like being in a relationship and inciting a fight so that everyone will be angry instead of sad when you decide to break up. It's easier to let go of somewhere when the last feeling you had there was frustration and exhaustion.

Roma, pt. 3

So I may or may not be doing this because I'm avoiding writing a résumé for my History of the French class. Actually I don't mind the résumé, it's the fact that I signed up to present it in front of the class tomorrow. Melissa peer pressured me. Gah.

So on Saturday morning, Lauren and I woke up around early afternoon. Clearly, she did not go to Pompeii. After some eggs and toast I felt much better, but still needed a nap to recharge for that night. It was the first day of Passover and Lauren was going with her roommate to a special seder that unfortunately I couldn't get a last-minute invite to. I was a little bummed, but it turned out well because during the seder Nicole and I wandered around the city center and ended up at the Vatican. Not bad. After watching a hockey game, Mike met us at Piazza Navona. Actually, he sort of snuck up on us and I clutched my purse and braced myself for one of the famed Roman attacks Lauren is always talking about. Anyway, we ran around to two restaurants hoping to get in, but sadly 9 pm on a Saturday night is a very popular time for dinner. We ended up at a great place anyway, and I ate some pasta alla heart-attack (okay, maybe it's called pasta alla carbonara, but that's boring), which is apparently very Roman. That and about four glasses of the house wine, one of which I was tricked into drinking by Mike and his slight-of-hand glass-switching abilities. Needless to say, after dinner, I was feeling pretty good (I believe I said I felt like a noodle). We went over to Frigidarium, the favorite gelato place, and I got cinnamon and some crazy chocolate thing. Cinnamon ice cream, so amazing. Anyway, we then trucked over to Trastevere to a bar/eatery called Bir and Fud, which was coincidentally mentioned in the NY Times the next day. Anyway, there some people showed-up post seder but moved on, except for Ethan, who stuck with us and ended up accompanying Mike on a mish to buy hash from the drum circle on the bridge. Oh Rome. Lauren, Nicole and I opted to get some tasty treats from the bakery while we waited. Then we stood in the street and watched the guys drunkenly roll a spliff for a good...40 minutes. The word spliff makes me want to vomit. Anyway, after that it was back to Stairs, where I drank a shitty melon ball that was about 70% orange juice. Oh and I managed to totally shatter Ethan's heart, but apparently I'm better off.
That night ended with a civilized taxi ride back to Lauren's, and another 5 am bed time for whatever reason. Oh there were Italian guys there when we got home! I remember.
Sunday was some major laziness, I have to say. Lauren cooked a fabulous pasta meal of garlicky, peppery chicken and pepper jack cheese. Perhaps, in theory, the weirdest idea ever, but it worked out. Afterward, I took pictures while Lauren completely devoured a cantaloupe. Out of respect, I've only posted one of them above, just to give you an idea of what I witnessed. The afternoon was another nap, and then some drama about where to eat dinner. We ended up at a nearby placed called La Allegra, a rather trendy pasta place full of young gays. And GayTV showing top 40 videos on the TV screens. Hilarious. Anyway, the pasta was AMAZING. We had some gnocchi with meat sauce and some vodka sauce pasta with salmon and bacon (weird idea, but awesome). Then we hit up this tiramisu place, also very popular, to get some tiramisu in fun flavors like strawberry and banana-chocolate. Aaaand because one dessert is never enough, before going home we went to some super clandestine bakery to buy hot, fresh cornetti filled with nutella.
The next day was sadly my last, and I spent the morning on a site visit with one of Lauren's classes. Afterward, she had a few hours before her next class, so I got to see some more of the city center. First we had lunch at a place where I ate the most amazing calzone of my life, filled with cheese and proscuitto. Delicious, fried goodness. And of course back to Frigidarium afterward, followed by a quick trip to the Pantheon and the Trevi fountain. I then somehow found my way back to Lauren's. We picked out a bus and figured out where I would change to the metro, but there were no signals in the bus to tell me which stop was next, and only very fleeting views of the signs above the bus stops as we passed them. So I took a good guess when I thought I was close, and I was right. I ended up having more time before I need to leave than I thought, so I just packed and chilled for a while, then got myself back to Termini. When I got there, some movie or photo shoot or something was taking place right in front of the shuttle office, and I freaked until I realized I could just buy my ticket from the driver. So I did, and it was a quick ride to the airport, an uneventful flight, a looooooong ride from Beauvais to Paris, and then a slightly sketchy RER C trip back home. And of course, the cat meowed about me for a good 3 hours straight as punishment for having left him alone for 5 days.

In search of Paolo, pt. 2

OK, back to work. I had to take a short break and go to Austria for five days, but now it's Labor Day here in Froggieland and I'm pretty sure there's nothing out there for me to do (although obviously, I haven't left the apartment yet today).

Anyway. On Friday morning, Lauren and I woke up a little uncomfortably early in order to hit up the covered market. But first we went downstairs with Gilli to Cafe Asti so I could experience the cheap Italian breakfast. You see, in Italy, they have this thing called a "cornetto." The word is very similar to the French word for "cone," and so I assume that's what it means in Italian. So this thing is basically a weak ass croissant (sorry Italy, but it's inferior)...HOWEVER, they do an excellent job of redeeming themselves by filling it with Nutella or vanilla custard. Paired with a cheap ass cappuccino, it's delicious. Anyway, after that we went to the covered market to get some eggs and strawberries and such, then dropped the stuff off at home so that we could go buy some tights for Lauren. I've all but repressed my desire to shop, I think. It comes in waves a few times a year when I'm focused on other money ventures, such as now when I am diligently budgeting and saving money for vacations. Anyway, after a little shopping, we went back to Lauren's to wait for Nicole. We watched Juno and ate some leftover Chinese food, and when Nicole finally made it (after a couple hours of slight panic), we went out again to check out some stores and eat my first Italian gelato. We also got Lauren a bomb ass birthday dress. After all of that excitement, I was in major need of a nap.
After the snooze, we had a big getting-ready-slash-pre-gaming party. 7 girls, bad rap music, a shit-ton of make up and hairspray, plus some cheap sparkling wine with the label glued on upside down. I don't know what time we managed to finally leave, but we took the metro over to the Colosseum to get wasted in front of it. Love it.
With some surprisingly good 7 euro vodka and some blood orange Pellegrino, it was perhaps my best pre-gaming experience ever. After we were good and hammered, we headed over to dinner at a pizza place. We played some Jenga at the table, took some pictures...frankly I don't remember a whole lot vividly, especially my pizza. But I have no doubt that it was good.
After that we braved a few buses to get over to Trastevere, center of young, Roman debauchery. Somewhere along the way, Lauren's roommate stabbed a hole in the lid of a vodka bottle she couldn't get open. We ended up at Stairs, a great bar with a cavern-like downstairs area, and pretty much took it over.
Many cheap shots and delicious mixed drinks were had, including a grasshopper for myself. I made everyone try it and spent a good 10 minutes explaining why I wanted to marry it or something. At around 2:30 they finally kicked everyone out, so we waited in front of the steps and tried to strategize while drunk guys kicked broken glass down the stairs. I think I should've been more worried about this than I was -- thanks hard liquor! A few of the kiddies, including Lauren, had a site visit to Pompeii the next morning and so they called it a night. But Mike, Ethan, Nicole, Gilli and I went in search of I-don't-know-what. I think Gilli got a sandwich. Mike and I got some tasty things at a bakery. Then we braved the buses home again, where poor Lauren was really having a 21st birthday experience. So I sat on the bathroom floor with her and chugged a liter of water in moral support. Oh and I gave her Ethan's jacket to keep warm. At around 5 am, we finally got to sleep.

La Dolce Vita, pt.1

So I am back and rested after my voyage to Rome. It was certainly a perfect way to launch my spring break, celebrate the end of work, and begin this next month and a half of very little work and mostly play. But let's start at the beginning.


On Thursday morning, I woke up dark and early (5:30 am) in order to get my shit together and leave on time. I organized my stuff, did some dishes, fed the cat. My landlady is selling the studio and I was told that some potential buyers would be coming by on Saturday (they didn't), so I tried to tidy up a bit. Not that I should ever do anything nice for my landlady. I had the intention to stop at the 24 hour internet cafe to print out the bingo cards I made for the kids, but I was too frenzied and so decided to try my luck printing them out at school.


