"Don't you think that idea is a little half-baked?" "Oh no, Dad, it's completely baked. " I was ten minutes late to class today. I actually left my house early, but I was spacing out on the metro and realized where I was just as we hit Oberkampf, and *completely* forgot that I wasn't on my way to work, but on my way to French class, which means instead of transferring to line 5, I needed to be on line 4. When did I remember where I was headed? After I was already on line 5, so I ended up adding 7 or 8 metro stops to my route this morning. Pretty stupid of me, although I think it's kind of cool that I really *live* here - enough to be on auto-pilot on my commute. Of course, if I'm completely honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I'm pretty sure my lack of attention was due to thinking about, well... A 20-year-old. For pretty much ever, I've had hang-ups about age. In high school, I had a crush on a friend (the one who took me to prom) who is four months younger than me, and that always bothered me. And my sister married a guy three years younger than her, for which I've pretty much always mocked her. But now? A 20-year-old. Hot one, at that.

We hung out on Monday during the day for the first time by ourselves under the pretense of language practice. It really *was* good practice because he doesn't really speak English at all, so I can't be lazy and break into English for more complicated ideas. I think he maybe didn't think I saw through the ruse, which I find kind of cute. Monday night he was reluctant to leave when I had to leave for previous plans, he called me just as I was walking in the door three hours later, and he was disappointed to find out that I'm overly booked this week (that dance, which we're now performing at a wedding too - what ever possessed me to start being supportive?). Honestly, the whole thing is quite flattering, and perhaps more than that, as apparently I'm finding myself daydreaming too much to actually, you know, pay attention to where I'm going.

Ever since I could tell that the 20-year-old was interested, I've wanted to talk to Marky Mark, because, well, he's good with boy issues and gives me good advice free from parti pris. The time zone issue got in the way of that until late Monday night after the phone call, which was kind of too late. I'd been hoping to get Marky's opinion prior to what turned out to be, um, a first date, but after the fact wasn't awful either. He gave me absolution. I still can't help but think about the age thing (gee, I'm sure that's not obvious at all), but I'm determined to quit worrying about things that really aren't important. Maturity and similar life stages - things like that matter. Numbers? Don't. At least that's what I keep telling myself. And Marky thinks it's fine, so... I'm trying to embrace the fact that I'm kind of excited to hang out with him again.

Moment of the evening: was telling English neighbor Harold about it (part of our ongoing "Zannah dates like a guy" conversation) as we were about to start our movie selection (we're doing the Movies I Own That He's Never Seen series), when we realized the irony of what we were about to watch: The Graduate. 

¶ 0 comments 14:58

  "As you can see, Genghis greatly enjoys Twinkies because of the excellent sugar rush." Surprising to no one, I was a bit of a nerd in high school, a full-blown Orchestra geek doing things like Engineering Club and Future Problem Solvers and Scholastic Bowl ("you richies are so smart, that's exactly why I'm not heavy into activities"). Schol-Bowl was essentially team jeopardy without that pesky answer-as-a-question thing, and as I tend to be full of useless information, it was right up my alley. I still remember my favorite game-saving answer: Zimbabwe! (The question was about which African country was named after ancient ruins located within its borders, or something. Why did I know that? Because I'm a freak.) Anyway, so in one humiliating moment I will never, ever forget despite sleepless nights trying to (I kind of hate to admit that, but really - stuff like that keeps me up. Things like our disappearing civil liberties or melting polar ice caps? Apparently only issues between the hours of noon and 9 pm), I buzzed in and blurted out a name pronounced the way I say it in my head when I read it: Frood. The moderator (from the other school, of course) corrected my pronunciation and awarded my team the points (I think he laughed too, understandably. THIS was supposed to be one of the "smart" kids? Ha), but... ugh. I *still* can't believe I did that. Another confession: I joined Schol-Bowl in high school not only because it was fun and nerdy, but because of Head of the Class. The special episode when they all go to Russia is for a competetion that was either Scholastic Bowl or just heavily resembled it, and apparently wanting to be just like Simone and Darlene and date boys like Eric was still present enough in my psyche to make it part of why I joined.

Big tangent: pretty much the only person from high school that I've talked to in the last five years is this one kid, Mike, who was THE nerdiest kid around - got 1600 on his SATs, picked his nose in class, corrected our teachers; that sort of thing. I'd been in school with him since 2nd grade when his family moved to ye olde Sleepy Hollow, and for YEARS and years and years he (along with this other kid Danny Suh, until Danny moved after 8th grade. 'Course, he ended up dating my best friend later in high school, so it was all very "the bomb could go off and their mutant genes would form the same cliques") was the bane of my existence in Gifted. Anyway, so our sophomore year in English class, we had to do a talk-show type presentation as part of a speech unit, and my group decide to go the Letterman route, complete with a Top 10. Title of our Top 10? "Top Ten Signs You Are Turning Into Mike Faber." One, based on something he'd told me, I still remember: "You take Spanish so you can speak to the other half of the soccer team." And... veering off of Memory Lane...

So, mispronouncing words. Do it more than I'd like, mostly because I'm a visual learner and so most of my vocabulary was acquired by reading and not hearing words. Oh! In my first couple of years at the BYU when I was still an acting major, prior to discovering just how badly I sucked - to complete this trifecta of embarrassing confessions: I once CORRECTED MY THEATRE PROFESSOR'S PRONUNCIATION OF "GODOT." After that, I learned to beef up the filter between my brain and my mouth so I could stop embarrassing myself by absentmindedly talking. Anyway... Clearly, names and I don't get along.

