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.