"Mandrake, have you ever seen a Commie drink a glass of water?"
So I don't normally do these sorts of things, but since I've all but quit blogging altogether, I figured I'd do this if only so I've got something to post - so thanks, Sara.
1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before? I paid taxes TO the French government, and didn't just reap benefits. Also, I drank the water in Morocco. After getting scrubbed down and semi-groped by a large number of women in a local (rather than tourist) hammam.
2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I'm pretty sure I didn't make any New Year's resolutions; frankly, they're not my style. Other than starting this blog on 1 January 2004, I can't remember the last time I did something first-of-the-yearish.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth? My sister did, and that was, you know, a big deal. I'm sure other people have too, but I'm a thoughtless cur, or something, and I can't think of anyone else.
4. Did anyone close to you die? No, although I have been informed that there is allegedly no estate tax this year, so if anyone not-so-close to me would like to die and leave me a bunch of money in 2010, that could be OK.
5. What countries did you visit? Well... I visited France in October (because I was living in the US) and I visited the US at the beginning of the year (because I was living in France) but other than that, just Morocco, Germany, and Switzerland. I think. I might be forgetting somewhere; 2009 was a very long time ago, after all.
6. What did you get really, really, really, really excited about? Umm... I bought a bunch of yarn and worked on a bunch of great knitting projects that I found really, really, really exciting. Also, I got engaged, and while I don't know that I would say I have been really, really, really excited about it because that's not really how I work, the whole thing has been pretty wonderful. (Less exciting: actually planning the wedding. Remind me again why we didn't go the elopement route?) Oh, I was however really, really, really excited every weekend I got to spend with him, since we currently live 60 miles apart.
7. What do you wish you'd done more of? Knitted. Traveled. Slept. I always wish I had slept more. I think this means that I am an octogenarian at heart.
8. What was the best book you read?Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and not just because of who gave it to me, and what the accompanying card said. It was good. Also, I started reading Keegan's The American Civil War: A Military History in 2009, and while I haven't finished, I'm really enjoying it. (Disclaimer: I have what is likely an unhealthy affection for John Keegan, or at least his work.)
9. What is something you wanted but didn't get? An electric toothbrush. I kept meaning to get a Sonicare or something, but I just never got around to it. (Again, octogenarian at heart.)
10. What kept you sane? The occasional really good cry. I think the sanity-preserving power of a good cry is highly underrated.
11. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009? "Wear clothes, ideally including a bra, whenever leaving the house."
12. What valuable life lesson did you learn in 2009? One is not betraying The Sisterhood of Spinsterhood by getting married so long as one does not act as though a friendship that happened to turn permanently romantic makes one an expert in relationships and thus qualifies one to give current members of The Sisterhood advice. Because advice like that is annoying.
"Manny, I don't feel that well. I... sa... Like I've been beaten up underwater. I can feel bits of my brain falling away like a wet cake. Could youhelp me?"
Can one have a sick day (or, say, sick month[s]) from one's blog? I really will get back to this eventually...
"And now a man who needs no introduction, so what am I doing out here?"
I'm still working on my upcoming monthly report, but I encountered this today, and loved it so much that I simply had to share:
"Everybody should be able to make some music! It's the cosmic dance."
So I know this post is ridiculously later than it should have been, what with all of my promises. But, I have a thing for patterns, and a Last Day Of The Month pattern is better than no pattern at all, right?
In the past month I've taken a couple of trips, first to Paris and then to California - specifically, Disneyland. Let's start with a mini-report on Paris.
Paris was first founded on the Île de la Cité, where the Parisii tribe lived from at least the Iron Age. Thousands of years later, a girl named Zannah spent not quite a week in Paris, registering for yet another year of grad school, listening to her advisor's page-by-page comments on her thesis ("This? Not the work of an historian" and waving her hand over the entire page: "this is not good." A bit brutal, but by the time we got to page 30 or so I quit really cringing), living in different libraries, her favorite of which was founded in the month Floréal in the year 5, buying gifts for people at shops located next to shops selling weird hats for children, going to some of her favorite restaurants with some of her favorite people, and finally ending her last night there at the Iron Lady of Paris.
