It's true. Not only did I lose another earring, but I lost my cool. Where did it go? I really meant what I wrote last night. What happened?
It was a beautiful, sunny morning. Well, not morning really, because the morning here is actually totally dark. It's bizarre. Maybe I don't remember life in Chicago, but is it still dark at 8:15 a.m? I don't think so. So, it was a beautiful, sunny LATE morning. I'd been enjoying myself in the cafe next door to my apartment. (I mentioned the place once. It's where I cheated on Quirky Girl.) The owner's name is Olivier. Shouldn't every cafe owner in Paris be named Olivier? He's incredibly patient with my French and even though he speaks some English, he's very passionate about me learning to speak French. The two others in the cafe this morning? Not quite as patient or passionate. But that's okay! I spoke French with Olivier, Spanish with Angelito and Italian with ???? I don't think I know his name. He's there almost every morning and we speak Italian when we want to tease Olivier. I'd remember his name if it was some great Italian name, but he's Moroccan. (I think.) Here's the deal. Lots of Italian restaurants in Paris hire Moroccans. They look Italian, they learn to speak a little Italian, and voila, you've got the ambiance of an Italian restaurant in Paris and no one has any idea. (Except me, now. And you.)
So, I finished my language lessons at the cafe (let's face it....my Italian and Spanish aren't that great either) and headed off on my bike to school. I saw an interesting shop and decided to check it out. It's a studio that this girl opened five months ago. She has lots of random supplies and people come use her space and her supplies to CREATE. Brilliant idea! She also sells stuff. Stuff like earrings. And I decided I needed stuff. Stuff like earrings. So, at 11:54 a.m. I bought two pairs of earrings. (Made out of recycled materials. Hmmm...) I love them.
I'm a girl, so as soon as I got to school I put a pair on. And, I'm not a girl, because I don't hesitate to ride my bike when it's freezing. So, at 6:45 p.m. I bundled up with extra sweaters and scarves, and headed home. Don't ask me why I decided to check my ears when I got a block away from school, but I did. And, what do you know? I'd lost an earring. Panic. Searching. Frustration. More panic. More searching. I stripped down on the street to see if it got stuck in something when I'd bundled up. Nope. I went back to school to see if it fell off there as I was bundling. Not there either. So, I started searching for the calm, cool girl that sent the blog about freedom last night. If I couldn't find the earring, I'd hoped I could find her. I bundled back up, headed back out and tried to think about freedom (with a constant eye on the pavement as I pedaled). And what do you know? Just as I was chilling out, laughing a little and tyring to decide if I could somehow add the pendant of this new misfit to the hoop of the other one, I saw it in the street!
I'm still trying to figure out what kind of lesson I've learned from this one. Don't buy anymore earrings?! I don't think that's it. (But, who really needs more earrings?) And now I'm thinking of some quote that I have no idea where it came from.....maybe one of those Flavia cards from the 80's? Anyway, it's something like, "If you lose something, let it go. If it comes back, it yours to keep. If it doesn't, it never was." Well, at least that's what I thought it said. Until I googled it a second ago. It really says "If you LOVE something...." Grazie, Flavia (or whoever said it), but I kind of like my version.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Losing something isn't always the end of the world
I lost one of my big silver hoop earrings that I bought in Mexico. I lost it in Zurich. I guess that makes it memorable, anyway. So if I'm sad about the earring one day, at least I can find a little joy in the fact that it's somewhere in Zurich. That's better than just losing it at home or while riding my bike or down the drain in the bathroom. I lost it in Zurich. It's got a nice (ear)ring to it!
As you can imagine, I was rather upset (at first). I was just settling in on the train back to Paris when I realized it was gone. Panic. Searching. More panic. Frustration. More searching. Then.....I thought of Quirky Girl. Remember her? My favorite barrista from the (Quirky Girl) cafe? I'm quite sure that she's never worn two of the same earrings. Maybe it's because she always loses one (like me) and instead of just throwing the other one away she makes a pair out of the two lonely ones missing their partners. It's a nice idea, isn't it? Who said our earrings had to match? So, I calmed down a bit and stopped searching and panicking and feeling frustrated and found a little peace in the fact that I might just start wearing the misfits.
Then, all of this thinking about the Quirky Girl reminded me that I haven't updated you on her for a long time. After the first month or so I confessed to her that I was blogging about her. I wasn't sure what she'd think, but when I asked if I could post her photo and she agreed, I decided she probably didn't have a problem with the blog. (One of these days I'm going to figure out how to attach pictures and you can meet her.) Anyway, she asked for the blog address.
At some point I wrote about finding another cafe and being in London and wondering if she missed me. In the wee hours one night, when I definitely shouldn't have been awake, I got an email from an address that I didn't recognize. It said, "Of course, Quirky Girl misses you. Philippe, the very proud Quirky Girl's husband." I didn't think he should have been awake at that time either, until I found out that he's a writer! And writers are often awake during the wee hours.
So, I went back to Quirky Girl Cafe to tell her that I got the message and to find out more about Philippe! She gave me the titles of some books for sale at FNAC (the French Barnes & Noble) and I went and bought one. And guess what it's about? Italy!
A few days later I went back for tea and she gave me another book. This one was inscribed, "Tenley, Here is the real story of the now legendary Quirky Girl (and mine, of course). A souvenir from Paris and the QG Cafe. Philippe Jaenada." Would I be happier with a pair of shoes from Paris? Or the perfect scarf? Or a funky bracelet? No. I couldn't be happier than I am to have this book from a man I've never met but feel some sort of connection to after receiving an email at 2:38 a.m. Thank you, Philippe. It's the perfect souvenir from Paris.
And the best part of all is that the cover has a picture of the QG. She's wearing big glasses and a big white fur hat. Her red leather coat is buttoned once at the breast and she appears to be wearing nothing more than this coat, some white underpants and a blue strand of beads. Her hair isn't pulled back the way it is everyday so I can't see the earrings. But I like to imagine that she's wearing one big silver hoop in one ear and something different in the other one. Maybe the lesson here is instead of finding panic and fear in the loss of something, search for the freedom.
As you can imagine, I was rather upset (at first). I was just settling in on the train back to Paris when I realized it was gone. Panic. Searching. More panic. Frustration. More searching. Then.....I thought of Quirky Girl. Remember her? My favorite barrista from the (Quirky Girl) cafe? I'm quite sure that she's never worn two of the same earrings. Maybe it's because she always loses one (like me) and instead of just throwing the other one away she makes a pair out of the two lonely ones missing their partners. It's a nice idea, isn't it? Who said our earrings had to match? So, I calmed down a bit and stopped searching and panicking and feeling frustrated and found a little peace in the fact that I might just start wearing the misfits.