The picture you see to the left is the view from the train as you get into Marly le roi, and it was the last time I'll ever see it. I got to school plenty early and set out to print. The computer worked (hallelujah), but for whatever reason, the printer was being retarded. No matter. I was only teaching one class that morning because Satan's class was going to the Louvre. Talk about a going-away present. So I me débrouilléd through my first class, who threw a little party for me at the end. I got cards, cake, and orange juice. Basically it was super nice and totally unexpected. I ended up getting ride over to St. Exupéry because the new English teacher was following me around all day to get acquainted. She's about 2 months away from retirement, French, and the kids were just not thrilled about her arrival. Anyway, we arrived at school number 2 and I tried to print out my bingo cards. But the fucking computer at the first school fucked up my jump drive. So I basically improvised the whole day. The kids got a piece of candy (I brought 6 bags) for winning bingo or answering a question correctly. Whatevs. Everyone was extra nice to me for my last day and it made me a little sad to leave. But just a little.

After work, I headed straight to the train station. Took the train to La Défense, then the metro to Porte Maillot, and I was on the Beauvais shuttle by 5:30. When I arrived at Beauvais, immediately someone called my name. And what do you know. It was Elvira, a friend from Nanterre, and we were taking the same flight to Rome (she was going home for spring break). Being very take-charge and Italian, she told me she had some cheese and we could go buy some bread and eat it together. But first we checked in, and I ended up shelling out 22 euros to check my bag. Assholes. We sat in the restaurant area and ate our dinner and chatted about whatever. I think that day was my best conversational French day ever. I was just on my game or something. The flight went well, my bag was the second off the carousel at Ciampino, and I quickly hopped on the Terravision shuttle to Termini station. It was too easy. Lauren met me and we got a taxi to her place. After some Nutella on toast and a little bit of Juno, we passed out around 2 am. An excellent start.

Weekend? What weekend?

This weekend has been unusually eventful. I've gotten into the habit of doing absolutely nothing on the weekend. Three days of sedentary existence (except when I'm at the gym). This weekend was not that way.

After doing my laundry on Friday morning, I went down to the Camille Albane salon on Rue Monge. I spent a while looking up good salons nearby and I had printed out a picture of exactly what I wanted. Unfortunately, they were all booked up until 6 pm. So I gave it up, but on my way back up Cardinal Lemoine I stopped at a small, independent salon whose prices were posted in the window. 50 euros for a cut. I was planning on paying 45 already at Camille Albane, plus there was no wait, so I went for it. The woman was very French, asking me several times exactly what I wanted done, since apparently the picture I printed out was the same hair cut I had at the time. So whatever, I worked it out. At the end my hair was about 2 inches shorter and poofed out from the hair dryer, but it eventually settled down. So far, so good I think.

On Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. At first I thought I'd gone completely crazy and that I had to get up for work. Then I realized, no, today I am getting up at 6 am for fun. The bus left around 7:45, and then it was a straight drive to Villandry. Okay, I lied, we stopped at a mega gas station on the way to pee and buy snacks. I've noticed on the few road trips I've taken in France that there is very little in the way of towns and general civilization once you leave Paris, so instead there are these giant gas stations with giant 7/11 convenience stores, and usually some sort of Denny's-style chain restaurant. Except here this restaurant is called "Flunch." This is how they get us back for "à la mode," I think. Anyway, Villandry was a cool little castle. It felt less castle-ish and more like a large country home. There were some cool rooms and all that, plus good gardens. There was a great maze, though. The bushes were a little see-through, but there was a tower in the middle. So what did we do? We played some hardcore tag/hide-and-go-seek. Melissa, Colin, Derek, Lou and I went about four rounds in this labyrinth, managing to freak out some French kids and their parents in the process. The tower was base, and we each had to run away from "it" in order to get to it. We all took off and coats and put down our shit and ran around in the sunshine like 8 year olds. And it was awesome.

After our geriatric lungs gave out, we head out front to eat lunch. Colin accidentally bought some "apple rosemary" gelato, which naturally displeased him, so we all took turns tasting it and describing which household cleaning products we through it resembled. I mooched the leftovers of Keisha's salted-caramel crepe -- Paris really need to get with the program there. It started raining just in time for us to get back on the bus and take a good nap on the way to Chenonceau. Way back in French I, when I was 14, we watched this video about Chambord and Chenonceau, and I'd always wanted to see it. Now this was a castle. Melissa read the program while we went into each room and discussed Henri IV-Catherine de Medici-Diane de Poitiers love triangle. Chenonceau also has a bomb ass kitchen, with about four different rooms. While we were in the gallery, which is a big hall that goes over the river, a full-on storm started outside. Thunder, rain, wind, hail. It was pretty cool. Outside we tried to find the winery but instead took pictures of tulips and stalked lizards. I really wish MICEFA had switched the itinerary so we could've spent more time at Chenonceau. We contemplated round 2 of tag in the maze, but we decided against it. On the drive home we entertained ourselves by trying to figure out why there were all these weird parts on the bus chairs, and also trying to figure out which way the Earth spins, and if flying with the direction of the Earth's rotation makes flights faster. Yeah, I dunno either.

Today I woke up around 8 am with a throbbing headache and finally gave up trying to get back to sleep around 9. I felt like I was hung over. Dehydration? Perhaps. Around 1 I headed over to an apartment appointment. The day I put up my ad last week, this American woman offered to let me sublet her daughter's studio for a couple weeks to get me through June 12. I went over to see it today, and it is excellent. Well, it's actually about as small as my current studio but with much less light. However, it's right on the border of the Latin Quarter and St. Germain des Prés, and it's cheaper than my place now. And it has a double bed so Lauren won't have to sleep on the floor. It will definitely get the job done, and for only 150 euros a week.

Right now, I should be working on my exposé. I signed up to do it on Tuesday so I would have it out of the way before break and May, when Lauren and I will be traveling or she'll be staying here most of the time. Now I'm thinking I should've put it off. Exposés are just dumb anyway and boring for everyone except the professor, who will rip you a new one in public if you fuck it up. Sigh. The rest of this week is busy as well, with tests in Histoire des Français and a vocab quiz in translation. I didn't time-manage all this work very well. I need to take some crack or something tomorrow so I can stay motivated during my lunch break and after work.

I can't wait for break. On Thursday I'm bringing my suitcase to work with me, then going straight to Porte Maillot to catch the bus to Beauvais. I'm excited to explain to everyone that I have my luggage because I'm finishing this job and then going directly to Rome. Peace out, bitches.

How do you say "blizzard" in French?

Translation widget says: tempête de neige. Seriously? That's the half-assed answer I would've thrown out if a professor had asked me in class or something. The French just have no vocabulary.

Remember last week, when I was getting all sentimental about the arrival of Spring? Well, I take back everything I said. On Monday morning, any fantasies of Spring were promptly crushed (maybe literally) by about 3 inches of snow. Now lucky for Paris, there's plenty of pollution and body heat and warm pavement (thanks Métro!) that snow melts pretty quickly. But as I rode the train out to Marly le roi, bright and early on Monday, I was pretty sure we'd taken a detour to Russia or something because the entire "countryside"(if you can call it that) was buried in snow. The forest was covered, the fields were covered, everything. It was completely surreal, and all the rest of the exhausted people in the train looked around and wondered how this had happened well into April. Especially since it was about 60 degrees a few days earlier. I was wearing my big coat in anticipation of the cold, but I was definitely not wearing the right shoes. I slowly tip-toed across the train tracks so as not to slip and fall and inevitably knock myself out on a railroad track and get hit by the next train to Paris. On the way to school I smacked a couple bushes, just to get a feel for the snow. I thought by that time that it would've condensed into one of those hard, icy balls that snow turns into in places where it's not quick cold enough to snow a lot. But no, it was fresh and powdery and got stuck to my glove. Kids were throwing snow balls at each other on the playground. Surreal indeed. Sadly, by the time I left work at 4:30, there wasn't so much as a trace that it had snowed just that morning.