And this is the entire history of Paris.
Honestly, the trip was mostly whirlwind-y. I was there to work, so while I usually had decent evenings, my days were filled with school stuff and research. Oh! But other than the highlights mentioned above, there were two more: one, when I was up in Montmartre leaving the Abbesses metro station, I was on the elevator with a dude wearing those hobble pants. You know, the ones where the crotch is in the vicinity of the knees, thus hobbling the wearer? Well, this dude's hobble pants were cropped, so the "leg" section of his pants were roughly four inches long, thus making it even more comical than normal, if hobble pants could ever be considered normal. Also of note: these particular hobble pants were made out of a wide-wale corduroy rather than the more typical stretchy knit, which means that if he were chased there would definitely be a face splat. I miss Paris fashion. And two, several people at different restaurants remembered me. Places I went once every, oh, four to six months when I lived there, but I realized that a blonde foreigner who speaks French? Kind of memorable, it seems.
Now, California. So, you know that guy who was featured in a few pictures on the last post? One of his sisters was going with her family to Disneyland, and another one of his sisters lives ten miles from Disneyland, so we went, stayed with the one and played with the other. He loved being with his nieces and nephews and I really enjoyed meeting his family, and not just because they are cute and all. I was feeling awfully sick for most of the time we were there, although we did manage to get one decent picture of us. Also, we met my little sister and her husband and adorable daughter (and my parents, who were visiting them during the same weekend) for lunch in downtown L.A., which is seriously a hole. Honestly, the ancient chicken souk in Marrakech was less repulsive. Point, though: we had fun, we met people, made apparently favorable impressions, and didn't die in the process (despite occasional wishing that I would). Also, I kind of dug comparing Disneyland to EuroDisney (or whatever they call it now; it'll always be EuroDisney to me - it's got that ring to it, like euro-trash) and to a lesser extent, Disney World, which is the best one of them all. Epcot, my friends. Epcot.
In other news, I've been knitting a bit more lately, so pictures to come of some of that. And we watched a bunch of "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" episodes on Saturday in between passing out candy, and I gotta say, if you haven't yet experienced that beauty of a freakshow, please, PLEASE do yourself a favor and watch it. Even after six or seven episodes, we still cracked up when they got to the part when the narrator starts to explain why they didn't know they were pregnant. Of course, if we're laughing that hard, karma dictates that I may very well one day hear a nurse tell me, "Honey, there's a baby in your pants." We've decided that if/when that happens, we're obligated to laugh. And I say "we" because he also proposed this weekend. Before the "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" marathon, of course.
"Half-10! Half-10. I've never been up at half-10. What happens?"
I know I've been slacking on ye olde blog, but after writing so much, and then finding other things to fill my time, blogging just hasn't been a priority. I'll try to do better, especially since I'll be going back to Paris next week, and I'm sure three months away from my hometown will give me fresh eyes for the crazy. Despite my silence, I should point out that things have been going relatively well. Haven't gotten the job I planned on, haven't finished my grad program like I'd planned on (extending to a third year, defending next spring), haven't ended the crashing-with-my-parents period of my life, but see this?
Clearly, I'm happy. This is due in no small part to the fact that I've been doing things. A good portion of the last year involved knitting in lieu of a social life, but now, I'm not living in 200 square feet surrounded by yarn. I'm riding a (remarkably slow) train for Atlas Shrugged Day, and riding a carousel at Lagoon, and then watching my alma mater get spanked on a delightful yet autumny evening. And even though autumn here is nowhere near as great as it is back east, it's still nice enough to make driving the Alpine Loop and through Provo Canyon thoroughly enjoyable. Oh, and I've also been sucked into having a job, so my lovely schedule of waking up late? Gone, gone, gone.
So, there's your mini-update. Check back soon, though. Regular posting is coming.
"My decorator was Michelangelo. Thanks for the wheat."
Is there anything better than listening to Johnny Cash and a-ha harp covers on a quiet Sunday evening? (Really, check this guy out. He named his harp Gladys. ...one more link in case you were waiting for the fourth one to click through. Or fifth.)