Then, all of this thinking about the Quirky Girl reminded me that I haven't updated you on her for a long time. After the first month or so I confessed to her that I was blogging about her. I wasn't sure what she'd think, but when I asked if I could post her photo and she agreed, I decided she probably didn't have a problem with the blog. (One of these days I'm going to figure out how to attach pictures and you can meet her.) Anyway, she asked for the blog address.
At some point I wrote about finding another cafe and being in London and wondering if she missed me. In the wee hours one night, when I definitely shouldn't have been awake, I got an email from an address that I didn't recognize. It said, "Of course, Quirky Girl misses you. Philippe, the very proud Quirky Girl's husband." I didn't think he should have been awake at that time either, until I found out that he's a writer! And writers are often awake during the wee hours.
So, I went back to Quirky Girl Cafe to tell her that I got the message and to find out more about Philippe! She gave me the titles of some books for sale at FNAC (the French Barnes & Noble) and I went and bought one. And guess what it's about? Italy!
A few days later I went back for tea and she gave me another book. This one was inscribed, "Tenley, Here is the real story of the now legendary Quirky Girl (and mine, of course). A souvenir from Paris and the QG Cafe. Philippe Jaenada." Would I be happier with a pair of shoes from Paris? Or the perfect scarf? Or a funky bracelet? No. I couldn't be happier than I am to have this book from a man I've never met but feel some sort of connection to after receiving an email at 2:38 a.m. Thank you, Philippe. It's the perfect souvenir from Paris.
And the best part of all is that the cover has a picture of the QG. She's wearing big glasses and a big white fur hat. Her red leather coat is buttoned once at the breast and she appears to be wearing nothing more than this coat, some white underpants and a blue strand of beads. Her hair isn't pulled back the way it is everyday so I can't see the earrings. But I like to imagine that she's wearing one big silver hoop in one ear and something different in the other one. Maybe the lesson here is instead of finding panic and fear in the loss of something, search for the freedom.
Monday, December 6, 2010
It rings my bell
One of my favorite things about Yesterdog was the approach. You were driving down a regular street and the pavement suddenly turned into brick. For some reason, at age 16 I used to say, "It's like living in Paris." I'd certainly never been to Paris. In fact, I hadn't been much further than Grand Rapids. I don't remember learning anything about Paris at school. I don't remember seeing any movies about Paris. Where does a hick from Ada learn that there are cobblestone streets in Paris? (You're right. In Uptown they were brick. But I guess it was the next best thing.) So, you're driving along and you feel the bump and rumble of the bricks under the tires. "It's like living in Paris," I'd say. Every single time.
And now what do I say when I ride my bike home through Place de la Bastille? The regular paved street suddenly turns into cobblestone. This time it's real cobblestone. I feel the bump and rumble under the tires. It actually rings my bell. "It's like living in Paris," I say to myself. And then I laugh (out loud). "I AM living in Paris," I say. Every single time.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Meet me at the opera
Who wouldn't want to meet someone at the opera? (Don't answer that.)
A couple of weeks ago I met a friend (from the suburbs) for dinner. This time she came to meet me in Paris and she asked me to meet her at the Opera. I decided not to ride my bike (it's actually her bike!) in case we walked a bit and wouldn't be returning to the same place that I'd locked it. So, I took the metro.
When I was a regular metro user in my early days in Paris, the Opera stop was a favorite. The doors would open and the gray, depressing train would fill with music for an instant and then the doors would close again. I never knew if there was a live performer on the platform in the perfect spot for the music to echo through the station or if this particular station had elevator music (do you call it elevator music in the subway?) piped in. It didn't matter. I heard it every time and I smiled every time.
So, I took the metro to the Opera. This time I got off. I saw the man playing the accordion. I wanted to stay and listen for a few minutes, but I was late. I ran up the stairs and was greeted by "The Opera." It's a beautiful building, incredibly lit, with a grand set of stairs filled with friends waiting to meet each other at the Opera. It is unforgettable. To top it off, there was a tango lesson taking place at the top of the stairs.
The next night I made plans with a my French-German friend that grew up in Spain. We're both new to Paris and never quite sure where to meet. One of us always has to blindly choose a place. It was my turn, so I texted, "Meet me at the Opera." She was as excited as I'd been. I hope that the next night she sent the same text to another one of her friends and that meeting at the Opera will never go out of style.
When I was a regular metro user in my early days in Paris, the Opera stop was a favorite. The doors would open and the gray, depressing train would fill with music for an instant and then the doors would close again. I never knew if there was a live performer on the platform in the perfect spot for the music to echo through the station or if this particular station had elevator music (do you call it elevator music in the subway?) piped in. It didn't matter. I heard it every time and I smiled every time.
So, I took the metro to the Opera. This time I got off. I saw the man playing the accordion. I wanted to stay and listen for a few minutes, but I was late. I ran up the stairs and was greeted by "The Opera." It's a beautiful building, incredibly lit, with a grand set of stairs filled with friends waiting to meet each other at the Opera. It is unforgettable. To top it off, there was a tango lesson taking place at the top of the stairs.
The next night I made plans with a my French-German friend that grew up in Spain. We're both new to Paris and never quite sure where to meet. One of us always has to blindly choose a place. It was my turn, so I texted, "Meet me at the Opera." She was as excited as I'd been. I hope that the next night she sent the same text to another one of her friends and that meeting at the Opera will never go out of style.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
How do you spell the sort of chicken that you eat?
Thanksgiving in Paris....no mashed potatoes, rolls and gravy but, thanks to the students, everything was perfect. They'd seen some tears a couple of days before which prompted questions about what I'd be doing for the holiday. I told them that I'd be there teaching them English just like every other day. "But aren't you supposed to be with your family and friends? Couldn't you get some time off to go home?" I told them that I'd be fine.
When I arrived Thanksgiving day for the 11:30 class I was greeted by a bunch of smiling students with a big "Surprise!" There were cookies, little beautifully decorated cakes, cupcakes (handmade by a triathlete that trains 5 hours a day after class that took the time to make little cupcakes filled with nutella), and a bouquet of roses. They all signed a little 'merci' card, and by their names they added comments:
"Thanks for the love, Antoine"
"Pretty Boy, Jeremy."
"Sexy Ilan."
They didn't learn those expressions from me, but I loved them all! If Mr. Cool Twenty-Something (actually he is probably only 18 or 19) only knew that he signed off as "Pretty Boy." It cracked me up.