The reason I mention this is that I was preparing my lesson for "Rayons de soleil" tomorrow, and while I'm excited that I can pronounce ALL of the names on my class roll (a nice change from the lycee where they had first names like Moinedjoumoi and Fouleye, which: NOT said the way it looks. I was really nervous the first time I called the roll. And the second through sixth times, because when you only see a student once every two weeks, you may remember that you DON'T say her name "Fowl-I," but there's no way you're gonna remember the correct way), I realized that I'm going to have a really, really hard time with the lesson tomorrow. I have no idea how to teach this age in English, but in French? It will be the suck. When I'm speaking French I certainly don't have the same pronunciation woes (probably because my vocabulary is, you know, smaller than the elbow of a fruit fly, err, something), but instead I have silent-because-I-can't-figure-out-how-to-say-what-I-want-to-say woes. I think tomorrow's classe d'eveil will consist of mostly play time... 

¶ 0 comments 12:32

  "I know I seems an insane person - because I hardly knows you - but sometimes things are so transparency, they don't need evidential proof." New flirting technique: asking about differences between words like "emballer" and "bisous" and "un baiser." Finally, using my (actually not-so-) mediocre French skills to my advantage. 

¶ 0 comments 15:57

  "Did you get to the part yet where they say that science hasn't proven anything?" After dinner last night with the NBFiF (had a steak that was too rare for the first time in my life; odd, that), I saw Jesus Camp (just released here a couple weeks ago), and I gotta say, freaky. For the record, I realize that I'm way, way behind the times on this, but... I'm out of the loop in general, and so it is. Also, I know I don't normally blog about stuff like this, but... eh. Get bothered enough by something and out comes the highly judgmental attitude, I guess. So, shallow, pointless stories about my life next time; shallow, pointless commentary this time.

So Jesus Camp is a pretty biased documentary about evangelicals in middle America, specifically a Pastor Becky who works with children, and a few kids who attend her camp in North Dakota. And, um... wow. Like I said, the film is biased, but at the same time, it's not as though the people weren't saying the things they were saying; I doubt the quotations were even pulled that far out of context - the bias really just came into play with the actual film making, like the background music increasing the creep-out factor in a few scenes. But, for example, when one kid, Levi, talks about how he was saved at the age of five because nothing was fun and he wanted more out of life, you can't argue that it's not what he believes. Even if I can't imagine a five-year-old being cognizant enough to make that sort of decision, it's not that surprising with a mother who teaches him, for example, that science is wrong (welcome to conservapedia, but in real life).

The worst part, for me, was sitting in the theater full of French people as I cringed at the American flags behind all of the zealousness. For as much as I say the French are pretty good at differentiating between the US government and me, Zannah (at least, that was my experience while I was here studying for a semester in 2003 during the Freedom Fry period when the US started bombing Iraq), it seems like that applies only to the government; they tend to group Americans into one big lump (Joe-Bob with his "gun control is being able to hit your target" bumper sticker, Pastor Becky, and me, Zannah... joy), often giving us all the characteristics of the lowest common denominator. I've had to answer enough questions about Bush getting elected (new answer: Sarkozy!) and refute statements about all kinds of things I don't support to make that awfully clear, and the thing is, most of us don't worship cardboard cut-outs of the president. And while I feel like I might have an answer for the craziness in this film (Le Pen, résultats: 1er tour, 2002) it bugs me to think that this adds "all Americans are religious crazies" to the "all Americans are fat fast-food eaters" and "all Americans are gun-toting freaks" and whatever else our documentaries are showing the world.

The part that was especially difficult to watch was the home-schooling about global warming. Like we don't already have a bad enough rep on that topic as it is, but no, let's make sure that the craziness is clearly all over the place. When did things like global warming become religious issues, anyway? I have a hard time believing that there are politicians in power who are still ambivalent on the topic (soooo disturbing!), but to actively teach your children that it's false doctrine perpetuated by the evil liberals? I mourn for America. I have absolutely no comprehension of how someone could honestly not think it's occurring. I can sort of maybe kind of see how you could debate the cause of global warming, but the mere existence? Perhaps Ted Haggard has been sharing whatever it is that he's on? Speaking of which, the part with good ol' Ted was terribly interesting considering what has come out since then (pun absolutely intended).

Now, I realize that my perceptions of this film are, of course, colored by my own highly religious background and beliefs in a religion that many would consider crazy, and in the opinion of the evangelicals, the work of the devil and not Christian and all that jazz (or as our favorite 9-year-old evangelical missionary Rachel says, it would be a "dead church" where "God doesn't like to go"). I fancy myself a pretty open-minded person, and I tend towards a laissez-faire attitude about most things, but I've actually got an opinion I'm comfortable with voicing on this one. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't kind of glad that people like this think I'm evil. If not being anti-abortion in ALL cases, no exceptions, and if not telling 9-year-olds that they are horrible, awful sinners, and if not believe Harry Potter is of the devil makes me wrong, then I don't want to be right (go....cliché!).

Also: after seeing this film, I finally get why Giuliani and Romney are campaigning so far to the right (although: bad move to win overall, which is just further proof that our primaries and bipartisan system just result in two candidates that no one much likes in turn resulting in ultra-low voter turnout) , but then, it's abundantly clear that Romney will never win the Republican nomination with this kind of crazy controlling the party.

Best part of the film: the preview for Made in Jamaica. It comes out in a couple of weeks and THAT is one I'm excited to see, and not only because I won't leave the theater thinking about people calling Bush the Lord's anointed (literally: heaven forbid). 