On a completely different topic, I realized today just how desperate my current living situation is. My parents have been back in Chicago for the past few days, and I found myself dreading their return. You're really not supposed to stay with your parents this long (this long = almost two months... cough.) when you're this old (this old = entirely too old for this).
I've been in this weird interim stage, finishing (sorta) what I was doing before and then (sorta) moving on to the next thing, figuring out the next plan of attack, etc. I thought that staying with my parents for said weird interim stage made sense, and in a lot of ways it has, but the squatting-with-the-'rents bit (I just can't say "living") combined with the getting-used-to-living-in-the-US and the finishing-thesis and the deciding-what-to-do-next-with-life parts is... making me anxious to move on, shall we say. I won't say that it's slowly killing little bits of my soul, but I don't know if I'll be able to avoid that much longer if something doesn't change.
Ideally, that something will be my address.
On the bright side, it's made me miss not only Paris, but the size of my old apartment (size of my old apartment = less than 200 square feet). On the other hand of that bright side, how pathetic is it that I'm complaining about a house being too big? Reminds me of when I was coming back from Morocco and said this to Sara when I put in earplugs on the plane.
"Stephen Hawking both British and not dead."
I believe this is the part where my now-standard apology goes, 'cause I haven't been writing much and all, but honestly, how much do you really want to hear about how I'm still not done with my thesis and I kind of hate it a lot? I'll be finished REALLY soon, but then, that's what I've been saying for weeks. Since I still need to find a job and being socially AWOL is starting to get to me and I just picked up some gorgeous yarn that's begging to become a sweater, I have GOT to finish the Never-Ending Thesis because if I don't move on with my life in the next few days, I'm pretty sure a slit wrist or two will be in order. Also, I don't know if I have the self-control to leave the yarn untouched for very long. Really, though, when the highlights of my week include, oh, happening upon these lamps while at a grocery store with Sara (check out our drug package from Morocco), it's pretty obvious that a different daily focus is in order.
Oh! Another recent highlight: so I went to my doctor on Monday, and among other things, we talked about the Crazy Pills I've been on for the last year. I don't feel like they're working terribly well, so I'd decided I wanted to go off 'em and then use exercise as my medication. He practically lit up when I told him that, thought it was a great idea, etc. I'm guessing he doesn't hear that too often. Anyway, so the process of going off the Crazy Pills? Kinda makes me feel like I'm detoxing in a Trainspotting sort of way. Haven't yet seen a baby crawling on the ceiling, but the physically out-of-it part? That's there in full-force. Not loving how it feels, but I'm looking forward to dropping the weight the Crazy Pills packed on me over the last year.
So... anyone want to find me a job? Or finish my thesis?
"The day I give up my dreams is the day I have strategic grill locations."
I keep having bizarre dreams. Dreams that involve flying cars and old boyfriends. Mostly the flying cars, though. Do you have any idea how cool it is to be flying through downtown Chicago in a golfcart/SmartCar hybrid in the early morning, avoiding all that rush hour traffic? Also, make sure you pull up enough that you don't run into the Corncob Buildings. And then, when you come home (in this case, home=where you grew up) you remember that two old boyfriends are staying with your parents (yes, at the same time, because you apparently thrive on awkwardness), and one slept in this bed next to yours, and he smelled kinda gross, and then you run into the other one in the hall and remember why you loved him before. And maybe he kisses you and you can feel it in your toes. But really? ALL about the flying cars.
In other news, my thesis is still not done. Yes, I suck. No, I don't want to talk about it.
In less depressing news, today I sent out the first of what is likely to be many, many resumes. I had planned to not even think about the job search until I finished my thesis, but there's this job I really want (my dream job, even) and today was the last day to send in my application stuff. So, I guess slacking on my thesis just means I added "finding a job" to my List o' Procrastination.
"To me, you are the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoon."
I know it's been forever since my last post, but I'm trying desperately to finish my thesis, so I've been using all of my writing energy on that. Since I've gotten several requests for an update, I thought that tonight might be time, especially after I spent twelve minutes trying to think of the word "influential."