The rest of this week is sort of a pleasant blur. I basically just trucked right through it. I had done all my work that was due, I was prepared. I was stressed, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. On Tuesday I got up at 8:30, worked out, went to three classes, ate some ice cream when I got home around 8:30 and then went to bed. On Wednesday I was in an unusually good mood. It was tempered by the wicked midterm I had in my translation class, though luckily it doesn't count toward our grade. Come to think of it, nothing really counts in that class. Each week we translate something together in class after taking a vocab quiz (that doesn't count). I assume the final counts, but that's kind of terrifying since we don't really get to learn anything except for the vocab. I still can't figure out why the Anglo-American studies department is allowed to conduct their classes in French. I mean, in my American civilization class, she lectures in English, but then gives the homework in French, lets kids talk to her in French, gives instructions for tests in French. I can't imagine any of my French professors speaking English to us at this level. And my translation class is completely in French except for the words in the texts we're translating. There's even this one professor, I assume it's an American civilization class, and not five minutes goes by where he doesn't translate something he just said into French. I sit outside his room and listen while I wait for my translation class to start, and every week, without fail, I hear him say something in English and then immediately repeat it in French. What is the point?

Hmm, what else is on my mind right now. I have one more week of work, I can't even believe it. Yesterday one of my students gave me a gift from "au nom de la rose" -- a candle, scented pebble things (I assume to put in your dresser or something) and perfume oil. I'm having some mixed feelings about leaving the job. When I think about waking up at 6 am, the hour plus commute, screaming at kids to stop talking...I want to leave and never look back. But there are some kids there that I genuinely adore (like Léa, the gift-giver) and will bad sad to leave. For the most part, I like the kids. I even like most of the teachers, even though I know they've had some not-nice things to say about me (according to my cunt bag inspector, who knows). This week two of them asked me to give grades to the kids. I'm not supposed to give grades, tests, or anything of the like, but I obliged the one teacher because we've got a pretty good system going (I grade them mostly on participation and pronunciation), but the other teacher who asked me yesterday was the idiot with the class that makes me want to throw myself out a window. Honestly, every time I yell at the top of my lungs to quiet her class down, out of the corner of my eye I see her looking at my like I'm insane. This is not your average noisy class. These kids are talking, parroting whatever I say, smacking each other, throwing shit, getting up and walking around -- just completely out of control. And all she does is the occasional "sshhhh" and maybe once in a while she'll tell one of them to sit down. I'm at the point where I don't care about it anymore. Yesterday I was having the kids recite "Hickory Dickory Dock" to work on their accents. Since they can't entertain themselves quietly while their classmates talk, I ended up going around to each kid and squatting down next to their desks so I could hear them. There are some great kids in that class, but it doesn't make up for the fact that most of them need to be on medication. And I'm not exaggerating there. One or two of them are actually smart and have actually learned something, but are just too agitated to sit still and pay attention. France has a 9380980495 and 1 programs for kids who are having difficulty in school --- I blame their incompetent salope of a teacher for not getting them help.

Aaaaanyway, that's enough of that. Today I'm going to do some laundry, then hopefully get a successful hair cut. I'm terrified. I don't even know what I'll do with myself when I get back to America and I don't have to formulate beforehand what I'm going to say to people every time I go to the drugstore or the hairdresser or the bank or whatever. And tomorrow is a big day trip to a couple castles, so I'll definitely bring my camera and actually take some pictures to show the little people at home. I am a horrible tourist, I think it's the photographic memory.

60 degrees? Could it be?

I have to laugh because it seems like everyone else is noticing it all at once, but I think Spring has arrived. Yesterday I left work at 4:30, in full sunshine, and I could actually feel warmth. For the past -- I dunno -- FIVE MONTHS, every time the sun came out I braced myself for some 27 degree arctic freeze. On Wednesday I didn't wear a coat. I wore a zip-up hoodie and that was it. I brought a scarf just to be cautious, but I didn't need it. Incredible. Although now I've completely forgotten how to dress myself for warm weather. I imagine the first time I put on flip flops again, I'll have a small stroke. Anyway, this is very exciting news, although it does mean soon will come the time to break out the self-tanner and the nail polish. Last night I got home from work at the sun didn't set until about 9 pm. I can't even remember the last time that happened, but things really look like they did when I first got here. Circle of life and blah blah blah, but that's really how it feels. As exciting as it might be to point and watch the seasons change, the romance wears off really quickly.

Unfortunately, now I have not only a pang of sadness when I think about leaving, but a sharp digging of anxiety because my landlady has revealed herself as the insufferable cunt she really is. Long story short, I have to move out May 31. I am in the process of finding somewhere to stay for two weeks. Luckily, my mom is 100% behind me and whatever I end up finding, whatever combination of hotel/sublet/friend-crashing I have to come up with, she'll pay for it. What's absolutely balls is that after a week-long vacation in Greece, I almost immediately have to start packing up to move. I'm thinking about changing my flight to a week earlier so I can leave right after Lauren does, but I don't know if all of my finals will be over by then. Regardless, she will be go where I go and I'll pay for however many cabs it takes us to get there. And she can sit and laugh at me while I pack and clean my apartment. The lesson in all of this is pretty obvious -- if something seems too good to be true, it most certainly, definitely, unequivocally is.

So that is added onto my search for housing in San Francisco. I actually got an email from someone this morning for an apartment in the complex I lived in last summer. Seems fine except the email is too....structured. Isn't that ridiculous? I'm wary of her because she seems too organized. I just feel like she might be too rigid. And actually I don't really want my own room, and I want to live with more than one person. I miss the sleep-away camp aspect of being in college. I want to live in a cabin full of cool people. Also she said that the heater is running 24/7 in the apartment, which turns me off. That's pretty ridiculous too, but I just hate heaters. I see all of these ads saying that the PG&E bills are higher in the winter but honestly, you must be living in a log cabin if you need to jack up the heat for months on end in San Francisco. Put a sweatshirt on, we're in an energy crisis.

Hmm. What else happened this week. My classes were fairly unremarkable, which is excellent because I ditched them all last week and as of yet I've seen no repercussions. Well actually I had a midterm in my American civilization class, but apparently I am such a psychic genius that I read two articles haphazardly in the reader right before class, and then we had to write an essay about the exact ones. Brilliant. Granted I didn't recall as many details about the colonies as I could have, but such is life.

I had an interesting commute to work yesterday. First I ran into Elisabeth in the in the Place Monge metro station at 7 am. She's a German girl in my atelier class at Nanterre, and I'd honestly throw myself out the window if she wasn't there. In this class we have to work as a group to write this stupid novel, and the other three people in my group are just short of completely useless. Not only is their French horrific but their story ideas are juvenile. Sometimes I honestly wonder if some of the kids in that class are intellectually stunted, because it feels like I'm in junior high. Anyway, I ran into Elisabeth, who was heading home after a night of partying. Lucky bitch. Then when I was on line 14 heading to St. Lazare, I saw a married couple who couldn't have been more than 19. They caught my eye because the guy got out his wallet and handed the girl a 5 euro bill. I probably noticed because whenever I see men handing money over to women, it makes my stomach churn. Clearly it isn't only a gesture of dependence, but it feels that way. First I saw his wedding band, then hers. Why.

In other news, I am pretty much in dire need of a haircut. I thought I could put it off until I got back to San Francisco, but my split ends are just nauseating. Anyone know of a good hairdresser in Paris? I'm sure they're all fine, but every time I walk by one and I see pictures of models with angular bombs died cherry red, I flee. Hopefully as long as I print out a picture and make it very clear that "J'ai envie d'une coiffure comme ça," nothing will go too horribly awry. So add that to the list of things I'm in search of: a sublet in Paris, an apartment in San Francisco, an overnight ferry from Ios to Athens on May 25, Ugg Classic Cardy boots in grey, and a good hairdresser in the 5th.

Life is skittles and life is beer

Okay maybe it's not, but this is the traditional song to sing when Spring has arrived. Although you really couldn't tell. It's a balmy 50 degrees outside, but it's rainy. I was really motivated to hit up the markets this morning, but I am officially over it.