¶ 0 comments 04:05

  "For relaxing times, make it Suntory time." Like pretty much everyone you know, probably, I'm ultra-lucky in that I get to deal with clinical depression. Tried meds, spent years in therapy, and eventually got to a place where it's manageable without the deadening effect (for me) of drugs. With the help of some fabulous therapists, figured out how to recognize when I was at the beginning of a downward spiral and figured out ways to pull myself out of it, but it's never completely a non-issue. It's way better than the suicidal part or the incredibly self-destructive behavior of yore, but it still kinda sucks. Normally, I can pull myself out a slump quickly enough, but this last time, it hasn't been working so well, and I hate to admit (but I will because of my recent decision to quit hiding so much) that I totally blew off my French classes today and spent the day alternating between crying and reading (which, depending on what I was reading, exacerbated the crying) and napping. Anyway, so in an attempt to think about other things, tonight we have a list of things that make me happy:

• Wore a t-shirt today that I haven't worn since my parents brought it out for me in April, which means it smells like Tide and Bounce and "home," mostly. I'm picky about products and I'm REALLY into smells, which means that in the US I use the same laundry stuff my mom does and that here, I get kind of frustrated that even with my Bounce dryer sheets I haven't found a detergent that I really like (yes, my life is so big and important that I care about the smell of my laundry). So to get to smell the way laundry should smell all day? Heaven.


• Listening to Alice in Chains and Tool and Soundgarden and Smashing Pumpkins and whatever else. Don't know why I've been more into this kind of stuff in the past month or two than usual, but it makes me happy.


• Short fingernails. I used to keep them no-white short because of playing the viola, but now that I don't practice the way I should, I'll occasionally let them grow out a bit more. I find it a bit harder to type or play the piano, but I feel temporarily girly. Then, when I'm ready to practice again and I chop 'em all off, such a wonderful feeling.


• Almost every day for the past week or two, a teeny little sparrow (at least, I think it's a sparrow; when it comes to identifying flora and fauna I'm more than dumb. Someone recently gave me a plant, and I had to do a bit of googling to verify my suspicions that yes, it is indeed an orchid. I'm so gonna kill it...) has flown in the far window in my apartment, hopping around the two square feet of tile that makes up my "kitchen," eventually flying back out a minute or so later. I'm always sitting on my bed when it flies in, and I make a point to be silent and motionless so I don't scare it away (or scare it so it forgets where the window is and ends up flying in a panic around my apartment). This morning, there were two little birds on my "kitchen" floor pecking at crumbs, and once again, my camera was out of reach. I'm starting to think if I don't start mopping more frequently, it won't be long before I also have a new little friend named Gus-Gus. I love the little birds, though, and one day, I *will* manage to get a picture of them.


• My hair looks fabulous today. I may have bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks, but it's nothing a little Cousin It action can't fix. Apparently, I'm shallow, because I may look in the mirror today and think, "when exactly did it become a burden to wear jeans? And do I spy a wee puffy eye?" but then I think, "huh. My hair looks good. Guess things aren't THAT bad."


• Using the word "dude." I know it makes me sound unedumacated or like an idiot or whatever else, but when I let this word slip out every so often, it cheers me up.
  


• Finally answering an email from Sweet DW she sent me last week about her summer plans that have changed because of a boy, which is a first for her. I'm so proud of her, and so getting to put that in an email and ask for the girly juicy details? It made my day. Seriously, so cool for her, and so glad she shared.


• Having my windows open so I can hear all of the people who live around me; their phones ringing, their loud conversations in a myriad of languages, the sounds of their computers starting up, and even the guy on the second floor across the way who is really into gospel, early Michael Jackson, and the Chili Peppers. The smells, even the unpleasant ones like the cigar smoke from the 3rd floor of my building, are nice, too. You know what people are cooking, and so with the sounds, it's this incredible sense of community that I think I'm supposed to find annoying because we're all living on top of each other but mostly just find comforting.
  


• Hot showers. Don't think that needs an explanation.

Anyone have something simple that makes you happy or just cheers you up? More happy thoughts would be appreciated. Also, apologies for the excessively long posts as of late; I really did intend for this one to be shorter. Anyway, unless I find myself sidetracked again, look for another installment of Getting Hit On in the Metro; I've got a few from the past week that need to be shared. 

¶ 0 comments 12:59

  "Anyone who wants to be a can't-hack-it pantywaist who wears their mama's bra, raise your hand." So as I type this I'm sort-of-watching Eric Bana be uncontrollably hot and manly next to a wussy Orlando Bloom in that bad period movie (Troy, I guess?) where Brad Pitt looked like an anthropomorphic lion. Definitely makes me glad I didn't bother to see it when it came out, and confirms that yes, I hate few things as much as I hate dubbing. Also, Eric Bana is really good at choosing bad scripts; Munich was most definitely a fluke, and I say this with the knowledge of a poker fan who saw Lucky You. (For a good poker movie, let me recommend Rounders if you haven't already seen it. Bonus: Ed Norton.) (Wait - he was in Black Hawk Down? Apparently he wasn't so memorable, even if the film itself was.)

Anyway, you're not here to read lame commentary on crap you don't care about (I just realized that describes my entire blog, so, ha. I guess you are) so, a bit about my day. Sundays for me are the epitome of lazy except for the lack of cupcakes (speaking of which, anyone know of a place to get a cupcake, preferably pink-frosted, in this city? As pudgy as I am, my life is definitely lacking in cupcakes. Also needed: someone to get me to work out a lot more than the almost-never I've got going on now.) as I firmly believe I have fulfilled any and all obligations to humanity after going to church for three hours. Apparently, though, being dyed-in-the-wool true-blue through-and-through means that I seemingly cannot be content in my sing-a-bunch-of-hymns-then-lie-on-my-bed- in-the-breeze-for-eight-hours Sunday existence, and I needed a calling. I've been in my ward (or congregation - apologies to those not up on this religion-specific jargon)(hi Andy!) since October and despite the serious lack of manpower, hadn't gotten a calling (we've got a lay clergy, which means that all of everything is done on a volunteer-basis, except you don't so much choose what you do; you're assigned or called to a specific responsibility) yet. Despite asking. Yes, my friends - I asked the bishop (apparently a waste of time as up until 3 weeks ago, he thought 5'4" brown-haired brown-eyed olive-skinned dancer's-body-type Canadian Jac and I were the same person. I've had clearly-blind people tell me I look like Julia Stiles before, but this is just ridiculous.), mentioned it to the Relief Society president... I figured that perhaps they just didn't know what to give me, since, as we all know, my French skills really wouldn't make something like "Gospel Doctrine teacher" so logical.

