Sunday, July 7, 2013

The Real Au Pairs of Paris

It occurred to me the other day as I was hungover and eating sandwiches with Matt and Caitlin on Rue Cler, that my life would make an excellent Bravo reality show. We could be the Real Au Pairs of Paris. We'd have awesome catchphrases like

"I'm not as innocent as I look."

"I may not have much money, but I always get what I want."

"Children are my life. Except on the weekends."

Then "Kathleen" in blue letters or something floats under my face as I unlock V's door, while upbeat indie pop plays. As I'm unfolding the ironing board and sighing dramatically (as I do) my phone rings and I put it on speaker so that everyone at home knows that I'm getting a call from one of my equally fabulous and broke yet extremely well-dressed au pair friends. 

"Hey girl," I say, laying out some age-3-yr pajama bottoms.

"Heyyy. So we're going to Batofar tonight."

"That costs like 10 euros, dude," (although I'm pretty sure I'm getting paid plenty by Bravo at this point it's important to keep up the ruse that I'm actually broke).

"Whatever, you're young once. I might be bring Pierre actually..." (Pierre may also be being paid by Bravo).

"Oh my God. Well then he can pay for my entry."

We laugh. I say something like "Bye, bitch," and hang up. Cut to confessional interview with me in which I say something passive aggressive and backhanded about my friend who I've just finished talking to. Probably something mean about Pierre, who we've already established is basically a plot device.

At this point everyone at home has established whether they prefer me to my imaginary phone friend or vice versa. After this interaction airs I receive hundreds of hate/support tweets. 

Later in the evening Sophie, Matt, Caitlin, and I are getting ready to go out in my apartment, which means that we're playing lots of pop music really loudly with the windows open. While I'm in the shower the guardienne comes up and informs my friends that she's already called the police because of noise complaints. Oh and it's totally inappropriate that there's a man here with three girls. The fact that he's gay doesn't seem to matter. She's also called V, who calls me and tells me not to worry and that she's already fixed it by calling off the police because she happens to know the Paris police chief, but if I get any more noise complaints they may kick me out of my apartment. (This event actually happened on Thursday. But in the reality TV version, we all blame each other in the confessional interviews. This event will also cause me an unreasonable amount of stress that will stretch for at least a few episodes.)

Later in the evening somebody cries, and the episode ends with whoever the appointed "bitch" of the group is making fun of the crier. 

I'm totally pitching this to Bravo. 

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Sweet Home Chicago in Paris

As everyone in Paris surely already knows because I all but hired a plane to write in in the air, Matt and Caitlin are here! Friends from home! Chicago friends! Making new friends is great, and I love all of the people I've met here in Paris, but there's something really special about seeing people who have known you for years, who not only know about but were present for many of your most embarrassing escapades, who have comforted you when you dissolved into an-entire-bottle-of-red-wine-to-yourself-and-then-some sobs, and who despite it all still love you.

I told them I'd pick them up at Gare du Nord, where they were arriving from London. As soon as I saw them I immediately lost all sense of dignity, screamed, and charged at them. My friends!! After the requisite hugging/crying/hugging, I took them for falafel (I don't call it obsession, I call it devotion), and then I had to dash off to work. Ah if only they'd had the good sense to come during the weekend like Cat. 

It's actually worked out pretty okay though. They have a tourist agenda which they accomplish while I'm playing play-dough with Le Petit, and then I get back and we hang out, or drink, or drink and hang out and have a sleepover. And yeah, V was maybe a little bit right, my bed is not exactly equipped for three people. Imagine Caitlin falling off her side of the bed, Matt falling off his side of the bed, and me trapped between them, on my back with my arms sort of awkwardly pinned on top of my breasts and my feet sticking out from under the one blanket which doesn't really cover either of them.

Their first day we did a Champs de Mars picnic (I should get more creative with my tourguiding I know) and last night we went out with my only Parisien friend, Thibault. One of the great things about Thibault is that he truly appreciates my need for cheap, and knows the maybe three places in the whole city where truly cheap is truly possible. He led us to a packed student bar near Cardinale Lemoine with 3 euro pints of Bud where we crowded around and tried to understand each other. This went surprisingly well considering Thibault doesn't speak perfect English, I definitely don't speak perfect French, and Matt and Caitlin took German and Spanish in high school respectively.

And today is the 4th of July. What exactly does an American do in Paris on the 4th of July? There will be no fireworks. There will be no watermelon, or barbecues, or parties by the lake. The best I think I can hope for is cold beer, although this will probably be drunk in a crowded Parisian bar surrounded by Europeans who don't feel quite as fondly for my homeland as I do.

Oh well. At least I'll have my American homies with me. Maybe I can convince the DJ to do some sort of dubstep remix of the Star Spangled Banner. Or at least lead the crowd in a rousing a cappella rendition. I'll let you know how that goes.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Things Found in My Bag


2 pacifiers

Ziploc with a single unused tissue inside

Used tissue. Mostly likely Le Petit's

Journal that gets even less action than this blog

Umbrella

My "to-go" corkscrew

Various pain au chocolat wrappers

Handful of American quarters

Handful of 20 cent coins

3 books: 2 in French, 1 in English, all borrowed

American phone - used mostly for playing Candy Crush

French phone - used mostly for fielding anal retentive texts from V

The lid to a compote

Lipstick I use to write notes

Prather Ebner LLP pen I can never find

3 sets of keys. One for my apartment. One for V's. One for an apartment in Chicago

Innumerable receipts 

1 flyer for a children's activity

Wallet containing 3 bank cards with no money on them, my Illinois driver's license, DePaul student ID

Water bottle

Scarf

Navigo pass

I just realized my life can be pretty succinctly and eloquently described by just the crap found in the bottom of my purse. And yes, I do need to carry all of it with me at all times.


Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Family Bonding

My cousin Cat came to Paris last weekend. Well, the weekend before last. But I'm not entirely sure where this past weekend went so I'm calling it last weekend. Getting visitors, by the way, rocks. Yes, my apartment is only big enough for about half a person to live comfortably, but that's not the point. The point is that it's Paris and we're young and if we have to snuggle and climb over mountains of suitcases to reach the bathroom, so be it. 

So Cat came to Paris on her way to South Africa to pet baby rhinos and I had a whole schedule planned. The first day we'd get falafel and shop in the Marais and then we'd get a nice dinner somewhere and then we'd go out. And on the second day we'd sightsee and have fancy lunch at a popular restaurant near me, then drink on the Champs de Mars and go out again. And then Sunday we'd have a nice long day of wandering through all the essential museums. Perfect.