Anyway, my week of distraction officially culminated on Friday with a birthday party for someone I've never met before, as is one of the great joys of having friends who go to different schools, and then them having friends all over the world as well. After a few shots of the worst whisky ever to come out of Scotland, we headed over to the birthday girl's apartment (Molly), who had decorated her door with a George Bush poster and declared it an America-only zone, so we could properly celebrate her 21st birthday in spite of the fact that here she's just another year older. But there were three French people there, all guys, and one of them sang us some songs on the guitar. And then Richard played "What I Got" and "American Pie" (we'll overlook the fact that Richard is, actually, Canadian). Ohhh the nostalgia. And at one point about five of us stood in a circle and shared a bottle of warm champagne while having a heated argument about whether marijuana actually ruins your life. At around 2 we headed back to Stephanie's because Matt and Joe had to catch a flight at 6, which meant they had to catch a bus to Orly around 3. But since everyone was of a varying degree of drunk/stoned/horny, it was more like 4 by the time we left. So they caught a cab to the airport, and I caught one home from Montparnasse. That's the second time I've taken a cab in two weeks, but I can't help it. To get home from Montparnasse takes wo night buses, or one bus and an unpleasant walk from Gobelins. It doesn't help that Parisian taxes are just so nice. Pretty much the only place I've ever taken taxis is Las Vegas, and it's always cheesy Ford Queen Victoria's with overly squishy tan seats. In Paris they're always shiny and clean with black leather interior, like a town car. And they line up at the taxi stands all nice and neat (as opposed to every other line-up situation in Europe) and it's just too easy. Anyway, it was very romantic, that cab, probably because I was drunk.

Sadly, all of those fun and games are over now and for the next three weeks I have to keep my head down and work my ass off. This is made more grim by my still as-yet-unsolved housing issues. My property manager never got back to me on Friday, and my landlady hasn't emailed me back (either she REALLY hates me more than I thought, or she died. Honestly this woman wouldn't stop checking her Blackberry if she was deep-sea diving). So I brainstormed a couple of options: one is to find a sublet for two weeks at the beginning of June. The other is to pray that two of my professors will give the finals the first week of June. Then I would move out on the 31st, stay somewhere for a few days, and then change my flight and go home a week early. Shit like this is always happening to me, man. The problem is that it's so up in the air right now that I can't do anything but wait. I need an absolution and then I'll go about fixing the problem, although for all I know there might not be a problem. Gah. I'm already shifting into full-swing for a San Francisco apartment, I don't need this crap as well.

On the other hand, all of this nervous energy is making me really motivated. Yesterday I emailed Madame LeMarchand to check up on my graduation credits so I can figure out if I need to a take a French class in the fall. My schedule is going to be packed. I don't know when/if I'm going to work. Or if I can get some sort of internship. Or if my mom would be willing give me more money so I could intern. Or if I could even get an internship since I don't have any clips right now. We need to have a phone conference. And I need to make an appointment with my journalism adviser this summer. And I need to find a good vet to clean my cat's teeth. A load of crap awaits me in San Francisco, but what doesn't await me is a well-paying job. For all the crap this assistant job has put me through, it's totally worth the 750 euros a month, no doubt.

Rater la vie

Well this past week was pleasantly long. Saturday night I picked up the broseph at CDG and we immediately went for kebabs and beer on the Contrescarpe. The rest of the week (until Wednesday, okay) involved lots of walking, lots of sight-seeing, and two disappointing excursions (Catacombs are closed, Eiffel Tower was a nightmare). Anyway, it was still really good. Matt got in Sunday night so we did some lame college student things like sitting around at home smoking weed and looking at You Tube videos. Of course there were many culinary excursions as well, because let's be honest, that's my specialty. Many-a-crêpe was consumed, as well as some delicious bakery items, and even a 40 euro lunch at Les Deux Magots, funded by mother dearest. We also introduced Sean to tecktonik and chavvy French guys with gelled-down mohawks. It rained a lot that wasn't so pleasant, but such is life I suppose.
Yesterday morning we got up at 6 to get Sean on the RER to the airport. I had requested that my mom get him a flight around 10 so he could leave and I could go to work at the same time. It would just figure that my first two classes got canceled so I didn't have to be at work until 10:30. So after I dropped him off, I went home and slept for another 45 minutes, then got up and typed up a dialogue for the lesson. I made it to the train with plenty of time to spare, and hopped on a bus the second I walked out of the station in Marly le roi. Unfortunately I'm retarded or something and I got on the right bus, but I thought it was the wrong bus, so I got off. I completely disregarded the fact that in the middle of the day in the small towns, the buses come about once an hour. I had noticed we were going in a weird direction before I got off the bus, so I followed the church and apartment buildings near the school to make sure I could locate then when I got off the bus. I used my incredible sense of direction to walk toward where I thought the school was, and ended up only losing about 15 minutes. I couldn't believe it. I was definitely on the total opposite side of the town. And then of course my 10:30 class got canceled so I did nothing in the teacher's lounge until 1:30. So by then I decided to improvise my lesson plan cuz I didn't want to waste it on half a day of teaching.
I was exhausted when I got home, but Matt said we were going to a party so I showered, blew dry and straightened my hair, the whole shebang. The party ended up not happening so he and Joe and I just hung and did whatever, I don't even know. There's supposed to be a real party tonight.
Today I am consciously ditching History of France. The class was canceled on Tuesday and there is a make-up today, but I'm just over it. That and the fact that I need to stay by my phone in case my property manager calls back. Turns out my landlady rented my apartment out the first of June, even though she told me (and I agreed with the summer tenant) to split the month of June. Although apparently this summer tenant I've been talking with is in fact, not the summer tenant. So I emailed my mentally unstable landlady and hopefully this will get sorted out. Maybe I will get a sublet for the first two weeks of June? The most irritating part is that Lauren will be here until the 3rd and it not fair to her if she has to be there while I'm packing and cleaning and generally being a headcase, which always happens when I move. And that I will have to immediately start moving when we get back from Greece. And freaking out about moving will inevitably fuck up my mood in Greece. Cross your fingers for a miracle.

Poisoning pigeons in the park

Spring is almost here, people. In the two weeks I was off of work and school, the time completely changed. On Thursday morning I went to work and by the time I was on the train between La Défense and St. Cloud, it was full-on daylight. I can still see the monuments obviously, plus the domes of the pantheon and Les Invalides. What doesn't make any sense to me is that if I remember correctly, when the time changes in the fall at home, it gets brighter in the morning and darker in the evenings. Right? We move the time back one hour, and then what it looked like at 8 am becomes what it looks like at 7? Here I think it gets darker and lighter in both directions -- during the winter the sun comes up at 8-ish and goes down at 6-ish, in the summer it comes up at 7-ish and goes down at 9-ish. Essentially, it makes no sense.

SFSU finally posted the summer school schedule, and let's just say I'm less than pleased. For one thing, this whole summer school venture was created by the head of the journalism department, who told me to take reporting last summer and then magazine writing this summer. Well, magazine writing isn't being offered this summer. There are only 3 journalism classes compared to last summer's 6. At least there's an advanced writing class, feature writing, which is the requirement I need to fill. I won't graduate with the magazine sequence, but whatever. Feature writing covers magazine writing (it's all long-form) and then I'll take contemporary magazines and get enough practice there. The other class I need to take is something about politics for GE. I wanted to take the women's studies class but the time doesn't work. I would have class every morning which is no good if I want to work. So instead I'm going to take the lame American politics class online and not even worry about going to campus.

I am really not ready to go back and buckle down. It's my senior year. I need to take these classes, I need to get some sort of internship. But I still need my job? Can I find a paid internship? I would feel really weird asking my mom to finance my clothes and entertaining so I could get an unpaid internship. Especially after three years of supporting myself there. I dunno. Second semester I want to take the news bureau class (in lieu of writing for the school paper) again, so I can do writing and fact-checking and stuff for real Bay Area papers and get some experience there. I've pretty much accepted that I'm going to stay in San Francisco for a little while after graduation. And actually, I'm okay with it. Unless some magical job opens in New York, I think it would be worth it to cultivate myself a little bit in a smaller market, then move to New York and hopefully be in a graduate program so I won't have to be full-on working in New York. I'm really going to try to visit Matt in New York this next year, if only so he can take me to NYU to talk to the journalism department. And stand in line to get into a taping of The Daily Show, of course. That's about all I want to do.