In the evening one of the students had invited me to join her and her parents and godparents (who were all my age) for dinner. We went to a beautiful restaurant that I never would have found myself in if I hadn't been invited by this lovely girl. Her parents and godparents only see each other once or twice a year, so it was really nice of them to include me. Helene and I amused ourselves at our end of the table texting a boy from class.
The restaurant is famous for fish, not that sort of chicken that you eat for Thanksgiving. (Try keeping a straight face for that question!) So what did I find to eat on the fancy menu? Caviar d'aubergines. For some strange reason I believed that it was only aubergines (eggplant). I thought the word caviar might have meant how it was prepared or something. And maybe I got that crazy idea because when Lance was here he ordered "escalope something or other" and it wasn't scallops! Had we known what escalope meant in English, we wouldn't have had the problem. So, I assumed that caviar had another kitchen definition and it wasn't only fish eggs.
Voila! A green pile of something came. And guess what? I ate it. I ate it. That's not a computer glitch. I wrote it twice. I was still believing that it was eggplant prepared like caviar. It wasn't until later that I started thinking about it and wondering what I'd accomplished. It was still on my mind over the weekend and just now, typing the blog, I googled it and I was right all along. It wasn't caviar! But, I still deserve some points. When's the last time any of you saw me eat aubergines?
When I arrived Thanksgiving day for the 11:30 class I was greeted by a bunch of smiling students with a big "Surprise!" There were cookies, little beautifully decorated cakes, cupcakes (handmade by a triathlete that trains 5 hours a day after class that took the time to make little cupcakes filled with nutella), and a bouquet of roses. They all signed a little 'merci' card, and by their names they added comments:
"Thanks for the love, Antoine"
"Pretty Boy, Jeremy."
"Sexy Ilan."
They didn't learn those expressions from me, but I loved them all! If Mr. Cool Twenty-Something (actually he is probably only 18 or 19) only knew that he signed off as "Pretty Boy." It cracked me up.
In the evening one of the students had invited me to join her and her parents and godparents (who were all my age) for dinner. We went to a beautiful restaurant that I never would have found myself in if I hadn't been invited by this lovely girl. Her parents and godparents only see each other once or twice a year, so it was really nice of them to include me. Helene and I amused ourselves at our end of the table texting a boy from class.
The restaurant is famous for fish, not that sort of chicken that you eat for Thanksgiving. (Try keeping a straight face for that question!) So what did I find to eat on the fancy menu? Caviar d'aubergines. For some strange reason I believed that it was only aubergines (eggplant). I thought the word caviar might have meant how it was prepared or something. And maybe I got that crazy idea because when Lance was here he ordered "escalope something or other" and it wasn't scallops! Had we known what escalope meant in English, we wouldn't have had the problem. So, I assumed that caviar had another kitchen definition and it wasn't only fish eggs.
Voila! A green pile of something came. And guess what? I ate it. I ate it. That's not a computer glitch. I wrote it twice. I was still believing that it was eggplant prepared like caviar. It wasn't until later that I started thinking about it and wondering what I'd accomplished. It was still on my mind over the weekend and just now, typing the blog, I googled it and I was right all along. It wasn't caviar! But, I still deserve some points. When's the last time any of you saw me eat aubergines?
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The strike is over.....for now
The strike in Paris has been over for awhile, but I finally felt it's negative effect today. The strike itself affected me positively, but now that it's over, I must confess that I miss it a little.
I had my first flat tire during the strike. It was too early for the bike shop around the corner to be open, so I pushed my bike to the gas station for air and in addition to all of the pumps having signs on them that there was no gas, there was also a sign on the air pump that there was no air. (It's not that I speak French so well that I've forgotten how to say "air pump" in English. I just can't seem to think of it!) Did the lack of air have anything to do with the strike? Or was it just a strange coincidence that it stopped working at the same time that everything else in Paris stopped working?
Anyway, I pushed my bike back home and caught the next metro to school. The metro? Something to be avoided at all times and especially when there's a strike. I hate the metro. Have I mentioned that? The people on the metro seem so sad and gray and gloomy and lonely and depressed and tired and bored and lazy and dark and glum and every other word you can imagine in a thesaurus when you look up yuck! But, sometimes you have no choice.
When I got home that night, I'd planned on taking my bike to the bike shop. It was closed. Apparently they'd decided to stop working, too. So, I thought I'd give the gas station another try and voila! They had air. I asked the gas station attendant for change and then said that if I couldn't figure it out I might need his help. I'd really hoped that I could figure it out so I didn't have to be the dumb girl (the dumb American girl) that couldn't take care of her own bike. Well, I couldn't figure it out so I went back to the window for help. The guy was far from pleased to have to leave his warm little hut and come out to help me, but he did it. And after a brief exchange at the air pump full of "I don't understands" and "pleases" and "thank yous", I had a new friend and I was sipping tea and speaking French (and cracking up) in the warm little hut.
I spent several hours there the first night and there were no customers. With the strike, there was no gas. Occasionally someone would come to the window and he'd just tell them that there would be gas the next morning at 6 a.m. On my ride to work the next morning there was a traffic jam. They were lined up for gas.
The next night, I went back for more French and tea. There was no gas again because he'd run out by 10 a.m. It was perfect for me. No customers. Who would think it would be such a thrill to be in Paris hanging out in a gas station booth drinking tea? Those of you who know me well, know that I would think it would be a bigger thrill than tea on the Champs Elysees.
What's happened now that the strike is over and there's gas? There's no time to make me tea. One customer after another comes to the window and there's never a lull. I wait patiently to see if I can learn anything from the brief exchanges between the customers and the gas station attendant, but it's usually only the pleasantries.
Tonight we had the soccer game on in the hut. A few guys cocked their necks to watch a couple of plays and talk about the game. No one seemed the least bit surprised that there was a girl and a bike in the hut. And no one seemed to care that I didn't have my tea. Contrary to the rest of the Parisians (especially the metro riders) I'm waiting patiently for the next strike, and fortunately I'm sure I won't have to wait too long.
I had my first flat tire during the strike. It was too early for the bike shop around the corner to be open, so I pushed my bike to the gas station for air and in addition to all of the pumps having signs on them that there was no gas, there was also a sign on the air pump that there was no air. (It's not that I speak French so well that I've forgotten how to say "air pump" in English. I just can't seem to think of it!) Did the lack of air have anything to do with the strike? Or was it just a strange coincidence that it stopped working at the same time that everything else in Paris stopped working?
Anyway, I pushed my bike back home and caught the next metro to school. The metro? Something to be avoided at all times and especially when there's a strike. I hate the metro. Have I mentioned that? The people on the metro seem so sad and gray and gloomy and lonely and depressed and tired and bored and lazy and dark and glum and every other word you can imagine in a thesaurus when you look up yuck! But, sometimes you have no choice.