This is not exactly what happened.

She arrived and I barely gave her enough time to change before I was dragging her to the Marais for falafel. I know you're all sick of hearing about it by now but I'm in love with that place. I can't help it. L'As du Falafel forever! F + K = <3. Then we wandered around the vintage shops until we were both so tired we were no longer able to carry on a coherent conversation. 

"That's cute..."
"What?"
"What?"
"This purse has a hole in it..."
"What?"

When we got back to my apartment we both collapsed on my bed for an impromptu nap which lasted until dinner time. After this, my carefully thought out plan basically devolved into a drink, nap, wander cycle that lasted the rest of the weekend. Sightseeing Saturday was whittled down to just Sainte Chappelle and Marché des Fleurs. Museum Sunday turned into A Couple of Flea Markets, Sacré Coeur, and a Failed Attempt to get to Musée Rodin Before it Closes Day. The drinking, however, commenced right on schedule and with vigor. This included Café Oz, bottles of wine on the Champs de Mars, and Nouveau Casino. 

Some highlights:

-Reflecting at Café Oz that however silly we got, we would never be silly enough to do a prolonged pole dance on stage at a bar. I honestly hope the poor girl who did this didn't remember anything the next day. It was bad. 

-This text on my phone: Hey Cat! It was great meeting you last night :-) I can't remember what you're doing tonight but we should meet up! -N

-And the resulting conversation: "Cat, did you intentionally give this guy my number instead of yours?"
"Yeah. Yeah I might have done that."
"How did you even remember the number?"
"I have no idea."

-Making new friends at Nouveau Casino. Yep, Mr. I'm Swedish No I'm from Liverpool Just Kidding I Actually am Swedish, I'm talking about you. He agreed that Life of Brian is better than Holy Grail. We had to be friends.

I do feel bad that we did basically nothing cultural the entire time she was here. It was, at least, a fairly accurate depiction of what my weekend life in Paris is like. Growing up is for squares.
 

Friday, June 14, 2013

5 Scotsmen, an Aussie, and an American Walk into a Bar

I was just going down to the metro, minding my own business, and then I heard them. English voices. English spoken in public places is like my siren song. It's not exactly uncommon around here but still, every time I hear a "hello," or an "Oh my god," or an "I know, right?" my ears perk right up and my whole body subtly shifts toward the speaker as if compelled. The voices on this occasion came from a largish group of guys that I heard as I pushed past them at the Châtelet stop. 

"Sorry," I said. Not "Pardon" and certainly not "excusez-moi," but "sorry" as if to say, "We are kindred. Be a part of my Anglophone brotherhood." 

Evidently taking my hint, the 5 Scottish guys and their Australian friend immediately struck up an eager chat. By the time the train arrived 3 minutes later, the Aussie was saying, "Well we're going to this pub called the Aulde something or other if you wanna join..." The offer was seconded by some of the other guys and I think I was on the wrong train anyway and oh what the hell. Sure. Let's go. 

They were loud, a little tipsy, and fun. the Aulde Something or Other is apparently the only Scottish pub in Paris, and I find it hilarious that their goal while in Paris for the week was to find the one Scottish pub. When we arrived the lads were shocked and dismayed to find that the supposed Scottish pub did not actually have Scottish beer. 

"Is there Scottish beer?" I asked. 

"Like one," replied Craig. "But still." (There was however an American bartender from Texas who had been away long enough that he now sounded English.) So everyone got pints of Pelforth, a French beer and therefore generally the cheapest. I didn't even have to pay for mine. Because apparently by following "a bunch of randoms" to a bar for no reason other than that the mantra "do it! do it! do it!" is basically playing in constant loop in my head, makes me the coolest girl ever. "Who just follows a bunch of randoms to a bar? That is so cool," said James. Only he's Scottish so he pronounced it more like "kel."

They were all cute in their own goofy ways but the Australian was attractive. Never mind the pretty hair and face and really impressive biceps, he had that general sort of beaming, good-natured Australian-ness that is so damn irresistible. I asked why he was in Paris, and he said he'd just finished University so he had some time and was just traveling. You and me both, my friend. 

Well the bar was going to close and the lads were on their way to a club. They asked me to come along but I had to draw the line somewhere. I had to work in the morning for Christ's sake. "Oh come on!" they said. "It'll be such a good story!" It would have been. But I had to get up at 8 and if I stayed out until 5 I would never survive the following day. And not all of their cajoling and teasing could change my mind.

As they planned their next move at the top of the steps I waved goodbye and skipped down to the metro. Before I got to the turnstiles I heard my name. It was Mitch the Aussie and his beautiful arms.

"It was really nice meeting you," he said, giving me the kind of big warm hug that I've been missing since I left America. And before I could finish saying "It was nice to meet you too" he was kissing me. I remember looking at his face and thinking If I didn't know any better I'd say you were about to kiss me, and suddenly he did. In the metro station. In Paris. Zooey Deschanel should play me in a movie.

"What was that?" I asked.

"A story."

Best. Line. Ever. 

Then he left, and I left, and I've been crying myself to sleep ever since because I don't know his last name, his phone number, or how long he's in Paris. Damn, I should have just gone to that club.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Is There an Attractive Way to Eat a Burger?

This blog has gotten away from me a bit. I realize that. But I'm back now!

So, news for this week:

Le Petit has fallen ill again. He doesn't seem like a particularly sickly child, but I must be wrong because he takes more medication in a week than I think I did for the first ten years of my life. The prognosis this time is asthma (minor), pneumonia, and potential tuberculosis. So he's not going to school at all this week. Instead I am taking him to the park, the zoo, a kids' theater show, and his after school activities. 

...

I'd complain less if this week I didn't also have to babysit tonight (14 hour day!) and work for another 8 hours on Saturday. That's 55.5 hours for this week in total. 55.5 hours of snot, spit, tears, rectal thermometers, inhalers, butt wipes, potties, Octonauts, cooking, and housework. I'm sorry, I'm just not ready to be a stay-at-home mom. How did this happen?