Other than that stuff, my first week back in grind went pretty well. Only five more weeks of work, four and a half if you count the day after Easter. In my American civilization class on Tuesday, this guy passed me a note (in English) with his email address(es), saying he wasn't sure if I spoke French or not but he wanted to "keep in touch." Before class, two girls standing about 10 feet away from me were whispering to each other and I thought I heard my name, but I always think I hear my name. Then this guy went up to them and whispered too, and I heard my name again. Woo look at the American girl! I feel like a zoo animal. Anyway, I think that's how he got my name. And you can never really tell whether people want to date you or practice their English, but I'm pretty sure this was the former. I showed the note to Keisha and told her it was from some gangsta in a fuzzy-hooded jacket, and immediately she goes, "Oh, honey, no." My thoughts exactly. I really like taking that class and my translation class, but I do get the feeling that the French students are a little territorial. Which is bullshit because Laetitia (French girl at SFSU) was always having these deep conversations with professors about whatever dumb poem we were reading and it wasn't fair to wonder what the hell she was doing there if she already knew French. Besides, I've learned stuff in American civilization that they would have never told us in America. Like we're full of religious nuts and think we're god's gift because we were founded by crazy Calvinists.

So there you go. I'm not a circus freak.

La rentrée

I'm starting to think these long French vacations might not be such a good day. These kids have a week or two off for every six weeks of school. That means a week in November, two weeks for Christmas, two weeks in winter, then another two weeks for spring. After two weeks I'm usually adapted to my new vacation lifestyle and I have to drag myself back to the real world. However, I somehow got through yesterday relatively smoothly. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was extremely well rested after break, so even though I had about 5 intense dreams and woke up in between each of them, I was pretty energetic yesterday. It might've helped that I ran up about 6 flights of stairs to barely make my train on time. I really need to be in the metro at 6:50 in case, like yesterday, I miss the 6:52 train and another doesn't come for 6 minutes. You never realize how a few minutes can make a huge difference in your life until you have a 7:18 train to catch. Regardless, I made it. Next challenge of the day was the mother fucking hurricane going on outside. It was really picking up right at 10 am, when I was making the 10 minute walk in between schools. I was wearing a hat and coat and boots and brought my umbrella, but for whatever reason I decided my raincoat wasn't necessary. But of course you can't use the damn umbrella because it will turn inside out and impale you. So I just dealt with the pelting rain.
As far as classes, it wasn't that bad. A couple times I had to sip some water because the yelling was making my voice crack, but I think the kids got their energy out over break. I'm almost finished with the textbook thing I've used to teach them (which I'm not even sure is an ideal method, but it's just not French to tell me what they want me to use) and I'm glad because soon it's going to be all speaking, all the time. It's more work for me but it's better for the kids and keeps them more entertained. The little ones always want to sing songs, which is good for them but I can't help but feel like a giant dork. When I was in French classes I hated singing songs. Godfrey used to make us sing along to Notre Dame de Paris and I just couldn't control myself. The one hit was a Carla Bruni song, so maybe playing some popular music would work better. I could make them sing The Beatles or *NSYNC or something (haha). Or maybe a nice, resounding chorus of "Rehab," since they like it when I emphasize England (I don't think they realize that I didn't know what "pants" meant in England until recently, or that a bollock is an actual thing. I'm really not an expert). It's like asking them to teach me about Québec. Fuck if they know anything about those separatists, right? Same deal.
Anyway, I will solider on. When I got home, it looked like a tornado had ripped through my apartment. And actually, that's kind of what happened. Aside from leaving my raincoat at home, my #2 dumbass achievement of the day was not locking one of my windows (the one above my bed) before I left. When I walked in, the thing was wide open and there half the things on my nightstand had blown off, including about 200 flashcards. There was a puddle under the window, and my poor cat was freezing. In fact he spent the rest of the night spooning my leg under the covers. However this assuages my fear that he will jump out the window if given the chance -- it was probably open for 5 or 6 hours and he's still alive. I really can't wait for this hellish weather to pass. Clouds, rain, and cold are one thing -- but things like hail and hurricane winds are way over the top.

Relax, dammit

I've been on break for a week now, and while I've thoroughly relaxed and I feel mostly normal again, I've got this knot in my stomach that won't go away. I don't know whether it's about work, school, money or whatever. All of those things pose a little stress right now, but nothing is so dire that it should be hanging over me like this. Especially because I have all the time in the world to sort everything out right now.

But onto other things. Last night I went to the gym and twice experienced something that I have always noticed but maybe notice more in Paris. Probably because in Paris you spend so much time in full public and people are just everywhere. But it's this: men have Tourette's. Obviously it's not all of them but it's enough that I notice it rather regularly. Men just feel they have the right to make comments about women whenever they feel like it. It's one thing to stare, but it's another thing to blurt something out and make yourself look like a total douche. I never wrote this down here, but a couple weeks ago when I was with Lauren, we stopped to get her a crepe close to Chatelet. This drunk/high/medicated dude with a surprising amount of cash on him (which he dropped all over the floor), stumbled up to the stand and started expounding the virtues of a Greek sandwich to me. Whatever, I humored him. He noticed us speaking English and tried to tell us about how good his English was. Things were all fine and dandy until, in French, he started to ask me what we were going to do after we screwed (okay, he said "faire amour" but whatever). At first I thought I'd understood wrong until he started making gestures. So I said, rather calmly, "You speak English? Okay, fuck off."

Clearly that is an extreme example, but just last night at the gym I got two comments from men between the gym and the metro. The first was from some chav (I wish I knew a word to describe them in French -- I think "beauf" applies) who was like "C'est le soir du sport ou quoi?" I didn't say anything, but usually when I get comments from teenage boys late at night in that mall, I blurt out "fuck you" and they are thoroughly embarrassed at having offended this American girl. Anyway, I was going down the stairs in the metro when one of the guys tiling the wall elbowed his partner and told him to look at me. I walked right by them and just as I made eye contact and gave him my meanest scowl, he blurted out "trop belle." Seriously, dude. And it's not just dragueurs, either. The other night in the grocery store, some guy walked by me and remarked, "Quels longs cheveux." (Such long hair). He was old and clearly not hitting on me, but it was like, shut up! You're evolved enough to have inner monologue for a reason. If I ever have a son I'm going to teach him that it's inappropriate to make unsolicited comments to women, and only a dumb slut would respond in kind.

On another (and happier) topic entirely, Lauren and I booked plane tickets and hostel beds to Greece yesterday. We will fly to Crete, stay for a night, next night onto Santorini for two nights, then Ios for a night, then the last day and night will be spent doing cultural and historic things in Athens because it's mandatory. Crete, too, will be spent exploring Minoan ruins. In Santorini we will sip cocktails at the pool and lay on some volcanic black sand beaches. No joke, this 14 euro/night (for a private room) hostel has a pool and a deck. And in Ios we will get rip-roaring drunk and spend the next day nursing hangovers on the beach (apparently Ios is the Cancun/Daytona Beach of Greece). Somewhere in there I want to rent a Vespa and drive around an island -- we'll see if I'm up to it. And then an overnight ferry (*fingers crossed*) will take us to Athens and our hostel two minutes away from the Acropolis. I'm so glad that it's all booked, I can't even express. I actually got an email from the Santorini hostel last night telling us to give them our ferry times so they can pick us up and drop us off at the port. All that's left to do is check the ferry schedules every day so I can book that overnight ferry.

In addition, Matt emailed me yesterday to tell me that he'll be coming to Paris for a week at the end of his spring break, and that Joe will be showing up the last couple days. I am overjoyed 1) because they were both supposed to come for all of March for internships but couldn't work out the housing, and 2) my brother will be here that week so it'll be a big party. This semester is going to be so full of visits and travel, I'm almost worried about schoolwork. So far I think the only "project" I have will be an exposé in my French civilization. And I'm actually missing the last class of French history for Greece, but I don't believe there's a final in that class either. If there's a quiz that day, well, I'll figure something out.

In the mean time, I'm going to try to quell this pit in the bottom of my stomach.

My iCal is like a Christmas Tree

That's to say, it's covered in pretty-colored bubbles. Although not all of these bubbles are good things. Classes, work, registration dates. Blah. I'm trying to get shit together for summer school, but unfortunately SFSU is dragging their feet posting the schedule. The fee deadlines are up, but nothing about the class times. I'm taking magazine writing and what I hope will be a very easy GE class about women and politics. It's really awkward that I left some of these basic requirements until senior year -- being a senior in a 100 level class seems shameful for some reason. Whaaaaatever. I've also been playing around with my college Excel spreadsheet. I made this damn thing the summer of 2005, after getting home from orientation. It's changed from journalism classes, to journalism and French classes, two semesters of summer school. Now I'm trying to figure out the classes I'll take next year. I just can't live in the present, that's one of my biggest problems. I am always ten steps ahead of myself. I look for apartments in San Francisco, I write down class times for two semesters from now. In high school I used to spend Sundays looking at my future apartment in New York and looking up the salary for an entry-level magazine job. If I die tomorrow, at least I've lived most of my future in my head.