You know, I feel like I have no concept of time. Before I came back to the States, I usually only knew what day of the week it was because I had to request my books online using a calendar thingy. Now, I know what day it is, but I feel like I just got back the day before yesterday. Either that or six months ago. The real problem, though, is that I haven't yet wrapped my head around the fact that I no longer live in France. I've always come back for a little while in the summer, and this is what this feels like. When I think about my apartment in Paris that's not my apartment, I get kind of sad. More than anything, it just feels bizarre. Frankly, this is one reason I've put off blogging; I don't know how to explain how odd I feel even as I feel like I've come home. I've noticed these little ways in which I've changed, ways I just don't fit here anymore. I haven't spent as much time thinking about that as I'd like, but once I get a chance to overanalyze it, I'll maybe share those conclusions.
Oh - I did mention that I left Paris and moved back to the States, permanent-like? Haven't figured out what I'm doing next, but I assume it'll be some sort of a job. I haven't actually finished my master's program (or my thesis, for that matter) so I get to go back for a few days in October to defend it and give you all a reason to call me Maîtresse, but I'm pretty much stateside for the duration.
Since I got back, I've been mostly socially AWOL due to the unfinished thesis, but I did get to spend a week remembering how strong my leg muscles used to be (here's a Zannah fact: I rode horses growing up. As in, show jumping and a bit of dressage for 10 years or so) and realizing that being single isn't so bad or even so lonely when you can be surrounded by a gaggle of cousins.
Last Sunday, I knitted this:
to go along with this:
It seems planning to be in one country for what I anticipate will be long-term means I've taken another step closer to being an adult-with-stuff. No longer is my viola the most valuable thing I own. Mostly, though, I'll just be glad when I've figured out exactly how big my car is; right now I feel like a bit of a rube when parking. (And one more shot of the car for my little sister.)
Certainly, other things have happened. I'm sure they have. I just can't seem to remember them, not when the theories of Philippe Ariès are floating through my brain. Oh, I went to the Days of '47 parade this morning to watch my parents wear cowboy gear and wave from the back of a convertible. And I'm going to the Days of '47 rodeo tomorrow for the second time this week, so maybe I'll manage to blog again, if only to tell you about the big huge mechanical boot. And share pictures. You can't fully appreciate the boot without pictures.
Ugh. As much as I spoke English in France, my tongue is still getting worn out with speaking English all the time, and I feel like whatever strides I made in improving my French accent have all disappeared. Is it time to move back yet?
"I took a risk when I hired you, Manny - don't eat muffins when I'm developing you - I took a risk when I gave you this job. A lot of people wouldhave said 'who is this rudderless hippy? How do I get away from him? Has he got a hunting knife strapped to his shin?' But I saw through that." First, let's start with what I hope will be my last installment of Getting Hit On In The Metro. So this morning I'm on the way back from running errands, on the escalator up from the quai, when this guy walks by me, checks me out so blatantly that he's leaning over as he's leering at my chest and says very enthusastically, "FRRRESSSHHH."
Now, over the past few years I've lost my ability to pinpoint English accents, so the best I can do is say this guy was from either Africa, or maybe he was West Indian, but whatever it was, he was clearly comfortable with English, 'cause as he continued up the escalator, he loudly (and in English) says "All the French girls are UGLY. But that blonde down there? I'd hit that." A few people look back at me, and then this older gentleman who had smiled at me earlier when I'd held the exit door open for him comes up a few steps, stands next to me, and says (this time in French) that I have quite the admirer. I laugh a bit, tell him that it does seem that way, and then reach the top, managing to dodge the FRESH dude when I go into my bank. Le sigh.
And here we have part deux, which lucky for you will be full of pictures. Welcome to the series that I'm calling Death Star: A Library. I know I've talked a ton about the BNF because I sometimes feel like I live there, but I don't know if you can really appreciate the experience unless you've seen what it's like just going into the place. See, the library has this highly intelligent design, as the books (some of which are very old and/or very rare) are all stored in book-shaped towers above ground, and the people are below ground in these ginormous reading rooms. To read the majority of the books, you request them online and someone pulls them and they come down from the towers and then you pick them up at this desk. The whole thing is really not too terribly efficient.