I did escape relatively early last night for a burger date with Sophie. There's a "Brooklyn Diner" close to my apartment that serves Aunt Jemima pancakes in the morning, some salads, and a variety of burgers. There's the 14 euro Chicken burger, the 15 euro "Oh Yeah!" burger, as well as the Chuck Norris burger which goes for an inexplicable 18 euros. What could possibly be in the Chuck Norris burger that's worth 18 euros? But there's also the classic cheeseburger which is only 6 (this is my favorite option). Who knew that adding bleu cheese, bacon, or caramelized onions can drive the price of a burger up to more than twice its original value?

The burgers are good, but to be honest, that's not why we go. We go because the most gorgeous man in the world works there. You know that fantasy about going to some European city and you meet an unbelievably attractive guy who swoops you up onto his moped to show you the "real" Paris/Rome/Athens and you end up in some deserted public park or on a roof somewhere and somehow he produces a bottle of wine and tells you you're the most beautiful woman he's ever met and you're just thrilled that he said "woman" and not "girl" and you immediately fall in love with him? Well this is the guy from that fantasy. The man of your dreams works at a faux-American burger joint in Paris. I'm not an ogler by nature but he's like a walking Levi's ad. I can't help it. My internal monologue goes something like this: Oh god oh god he's coming over. He's looking at me did he just smile at me? Don't look at me! Look at me! How do you say hello in French? How do you say hello in English? What did he just say? Do I have ketchup on my face? Would it be sexy or disgusting if I licked cheese off my fingers? I wonder if he's handy. I wonder if he could build me a kitchen. Or a house. Or a children's tree house...

But eventually Sophie and I finish our burgers and our drinks and we have no excuse to stay unless we order dessert which we can't do because 1: we're poor and 2: we don't want to look fat. Which is such a silly, girly thing to think and usually I don't but when the guy who will be bringing you the enormous cheesecake looks like some sort of French Harrison Ford, Brad Pitt, Marlboro Man conglomeration, you think about these things. 

Long story short, Beautiful Burger Guy did not write his number on our bill, get off early to wait for us outside, or invite us to a party he's having at his apartment later. But there's always next week.



Friday, April 12, 2013

I Hope I Don't Get in Trouble with the French Government for This...

But I'm going to share with you the secret of French cooking. 

Are you ready?

You're sure?

Oh alright then. Here it is.

A little grain mustard and some crème fraiche.

That's it. Particularly the crème fraiche part. Crème fraiche goes in everything. We put a little crème fraiche in purées, baked goods, virtually any sauce, on chicken, beef, I've never made soup here but I feel pretty confident that any recipe includes a little crème fraiche. Not that I'm complaining of course. I mean, have you ever tasted crème fraiche? 

So, here is the sauce I have on basically any meat I eat here. In the skillet in which you've just cooked your chicken/pork/steak/what-have-you, add a dollop of Dijon to the leftover juices and stir. Then add a slightly larger dollop of crème fraiche. Add a little chicken broth or white wine for good measure. Pour over everything on your plate and congratulate yourself on mastering French cooking. 

Monday, April 8, 2013

How to Spend All Your Money and Dignity in Paris

I finally arrived home yesterday morning at around 6:30, with two tipsy friends in tow. We stumbled into my tiny apartment and passed out like kittens in a heap on my bed. I didn't bother to even wipe off  my mascara or brush my teeth. I just vaguely hoped I wouldn't kick Sophie in the face during the night (morning) before I fell fast asleep, dead to the world, until my babysitting job in approximately five and a half hours. 

I am so tired. After 3 and a half months of spending at least half the weekend holed up with a bottle of wine and a movie, I suddenly have plans every night. I guess this means I'm cool now. Christ, that took a while. 

Let's back up. Two weekends ago was when Eloise and Astral's visitors from home were here; the night that I was in the fight outside Sacré Coeur. (Ok I know that I wasn't actually part of the fight, but it happened really, really close to me and I've never been in a fight, so I'm calling it, ok?)

The weekend after that was a doozy. For starters it began on Wednesday, and didn't end until the following Monday, which was a holiday. These are the establishments I patronized in those five days. 

Wednesday: Earth's Kitchen
Thursday: Bo Zinc
Friday: Tribeca, O'Sullivan's, The Apartment of A French Person I've Never Met and Am Unlikely to Meet Again
Saturday: That Crepe Place By Montparnasse, Bo Zinc again, Bar On Grands Boulevards I Can't Remember
Sunday: La Campanella, L'International
Monday: Jardin des Tuileries, Starbucks

I was pretty much wiped by Monday, so wiped in fact that I didn't wake up until around 3 in the afternoon. That weekend was spectacular for a number of reasons. The first being that my long lost childhood friend, Connie, arrived in Paris with her new French boyfriend Mathieu. That is the reason I was in a strange Parisian apartment. I didn't just follow somebody home one night, I promise. Suddenly tasked with showing people a good time in Paris, I did the best I could. I dragged them to a couple only slightly overpriced restaurants in my neighborhood and then out to the few going-out-y neighborhoods I know of. I think I did pretty well. I'm calling it a success anyway. Mathieu was lovely and Connie and I got along as if we'd never stopped hanging out. It was like if you're really hungry but there's no food in the house and then suddenly you realize that that jar of Nutella in the back of your cupboard isn't empty after all. So you take to that thing with a spoon and zero shame and it is awesome. (I'm kinda poor right now, so please don't judge. This is legitimately awesome in my world). We drank, we laughed, we made inappropriate jokes. What's ten years, anyway?

I capped this spectacular weekend with early evening wine and cheese and strawberries in the Tuileries with Bea, where we soaked in what sunshine we could and admired ourselves for our Parisianness. 

Well this last weekend wasn't quite so long, but certainly eventful. Friday I met Astral, Astral's best friend from Scotland, her other friend Ellyse, and their adorable accents. I'm sorry, I just can't get over how lovely Astral's Scottish accent is. Say English, but pronounce it, "Eyngllesh." Ah. So beautiful. 

Anyway, we met at Bastille and per Ellyse's suggestion, just went into the loudest bar on the street, called Charlotte Bar. Pros: As soon as we entered, the doorman/host-type-person/MC/bartender brought us to a table which was already occupied by three guys. He kicked the guys out, and we moved in. Mean? Unfair? Sexist? Sure! No, of course I didn't offer to give the guys back their table. Cons: We missed Happy Hour, which meant that I paid 20 euros for two drinks. Ponder that for a minute. No, seriously. The music was deafening, I think my ears are still ringing, and the place was so packed I got at least ten other people's sweat on me. It was fun though. They played a lot of Jay-Z, etc and we made friends with some lovely gentlemen inexplicably wearing Viking hats and carrying inflatable axes.