This morning I booked flights to Vienna. Well, I booked flights to Bratislava (50 euros woot woot) and looked up a bus time to take me to downtown Vienna. When I was little, my parents hired Austrian au pairs who took care of me and my brother during the day and took free English classes at night. There was a time in my life when I knew a bit of German. I wish my parents had made them speak German to me. Anyway, Edith was always my favorite. It's possible that she was totally exceptional or she just lived with us during a time I remember particularly well (she was preceded by Angela -- Ahn-gay-luh, love German -- and followed by Sieglinde and Maggie). Edith kept in contact with us my entire life and I actually ended up seeing her four years ago in Paris with my mom. Well now she's invited me to spend a week with her in Vienna (I'm only doing four days, though) during spring break. So I'll be four days in Rome with Lauren, then a couple days home, then four days in Vienna. So that makes up for the fact that I won't be going to Nice during spring break. I just keep reminding myself that come hell or high water I will make up for all of that beach tim e lying on some volcanic sand in Santorini.

The drama right now is that Lauren announced she'd like to peace out this weekend, probably to London. Flights are ridiculous (even though I refuse to fly to London for less than the lovely EasyJet price of 70 euro, not available last minute) so if I go it'll be Eurolines. Fucking long bus ride, but it's vacation, I got time and maybe I'll take a nap or something. We'll see if Lauren can get the flights together on her side.

Doomsday

Well, I did survive my meeting yesterday. Unfortunately, I did not escape totally unscathed.

The morning started out with a 7 am wake up call, which I was none too pleased out to begin with. I made my coffee, left at 7:45, and quickly realized that a 9 am call time also means that I'll have to compete with the rest of humanity to be on time, who are also all trying to be somewhere by 9 am. The night before I had mapped out my route and found the bus stops and lines I could take to get to the office. When I arrived at 8:40, none of those options were there. I did find one bus that would have taken me straight there, but the last one left at 8:42 (when I was frantically searching for other buses), and another one wouldn't arrive until noonish. So I ran around in circles for a while, then spotted an ATM and a taxi line. So I did. I took a 7 euro cab ride. I ended up being 10 minutes late, but obviously at this point, anything less than five minutes early was unacceptable. They said I should have, "anticipated," which is dumb, because clearly I did. And then they said there was a walking path to get there, but how could I have known that?
Anyway, the meeting started off with some random paperwork she claimed she had received a month ago and it shouldn't have taken this long for me to sign it. Except she just asked me to come in last week. Whatever. Next she asked for my "justicatif" for having missed work when I was sick. I had twice sent in letters explaining but apparently I had the wrong address or something. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because apparently I need a doctor's note. Is that a joke? I've seen a doctor twice for illness. Once for a raging ear infection and the other when I all but stopped breathing twice in one day. I wouldn't waste my time for a cold or even the flu. So I filled out some paperwork and apparently that was done.
Next came the crap. Apparently some of the teachers for principals from my school have mentioned something about me to the inspection. They didn't really elaborate on whether it was my teaching style, my personality, my lesson planning -- I don't know. But I was totally crushed. Apparently there is some sort of problem and no one has told me until now. The inspector said that it's not really the principal's place to give me constructive criticism, and it's even less acceptable for the teachers to do so. Well fuck you and your bureaucracy. Nothing is ever anyone's job here, it's always someone else's problem. If you don't understand the system, no one will explain it to you or be sensitive to the fact that there's no way you could have known. I understand that the French culture is very high context and everyone just knows what is expected of them and what to do, but there is no contingency for someone who doesn't fit that mold. I mean it's not like I'm a retard -- but if you're going to hire native speakers of a language, you have to recognize that they also have a native culture that isn't as hush-hush and undiscussed as yours.
Needless to say, I spent a good part of the meeting in tears. I really hope they don't think I was trying for sympathy, because I really wasn't. I'd been on the verge of tears since my outburst at work on Thursday. So I sat there, I cried, I apologized, I told them that I had no idea there was a problem and that there was no way I could have known. Somewhere along the line we ended up drinking tea and talking about roller coasters and places in France I should visit. So I don't know. They offered to come observe me again in class and give suggestions, but last time not a whole lot happened either. It's like, you can say, "do this, do that," but there are no tools for me to do it. Plus I've only got six weeks left and I feel totally betrayed, so I barely want to put forth the effort. We'll see how it goes. I have two weeks off to regroup, re-evaluate how I feel about all of this. Regardless I'm writing a letter to the inspection, in English, which I will send after my contract ends. I just want them to know that so much of this can be avoided if they just get organized and come up with a real system for assistants, instead of just throwing them into these schools and saying "teach." They say over and over again that they realize I'm not a teacher, but even teachers get teaching materials.
Anyway, afterwards I hiked up the hill to the RER station. When I got home there was a note on my mailbox from my neighbor, saying I needed to go to the post office immediately. How they even managed to contact her and not me, I don't know. Anyway, I showed up with the note and went to the guichet. The bitch there said I needed to be more specific, to tell her whether it was concerning something with the bank or a package or whatever. I told her I had been waiting for a package, and I could give her my name and address so she could search. Instead she dropped me off in the financial services office and made that woman go search for my package, which isn't her job. Luckily she did it anyway. I just kept saying, "here's my name, here's my address, does that tell you anything?" Ugh. Bureaucracy. Nothing is their job. If I had been at home, they would have immediately asked for my name and address, at the front desk, and searched for the package. I understand you have to ask three times for EVERYTHING in France, but quite frankly I'm getting a little exasperated. There used to be a feeling of triumph after having système D'd it like a champ, but now I just feel frustrated from wasting time and energy. In any case, I have my boots now.
Unfortunately, I still have this overwhelming feeling of dread. School is under control, I don't have to work for two weeks, I am a free bird until Tuesday afternoon. But still, I feel like shit. So in an attempt to regain my confidence, I'm going to be productive. I'm going to clean my apartment, do my homework, finish reading a couple books. I'm going to take maximum advantage of this break so I can put my head down and get through the last six weeks of work.