Finally, maybe 8 weeks ago I volunteered to do a musical number in Sacrament meeting, thinking that if they didn't know what to give me, maybe they'd be inspired to let me do something musical? RS chorister, maybe? Whatever... just give me a freaking job. Mentioning a skill-set didn't work, so hey, I'll sing for you all! And then you'll know that there IS in fact a calling you could give me! So, I talk to Flo, the music chairperson (also the RS president and fortunately a good friend, but did I mention the general shortage of bodies?) about it, and ask if they even DO that sort of thing. She says not usually, unless it's an American involved, so I tell her to forget about it. She says, no, they SHOULD have musical numbers and it'd be great if I'd do something and makes it so I can't back out of my offer. So, I get the music and find a pianist and I'm all prepared and stuff, if heart palpitations and nausea because you're worried that you'll look like you're grandstanding or not respecting the way they do things in France count as preparation. I've decided that they do.

So, cut to this morning, day o' the Grand Stand. At church at 8:20 to practice with Canadian Jac as we hadn't actually practiced together; that was done and by 9 I'm sitting silently in RS doing the ça va rounds as required (or in other words, letting people come to me. I'm still just a bit too timid to go out of my way to greet people; someday I'll get past wanting to just slink to a seat way off to the side where I can pay attention and avoid speaking, but I'm pretty sure it'll coincide with the Apocalypse.) and generally dreading the next couple of hours. After RS, the second counselor de l'episcopat comes in the room and asks to talk to me. We sit down, he tells me they'd like to extend a SECOND calling. Yeah. Second. So I ask him about that, and it turns out I should have been called to be a music director of something unspecified, but they FORGOT. So, this whole get-a-calling campaign? Were Paris Lilas not Paris Lilas it would have been unnecessary... Anyway, so I'm asked to be in the Primary, which, sure, whatever - it'll be good to have something that doesn't involve running a committee like virtually every calling I've ever had (why hello, BYU and BGIII). Never done the kid-at-church thing before, and I like change (as long as said change doesn't require me to talk to strangers?). (Oh - and it turns out I'm doing nursery/Sunbeams with a woman who speaks French about like I do, except with a Spanish accent... Can I get a "you're screwed"?) An hour-plus later, I'm sitting in the (sort of) chapel waiting for saint cène to start when I realize that I should have tried to get out of singing. (Hmm... as this movie goes on, I'm finding Eric Bana icky-er and icky-er. I think it's the beaded hair thing. Ew.)

The second counselor is conducting, biffs my name (Is it Zannah? Is it my legal name? Good thing the loud American EQ prez was there to Save. The. Day. by yelling my name from the back.) during the ward business portion, and then when announcing the talks, says there will be an intermediate hymn and turns around to see the number. It's blank, so Flo leans over and whispers to him, and he says that the intermediate hymn will be sung by me. No mention of a musical number, just makes it sound like I've usurped the congregation's right to sing mid-meeting. I know I'm probably just being over-sensitive, but my hell, I was so uncomfortable I was trying to decide if it would have been less or more awkward for me to just leave in the middle of the first talk (along with the lay clergy, the sermons are given by members of the congregation, except we creatively call them "talks"). Perhaps I could fake a seizure? The first two speakers go on and on - around 11:45 in the middle of the second one I can see l'episcopat talking to Flo because normally they'd just cut the intermediate hymn, and I'm hoping that since they don't seem to understand musical numbers I'll get lucky and they'll cut me too. (Lion-man just killed Bana. At least that means the beaded hair is done with. And Orlando Bloom still creeps me out. If anyone can explain what sort of brain-eating bacteria causes the Bloom-is-hot sickness, that'd be great, because I've never understood it.) So, I have this conversations-o'-mini-gestures about the time with the second counselor and finally end up at the pulpit singing. Turned out fine despite some major piano biffing that resulted in some a cappella bits, and afterward I didn't feel quite as ready to slit my wrists, which I'm sure you'll all agree is generally a good sign. The compliments afterward seemed to be a bit more heartfelt than in a US ward, so it was probably good that I did it, but I'm pretty sure next time I'll just keep asking about a calling rather than resorting to poor subterfuge.

One of the compliments used the word "bangarang," which if you're up on your early-90s kids' movies, you'll recall is from Hook (with other origins, perhaps?). The person who made this comment was, um... a missionary. And this is the part where I make the incredibly embarrassing admission that I think I have a crush on a missionary. I'm not sure... A couple of weeks ago I was on my way into the chapel and he stopped me for a longish, energetic conversation, and this week, I got much of the same lit-up stay-and-talk reaction when walking past with a small head-nod and a greeting of "Elder..." Today post-church (I was there until 1. 13h00! I'm normally out of the building within seconds of that final "amen," but I had to stick around for a calling-related meeting and a sari-purchasing planning session for this dance I got wrangled into. More details when that painful performance occurs) we ended up having this whole conversation about hockey and baseball and the blues and whatever else, and while I enjoyed the conversation, that's not why I think I might I have a crush. During my three-hour Sunday Afternoon Nap today, I had a very long dream about him. I've never been the type to have crushes on missionaries, even when I wasn't 5 years older than them, so this is throwing me for a loop. Yes, he's cute; yes, he initiates our conversations; yes, he goes home very soon; and yes, the closest thing I've got to a romantic interest in this city is the tall, adorable 20-year-old who, as was confirmed last night at le bal in Versailles, is just as difficult to talk to in person as he is to chat with. (Good dancer, though, and definite points for dashing across the room to dance with me.) But a crush? Completely disturbed by the idea, even though it was a really good dream. I think I just need to spend a few weeks around men who both a) legally qualify as "men" and b) meet that pesky religious requirement (huzzah for July and August). Anything to fix my subconscious. 