When I got home that night, I'd planned on taking my bike to the bike shop. It was closed. Apparently they'd decided to stop working, too. So, I thought I'd give the gas station another try and voila! They had air. I asked the gas station attendant for change and then said that if I couldn't figure it out I might need his help. I'd really hoped that I could figure it out so I didn't have to be the dumb girl (the dumb American girl) that couldn't take care of her own bike. Well, I couldn't figure it out so I went back to the window for help. The guy was far from pleased to have to leave his warm little hut and come out to help me, but he did it. And after a brief exchange at the air pump full of "I don't understands" and "pleases" and "thank yous", I had a new friend and I was sipping tea and speaking French (and cracking up) in the warm little hut.
I spent several hours there the first night and there were no customers. With the strike, there was no gas. Occasionally someone would come to the window and he'd just tell them that there would be gas the next morning at 6 a.m. On my ride to work the next morning there was a traffic jam. They were lined up for gas.
The next night, I went back for more French and tea. There was no gas again because he'd run out by 10 a.m. It was perfect for me. No customers. Who would think it would be such a thrill to be in Paris hanging out in a gas station booth drinking tea? Those of you who know me well, know that I would think it would be a bigger thrill than tea on the Champs Elysees.
What's happened now that the strike is over and there's gas? There's no time to make me tea. One customer after another comes to the window and there's never a lull. I wait patiently to see if I can learn anything from the brief exchanges between the customers and the gas station attendant, but it's usually only the pleasantries.
Tonight we had the soccer game on in the hut. A few guys cocked their necks to watch a couple of plays and talk about the game. No one seemed the least bit surprised that there was a girl and a bike in the hut. And no one seemed to care that I didn't have my tea. Contrary to the rest of the Parisians (especially the metro riders) I'm waiting patiently for the next strike, and fortunately I'm sure I won't have to wait too long.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Mont St. Michel, a must or a bust?
Mont St. Michel.
You usually don't hear it without:
"Don't miss it."
"You have to go there."
"It's my favorite place."
Well, call me a curmudgeon, but I could've missed it. I didn't have to go there. And, it's not my favorite place. If I were writing the guidebooks I'd write,
"See it from afar."
I'll admit, it's amazing to be driving down the winding country roads through fields and farms when out of the blue you see the postcard you've become so familiar with right there behind the sheep. At that point, it's fabulous. That's when you should stop and take a picture. Maybe you should even have a picnic packed and pull over on the side of the road for lunch and enjoy the view.
But, no one gave us this valuable information. So we (Lance and I. And yes, he agrees with me.) continued driving and never even stopped to take that perfect picture because we were under the impression that it would only get better as we got closer, instead of worse.
The towns turn ugly. In fact, they aren't towns anymore. They are only hotel strips and bad restaurants and nothing else. There are hordes of people walking on the side of the road to get there. It looks like a pilgrimage to Mecca (I think that's what it would look like anyway. I haven't done that yet.) Our visit was on a particularly rainy, windy day and we didn't feel so bad driving past all of the walkers on our way in because we were sure they would be well rewarded.
So, we filed into a muddy parking lot. It reminded us of spring skiing when you get to the slopes right at opening time and you join the parade to park. Everyone gets out of their cars and leaves their doors open (just like skiing) to suit up for the long walk from the lot to the mountain.
Then you reach the base. It's always a little more crowded at the first lift, but you're sure the crowds will thin out. But, at Mont St. Michel, they never do. They get thicker and thicker and your ski slope turns into Mackinac Island and instead of a peaceful ride on a chairlift to the top you walk single file up a hill lined with I Heart Mont St. Michel t-shirts and miniature plastic cameras hanging on rubber strings. (Okay. I know that you can't have a rubber string, but I don't know how else to describe it.) I don't even understand this one. Why is a tourist souvenir shop selling a 2 x 3 inch brightly colored plastic camera on a string like a necklace? Are the sellers making fun of us in some bizarre way?
So, we climbed up a bit, went to one of the lookout points for a look down at the cars in the parking lot (that were only safe from high tide until 21:00......a detail we found far more interesting than the abbey), turned around, and fought the crowd back down to the exit.
And believe it or not, that's all I have to say about Mont St. Michel. I think I'd rather climb the 110 steps of Mont St. 40 Rue Monge (that's my address if you want to google it) and smell the smells from the kitchen on 2, smile when I make it to my favorite striped welcome mat on 4, curse the guy's door on 5 that came up one day and yelled at me for making too much noise (it wasn't me of course, it was my neighbor) to finally arrive on 6 (which is really 7 because they count 1 as 0) with a sigh of relief that I'm home sweet home.
You usually don't hear it without:
"Don't miss it."
"You have to go there."
"It's my favorite place."
Well, call me a curmudgeon, but I could've missed it. I didn't have to go there. And, it's not my favorite place. If I were writing the guidebooks I'd write,
"See it from afar."
I'll admit, it's amazing to be driving down the winding country roads through fields and farms when out of the blue you see the postcard you've become so familiar with right there behind the sheep. At that point, it's fabulous. That's when you should stop and take a picture. Maybe you should even have a picnic packed and pull over on the side of the road for lunch and enjoy the view.
But, no one gave us this valuable information. So we (Lance and I. And yes, he agrees with me.) continued driving and never even stopped to take that perfect picture because we were under the impression that it would only get better as we got closer, instead of worse.
The towns turn ugly. In fact, they aren't towns anymore. They are only hotel strips and bad restaurants and nothing else. There are hordes of people walking on the side of the road to get there. It looks like a pilgrimage to Mecca (I think that's what it would look like anyway. I haven't done that yet.) Our visit was on a particularly rainy, windy day and we didn't feel so bad driving past all of the walkers on our way in because we were sure they would be well rewarded.
So, we filed into a muddy parking lot. It reminded us of spring skiing when you get to the slopes right at opening time and you join the parade to park. Everyone gets out of their cars and leaves their doors open (just like skiing) to suit up for the long walk from the lot to the mountain.
Then you reach the base. It's always a little more crowded at the first lift, but you're sure the crowds will thin out. But, at Mont St. Michel, they never do. They get thicker and thicker and your ski slope turns into Mackinac Island and instead of a peaceful ride on a chairlift to the top you walk single file up a hill lined with I Heart Mont St. Michel t-shirts and miniature plastic cameras hanging on rubber strings. (Okay. I know that you can't have a rubber string, but I don't know how else to describe it.) I don't even understand this one. Why is a tourist souvenir shop selling a 2 x 3 inch brightly colored plastic camera on a string like a necklace? Are the sellers making fun of us in some bizarre way?