Saturday night we decided to go to Batofar, a rave of sorts on a boat that started at midnight and ended at six. We got there at one, all of us at least a bottle of wine in, got our cool-girl wrist stamps, and prepared to party. This was Bea's last Saturday night in Paris before she leaves this weekend, sob, so we made a pledge to go hard. And hard we went. I'm trying to decide what my favorite part of the evening was. One friend flirting heavily with the bartender and then yelling angrily at said bartender an hour later; making one gullible (French!) guy believe that I was French; actually dancing for the first time in probably years; calling out the creeps on the dance floor; meeting the world's least subtle MDMA dealers; the 700,000 pictures we took; fighting with the vending machine in the train station for barbecue chips... So many memories to choose from. 

Honestly, the thing I might like best about going out is recounting the evening the next morning with friends. You did what? I did what? Best night ever! It's just nice to have a friend there in the morning as you're unsticking the vodka from your hair and glugging water like you've just escaped a deserted island, and trying to deal with the fact that your stomach feels inside out and your head is trying to kill you, someone to confirm or deny whether you really were a complete and utter asshat the night before. This is how we bond, you see. 

Ah, to be young. Here's the truth about youth, all you nostalgic older relatives that I know are reading this: it's freaking exhausting. 

Friday, April 5, 2013

On the Steps of Sacré Coeur

In case you're not sure, Sacré Coeur is the cathedral at the top of the really big hill, and when you climb to the top of the hill to get to the cathedral, you look down onto all of Paris. It's a spectacular view, particularly at dusk on a clear night, when the Eiffel Tower has just been lit up. Also it's free. 

So drinking a bottle of wine with your friends on these steps at night sounds like a great idea, right? It definitely sounded fun when Eloise invited me. How lovely, I thought. How Parisian! How bohemian of us! 

Well. Eloise, Astral, Eloise's brother Angus, Astral's cousin Simone, and I arrived on the scene where apparently some concert had just ended. I had pictured clean, deserted steps with just us and our bottle of Johnnie Walker, but what we found was a decent sized crowd and steps absolutely covered in Heineken bottles, cigarette butts, and various snack wrappers. I wondered for a minute why exclusively Heineken bottles until I noticed the guys who were wandering up and down carrying 30 packs, and selling the individual beers, ball game style.

Relatively undeterred, we cleared off a cleanish space and cracked open the whiskey. Every now and then a Heineken bottle rolled down the steps and smashed. A large van with the words "Boom Bus" painted on the side rolled up below us. After some finagling, it eventually started playing dance music, and shooting out neon lights. Maybe seven people danced total, but it was fun. A little grubby but definitely cheap. 

I couldn't help but notice, however, that the crowd was mostly dudes. Which meant that our largish group of girls (not including Angus of course) attracted a bit of attention. Some of them were nice enough I suppose, but there was one dude, wearing a Bulls cap, which is bizarrely trendy in Paris, who seemed ready to hang out all night. Bulls Cap Guy has a girlfriend in every country he's visited, if you'll believe that. Bulls Cap Guy believes that if you have a boyfriend in a different country, he doesn't count. Bulls Cap Guy believes putting your hands all over your new friend's thigh is just friendly, and why are you being so uptight, you frigid bitch? Bulls Cap Guy was also apparently unconcerned when his very drunk and very huge friend passed out immediately behind me. Sort of on me, actually. 

"Um, is he okay?" I asked. 

"Yes, yes. He just had too much to drink, you know."

Well sure. Once you've identified the cause of your friend's passing out, there's nothing else to worry about, right? So when a couple other guys approached the King Sized Sleeping Beauty behind me, I asked them if he was okay too. They gave me a weird look, which I didn't understand at all until a few moments later. 

I felt Goliath stir behind me, and looked up to find him brandishing half a Heineken bottle, jagged edge up, at the two guys from before. 

I'd like to pause here to remind everyone that this is all happening right in front of one of the most famous and beautiful cathedrals in the world. 

Anyway, they started throwing punches and Bulls Cap Guy jumped up. They crashed into each other and then they crashed into us, and I felt a bottle smack the back of my head. As I registered the fact that I was just hit in the head with a goddamn beer bottle, with mixed feelings of rage and pride, I looked up to see that as they tumbled down the steps, they had somehow taken Eloise with them, rolling across the broken glass. I, very helpfully, yelled her name. But her brother was already there and pulling her out of the drunken, belligerent snowball.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, the fight seemed to end somehow, and the last I saw of them they were stumbling away. And that's how we got rid of Bulls Hat Guy. 

Thursday, March 21, 2013

I Went to Belgium and Didn't Get a Waffle

I guess it was two weeks ago now (wow) when I was sitting around feeling sorry for myself while Le Petit napped. This would be the week when it was school vacation and V was recovering from foot surgery so I spent Monday through Friday from 9 to 7:30 smearing antibiotic ointment on my inflated eye, playing cars, and watching Disney Junior in French. Now I love Disney Junior, and truth be told I really love Le Petit too, but by about Wednesday I was ready to fling myself from the Eiffel Tower if I didn't get to talk to someone capable of full sentences pronto. Luckily I was free as a bird the next week, and I live in Europe now, which means that visiting another country is as easy as taking the bus from Chicago to Detroit. 
"Hey wanna have an adventure with me next week?" I texted Bea.

"Ooh I like the sound of this!" she responded. 
And that's the story of how we decided to go to Brussels during our vacation. 
Our trip was shortened down to just a day due to snow (get it together France) but we managed to be on the bus to Brussels (capital of Europe, did you know that?) by 7:30 on Thursday morning. I know, I'm surprised I made it in time too. 

After a minor setback trying to figure out public transportation at the end of which we decided just to get a cab, we found our way to the hostel, dropped off our bags, and were handed a map. This is the best map in the history of maps. Not only did it include the lovely caption pictured above, but a list of shopping, restaurants, bars, sightseeing, clubs, and parks. It basically planned our trip for us. We wandered around the Grand Place for a bit, had an omelette served by a waiter desperately in love with Bea (actual quote "Be careful with that omelette. My heart's in there"), stopped back at the hostel for a nap, shook out our trusty guide, and tried to make a decision about food and entertainment for the night. I wanted to get moules frites, because that is another thing Belgium is supposedly known for, but we opted instead for a restaurant the map tagged as a "Local tip!" with traditional food. I am so glad we did. I got sausages with some sort of mashed vegetable thing and beer of course. Oh god, so good.