¶ 0 comments 14:15

  "An elevator can only go up and down, but the Wonkavator can go sideways and slantways and longways and backways..." "And frontways?" "..and squareways and frontways and any other ways that you can think of. " Anyone who has been reading this blog for any period of time is probably aware of the self-centered nature of it. I'd apologize for this, except... what else do I have to write about? It's not that unusual for me to go most of a day without having an actual conversation with anyone. Anyway, so during my evening o' quiet last night (I opted to bail on my neighbors and the club in favor of talking to my mother on the phone and reading. Yes, I'm a dork.) I was thinking about this need I have to be unique. You'd think I'd be content with the fact that my genetic makeup is unique - the person most closely related to me has brown hair and brown eyes even - but no. It kind of bugs me when tons of other people are into the bands I'm into, or I don't like thinking about the tons of other people who have made my same life decisions (how many Americans in Paris, exactly?). I'm not much bothered when other people are BETTER at things than me, because I long ago resigned myself to my own mediocrity, but still. Apparently, differences matter more than quality? I dunno.

Not sure why this is, and not sure exactly what I'm going to do about it, but I have decided one thing (somewhat unrelated, but it was part of the same thought train): it's time to be a bit more open in here. When I started the blog back up again in 2005, it was with the realization that it might affect my scholastic future, so I got in the habit of avoiding saying things that Big Brother might not like. Now, I feel a bit paranoid about how this might affect future job possibilities - wouldn't want to dooce myself out of a career - but I realized I ought to share my neuroses and failures and whatever else. Engage in emotional honesty (not larceny). Apologies if that's not why you read this, but, eh. Remember how I'm all self-focused? 

¶ 0 comments 07:28

  "I already schooled you once tonight, homeboy. How many lessons you wanna learn?" As some tentative plans to spend Ascension Thursday in Strasbourg fell through, I got together with Canadian Jac to have... an American day? Started with dressing like Americans, which meant big ol' trainers for Jac and the dysentery tee for me. We went to Breakfast in America for lunch as I've been craving diner food lately, preferably served by a cranky blue-haired woman named Betty. Apparently a cranky Betty is hard to find in Paris, but the burgers and root beer floats weren't half bad. Bonus: my burger was quite pink, as I like it, and as you can't normally get it in the US due to all of those pesky health-code laws. We finished (North?) American Day with a viewing of Steppin' complete with predicting the formulaic plot ("so, is his motivational life-changing event in the first ten or twenty minutes?" "place your bets - does he show up before the performance or in just enough time to slide in on the first beat?") and subtitle appreciation.

When it comes to movies in English, I sometimes judge their quality on how often I read the subtitles (if I get really engrossed, I ignore them completely), but with this movie, I'd have read them no matter HOW good it was. Why is this? The slang, my friends. It's all about the slang. The translations were absolutely hilarious; generally they would capture the essence but completely miss the culture. The only one I can remember now (unfortuately, as it's not even a good example...) is "je me casse" for "I'm-unna bounce," probably because it reminded me of the Yannick Noah comment that was so reminiscent of so many celebs during the 2004 elections. Anyway, they kept me giggling through most of the film, which is never a bad thing. I may go see it again just so I can write down various lines and their corresponding translations.

Further proof that my life is Singles: I think I just agreed to go to a "discothèque" (that's the word she used, which... isn't that kinda old? At least, my students always just say "boite") tomorrow night with my Serbian neighbor who apparently loves some place at Bastille, the Brazilian girls, and maybe the Czech girls on the ground floor. I'm anticipating weirdness, as I'm not normally the Girls' Night Out type, nor the clubbing type. Ahh well... it's always good to get out of my comfort zone, I suppose.

Also, took some Benedryl right after reading this (anyone else develop allergies at 26?). Almost feel a bit dirty now... 

¶ 0 comments 14:18

  "Are you berry berry silly, are you berry berry fat..." Turns out there are worse things than Getting Hit On in the Metro by creepy middle-aged men. What's that, you ask? Getting Accosted By Seemingly Normal People Who Are Actually Certifiable. Just minding my own business today, heading home from French class on the ol' metro, having just gotten on line 9 at Strasbourg St-Denis. As we get to the next stop, this 30-something woman hops up from her fold-down seat near the opening door and sits down next to me, fold-down seat near the non-functioning door. I thought maybe she had a weird thing about people walking by her, but oh, no, wait... of course. She wants to talk to me.

Asks if I'm French, I say no. She goes into this diatribe about a woman with glasses who was evil and used her power to abuse Moroccan children. She has an accent that I find difficult to understand and the things that seem to be coming out of her mouth just can't be something that a normal person would say, so I assume that ye olde language barrier strikes again. Also, about six seconds into this, I realize that this is a conversation I really don't want to have, so what do I do? Play dumb! I tell her I don't understand and apologize, hoping that will be the end of it. But no... hearing my accent, she asks if I speak English.

So now, I get the English version of the anger, which includes several important points:

• The woman who was sitting across the way from the crazy woman's original seat is apparently Hitler and the Devil all rolled into one.
• "Men sex" is the root of all evil. (I thought that was girls?)
• General confusion about the crazy emmanating from someone's mouth may be an indicator that the confused person doesn't know what the word "sex" means.

In the English version, I can't help but get that yes, the crazy woman is indeed accusing our fellow passenger of infanticide. I start to tell the Crazy that I'm sure that woman is very nice (also: wearing cute skirt), but that's when the Crazy tells me the story about how our fellow passenger married Algerians (plural? bigamy is a thing now, huh?) and so she burned babies. Because of men sex. Call me naive, but I was trying to understand what she was talking about, and this part I clearly didn't get - how are those things related? This led her to ask me "Sex? You know sex?" How does one answer that question? "Yes, I've heard of the concept"? "Not so familiar with this Sex you talk of, but I'm pretty tight with his buddy Kiss"?