So, we climbed up a bit, went to one of the lookout points for a look down at the cars in the parking lot (that were only safe from high tide until 21:00......a detail we found far more interesting than the abbey), turned around, and fought the crowd back down to the exit.
And believe it or not, that's all I have to say about Mont St. Michel. I think I'd rather climb the 110 steps of Mont St. 40 Rue Monge (that's my address if you want to google it) and smell the smells from the kitchen on 2, smile when I make it to my favorite striped welcome mat on 4, curse the guy's door on 5 that came up one day and yelled at me for making too much noise (it wasn't me of course, it was my neighbor) to finally arrive on 6 (which is really 7 because they count 1 as 0) with a sigh of relief that I'm home sweet home.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Real wimps don't eat quiche
It's all out there. Everyone knows my eating secrets now. It's officially safe to tell you about the tuna and tomato quiche I ate several weeks ago. I was invited to a new friend's house for dinner and didn't know quite how to tell her that I was a bit.........what do you call me.........fussy? Picky? Please don't say "demanding." Anyway, I had decided to try to turn over a new leaf. I couldn't believe myself. And I hesitate to tell all of you this because I don't want you to think that I'll return and you can invite me to a dinner party without preparing my plain side of pasta or my special cheese pizza or all those wonderful things you do just for me. Don't get any crazy ideas. I'm still Tenley.
So, the first course was zucchini soup. Um......dare I say.......I loved it.
The second course was the difficult one. It was the above-mentioned quiche. What could I do? I couldn't even try to mask the bites with other things from my plate, because there were no other things on my plate. A quiche is a quiche. It's all inclusive. You've got your meat, vegetables and bread all in one. I don't know how I did it, but before too long, it was gone. I could tell her 8-year old son was starving and dying for his next piece, but she had been making him wait until I had finished my first piece because she wanted me to have first dibs on the second round. So, I decided in an attempt to make a new 8-year old boyfriend, that I'd offer to let him have my next piece of quiche if I could eat his leftover crust. You've never seen such a smile. He thought that was the best idea in the world and had no idea of the favor he was actually doing me!
More food adventures? I was invited to another new friend's for dinner. This time the "new leaf thing" wasn't seeming like such a good idea. I sent an email saying that I would be completely happy with something simple like salad and bread because I was kind of a fussy eater. When I arrived they had printed out the email and told me that they brought it home to ask their 16-year old son the definition of fussy. This lovely host knew that I was a fan of Italy and went out on a limb and prepared TWO lasagnes---one veggie and one meat. They thought that would cover the fussy issue. It worked. And this "kind of vegetarian" friend of yours that isn't really a vegetarian because she doesn't really even like vegetables, preferred the meat lasagne!
How 'bout dinner with Caroline my "half German, half French that grew up in Spain" student that invited me over for dinner? We'd gone out once and she'd gathered from my selection of french fries and bread at a kebab place that I was a vegetarian. So, she prepared sauteed vegetables. Zucchini, red peppers and onions are actually really good with balsamic vinegar and fresh mozzarella.
Why the freedom to speak now? Because I've seen the tomato and tuna quiche friend again and I told her everything and we've laughed about it. I think I confessed to her the night we were at a restaurant when my cheese arrived with a big glob of tomato in the center and she actually called it "tomato jell-o." Can that possibly sound good to any of you? That's when I had the courage to tell her I wasn't about to eat tomato jell-o and that I never should have tried to eat a tomato and tuna quiche. I'm afraid some leaves are better left unturned.
So, the first course was zucchini soup. Um......dare I say.......I loved it.
The second course was the difficult one. It was the above-mentioned quiche. What could I do? I couldn't even try to mask the bites with other things from my plate, because there were no other things on my plate. A quiche is a quiche. It's all inclusive. You've got your meat, vegetables and bread all in one. I don't know how I did it, but before too long, it was gone. I could tell her 8-year old son was starving and dying for his next piece, but she had been making him wait until I had finished my first piece because she wanted me to have first dibs on the second round. So, I decided in an attempt to make a new 8-year old boyfriend, that I'd offer to let him have my next piece of quiche if I could eat his leftover crust. You've never seen such a smile. He thought that was the best idea in the world and had no idea of the favor he was actually doing me!
More food adventures? I was invited to another new friend's for dinner. This time the "new leaf thing" wasn't seeming like such a good idea. I sent an email saying that I would be completely happy with something simple like salad and bread because I was kind of a fussy eater. When I arrived they had printed out the email and told me that they brought it home to ask their 16-year old son the definition of fussy. This lovely host knew that I was a fan of Italy and went out on a limb and prepared TWO lasagnes---one veggie and one meat. They thought that would cover the fussy issue. It worked. And this "kind of vegetarian" friend of yours that isn't really a vegetarian because she doesn't really even like vegetables, preferred the meat lasagne!
How 'bout dinner with Caroline my "half German, half French that grew up in Spain" student that invited me over for dinner? We'd gone out once and she'd gathered from my selection of french fries and bread at a kebab place that I was a vegetarian. So, she prepared sauteed vegetables. Zucchini, red peppers and onions are actually really good with balsamic vinegar and fresh mozzarella.
Why the freedom to speak now? Because I've seen the tomato and tuna quiche friend again and I told her everything and we've laughed about it. I think I confessed to her the night we were at a restaurant when my cheese arrived with a big glob of tomato in the center and she actually called it "tomato jell-o." Can that possibly sound good to any of you? That's when I had the courage to tell her I wasn't about to eat tomato jell-o and that I never should have tried to eat a tomato and tuna quiche. I'm afraid some leaves are better left unturned.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A cheeseburger, fries and a fork s'il vous plait
I know you're thinking that I shouldn't be eating a cheeseburger in Paris, but the name of the place was Charley Buns and it advertised "French Burgers". There was no English on the menu and not a tourist in sight. I think it's safe to say that I was surrounded by Parisians eating burgers. The only difference was that they didn't eat them with their hands. EVERYONE (including me and Lance) ate them with a knife and fork. So, the only real way to tell that we didn't belong was that we still don't have the hang of the ol' eating with the fork in your left hand and never setting your silverware down thing. I have a bit more time to accomplish that but it feels so unnatural that I'm sure everyone can tell I'm a novice.