Craquer

I snapped today. I mentioned previously that the kids have been becoming rowdier lately. It's only been about 6 weeks since they got back from vacation and luckily they're about to start a new one, cuz they are going insane.
Most of my classes went well today. The one morning class that gives me trouble each time without fail was more or less manageable. The first class after lunch, however, did me in. They're a group of 10/11 year olds and on Thursdays we split them in half (they're 31 all together, which is just insane) and one group stays with me while the other does some crap with their teacher in the computer lab. She coerced me, basically, into this system so that the kids would be more manageable and we could get more done. In fact, I think less gets one. First because I have to adapt my lesson plan to accommodate the fact that each student only attends 3/4 class periods. Next because even with just a door separating them their from their teacher, they are absolutely incorrigible. I don't know if they're just disrepectful or if I should have been meaner from the start (that strategy seems to work for their teacher, whom I really disliked in the beginning of the year), but I get the impression that they physically can't shut up. Each time I would tell them to be quiet, their would be this student with some comment, these two students carrying on their conversation. It is a strange phenomenon with these French kids, but they cannot whisper for the life of them. Honestly. Or maybe they don't have any desire to. Either way, there is a constant rumbling of low voices underscoring every word I say. It is unnerving. Anyway, after screaming at the top of my lungs, in French about three times, for them to shut up...still, the comments. No matter how many times I said, in French, "you have no reason to say a single word right now, be quiet," they just couldn't. What's worse is that the exercises we were doing were all listening, and of course they weren't, and then they'd freak out and talk more when they realized they weren't following the exercise. By the time I'd got through one single exercise, which was four questions and took half an hour, I was so frustrated that I didn't even want to try to continue. The teacher had already come in a few times to shut them up, all unsuccessful. I thought about giving them something to write, or doling out punishments (which the kids always tell me to do). But I can't really punish them aside from sending them out or telling the teacher. So I did one better -- I said, "let's go," and took them all back to their teacher. I told them I was done and they couldn't shut up and we didn't nothing, so I was leaving. I'm sure they were shocked, so good. They'll get new assholes ripped for them and I'll finally be an authority figure.
I'm kind of smug about the whole thing now, but at the time...I immediately went downstairs, dropped my shit, and went into the bathroom to cry. When I get pissed off, I yell. And then when yelling doesn't work, I turn into myself at 7 years old, when kids could look at me wrong and I'd burst into tears. So I crouched against the wall, paper towel in hand to keep the make up stains at bay, and I let it out. On top of being menstrual, school, the impending doom of a meeting tomorrow morning, getting over the flu, exhaustion, all of it -- on top of that, these kids just infuriatingly refusing to shut the fuck up was the proverbial straw. After a couple minutes, I checked myself in the mirror, drank some water, and went back to the trenches to kick of class 5 out of 6. Unfortunately the office helper guy heard me crying in the bathroom and wanted to make sure I was okay. He kept saying, "It's okay?" in English, which was very nice. Unfortunately I may never be able to look him in the eye again. Class #5 went well, but then class #6 was a problem. Half the class was on a trip to the Louvre, so really I only had about 12 students and they are the smartest, most well-behaved 8 year olds on the planet. Truly, they remembered everything they learned last time and immediately picked up what I taught them this time. Unfortunately one little girl, Laurène (haha), was having a little attitude problem. She seems a little ADHD to me but I think she has angst against her parents or something. She told me she wasn't excited for vacation cuz she has to spend the whole time in the school daycare. Man, I feel her. That's where I spent all of my school vacations, too. Anyway, for whatever reason the girls sitting behind her pissed her off so much that she got up and walked out. I found her sitting on the hallway floor crying and I just felt so bad cuz she was me. So I told her to breathe and that if she could just make it through 10 minutes more of class, the day would be over. So she got up and went back. Job well done. I might be a shitty authority figure, but I am an excellent babysitter, and I know how to make kids happy.
Naturally I stewed the whole train ride home, partially because of the kids and partially because I'm practicing my defenses in the case the meeting tomorrow morning gets hostile. For one thing, the job offer I was given said that I would be the assistant English teacher. That's to say I would consult and assist a real teacher. This has not and will never happen. I have ZERO teacher training and I am on my fucking won. I barely have teaching methods to follow. I create all of my lesson plans and make up all of the conversation activities. The job offer also said I'd be teaching a CONVERSATION class, but surprise!, 8 year olds aren't conversational in English. And there were only supposed to be 12 of them at a time. I have anywhere from 24 - 31. Plus I have to commute an hour each direction to get there. These people have FUCKED me so many times over that for them to complain about one thing I've done incorrectly is completely unjustified. And that's what I will say if they try to scold me tomorrow. Stay tuned for that update.

Fuck all

So I've been avoiding my boss for, oh, about a month now. Since I got back from winter break and missed two days of work, she's been hounding me to send in a letter justifying my absence. So I did, but apparently it didn't arrive and instead of telling me that, they kept calling and leaving messages asking for me to call back. There are few things in life that bug me more than voice mails saying, "Call me back." Tell me why the fuck you're calling me, especially if you don't call everyday just to say hi. So anyway, last week she started calling and asking that I come in for a meeting. So I emailed her about it, and she called again to set something up. First of all, until this point, she had always just emailed me. So I honestly tried to call this morning, but after all of the chats with Italian phones last week, I am out of minutes. And what's even better, I can't use my new debit card to recharge my phone because I used my old one to do it. I'm not sure why that matters but okay. So I was forced to email her. She did email me back, asking me to come to her office 9 am Friday morning. What a bitch. First of all, I have to wake my ass up at like 7:30 on my day off. Second, she's not going to pick me up at the train station, I have to take the damn bus. Yes, I know that this is partly my fault for avoiding her phone calls, but fuck. I haven't technically done anything wrong.

So that was my morning. Then it was off to class, where I made new Italian, Mexican, and Chinese friends. Of course the Mexican guy speaks better English than French, so it should be interesting trying not to speak English with him. I've felt plenty of privileged guilt in my life, from being white, being upper-middle class, whatever. But the fact that I was lucky enough to be born an English-speaker is now bothering me. I'm taking a translation class and so far we've done mostly French to English translation, so of course I have all of the vocabulary and expressions and such necessary to translate well. And the teacher figured out today that I'm an "anglophone," so the class became sort of an A and B conversation between the two of us. I felt terrible and I tried to keep my mouth shut. I could feel the French kids wondering what the hell I was doing there if I already spoke English. We'll see how it goes when we're doing English to French translation. I will suck. In the meantime, I'll be the three-headed alien that everyone stares at.

Du coque à l'âne

Today was one of those days that started out just horribly and ended up, well, not half bad. But of course the wicked mood I was in earlier was totally of my own design. Being sick and stress with classes and work and all that have combined to put me in a real funk, one of very few I've had since I've been here. I've gone so far as to wish I was home, but really, what does that even mean? Every time that Paris has gotten hard, and I've thought, "What if I was in San Francisco? What if I was in San Diego?", I've always realized right away that no surroundings or even people would make me feel better. It's just a state of mind. So as the French would say, "Ben, enfin bon." This too shall pass.
So anyway, today I woke up at 8:30 (don't freak out, I went to bed at 10:30), with the intention to hit the gym before class at noon. Well, this will be my official itinerary starting next week, because this morning I did my homework instead. Good excuse, at least. And I used the extra time to economize and straighten my hair. So productive. Anyway, class was fine. It was followed by a brisk walk home where I packed a snack and a sandwich for dinner, because I won't be getting home until about 8:15 on Tuesday nights from now on. I left right away to get to campus, where I crashed an American civilization class and the professor added me, no questions asked. It's kind of redundant (and in English), but I am able to sacrifice the 2 credits and anyway I need them to have a full course load for the semester. Plus, why not learn about the founding of America from a French woman speaking in a very heavy British accent. But also making very French facial expressions. I nearly laughed out loud. What will be hard is not looking like a giant brown-noser because I already know the subject and the language is my first. Ohhh well. After tha class I pretty much ran across campus to get to my French civilization class. Of course. American, then French civilization. It was kind of boring in that the professor gave us a document then read and explained it a bit for 2 hours, but oh well. I love her anyway.
Tomorrow my earliest class is 1, and I'm not going to work out beforehand, but I think I'm going to get up early anyway to do my homework. Ugh, getting up before 10 am is just not for me.

A week in review

I don't even know where this last week went. I guess it got away from me about 10 am Saturday morning, when I went to Porte Maillot to pick up Lauren and company from the Beauvais shuttle. After a dramatic greeting involving slow motion running across a parking lot, dropping all belongings and flinging ourselves into each other's arms, we gathered everyone together and went down into the metro. First order of business, tickets. Well in front of us was this family who were not counting on the coins-only ticket machine and were getting frustrated. The mother turned and asked me if I could help, so I gladly stepped up. She asked me where I was from, and of course I said I was American (this exchange was all in English). There is still some debate as to whether she replied "Oh, Americans are scary," or "Oh, Americans are skilled." Anyway, I dialed in the right ticket type and number for her, but all she had was bills. I asked if she had a debit card and she pulled one out, but it didn't have the microchip. I know they have them in England and I just assumed all European countries do, but maybe they don't? Anyway, after I told her that without change or a debit card I couldn't help her, she unceremoniously said, "American's are very helpful." I was livid. Keeping my composure the best I could, I said, "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do to help you." At this point her husband had gone up to get change in the mall. So fuck you, you inept bitch. It's not anyone else's job to save you.

After that exciting start to the week, I navigated them to their hotel in the 11th, checked in, and immediately found some kebaps. Cuz what's Paris without a kebap, really? Then we went over to Mouffetard so they could see my miniscule living space and then get some pastries at Le Rétrodor, a very pretty bakery downstairs that is too expensive and actually has bitchy staff, I don't know why I go there. We sat down in a cafe to have some coffee but immediately got up because the Romans were horrified by the prices. Apparently in Rome you can go into a bar and get a cappucino and a pain au chocolat for like 1 euro. They were not feeling the 4.50 cafe creme. Can't blame them, though. After taking them (and getting a tiny bit lost) to FNAC to pick up concert tickets, I sent them on their way. On Sunday we were to Disneyland, which was fabulous of course. We had some hamburgers in Frontierland for lunch, rode the bomb ass and highly superior Space Mountain, looked for princess crowns but to no avail. What Disneyland Paris really needs though are Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, an Indiana Jones that isn't just a roller coaster, and some mother-fucking DOLE WHIP.