This entire time, sitting across from me, listening to the whole conversation is this woman with the standard mini-Nefertiti hair so many French women have. Major sidebar: it's like an entire demographic here is channeling a skinny version of that PTA mom who was always hitting on Joey on Full House. Tip: if your appearance resembles a minor character on Full House, time for a bit o' help. (I hope you all appreciate the self-control it took not to use Cut. It. Out.) Anyway, so every time I look over at Skinny Joey Lover, she gives me this sympathetic look and makes it clear she has no idea what the Crazy is talking about. I must say, the Solidarity On The Metro part was sorta nice, even if what precipitated it was uncomfortable in sandpaper-knickers proportions. I ended up getting off the Metro a stop early because I was sick of trying to be empathetic without agreeing that yes, the nice woman on the train is Minnie Castevet's role model.

And finally... (bringing this all back to me, because that's apparently all I do) if anyone knows how to quit appearing so obviously foreign I'd appreciate some help. I'm pretty sure the Crazy would have left me alone if I'd seemed French. 

¶ 0 comments 12:50

  "We're having a party, an international party. We're having a party, our friends will all be there…"
So today was "La Fête à Léon" here in my neighborhood which, from what I can tell, meant that people ate in the middle of the street and a bunch of corners were taken over at different times by various groups of kids playing instruments. While I didn't so much join in on the festivities, I did take a bunch of pictures - hanging out the window, of course, because we all know I'm entirely too lazy to wander around the streets with my camera when I can be barefoot in my apartment. The best part was probably the dressed-up group of people with several tables dancing at the end of my street. When I first saw it, I thought it was just a wedding reception given by very very passive-aggressive parents until I remembered the block party plans. They seemed quite Greek to me, and so it was nice to remember the fun of the Parthenon or St. Sophia's. Oh - and these pictures were taken only five minutes apart. 

¶ 0 comments 09:30

  "Marcel s'est peint en vert." Met with a professor today and now have an advisor for grad school next year, which also means I'm *in*. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop; this feels like it was entirely too easy. Then again, I'm looking at two years and a fatty thesis in French, so I think that feeling of "easy" won't last for too long. 

¶ 0 comments 14:11

  "Tentacles. N-T." Went out to Torcy (very suburban; reminded me a bit of Schaumburg around Woodfield, actually) today for a women's day run by the stake RS, complete with classes on how to cross-reference your scriptures (no small feat with the French standard works, as the Bible's got nothing and the triple has maybe half of the extras we've got), and how to have a viable balcony garden (because "water it" isn't adequate advice?), and how to understand men (word on the street: respect works wonders), and my personal favorite - a workshop on appearance. My YW's leader for most of my 6 years was the same woman, and she had been Miss Utah or something when she was younger and had two incredibly beautiful daughters; makeup and looking good came naturally to her. As my class was really laid-back and anti-makeup and into thrift stores (example: we traded clothes a lot, and the two most fought over? A holey navy and grey horizontally-striped sweater, and a t-shirt with the Grinch on it) she had makeover-type activities for us almost monthly, until we were Laurels and she gave up, letting us watch movies at her house most weeks.

Anyway, my point is, I've had the "Atelier Look" about 17,000 times, and despite my own unkempt appearance, I could give the presentation myself. Didn't stop me from going today, and I gotta say... funny. First off, the color wheel. They didn't know it, and this woman was telling people that they should wear complimentary colors - like, if they wore a red skirt, then green accessories were in order. The best part, though, was the argument they got into about whether or not jeans can be feminine, classy, or both (or neither, as several of them argued). I mostly found it funny because of the whole the-French-have-so-much-style stereotype. While I will say the people who know fashion here REALLY know fashion, by and large the average person on the street tends to be kind of dumpy. The irony of my day...

Oh, and this evening, watched Better Off Dead with Harold, and he enjoyed it just as one should. He especially loved Badger, though, which was pleasantly unusual. We got interrupted partway through by the Russian guy in our building, Roman, who, in describing another neighbor (dude, I feel so Singles) who's just been a bit out of it lately, said:

"She was like her hamster had died ... If she had a hamster."

One of those moments when you really wish you'd had a tape recorder (actually, the whole conversation was like that; the kid's good times), and when you feel like you might go to hell for so thoroughly enjoying the phrases a non-native-English-speaker comes up with... 

¶ 0 comments 15:50

  "Pourquoi ton père a fui la Hongrie?" So... Sarko, huh? A mistake, if you ask me, but then, it's not like Ségo was qualified for the job. His stance on immigration and the banlieue should be enough to scare any voter, I think. I find it telling that I personally only know two people who voted for Sarkozy, both of whom are white, male, long-time French and have corporate jobs. Ahh well... as the NBFiF says, at least now we have a response to all of the French who ask about how Bush got elected. I gotta ask, though - why are elections always a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils?

On a lighter note, had a "Getting Hit On in the Metro" (sort of) last night that was different enough to warrant mentioning. Was on the way home from good ol' Franklin D (saw a movie with MD without much weirdness; definitely a good sign) when a group of somewhat sauced kids my age got on the train and sat in the seats around me. One sat right across from me, staring, until he moved to the fold-down seats behind me and proceeded to bark (yes, bark) in my ear. Repeatedly. Repeatedly, like 30 times repeatedly. After he barked (once again: barked) enough to really get my attention, he says, "Americans like men who bark, yes?" which, I gotta say, I still don't get. At this point I hadn't said a word and everything I was wearing I had bought here, so I turned around and asked him if it was really obvious that I'm American. He started to say something but got cut off by the train arriving at his station, so his (slightly) more sober friends pulled him away and I was left to contemplate my apparently uber-evident American-ness. Seriously, what's it gonna take to blend in here?