Next we headed to Delirium Village (home of the legendarily delicious, not to mention dangerous, Delirium Tremens), which boasts the largest selection of beers of any bar in the world. This seems like such an awesome thing, except that it makes actually ordering something impossible. After staring at the interminable menu for about 5 minutes I finally shrugged at the bartender and said, "Something good?" He nodded, and handed me something that was, indeed, good. I really love those super strong sour Belgian beers. You'd think they'd have more of them in France, seeing as Belgium is literally freaking RIGHT THERE. But alas, it's mostly Heineken and the like as far as beer selection goes in Paris. The live band was fun, especially the part where the lead singer read the lyrics to Beatles songs off of his music sheet in front of him. Seriously, who doesn't know the words to "Come Together"?

After that we went to a club called Madame Moustache, with free entry, but you had to pay to use the bathroom. Scam. Total scam. I sprung for all night bathroom privileges which cost a euro. One time use was 50 centimes. Scam, I tell you. Despite that bullshit, this was probably the most fun I've ever had in an establishment where dancing is expected. That's probably because instead of the same monotonous House music or some Jason Derulo/Rihanna/Drake pop nightmare, this DJ played 30's, 40's, and 50's music remixed with a hip hop beat. You guys I danced to Jailhouse Rock at a club in Brussels. Game over. Best night out ever. 


We left the next day in the afternoon. No, I didn't get a waffle, but I did get frites (they're fries) which were delicious. I also brought home a single Trappist Rochefort beer, which is sitting in my fridge. I'm saving it for the solo Brussels-throwback Elvis party I plan on throwing sometime in the future.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

A Parisian Pity Party


The other night, before I went to bed, my eye felt bruised. That's weird. Like I got punched in the eyeball. Did I run into something and forget about it? Wouldn't be unheard of. So, being me, I went to bed and forgot about it. The next morning I woke up and my whole eyelid had swollen. Great.

I assumed that I had just gotten Le Petit's eye infection. I seem to have a special propensity for disgusting ailments. Remind me to tell you about the time I got a fungal infection in my ear on a family vacation one year. That's right, fungus in my ear.

So I dropped by the pharmacy for some eye drops or cream or something to de-deform me, and got to practice my French. I think it helped that I had something big and puffy to point to for emphasis. 

But though I used the eye drops exactly as directed, when I woke up the next morning the eyelid in question had doubled in size and raised me red, painful, and leaky. Dear V called her doctor to get me a script for something (on her way to the hospital for her surgery by the way), which turned out to be antibiotic eye drops. Well these eye drops didn't turn out to be any more effective than the original eye drops, and my eyelid was still inflated with God only knows what, and so heavy it started to drag the entire right side of my face down. Blinking hurt.

That night V called to ask how Tom was doing, and then asked if my eye was any better. It should be much better, she said. Having decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life looking like I'd been socked in the face, I was choking back frustrated tears when I told her it wasn't any better. 

"Come over," she said. "I'm calling the doctor."

I went over to her apartment where her sister and niece were helping her recover from her foot surgery, grabbed a seat, and waited for the doctor to come over. Apparently here in the City that Goes to Bed Promptly at Ten, you can get a doctor to make a house call at 10:30. He forced the eyelid up and pointed his evil little flashlight at me. V's sister gasped slightly at whatever it was they saw up there. 

"It's a stye," V translated. I got a new script for an antibiotic ointment, which I smear on my eyelid three times a day. 

And when I woke up this morning, while still swollen, my eye doesn't hurt anymore. And unless it's just wishful thinking, I think it looks a little smaller. Maybe I'll go out tonight after all. Although I don't expect anyone to ask for my number. 

Because I'm always looking for silver linings and learning opportunities, here is a disgusting eye infection French lesson for the day:
1. swollen: gonflé
2. eyelid: paupière
3. stye: orgelet

Monday, February 25, 2013

I Hate Goodbyes

I realized fairly recently that I am the only one out of my current group of Paris friends who is going to be here all summer. Eloise leaves in July, Astral and Bea in late spring, and Ellie and Jane have already left.

A couple weeks ago, Ellie told us she was thinking about leaving her au pair family due to, ahem, creative differences. Sometimes I don't think I appreciate enough how lucky I got with my situation. Even if V was completely nuts, I still have my own apartment to hide out in. No little kids wandering in, no getting woken up at 7:30 in the morning, no judgment if I don't get home until 4 am. But Ellie was not so lucky and soon after she told us she was thinking about leaving, suddenly she was gone.

At this moment right now, I imagine that Jane is starting her first day at her new job. I vaguely knew that Jane was leaving around this time but I didn't really expect it to happen so soon. We sent her off with a farewell lunch of onion soup and waffles and ice cream on her last day. And just like that, another one bites the dust.

Is this like camp? You form these intense and close friendships for a couple months and then when the summer's over you never hear from them again? Like Cindy at Interlochen. I loved Cindy. She made chocolate chip banana cookies and wore men's pants and her mom knew one of the guys from Fallout Boy. And we promised we'd email and write letters and call and visit, and I haven't spoken to Cindy since I left Interlochen eight years ago.

Well that is just not happening here. I'm more grown up than that, surely. I don't just let friendships drop just because we no longer see each other every day!

So I'm planning a Grand Tour of the UK this summer. I will get to visit all the friends I met in Paris who moved back home, plus I get to see England which is the nationality of my soul. Or at least my sense of humor.

The tentative schedule looks like this. Early/mid July I go to London and stay with Bea. From there I take a train (or bus or something) up to Leeds to see Jane. Then on to Scotland to see Astral and Eloise. I'll finish near Bristol where Ellie lives. And then I'll try to convince her to go to Dublin with me because I've never been and I'm really trying to suck the marrow out of this living in Europe thing.

So this goodbye thing is really only a goodbye-for-now, since I'm going to see them when I definitely for sure no question about it go to England this summer. And who knows, maybe I'll like it so much I'll move there next...

Thursday, February 14, 2013

City of Love, huh?

Well, here's what I'm thinking about the "city of love." (Please keep in mind that the flash is outdated on my computer and so I have no idea whether this video is the right one or not.)


Tuesday, February 12, 2013

and We Goin' Gorillas

I know, I know. I suck. 