The Death Star parts are the bases of the towers, where there are sorta lobby-ish things and bathrooms and the entrances. When you pass through the first of three turnstiles (provided you've managed to get a research card, giving you access to the ultra-special research level), you push through one set of heavy metal doors and pull open the next set. If you look to your left, you see this. Look to your right, and you get the first escalator. You go down the first escalator, trying to not get caught as you surreptitiously take pictures even though you vaguely recall being told cameras aren't allowed when you got your first research card a couple of years ago. You get to the landing, turn right, and you can start your way down the second, even longer escalator, and now you can see the ground and the people several stories below you.
Because there are guards and a librarian at the bottom of that tower, I put the camera away and then took pictures from the bottom in another tower that isn't used as an entrance, and instead just contains an available bathroom and serves as a place for people to use their mobiles. The picture here is at the base of the Tour des Temps; please note the walkway at the top. Here are two views from the back: one more of the escalator and another walkway, the other more of the concrete walls. You probably can't tell (I tried to get pictures of the texture, but they didn't come out) but above the concrete, the walls are thin wire cables woven into a mesh pattern, and those big round things are for ventilation. You might think that this area is just unfinished, or in the middle of a remodel, but no, it was designed to be concrete and woven metal mesh. If stories and stories of metal walls with mostly pointless walkways (maybe they serve as plot development for a nerdy researching Luke and Leia?) don't add up to a library version of the Death Star, then I don't know what ever will.
"After talking things over, we have decided not to take part in your diabolical plan. Consider us no longer in cahoots.Furthermore, we are going to expose you to everybody." I've been taking care of all kinds of things today in preparation for my impending departure, and I'm honestly a bit shocked at how relatively painless it's all been. In order to open these accounts I had to provide my right pinkie toe and a contract for my first-born child, signed in blood, and considering how much I've not enjoyed dealing with French bureaucracy (especially when my attempts to get through it as painlessly as possible resulted in an invasion of privacy) I expected similar awfulness in trying to close everything out.
Would someone please explain to me how it is that everything is actually easy? I suppose my language skills now, versus my skills three years ago, have something to do with the relative simplicity, but still... Where are the arguments? The dismissive looks? The requests for eighteen forms that don't even exist? The voice indicating that I have the intelligence of a retarded chimpanzee? The part where they tell me I should have done X weeks ago, and now it's too late, so now I have to wait for another month before I can do said X?
Then again, what are the odds that I still end up with supposedly canceled account withdrawals next month?
"Fruit on the bottom, hope on top."
My parents flew out this morning, after a week full of togetherness. 24/7 for a week - we spent three nights in my teeny apartment here in Paris, and four nights on a long road trip. I think overall, I'd have to say that the week was really all about incredible food. Every meal we had was just... amazing. Creative and interesting and full of asparagus. And apparently I've become more French than I had thought, because my starters with asparagus and gesiers confit or escargots? Sooo good. When did I start *liking* gizzard? Now, I could do a review of the food: the BEST croissant (housemade, natch) I've ever had, or the BEST brie I've ever had (also housemade, by the same chef) or the roasted lamb with a heavenly gratin dauphinois or an Alsatian rabbit stew or this fish stuffed with a moutarde à l'ancienne sauce - oh, and the sauces? Mmmm.
But, since we never remembered to take pictures of anything before we ate it, that can't be very interesting. Instead, just a few highlights of pictures I really like, or pictures with me in them that I don't hate - not a small feat since I've pudged up over the past year or two. (One more benefit of spending a month or two in the States without a job: going to the gym, working out a ton, and getting back into shape.) Mostly, I just figure if I don't write something now, I'll never get around to it... you know, sorta like my trip to Morocco (although, I really am going to write about that eventually).
So when my parents arrived, the weather was fabulous and since this trip was just the three of us, we made a point to do a few more things that my dad particularly would enjoy. After I finished yet another document for my advisor (waaaay too much slap-dash writing last week) and a visit to the musée de l'Armée before we had our first heavenly dinner, stopping on the way to watch a little French boy play in a fountain with his sailboat. Classically adorable.