The only problem with noticing tonight that no one ate with their hands is that two weeks ago when I took a student out for dinner I was so happy to be out with him that I didn't notice until about my last three bites with ketchup dripping down my fingers that he was using his silverware. Maybe I should send him a quick note to apologize. There I sat asking how the line in the grocery store worked because it seemed like everyone waited in one zone until they were called up and I think I'd been cutting in line. Then I asked if it was okay to jaywalk at 2 a.m. because it seemed like everyone patiently waited for every light when there were no cars in sight. And then I asked if anyone in Paris ever left a voicemail because it seemed like they all either text or call and hang up. And after a question like, "Do I have to wait to be seated in all restaurants?" it seems like he wouldn't have been too shy to tell me that I really shouldn't eat a burger with my hands.
And there's one more thing about the bizarre Parisian burger. We all know that bread is a big part of the daily life here. I can't imagine that one diet book on the South Beach Diet ever left a bookshelf. In fact, I would find it hard to believe that a bookseller would ever even stock the book. "Give us this day our daily bread" is a famous French quote, isn't it? And I think the phrase used to conclude with "...and then some." It's everywhere. They're all making it. They're all carrying it down the street. They're all eating it. I can see three boulangerie (I don't know how to make that plural in French) from my window and all of my neighbors have a different vote for the best one. Anyway, the point is, they love their bread. So, a couple of the other times that I've ordered a burger (it's true, tonight wasn't the first time) the waiter was polite enough to remind me that normally a burger in France is served without a bun! Maybe that explains the name of tonight's restaurant. Charley Buns. This keeps the waiters from having to remind all of the customers that their burger will actually come with a bun.
The only problem with noticing tonight that no one ate with their hands is that two weeks ago when I took a student out for dinner I was so happy to be out with him that I didn't notice until about my last three bites with ketchup dripping down my fingers that he was using his silverware. Maybe I should send him a quick note to apologize. There I sat asking how the line in the grocery store worked because it seemed like everyone waited in one zone until they were called up and I think I'd been cutting in line. Then I asked if it was okay to jaywalk at 2 a.m. because it seemed like everyone patiently waited for every light when there were no cars in sight. And then I asked if anyone in Paris ever left a voicemail because it seemed like they all either text or call and hang up. And after a question like, "Do I have to wait to be seated in all restaurants?" it seems like he wouldn't have been too shy to tell me that I really shouldn't eat a burger with my hands.
And there's one more thing about the bizarre Parisian burger. We all know that bread is a big part of the daily life here. I can't imagine that one diet book on the South Beach Diet ever left a bookshelf. In fact, I would find it hard to believe that a bookseller would ever even stock the book. "Give us this day our daily bread" is a famous French quote, isn't it? And I think the phrase used to conclude with "...and then some." It's everywhere. They're all making it. They're all carrying it down the street. They're all eating it. I can see three boulangerie (I don't know how to make that plural in French) from my window and all of my neighbors have a different vote for the best one. Anyway, the point is, they love their bread. So, a couple of the other times that I've ordered a burger (it's true, tonight wasn't the first time) the waiter was polite enough to remind me that normally a burger in France is served without a bun! Maybe that explains the name of tonight's restaurant. Charley Buns. This keeps the waiters from having to remind all of the customers that their burger will actually come with a bun.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I saw London, I see France
I survived with Tigger and Eyeore and returned home safely from London with all 21 students and no major problems. In seven days, I saw Wimbledon (tennis, of course), Wembley (soccer), Twickenham (rugby), Chelsea (soccer) and a few more normal tourist sights like the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and the National Gallery. I thought I would have a lot more time by myself, but I got a big surprise halfway through the week.
The students decided that they didn't like their English school. One day when we were finished at a stadium and I said goodbye and told them to enjoy their class, they told me that they weren't going back to school. What? They were actually telling the teacher that they were skipping class?! So, like any professional teacher would do (right?), I said, "That's fine. If you don't like it, you don't have to go back. What would you like to do this afternoon?" They were a bit surprised by that, but not too surprised. They were still getting used to the fact that they could call me "Ten" and not Madame Ysseldyke. So, we got out the map and made a new plan. Then, that night when I thought I'd be alone, they asked me to meet them at the pub. (For the third night in a row).
The next morning we met in St. James's Park and they passed me from arm to arm just strolling along and practicing English. My favorite part was their fascination with the squirrels. 21-year old boys were taking pictures of squirrels like I would take pictures of elephants on a safari. Squirrels!! They don't have them in Paris.
That afternoon, (of course they weren't going to school) they asked if they could divide themselves into three groups of 7 and each group have a 2-hour lesson with me at a pub. Why not? To be paid to sit in a pub for 6 hours on a Friday afternoon and speak English with a bunch of kids that could have officially skipped school and run off to do whatever they wanted to do, but instead chose to spend time with Madame Ysseldyke, was a pleasure.
That's about it. No blogging. No emailing. No art galleries. Just the chance for me to learn the real differences between rugby players and soccer players (I think I prefer rugby), learn to navigate the Tube effortlessly, and learn that foxes really do wander the streets of London and when you leave a pub you might bump into one (okay. I was as fascinated by this as the boys were by the squirrels. It's true. Foxes just walk down the street like dogs. I didn't know this. I suppose I probably should have).
In a nutshell, my first experience as the International Coordinator was rather bizarre. I'm sure I didn't make any new friends back at the office, but I have 21 new fans that gave me a standing ovation on the train and said they would've been lost without me. If they only knew how lost I would've been without them.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
At last, I've got a little bit of Paris in me
I'm living with a cute couple in an adorable house in a London suburb for a week in a purple bedroom with tigger and eeyore on the wall to keep me company. This is really livin'! It's warm without using a space heater, the showerhead is attached to the wall, and I don't need a flashlight to use the toilet.
I got here a little early so I stopped for a snack. It was an Italian place and the waiter spoke Italian with me before I even opened my mouth, I swear. So, now I'm in London,
happy to be speaking Italian and what do you suppose happened? Enough French snuck into the conversation that
I'm in a place where I should be speaking English but
instead I'm speaking Italian and the next thing you know
the waiter says, "oh, you speak French."
I guess you can take a girl out of Paris, but you can't
take Paris out of a girl.
I got here a little early so I stopped for a snack. It was an Italian place and the waiter spoke Italian with me before I even opened my mouth, I swear. So, now I'm in London,
happy to be speaking Italian and what do you suppose happened? Enough French snuck into the conversation that
I'm in a place where I should be speaking English but
instead I'm speaking Italian and the next thing you know
the waiter says, "oh, you speak French."
I guess you can take a girl out of Paris, but you can't
take Paris out of a girl.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Breaking new grounds
I cheated on Quirky Girl. I went to another cafe for tea in the morning. My work hours have changed a little and I didn't have to be at school until later, so I didn't go to Quirky Girl Cafe. I went to the one next door to..... my house? My apartment? No, really..... my room.