Anyway. 

So most nights, after eating whatever mess I made for dinner with V and Le Petit, I go home, download a movie I've already seen a hundred times (The Departed!) and settle in with a sleeve of Oreos. I'm usually up until about 2:00, at which time I turn off the light and attempt to sleep. 

It has been suggested that passing my evenings this way is perhaps not entirely conducive to experiencing as much of Paris as I can. Yeah well, I'm lame, what can I say. I think that part of the problem is that I just don't know where to start. I keep telling everyone about how in Chicago I was different. I knew about everything in Chicago. I could give you bar and restaurant recommendations for any situation. I know secret places. I know which not-so-secret places to avoid. I went to shows and clubs (okay fine I never went to clubs but only because I don't own anything sparkly or short enough and I never feel like paying a cover charge). The point is, I know Chicago. I was in a long term relationship with Chicago. We share a toothbrush and know about all of each other's gross habits. That alluring mystery is gone, but it's more comfortable now, and I have to admit I'm still in love. 

I guess that means Paris and I are having an affair. (Has this metaphor gone on long enough?) You see I don't know much about Paris's night life. There's so much, and I'm so poor, I wouldn't even know how to start having one of those nights out where I stay out so late I catch the first Metro home at 5:30.      So basically, I never have any ideas for where to go or what to do on the weekends, and instead tend to wait until somebody else makes a suggestion. Again, I know. I suck. 

So when Eloise suggested we all go to this Metro Party, I immediately agreed, despite not being entirely sure what a Metro party entailed. It's pretty simple as it turns out. Everyone meets up at a metro stop with their booze of choice, and then we all get on the metro and ride it for about 2 hours, ending at a bar. That's it.

Well, I'm up for anything, so I bought a six pack and met Eloise and two others at the Nation stop, where about 100 other people were already hanging around. Other than one guy who offered us a biscuit and another who asked us for pot, we didn't interact much with our fellow metro partiers. To be honest, they all looked a bit weird, and Eloise and I began to wonder what exactly we were doing there. Was it obvious we were totally uncomfortable? 

Eventually it looked like the crowd was moving so we followed everyone down into the metro and then we all just got on the train. The poor people just trying to get home from work or meet their friends for a quick drink suddenly found themselves swarmed by a loud, raucous and slightly intoxicated group of young internationals. I was packed between my friends, a group of English girls, and a few dudes with shaved heads who I'd seen doing acrobatics on the sidewalk before we boarded. The organizer had brought a sound system which he propped on a seat that blasted hip hop through the whole train. Clutching my warm Heineken and bobbing as gracefully as I could (not easy on the best of days, nevermind on a lurching train in close physical contact without about 11 strangers) I sang along to Outkast and tried not to completely crush Bea. Poor Bea is approximately half my size and was unfortunately positioned directly behind me, so whenever the train lunged to a stop Bea fell into the seat behind her and I fell onto her lap. Every now and then a stage-diver passed overhead. Or metro-seat-diver I guess. It was usually the same guy, dressed in a fuzzy blue Halloween costume. I think it was Sully from Monsters Inc, but I can't be sure since the best view I got of him was while I gingerly supported his warm, furry ankle as he floated above my head. 


The whole event was hot, uncomfortable, smelled strongly of body odor, and weirdly fun. So take that Kanye and Jay-Z. N****s in Paris indeed.

Thursday, January 31, 2013

I Do Not Negotiate With Terrorists

I swear this is not posed. This is my life.
Yesterday was Wednesday. French kids don't have school on Wednesdays, which means that I spend all day on Wednesday trying to keep a small child from running into traffic or sticking his fingers in the stove. It's not as easy as it sounds.

I show up at V's at around 9 am on Wednesdays, and try to think of things for us to do. I asked V for some suggestions, because I was getting a bit tired of playing cars for ten hours straight, and she bought us tickets for some children's program at the Musée Quai Branly. Great! I thought. A museum sounds like fun. And so began the longest day of my life. Le Petit was certainly in fine form. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, and anyone who has ever spent any time with a three-year-old knows what that means. Everything from putting on his shoes, to getting in the elevator, to returning library books was an epic battle. 

"Tom, I'm putting your shoes on, we're going to the museum today."

Immediate tears.

"Regarder téléeeee!"

"No, Tom, come on. Here are your shoes."

"Ne veux paaaas!"

"Just give me your arm so I can put on your coat."

"Téléee!"

"Tom, it's time to go."

Wailing. Just wailing. It eventually stopped as I carried him into the elevator and got him into the stroller. I won't even go into the argument about putting up the stroller's roof thing so he wouldn't get rained on.

And then we got to the museum. And Le Petit was that kid. Why is my kid always that kid? I don't even have kids and my kid is always that kid. Just once I want to be one of those smug mothers or nannies with the perfectly behaved little munchkins who sit quietly and raise their hands to speak and don't put pipe cleaners in their mouths or steal the other kids' confetti. That would be so great.

But no. LP didn't stay in his seat. LP spoke out of turn. LP climbed things he wasn't supposed to climb. He shouted, he threw things, he tried to run away. To be fair, I think three is a bit young for a lecture on indigenous African art. But still, did he have to yell at the teacher? Finally exasperated, as LP is taking handfuls of the little shells everyone is supposed to get one of, I take him by the hands and ask him if he wants to leave. His little eyes light up.

"Oui!"

Okay great. Thank you madame, we'll be going now. And as we're retrieving our coats and the stroller from the cloak room, Le Petit takes off. Like starts running off into some dark corner never to be seen again. And when I capture him, he cries. And the coat check girls are just so sweet to him. 

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, cherie? Oh, why are you crying? It's okay. Poor little guy."

No! He's the bad guy here! Poor me! I am not mean! I am now one of those ladies you see at the grocery store, who's very nonchalantly dragging her bawling child down the cereal aisle. And you look at her and think, God what a horrible mother. I bet she beats that kid at home. But I just don't have time to reason with him right now! I have to get home because home means nap time!

Oh thank God for nap time. I fucking love nap time. I have time to clean up, take a little break, maybe eat something myself. I did the whole disgusting potty ritual, read him 2 stories, tucked him into bed, and went to make myself a cup of tea. But rather than the usual 3-4 hour naps he usually takes, little Damien only slept for about an hour and a half before he was crying to be let out again. And then we had to buy groceries and return the library books. And the whole screaming, crying, fit-having started again. My favorite part about the temper tantrums is when he hurls his pacifier in fury and then cries because he wants me to go pick it up. I think he seriously believes that if he just cries hard enough I'll let him watch TV all day. Well guess what, mister. I don't work that way. I am not intimidated by you. You can't just shriek a little and expect me to fold. No siree. I am an American, and we do not negotiate with terrorists. We are going to the goddamn library. 