Sunday we began our road trip. Since last year we did Normandy and a bit of Bretagne, this year we headed east. We hit Reims, mostly just to see the cathedral. We spent the night at this hotel in Champagne that was all about the food (the aforementioned asparagus with escargots, croissant, brie, etc). Champagne is GORGEOUS - but then, pretty much all of France (that I've seen, and that's really quite a lot) is gorgeous. It was lovely and rainy the morning we left, but it mostly just made the land seem more dramatic. And pasture-y.
In the rain we visited WWI sites - the Kaiser Tunnel, trenches in the Argonne (la Fille Morte), the underground citadel at Verdun, and specifically the Meuse-Argonne cemetery where my mother's great uncle was buried. He died three days after the American push into the Argonne - exactly where we'd been earlier that day, if what my history brain figured out was correct.
Then, because Strasbourg had been on my shortlist of places to visit for the past three years (although I'd really wanted to go during the Christmas market) we spent the evening there, once again experiencing local cuisine and kind of hating the rain. The next day we spent in Germany, driving the whole length of the Black Forest. Since the only place I'd been in Germany was the Frankfort airport and the little town of Friedrichsdorf nearby, it was actually really cool to see so much there, including an open-air museum with all sorts of farm buildings moved into a little village-y sorta thing. I've gone to similar places in Belgium and Ireland (at least, those are the first that come to mind) but this was the only one where the buildings were so BIG. The farmers of the Schwarzwald had a loooot of space - rivaling most chateaus here. Bonus: you didn't walk out of the place smelling like smoldering peat for the rest of the day (which is mostly all I remember from one we went to Ireland; at least the other one was more medieval and less stanky).
Let's see... So then, we drove to Bern, Switzerland -- except we got lost. A bunch. Maybe it's because I speak French, but I'm pretty sure signage in France is a bit more effective than non-expressway signage in Germany, and a whole lot more comprehensible than in Suisse. But then, I'm probably biased. We eventually arrived in Bern, crashed at our hotel, got up the next morning to do a session in the temple there, where I made Italian the sixth language I've spoken/butchered as part of the prayer circle. After the requisite temple ground photo shoot we went back to France -- ahh, a lanuguage I know! -- to check out Franche-Comté and Burgundy. Since I'd already spent time in Dijon, I convinced my parents to stay somewhere else. We ended up in Beaune, this beautiful little town that's invested a lot in tourism, if the plethora of clean public bathrooms are any kind of an indicator. We did a mustard tour/tasting (not unlike a wine tasting, sans the spitting) and saw the famous bits in the town and walked the ramparts and... I don't remember what else. It was interesting, though. And interesting is good.
We came back to Paris that night, packed up the majority of my stuff to send back with my parents, and then went out for our last (and seventh, I think?) wonderful dinner. It was beyond delicious, but I think at a certain point, it starts becoming a bit commonplace. When you're at one of the ten best restaurants of any given region every night, it sorta all blends together. (Maybe that's why today, I just had popcorn and strawberries.) My dad got a bit sentimental because it was the last time they would come visit me while I'm living here, and... I dunno. It really was great overall. I thoroughly dig being on a more equal footing with my parents and having them treat me like more of a peer, especially because we mostly just end up laughing the entire time.
Uhh, that was a much longer travelogue than I'd planned on, but... eh. Keep checking back this week; as busy as I will be with packing and finishing things up (have I mentioned that I'm moving back to the States on the 26th?) I'm sure I'll have plenty of last-minute observations about being an American in Paris. And then, it might all be about reverse culture shock. Err, yeah.
"That's why I said 'oh.' It was an attempt to corral those words back into my mouth."
Words o' the Day (because I'm pulling an all-nighter and I need something to keep my mind sort of occupied as I vomit out pages of gunk):
Oh my. It's almost 9:30 am, and unless we're counting a power nap at 3 (which I'm not, since I need 9+ hours a night, not twenty minutes) I've been up working alllllll night. As I'm now going to take a shower and finish the day's writing at the Death Star library before I meet my advisor at four, it's time to post this. And to wish to die.
"The judges may have been confused when you ad-libbed the phrase, "Catholics and other people of color.'"