Anyway, I was a little nervous going in. There was a guy behind the bar and a lady on a stool at the bar. Otherwise, it was empty. I timidly approached them (It's a fact folks. I'm a little timid here.) and ordered a tea. The guy told me that I could sit wherever I wanted to because in his cafe, it was the same price at the bar or at a table. That probably meant, "Go sit at a table and leave us alone," but I decided not to take it that way. I decided to be the Tenley that some of you think I am and I said, "Well, the place that I really want to sit is right here by you." Yes. I actually said that. In French. So, I guess I don't really know what I said.
Anyway, it worked. I have two new friends that don't know my name. This place is called "Les Ecoliers." That means, "The Schoolkids." I like it. I'm kind of a schoolkid, right? The owner speaks some English so we've decided that we'll coach each other. The lady was Portuguese. She didn't speak any English, but we managed with a combo of Spanish and French. I wondered if she came here every morning and for how long she'd been coming. I wondered how she felt about me skipping in, like a schoolkid, and stealing a bit of her time.
And then, it all reminded me of my studio. I was the same as the cafe owner and I had to learn to jockey my regulars so that we all got what we needed. When one had been there so long that I'd see another pass by my window a couple of times, I'd try to wrap it up with the first. I wasn't wrapping up cards or stationery. I was wrapping up little conversations. My regulars didn't really need cards or stationery, just like I don't really need a cup of tea. I think what they needed was a little time to feel like they had a special place in their neighborhood where someone would listen and they could feel at home. They could come for a little chitchat in a cozy place that had nothing to do with the rest of their lives.
I hope I gave them as much as Quirky Girl and my new coach are giving me. I miss my regulars. I wonder if Quirky Girl missed me. She probably didn't and that's okay. She's busy pounding out the coffee grounds under the sink (I love that sound) and lending an ear with one long, dangly earring to one of her regulars. I have a feeling no one else used my teapot and it will be there for me the next time that I don't really need a cup of tea.
Anyway, I was a little nervous going in. There was a guy behind the bar and a lady on a stool at the bar. Otherwise, it was empty. I timidly approached them (It's a fact folks. I'm a little timid here.) and ordered a tea. The guy told me that I could sit wherever I wanted to because in his cafe, it was the same price at the bar or at a table. That probably meant, "Go sit at a table and leave us alone," but I decided not to take it that way. I decided to be the Tenley that some of you think I am and I said, "Well, the place that I really want to sit is right here by you." Yes. I actually said that. In French. So, I guess I don't really know what I said.
Anyway, it worked. I have two new friends that don't know my name. This place is called "Les Ecoliers." That means, "The Schoolkids." I like it. I'm kind of a schoolkid, right? The owner speaks some English so we've decided that we'll coach each other. The lady was Portuguese. She didn't speak any English, but we managed with a combo of Spanish and French. I wondered if she came here every morning and for how long she'd been coming. I wondered how she felt about me skipping in, like a schoolkid, and stealing a bit of her time.
And then, it all reminded me of my studio. I was the same as the cafe owner and I had to learn to jockey my regulars so that we all got what we needed. When one had been there so long that I'd see another pass by my window a couple of times, I'd try to wrap it up with the first. I wasn't wrapping up cards or stationery. I was wrapping up little conversations. My regulars didn't really need cards or stationery, just like I don't really need a cup of tea. I think what they needed was a little time to feel like they had a special place in their neighborhood where someone would listen and they could feel at home. They could come for a little chitchat in a cozy place that had nothing to do with the rest of their lives.
I hope I gave them as much as Quirky Girl and my new coach are giving me. I miss my regulars. I wonder if Quirky Girl missed me. She probably didn't and that's okay. She's busy pounding out the coffee grounds under the sink (I love that sound) and lending an ear with one long, dangly earring to one of her regulars. I have a feeling no one else used my teapot and it will be there for me the next time that I don't really need a cup of tea.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Set up and take down
In the morning when I run I like to see the cafe guys setting up the tables and chairs on the sidewalk. It's still dark, usually cold and sometimes raining. The tables and chairs are neatly placed in rows waiting for the neatly placed patrons in rows to sit for hours and watch the world go by. In the beginning I used to ask myself how they could stand to do this morning after morning after morning. And then I realized that the flower man does it, too. And the shoe man. And the fish man. And......me!
I'm on the opposite schedule though. Before I run, I'm in take down mode. As you may remember, I don't unfold my "click clack" (bed). I sleep on it sofa style. But, I still put on sheets and pillowcases and make it into a little bed every night. And I've never been sad about climbing in. So, every morning, I take it apart. The comforter goes on the back of the sofa. The sheets go in the bin under the sofa. And the extension pillow goes on the floor next to the sofa. What's the extension pillow? The sofa is a little short. So, I pull one end away from the wall and stick a firm cushion between the wall and the sofa and voila.....my sofa is a tiny bit longer.
So far, I've taken things apart every morning and it hasn't bothered me at all. Now when I run past the guys setting up I don't wonder how they can stand doing it. It's Parisian. You work with the space you've got, you develop a routine and it's just what you do. It doesn't even enter my mind that one day I'll return to Chicago and I won't have to wear my down vest to the bathroom and remember to take my keys (so I don't lock myself out) and a handful of toilet paper and my mini-flashlight. Who knows? Maybe I'll kind of miss it.
I'm on the opposite schedule though. Before I run, I'm in take down mode. As you may remember, I don't unfold my "click clack" (bed). I sleep on it sofa style. But, I still put on sheets and pillowcases and make it into a little bed every night. And I've never been sad about climbing in. So, every morning, I take it apart. The comforter goes on the back of the sofa. The sheets go in the bin under the sofa. And the extension pillow goes on the floor next to the sofa. What's the extension pillow? The sofa is a little short. So, I pull one end away from the wall and stick a firm cushion between the wall and the sofa and voila.....my sofa is a tiny bit longer.
So far, I've taken things apart every morning and it hasn't bothered me at all. Now when I run past the guys setting up I don't wonder how they can stand doing it. It's Parisian. You work with the space you've got, you develop a routine and it's just what you do. It doesn't even enter my mind that one day I'll return to Chicago and I won't have to wear my down vest to the bathroom and remember to take my keys (so I don't lock myself out) and a handful of toilet paper and my mini-flashlight. Who knows? Maybe I'll kind of miss it.
The laundroman (this is not a typo)
I don't go to the laundromat in Paris, I go to the laundroman. And he's really nice. If I do laundry at 8:45 p.m. he shows up at 9:45 to clean everything before he closes at 10:00. It's really clean, really close and really not all that dreadful to do laundry.