We got to the library. And then to the grocery store. And he was adorable. I hate it when he's adorable when he's making me crazy. It's like when my dad and I would be fighting and then he'd make fun of me, but in a way that was legitimately so hilarious that I would start laughing. Meaning that I was laughing at myself when I was trying to be self-righteous. It's infuriating. So Le Petit was with me buying vegetables, and he wanted to help carry the basket. So he followed me around while dragging the basket behind me and helped me pick out potatoes for dinner. Ugh. It was really cute.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

House Call

I had just settled Le Petit onto the couch, post-nap snack in hand, and was headed to the kitchen to get the Dustbuster ready, when the doorbell rang. At the door was a large, grinning French man who greeted me with a hearty "Bonjour!" I smiled, awkwardly, which is what I usually do when I'm expecting someone to begin speaking rapidly to me in French, which I will probably not understand.

"Habitez-vous ici?" he asked. Oh good, a short sentence.

"Well, um, I'm the au pair...."

"Yes, Madame asked me come here. I'm a doctor. I am ostéopathe. You know ostéopathe?"

"Oh, well..."

Meanwhile, Le Petit had come bounding over from the couch and was asking the doctor questions. Or rather, he asked the same question several times over. ("Monsieur? Monsieur? Monsieur? Pourquoi tu es ici? Pourquoi? Pourquoi? Monsieur?")

Monsieur was on the phone with V. "You want to talk to her?"

Yes please! It was indeed V on the other end.

"I'm sorry, Kate. I forgot to tell you. This is the doctor for your back. He is the best in France. You don't have to let him see you if you don't want. He will do Le Petit and me also. But he is the best and I think it is a good idea."

Sigh. Oh, what the hell. Sure, doc, why not? So I gave Le Petit another compote and turned on Disney Junior and went in for my first visit to a chiropractor. One I didn't exactly sign up for, by the way. You know how difficult it is to try to make small talk when you're at the dentist? Try keeping up a conversation when you're twisted into a pretzel in your bra on your boss's bed while a French chiropractor you've never met before and who doesn't speak a whole lot of English attempts to crack your back.

"Don't go to party tonight," he was telling me. "You can drink alcool? You know alcool?"

"Well, yeah."

"Don't drink too much tonight. If you are bourré it will be very bad. You know bourré?"

"Um..."

"Bourré is like--" He let his head hang to the side and stuck his tongue out to mime puking. "No, you would be more pompette."

"What's pompette?"

"Pompette is more, nice. Or cute. You are English?"

"Américaine."

"Bourré is like the English girls. I was in London and they all were wearing such short skirts, and all so bourré all the time. And in very high heels. It was very bad..."

The man has obviously never been to the intersection of Clark and Addison on a weekend, or he might think more kindly of English girls. By the way, I'm now thinking about changing the title of my blog to "La Jeune Fille Pompette." Thoughts?

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Sleds in Paris

All right. I admit it. This is a lot of snow. 

And for a city not particularly used to snow, I can see why it has thrown everyone a bit. The streets are fairly quiet, traffic is light. And because some things are important, I still see French women stomping through six inches of snow and ice in heels. Yes, I know that technically they are "boots," but a four inch spike heel in this kind of weather is going to kill you. French people, or at least Parisians, do not really seem to take weather into account when dressing. For example, in the winter, one wears a winter coat and a scarf. Yes, it may be 60 degrees and sunny, but it's December after all. 

Because I did nothing yesterday, and because I'm from the American midwest and therefore hearty enough to withstand any blizzard, I went out to meet Ellie for a museum and some exploring. We met in the 16th, close to halfway between Boulogne, where she lives, and where I am in the 7th. Musee Marmottan Monet was once a 19th century hunting lodge, and is now the backdrop for all of my if-this-was-the-Victorian-period-and-I-was-a-European-heiress fantasies. Ellie and I agreed that the beautiful house was much more tastefully decorated than Versailles. No offense to Marie Antoinette and everything, but we can kind of see why they rebelled. Of course I'm a sucker for Impressionism and early 19th century miniature portraits. It may be one of my new favorite museums. 

After Monet we wandered into Bois du Boulogne. I'm sure it's beautiful in the spring, but it was positively Narnian blanketed in snow. (I guess I'm feeling a little fanciful today). 
A few stalwart souls were running. Big, fluffy dogs gleefully bounded in and out of snow banks. Little children were sledding down the sloping bank toward the frozen river. "That looks so much fun," I said a little wistfully. "I wish I could take Le Petit here, but there's no way V would allow that." 

I watched a Dad jog over to stop his kids from sliding onto the ice.

"On the other hand," I said, "What if a kid was going too fast and didn't stop in time and slid onto the ice and then fell through and got hypothermia?" As we started walking back toward the city for hot chocolate and pastries we saw a dad situating his child on a makeshift sled of what looked like an old laminated shopping bag. Hmm. Questionable.

Parenting judgments aside, the day could hardly have been more picturesque. Can I just say one more time how glad I am that I brought my rubber boots? Because let's face it, I am just not that Parisian.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Quoi Pour Tous?

I was going to write today about the lovely Christmas parade I went to in Spain, but I just stumbled upon 300,000 French homophobes hanging around outside my apartment building shouting "Un Papa! Une Maman!" and this needs to be addressed. 

Le sigh, where to begin? I feel like there's this idea in the states that all of Europe is this magical, liberated place, where sex is comprehensively discussed in schools, boobs aren't censored at magazine stands, and nobody is irrationally afraid of black people. Well folks, I have never in my life seen so many people assembled in solidarity to take a stand against human rights. 