Also... barking? 

¶ 0 comments 15:12

  "No evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death." - Plato I woke up this morning to an email from my mother about a plane crash that killed two of my dad's collegues (details in the Trib, Sun-Times, and Herald among others). One, Mr. Hamilton, was the head partner of my dad's firm, and the other was the son of another partner (founding partner, actually, along with my dad and a few others) who, like several of the partners' sons, had become part of the business. It's been quite the shocking tragedy, and it's been rough especially for my dad - one man is a close friend he's respected both professionally and personally for more years than I've been alive, and the other is the son of another close friend and business partner.

I've been thinking a lot about them, obviously; I can't remember much about Mark other than the random office encounter or company picnic, which tended to be small, fun events due to the small, close-knit nature of the firm. Mark was 4 or 5 years older than me, and I vaguely recall playing with him the year there were golf carts at the picnic. I feel awful for his family as they're just beginning to miss him. I've known Mr. Hamilton for as long as I can remember, from all the years I came to visit the office, whether it was to just see where my dad worked, or to sell Girl Scout cookies, or what. Then, as I got older, and I interned there during the summer (as many of us partners' kids did), I encountered Mr. Hamilton in a professional capacity, and still, he was always kind, and welcoming, and just... wonderful. Frankly, if it hadn't been for Mr. Hamilton and HP, I probably would have been a Wisconsin farm girl. From the bottom of my suburban-Chicagoan heart, I'm grateful for the man that Mr. Hamilton was; he was a truly good person and will be missed. 

¶ 0 comments 11:35

  "Ça va jusqu’à onze." Do you ever have those days when there really isn't anything you HAVE to do, and so you find yourself searching to put together a to-do list? Ever have weeks like that? Probably not, because you're probably not living the same vacation-for-real life that, for me, is pretty much the standard. Kind of frustrating, actually, because I find that the busier I am, the more efficient I am and the more I get done. These days, I usually manage to, I dunno... buy orange juice. Kind of pathetic, really. At least next week I'll start having something that I have to do *every single day.* I don't know how I'll be able to withstand the agony of actually using an alarm, or not having a day full of rainbows and butterfly costumes and croissants. I'd like to say that today I started getting myself used to, you know, DOing stuff, but that's oh-so-false. I managed to do a few things I've been putting off - declaring last year's income to the CAF, taking paperwork to the Social Security office, sending Mother's Day cards, etc. - but really, nothing.

Despite, well, a day basically involving long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners, I still managed to have highlights: first, after days and days and days of trying to coordinate schedules (mostly, it was the time difference), I finally got Em on the phone for more than 30 seconds and I got to hear about the baby she had last Friday. They named him Cole, which is leagues better than the Cecil and Francis and whatever other names she had a thing for over the years, and apparently, being induced is awful, and having a baby is way better than she expected. I must say (selfishly), Em's pregnancy has been probably the hardest part of being here for me. I hate that I completely missed out on this huge part of her life. I was in Paris for her entire engagement in 2003 during my study abroad (granted, her husband was a friend of mine and I set them up so I wasn't completely uninvolved). She got married the weekend after I returned, so while I was at the wedding, I didn't get to throw her a shower or do much dress-shopping or help her not hate her mother or do whatever else a best friend does in these situations. Just like I sent shower gifts last time, I sent shower gifts again, and cute French maternity clothes for her birthday, but it's just not the same. Plus, I won't even see her allegedly-beautiful baby until June and that? Makes me sad. Talking to her for a good chunk of time helped, and I don't feel quite so much like I've completely abandoned her and that we've completely drifted apart (I know, hard to do since we're cousins, but still a legitimate concern if you ask me) or that she might feel like I don't care about her life.

Something else I loved about the conversation: Em is still Em. We talked about the baby and the birth, but we talked about plenty of other things; motherhood hasn't been the equivalent of a lobotomy for her (some of you may disagree, but I've known a lot of women who are Mommy after the kid is born and nothing else) and she's still who she is. I mostly expected that from her, especially as she navigated the staying-friends-with-single-people-after-marriage challenge better than anyone else I've ever known, but the confirmation just made me happy. So, highlight one (1).

Also, last night watched a movie with Harold the British Neighbor (review of that is forthcoming) and the kid cracks me up. His girlfriend called in the middle of the movie, and despite leaving "in search of a sweatshirt," I still caught more of the lovey-dovey stuff than I wanted to, which prompted another "you're like a guy when it comes to love" statement from him. Entirely possible, as my idea of a good date movie is the Tap. Speaking of which, he'd loaned my copy to a couple of French friends, and apparently they didn't appreciate the film, even though Harold acted out (slightly incorrectly) the 11 scene, in French, with a pronounced British accent. Even just re-enacted, it was one of the funniest things I've seen in a while. "C'est un plus fort." 

¶ 0 comments 15:35

  Well, maybe I'm not 'the norm.' I'm not 'camera-friendly,' I don't 'wear clothes that fit me,' I'm not a 'heartbreaker.' I don't know 'how that works,' I don't 'fall in line'..." Tonight while I was watching the very long French presidential debate , chatting with Nathan about people we both know here in Paris (a lot more than I expected, even though we met here when I was doing a study abroad and he was an assistant, which was how I heard about the assistantship program to begin with, actually), MD called me from Morocco where he's currently on a business trip. Our conversation reminded me quite a bit of the ones we had for the first month or so when I was here, when we talked on the phone for an hour or two every night. Except, tonight I didn't feel smothered and it was a lot more awkward. Also, shorter.