I've been here in Paris for a while - almost three years - and in that time, I've tried to assimilate in a lot of ways. Well, maybe not so much assimilate or even fit in as much as just not stick out like a sore thumb, a desire which increased the more I Got Hit On In The Metro. And yet, today and yesterday I was reminded just how much I don't really belong here (even if I do wear scarves).
Let's start with yesterday. I had to go to the grocery store; really, I should have gone a few days before that, but I'm getting sick of hauling everything fifteen blocks and then up four flights of rickety stairs. (Yes, it's clearly getting to be time for me to head stateside.) My mood was such that if I was going to be going out and carry a bunch of junk back, there was no way I'd be doing it in actual clothes, so I went in yoga pants, a long t-shirt, and a fleece, knowing full well that I was breaking Parisian convention. Here, you just don't go out dressed like a bum, and unless you're actively running, wearing stuff one might work out in on the street is highly unacceptable. Now, dear reader, you might be thinking that sure, it's a social convention, but people break those all time; you're not supposed to wear pajamas out in public either, but walk onto any American college campus, particularly during finals, and you'll find plenty. Paris isn't an American college campus, though, and I definitely get sideways looks when I get lazy and go out in yoga pants.
So, yesterday, I'm at the grocery store, walking up and down the aisles picking stuff up when that Insanely Strong Body Stench hits me - that ultra-ripe smell that stings your eyes like ammonia. Two aisles down from where I first noticed it, I found its source: an employee restocking the shelves. I walked past as quickly as possible to get away from quite possibly the worst smell I've experienced, and so based on how often I find myself surrounded by that smell, all I could think was "how is it that smelling like this is socially acceptable while wearing what I'm wearing isn't?"
Seriously, Parisians... shower. With soap. And I know doing laundry here is kind of a pain, but after your shower you have to actually put on CLEAN clothes. Merely looking clean isn't sufficient when people can smell you from a mile away.
Now, today. I went to church, as a good little Mormon girl is wont to do on a Sunday morning, and I spent much of the time trying to pay attention without being critical, which in my ward [congregation] is pretty easy to do. Being critical, that is. A friend was making snarky (and accurate) comments through RS, and then in Sunday School I was sitting by myself, trying to *not* pay attention now because the lesson was devolving into arguments about the merits of Coca-Cola. The reminder of just how much I still didn't fit in came at the end of the lesson. Now, for those uninitiated in the ways of teaching a lesson in an LDS Sunday School, the hour should end with a short little wrap-up including your own, relevant-to-the-topic beliefs. The guy teaching this lesson wrapped up as badly as he taught the rest of thing. He said something to the effect of "don't lose heaven because of a cigarette. Don't lose heaven because a young woman walks by." Something this inane made us laugh a bit, predictably, but that just made him elaborate, about "sinning when a blonde walks by."
He went on about blondes for a good five minutes, during which I realized that I am the ONLY blonde in the room and everyone is staring at me. So, there's this dude up front, in somewhat of a position of authority, essentially telling everyone in the room that I'm going to keep them out of heaven. And sure, the bishop [pastor] chimes in and sort of corrects him, except he's still using "blonde" as shorthand for "attractive woman," and it's possible that I missed it but from what I could tell, he never got around to mentioning the fact that no one makes choices for someone else, so if you're being kept out of heaven, it's certainly not a blonde's fault.
So, proof that I still haven't managed to fit into my ward? That would be the ten minutes of Gospel Doctrine spent on how I'm leading everyone to Hell, all because of my hair color.
And something completely unrelated: do you think I can count a tarte aux framboises as part of my 5 a day?
And here we have part deux, which lucky for you will be full of pictures. Welcome to the series that I'm calling Death Star: A Library. I know I've talked a ton about the BNF because I sometimes feel like I live there, but I don't know if you can really appreciate the experience unless you've seen what it's like just going into the place. See, the library has this highly intelligent design, as the books (some of which are very old and/or very rare) are all stored in book-shaped towers above ground, and the people are below ground in these ginormous reading rooms. To read the majority of the books, you request them online and someone pulls them and they come down from the towers and then you pick them up at this desk. The whole thing is really not too terribly efficient.