So there I am, leaning against the pole on the Metro, with two more stops to go, when a voice over the speaker announces that the Ecole Militaire stop is closed. Not a big deal, Tour Maubourg isn't that much farther from my house. I get off and start walking. My, it's busy for a Sunday! I notice lots of families with small children, and the crowds appear to be getting thicker. A lot of them are carrying flags. "Manif Pour Tous." Something for all. Well, that sounds alright. Until I notice that the pictures on the flags are distinctly hetero families. A mom, a dad, and two little kids holding hands. As I approach my bakery, I seem to have reached the heart of the throng. "Un Papa! Une Maman!" A woman sports a sticker that reads "mariage/adoption homo NON!" Continuing home, I've suddenly fallen in with them. Now people on all sides of me are waving flags, singing, chanting, grinning, hearts uplifted by the magnitude of their numbers, the strength of their convictions, and overwhelming agreement from all sides. It reminded me of Spirit Week in high school. I was never much for school spirit, but even I was gleeful, buoyed along by a jubilant mob. 

And so there I was, suddenly part of a protest who's message I abhor and disdain, and no other route home. I was disheartened to see that the protest was not, in fact, just crotchety grannies with canes and white haired guys with pipes shouting incoherently about the end of civilization. No, there were young, trendy people there too. Families with their smiling kids, who'd painted pink and blue mamans and papas on their cheeks. My thought has always been that the world in general must outgrow this kind of discrimination. That the young and the fashionable will always correct the mistakes of previous generations and this too will go out of style. I assumed it was true that you can't stop progress. Maybe I was wrong.

God. I should have flashed them.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

What's a Malaga?


Many months ago, when I first realized that I would be away from home for Christmas for the first time ever, I began trying to convince everyone I knew and loved who might be able to spring for a plane ticket to spend Christmas in Paris with me. How glamorous right? 

Obviously, nobody took me up on that.

Except my cousin Christopher that is. Christopher gave me a maybe, because he was actually going to be in Spain for a while in December, visiting some friends. It occurred to me to wonder who the hell he knew in Spain, and why it was cool with both these friends and his boss that he spend an entire month there. But then, my mysterious cousin Christopher from Hawaii is an enigma. I wouldn't be surprised if he told me his dear friend Oprah Winfrey was coming over for lunch and then they were both going on vacation in Iceland for a week. 

Anyway, Christopher did go to Spain, but rather than come to Paris he asked if I'd like to spend the weekend with him in Malaga instead. I had no idea where Malaga was but there had to be sun there right? I hadn't seen the sun in a month. Next thing you know my plane tickets are purchased and I'm frantically trying to google a way to get to Charles De Gaulle airport in time to catch a 6 am flight, when all forms of public transportation in Paris are closed. 

God. Paris. 

Dear Christopher came through with a solution again, and sent me a link to Super Shuttles. Super Shuttles is a service that picks you up at your apartment and drives you to the airport in time to catch your flight. Even if it means picking you up at 3 in the morning, unheard of in the so-called City of Light. So I booked the shuttle for between 2:40-2:55 AM, amazed at such convenience. It was positively American in conception. (Can you tell I'm feeling homesick this week?) 

The website asked for a phone number, which I gave, and urged passengers to be ready to go at the beginning of their fifteen minute window. Well, I assumed that since I gave them my phone number, they'd call when the shuttle was ready. Seems logical, no? But 2:55 AM came and went without so much as a peep from my phone. Oh Christ. What if they don't call and I was actually supposed to be standing outside at 2:40 but I wasn't so they just left me? I tried to call the number on the website but it didn't even ring. Was there something wrong with my phone? Did they try to call but I couldn't get  it because my phone wasn't working? Was this all just a scam? They just charge my credit card and never show up? I checked my phone. 3:10 and no missed calls or messages. Now what! No metro, no RER, and no AirFrance Bus. I could theoretically call a taxi but that costs an average of 100 euros, which I definitely did not have. What to do now? 

At 3:20 my phone rang. My shuttle would be there in four minutes. 

But as soon as the driver had put my suitcase in the trunk and shut the car door behind me, my newfound peace of mind vanished. I mean, come on, trusting a complete stranger in the middle of the night in a still very foreign city to drive you to the airport and not to an abandoned warehouse to be sold into sex slavery is a lot of trust. I tried to talk myself out of it, but why were we still not leaving Paris? Shouldn't we be leaving the city by now? And I thought there would be others, why was I all alone here? It certainly didn't help that we then we rolled down the street with the most strip clubs and sex shops I have ever seen on a single block. Strip clubs and excessive graffitti are the two unmistakeable signs that you have now reached the Bad Part of Town. God, this is it. The end of my life. I absurdly wondered what kind of underwear I was wearing, because it would be embarrassing if I was raped while wearing granny panties. 

But as it turns out, at the end of Porn Hut Alley we picked up a rather friendly Russian lady, and I was not taken to a makeshift brothel after all. It's amazing how ridiculous your fears seem the moment you realize there's nothing to be afraid of. 

So I made it to Spain. Christopher picked me up at the Madrid airport, and we drove five hours down to Malaga. The sun was bright. It was around 72 degrees. The sky was clear. I walked out onto the back porch to soak in the view. Christopher's friends Janet and Darryl live on a hill, and the back of their house looks down onto pretty little nearby villages, trees, an olive orchard, and the gorgeous blue Mediterranean. On clear days you can see the Rock of Gibraltar.

"Would you like some Cava?" Darryl asked me.

Ah. Vacation.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

My Paris Vacation

No, I haven't left Paris to go on vacation, just that since Katie has been here I have done all the vacation-y things one does when on vacation in Paris. It's ridiculous that I've been here for over a month and still hadn't done half the things we accomplished in 5 days. We:

Took five hundred million pictures of the Eiffel Tower from about seven different angles, 

went up to Montmartre to eat fondue and tour Sacre Coeur, saw Notre Dame, went to the Place des Vosges, went to the Marais and waited an hour for the most delicious falafel in the world, took a boat tour, went to the Louvre, walked along the Seine, admired monuments, shopped,

...and drank lots and lots of wine.


And we've still got two days to go. We're planning the Musee D'Orsay, Catacombs, maybe Rodin museum, and Versailles of course. 

I've actually seen more of Paris being a tourist with Katie then by actually living here. I didn't feel the need to get all touristy because I figured I'd eventually discover all of these things anyway. Like, I'd just wander into Sacre Coeur on a random Sunday while doing my errands. I wanted to experience the life of a true Parisian! You know, I know my life is supposed to be perpetually magical and lovely because I am in Paris and everything, but the fact is that Parisian life is really not that much different from actual life. Turns out just running off to Paris on a whim isn't going to change everything. Damn.

Still, I have to admit, popping the champagne as the Eiffel Tower lit up at midnight on New Years Eve, that was pretty magical.