From what I can tell, a lot of the awkwardness stemmed from me mentioning other guys. One was Rogr, as I had briefly discussed going to see Spider-Man with MD and didn't because it probably would have been us and his roommate, who I find to be boorish in a French frat-boy sort of way. Despite a lack of plans, apparently going to see it with Rogr was some sort of betrayal thing for MD? I can't figure it out. As cute as Rogr is, he and I simply don't have that kind of chemistry, so the weird crankiness about who I saw the movie with doesn't make sense to me. The other was this 20-year-old kid who thought I was 21 or 22 and whom I thought was 23 or 24, so the age discovery? Highly relevant to what we were talking about at the time and kinda funny. Apparently not something MD can laugh about though.

At this point, I'm starting to wonder if MD and I will ever be able to be real friends - he's so weird about things. I realize that I've made somewhat of a habit of breaking his heart (twice in 2003 and once, debatably, in 2006), and while one could argue that it's not my fault because I was always extremely honest and straightforward with him (am I to blame if someone refuses to believe what I'm saying?), I still feel bad about the whole thing. And I hate the awkwardness. It's probably just a matter of time, and maybe a matter of him falling in love with someone else, but it still bugs. I should probably just avoid mentioning any guy when talking to him, but that's a bit impossible in situations like "so who did you see the movie with?" Any suggestions on becoming well-adjusted friends, or am I hoping for too much?

On a slightly-related note: when my parents and nieces were here, MD went to dinner with us one night, and afterward, my parents both told me how they were glad I had decided against marrying him. This may be a bit silly, but in my single-longer-than-anyone-in-my-entire-family-(dozens-of-cousins-included) state, it was nice to hear. *I* am quite content with my very single life, but it made my night to learn that they are happy with it too.

Completely unrelated note: oh how I love cool evenings. Right now all my windows are open, I'm wearing flannel pajamas, and I'm so comfortable it's ridiculous. When did Paris get a monopoly on perfect weather? 

¶ 0 comments 15:48

  Bruce Campbell: "I am French!" So I had intended to do this in two separate posts (you know, one yesterday, one today) but since I'm apparently too lazy to do that, you get two for the price of one. So, umm... a whole bunch of nothing for free? Anyway, so yesterday was my last day of teaching, what with the whole assistants-have-7-month-contracts bit. It felt quite surreal and awfully bittersweet - all of my classes were really nice and said they'd miss me and stuff, but some seemed to mean it more than others. My final class, this seconde of mostly girls, was especially sweet - they all wanted pictures of me, and asked me to sign the folders for their class photo (kind of like our yearbooks, I guess? At least, it felt very "what did they write to Diane Court?") and one kid even gave me this key chain of King Tut's mask, as he's of Egyptian origins and is *really* into his country. I took a bunch of pictures of the school, my students, the salle de profs - even one of the adorable French lit teacher I talk to the most. This one is of the schoolyard during the 15 minute break at 3 pm; it looks a bit sparse compared to other times of the day. Leaving felt just odd, probably partly because I'm hoping to be assigned to that school again next year when I'm here studying. My supervisor and the principal and a few other teachers have already sent letters to the academie or the rectorat or wherever, so it seems likely, but even still... it's hard. Fortunately, as I'm not leaving Paris any time soon it's a bit easier, so no actual tears, but... yeah.

So, today was May Day, Labor Day, whatever you want to call it. I had talked about going to a manifestation today with Camille, this other teacher I've become friends with, but I wasn't sure if it was the best of ideas. Also, I'm lazy. Anyway, so I was out wandering today (mostly just picking up advance tickets for Spider-Man 3) and the first group I encountered was on the metro - this HUGE group of kids who were part of the Mouvement des Jeunes Socialistes (MJS) got on the train at St-Ambroise, filling up all of the cars, and then getting off at the next stop (Oberkampf). Didn't surprise me that they had lots of pro-Sego stuff and tons of "STOP SARKO" things, but I did find it a bit interesting that *everyone* I saw today was using the labor-related protest to also protest Sarkozy. When I was headed home, saw this lovely group immediately upon leaving my metro station - around 17h, there was something similar at literally every intersection, no matter how minor, on Blvd Voltaire, at least near where I live. Quite interesting, although smaller than I expected. It seemed a bit more like a lot of the people were going through the motions because that's what they're supposed to
do today, and not as though they had some huge issue they really cared about. Of course, the highlight of my wandering was over in the 7th, when I happened upon 3 guys, all in suits, probably hotel employees taking a break. At the very least, they were taking a break from something. But, they were hot, and the black suit look? Oh yum.

And finally, saw Spider-Man 3 today, as it came out today. I'm not all that into this particular genre of film, although I enjoy the good ones; what I really love is seeing a film on the day of its release when it's a big deal. I love how into the film people get; as Rogr said, it's interactive. I picked up tickets this afternoon, and then this evening I went with the aforementioned Rogr, my German neighbor. It was a good time, complete with the uber-fan you see here. He was the only one, but he was hardcore about it - he wore his mask during the ENTIRE film. The movie itself? Good, although my personal favorite part was Bruce Campbell, which was to be expected as I've loved the Evil Dead trilogy for as long as I've known of its existence (and really, how can anyone know the Ash from 1980 and not automatically love Bruce Campbell for life?), but as I didn't know much about the flick going in, seeing him in the film was a more-than-pleasant surprise. Oh? And the French audience? Yeah, quite different. There were several lines that I missed completely due to the heckling, they laughed through, umm, an emotional scene that I won't spoil, and just... I dunno. I see movies twice a week on average here, but (as my stubs from last week show) usually it's the random documentary or brainless rom-coms with limited releases or something. Fun, but just different. Oh, but what's not different? I'm still incredibly jumpy, and I feel a bit bad for freaking Rogr out at first. I forgot that seeing an action movie with me requires a warning, and perhaps shoulder pads or a chest protector. 

¶ 0 comments 15:24