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.