Monday I worked like usually, then went up the Eiffel Tower with Mike at Lauren at about 10 pm. Let me tell you, the light show is NOT impressive when you are standing on the tower. And after we went to St. Andre des Arts to get some crepes, followed by a whack ass encounter with the night buses. After getting them on their bus, I was faced with the choice of a 25 minute walk home or waiting for a bus for 20 minutes and then about a 5 minute ride home. I waited, even though I felt like a dumbass. Anyway, Tuesday morning I got up and had my meeting with Rosalie, which went well as always. My grand total of grades last semester comes to two A's, an A-, and a B+. Hollerrrrr. The bad news is that I still need to add a class this semester, because for some reason every class I'm taking is 2 credits. After the meeting I speed-walked to Censier and was only 5 minutes late for History of the French. I was a little worried about it because Keisha hated it so much, but I like the professor and aside from the marked increase in work compared to the MICEFA classes I took last week, I'm optimistic. That afternoon Lauren and I went up to Sacre Coeur, where we broke rules cuz we're bad asses. We also hit up Pigalle, then went back to my place to wait for Mike. We wanted to go somewhere to get fancy dessert (something much easier done in America), but I took a chance on Cafe Delmas and we ended up eating the most amazing chocolate lava cake in, perhaps, all of existence. It was so good we didn't mind the mouse running around the floor.

Wednesday was when I started to feel sick. I spent the morning on the Champs-Elysées and Rue de Rivoli with Lauren, then went to my translation class in the afternoon. I'm a little intimidated because everyone is French, but the professor is pretty nice and I was able to pick up everything she said. Apparently my French professors really are slowing it down for the non-native speakers. Anyway, it's like figuring out a puzzle. We translated an English newspaper article into French which was tough for me, but she said we'll mostly be translating French into English, which seems much easier. What struck me is that this is a fourth semester Anglo-American studies class, and it's taught completely in French. And the other classes I've seen on the planning boards all have French titles. Could they really be teaching American civilization classes in French? That seems very counterintuitive.

Thursday, man Thursday sucked. The cold-like symptoms had taken hold, and then the immense fatigue set in. I was like a zombie the whole day, with droopy eyelids in the teacher's lounge. The teachers kept saying that I was too crazy and going to bed too late. I somehow managed to crawl home and just went to bed that night, which was lame because I wanted to go out with Lauren one last time before she left. In any case, they all came over Friday morning to dump their luggage after check out. We went out for one last kebap, then hit up a creperie and a bakery. All the important elements of Paris. Everyone bought macaron-ish things. I got this BOMB ass thing that was a heart-shaped coffee macaron, with coffee creme, some coffee foam thing, and a crunchy biscuit thing that tasted like nutella, all sandwiched in there with a heart-shaped chocolate on top. It was 4.20 but I don't even care, it was that good. And Lauren, Mike, and their friends bought me a box of coffee macarons to thank me for showing them around. Lovely. What's not lovely is that after they left, I just laid around feeling yucky.

I thought Friday was bad, but when I woke up on Saturday, I thought I was dying. Ironically, my stuffy nose and chest were almost gone, but my whole body just felt like a tank was laying on top of me or something. I barely managed to brush my teeth, drink some tea, and eat some cereal before taking a 7 hour nap. Then I woke up at had some soup and watched Queer as Folk. By about 8 pm last night, I was feeling much better, and this morning I am about 80% better. I'm even going to hit the gym, since nothing will make me feel better. I guess it's good that I had one day of absolute misery instead of spreading it out over this week. But man, I can't even believe how terrible I felt. I kept thinking about at what point I would call a doctor, the fact that I couldn't find my cell phone, and that I haven't ordered a new health insurance card since getting my wallet jacked in London. And I was wondering if I had a fever, how high it was, and why I'm an idiot and I don't own a thermometer. It was also the first time since I've been here that I really, really wished I was at home. Even though I don't really have a home anymore, but I just wanted my mom to bring me cherry 7-up and rent movies at Blockbuster for me.

Anyway, I'm feeling much better so I'm trying to get some stuff done. I have some translation homework to do, and some History of France stuff as well but I don't think I can buy a newspaper today. I finally emailed my boss to apologize for ignoring her phone calls, I found my cell phone, and I'm going to sort through some other business today. What I really want is for freaking SFSU to post the summer school schedule so I can figure it out, tell my mom when the fee deadline is, and let my boss at home know when I'll be available this summer. In a little less than four months I'll be back in San Francisco and essentially I'll be starting over again. Mom has a new house, I'll need a new apartment, I'll have to re-integrate myself into the journalism track and really knuckle down in order to find internships and have some sort of job prospect when I graduate. Ugh now I'm nauseated.

Ride the wave

Well, yesterday was only mildly successful in terms of class registration. The French university system is just a joke. I think I'm going to write a letter to Sarko, congratulate him on his wedding, commend him for telling the metro drivers that no, 35 is a ridiculous age to retire -- and then ask him to issue some kind of executive order mandating that the universities make course catalogues and put them online, then instate online registration. I don't want to say the French are lazy, but they kind of are. Ok, maybe lazy is not the write word. Grossly inefficient. Yeah that's it.
Anyway, first I went to the international student office to ask for a new ID. It's been over a month since it was stolen but I too am lazy and honestly I don't have much use for the thing. Anyway, naturally it was a completely different process than before. Keisha lost her wallet a while back and when she went in, she asked for a new one and got it in 15 minutes. This time, the douche bag made a request for me, then told me to bring 10 euros to the bursar's office to pick it up. What the fuck, man. Then I went over to the FETE building to find a class schedule. Nothing was posted outside the office, oooooooobviously, but I did see my grades. I got a fucking 17 in oral. Nanterre can suck it, I knew they placed me too low. And a 13.5 in written, which isn't outstanding, but rather good considering the highest grade in the class was a 14.5 and only two people got that even. So I'm definitely satisfied. Then next I went back downstairs to look at all of the bulletin boards and finally found the FETE schedule, which of course has like no classes I can take. All the level 3 classes are on Monday and Thursday, so I think I might just forgo oral altogether this semester. This is a level two written at 8:30 on Wednesday morning (fuuuuuuck) but I need the credit and probably the practice too. And I'm taking history of France and the French with MICEFA. So that leaves me 6 more credits to scrounge up. I might take a lit class on Friday (fuuuuuuck again) and after some effort at the English department I found a translation class. We'll see. I emailed MICEFA with my woes and they said to ask the international office where to find classes. I need to email the French department head at home as well. If all else fails, I will take a frickin' American civilization class just for the credit, even if it doesn't count toward any degree. Sad. Maybe I can get GE credit for it? I do need to take some sort of American government/politics class.
Today was a looooong ass day. The kids are killing me right now, I think they're getting spring fever. It feels like spring. This morning the ground was frozen in Marly and it was cold as a mother fucker, but when I was going home at 4:30 it was 16 degrees outside. Anyway, I've been doing a lot of screaming in class lately. This morning I had some sort of psychic revelation and I decided to take a later train cuz I didn't have any work to do before class. I got to St. Lazare at 7:30 and the 7:18 train that I usually take hadn't even left yet. So I hopped on and patted myself on the back for being clairvoyant. But then, since there were two trains nose to ass in the same direction, they made us get off at Garches and wait for the 7:33 train. So I frooooooze for like 10 minutes. So after a long day I was overjoyed that for the first time in mooooonths, I didn't have to go to class on Thursday night. Glory hallelujah. And even better, when I got home there was a package slip (Ugg boots or flat iron -- the suspense is killing me) and a letter from the family I worked for in San Francisco. I sent them a card and some chocolate Santas for Christmas, partially because I adore them, and partially as a shrewd business move because I really want my job back in June. Anyway, the letter was great. All about how the boys are good and they say that they miss me after their new babysitter leaves (haaaaahahaha). And the dad was offered a spot on the SF planning commission but he turned it down and he's waiting until the boys get older to run for public office again. And the mom (she's a CBS reporter) is trying to get out of journalism and into production. And she told me she's voting for Obama. For some reason, her telling me that just felt really intimate and familiar. Plus I'm not surprised cuz her husband is like Barack's doppelganger. Anyway, I'll definitely be sending them birthday presents and hanging up their pictures on my wall.