Before I left Chicago I told Lance to be sure to remind me that in my search for the perfect apartment, laundry was a must. As you may have guessed, if there's no room for a toilet, there's no room for a washing machine in my quarters. (in fact, there's no room to store quarters to use in a washing machine) So, I make a weekly or bi-weekly trip to the laundroman. It's just down the block a bit and I can see it from my window. I like to go at the end of the night because I like it when he comes in with his walkman (okay, I'm sure it's not a walkman anymore). When he sees me he trades whatever he's listening to for a short conversation in terrible French with the American girl in Paris. I'm sure he's not as happy about these evenings as I am, but he does it with a smile.
There is a phone on the wall in the place and if you pick it up, it seems to go directly to him. I've never done it but I've seen other people do it. They tell him the problem and within minutes he shows up through the front door. That's when I realized that he must live nearby.
A couple of weeks ago I saw him on the street and he said hi. To be walking down the street in Paris and have someone say hi is pretty cool. You might think that's dumb, but I'm admitting it, to me it's pretty cool. I asked him about the best place to park my bike. He told me where to leave it and then he said that he'd keep an eye on it for me because he lived right there, and pointed to the building across from mine!
I've always felt a certain sort of anonimity with my neighbors in the buildings across the street. When I open the window to check the weather and someone across is out smoking a cigarette, you don't really acknowledge one another because that's the person you might have seen undressing the night before if you forgot to close your curtains. Who knows where he lives?!
He doesn't know it, but he's really one of my friends. It's not like we've traded numbers or emails or anything, but one of these days maybe I'll pick up that phone at the laundromat just to say hi to the laundroman.
Before I left Chicago I told Lance to be sure to remind me that in my search for the perfect apartment, laundry was a must. As you may have guessed, if there's no room for a toilet, there's no room for a washing machine in my quarters. (in fact, there's no room to store quarters to use in a washing machine) So, I make a weekly or bi-weekly trip to the laundroman. It's just down the block a bit and I can see it from my window. I like to go at the end of the night because I like it when he comes in with his walkman (okay, I'm sure it's not a walkman anymore). When he sees me he trades whatever he's listening to for a short conversation in terrible French with the American girl in Paris. I'm sure he's not as happy about these evenings as I am, but he does it with a smile.
There is a phone on the wall in the place and if you pick it up, it seems to go directly to him. I've never done it but I've seen other people do it. They tell him the problem and within minutes he shows up through the front door. That's when I realized that he must live nearby.
A couple of weeks ago I saw him on the street and he said hi. To be walking down the street in Paris and have someone say hi is pretty cool. You might think that's dumb, but I'm admitting it, to me it's pretty cool. I asked him about the best place to park my bike. He told me where to leave it and then he said that he'd keep an eye on it for me because he lived right there, and pointed to the building across from mine!
I've always felt a certain sort of anonimity with my neighbors in the buildings across the street. When I open the window to check the weather and someone across is out smoking a cigarette, you don't really acknowledge one another because that's the person you might have seen undressing the night before if you forgot to close your curtains. Who knows where he lives?!
He doesn't know it, but he's really one of my friends. It's not like we've traded numbers or emails or anything, but one of these days maybe I'll pick up that phone at the laundromat just to say hi to the laundroman.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Outrunning is no key to befriending
Who wants to be outrun by a girl? Maybe no one. I was doing my Luxembourg laps when I heard someone close behind me. Unless I go in the dark, there is always someone close behind me. But this seemed closer than usual. I could hear the panting. Naturally, I seemed to speed up. (Wouldn't you, if someone was running behind you and panting?) They sped up, too.
Sometimes I do two laps of the garden and then head to the Seine and run on the cobblestones. It's probably not the healthiest or easiest thing to do, but I'm in Paris and I'm going to run on the Seine. This day, I decided to try one more lap with my new friend in tow. I've done this in Chicago and it always has a happy ending. My favorite was a girl that I'd checked out (yes, I check out female runners) on my way north. I thought to myself that I'd be happy to look like her. So, on my way south, I heard someone close behind. Naturally, I sped up but they did, too. I'd slow a bit when I couldn't keep up the pace, with hopes that they'd pass me and the game would be over, but they slowed down, too. When I finally stopped for water, the girl that I'd checked out stopped for water with me and said, "Thanks for being my jack rabbit."
I don't know what I thought I'd wanted from my new Luxembourg friend because I certainly wouldn't have understood "jack rabbit" in French. Running a half-marathon in Italy 6 years ago my answer to unsolicited comments was, "I'm sorry I don't speak Italian," which only caused interest for more comments and by the end I was speaking Italian and had new friends. Maybe I'd just try the usual. "Je suis desole. Je ne parle pas francais," and we'd go from there.
Lap two. Completed. Still panting.
Lap three. Completed. Still panting. And now I'm panting, too. What am I trying to prove? If they do say anything, I probably won't be able to utter my standard French phrase. Okay. I'll do one more lap. But if nothing happens, I'm going home.
Three quarters of the way through lap four I'm not being chased anymore. I slow down just in case they're back there somewhere hoping to catch up. Still nothing. It's my chance to stop and breathe and think about how silly I'd been. Voila! There he was. Sweaty, exhausted and panting. Say something. Say something. I just said, "Merci," and smiled and he slowly ran past and didn't say merci and didn't smile. My jack rabbit had been behind me instead of in front of me, and he wasn't very friendly. The next time he's back there I know just what I'll say. "Hit the road, Jack." Then I'll only run two laps and won't miss my morning at the Seine.
Sometimes I do two laps of the garden and then head to the Seine and run on the cobblestones. It's probably not the healthiest or easiest thing to do, but I'm in Paris and I'm going to run on the Seine. This day, I decided to try one more lap with my new friend in tow. I've done this in Chicago and it always has a happy ending. My favorite was a girl that I'd checked out (yes, I check out female runners) on my way north. I thought to myself that I'd be happy to look like her. So, on my way south, I heard someone close behind. Naturally, I sped up but they did, too. I'd slow a bit when I couldn't keep up the pace, with hopes that they'd pass me and the game would be over, but they slowed down, too. When I finally stopped for water, the girl that I'd checked out stopped for water with me and said, "Thanks for being my jack rabbit."
I don't know what I thought I'd wanted from my new Luxembourg friend because I certainly wouldn't have understood "jack rabbit" in French. Running a half-marathon in Italy 6 years ago my answer to unsolicited comments was, "I'm sorry I don't speak Italian," which only caused interest for more comments and by the end I was speaking Italian and had new friends. Maybe I'd just try the usual. "Je suis desole. Je ne parle pas francais," and we'd go from there.
Lap two. Completed. Still panting.
Lap three. Completed. Still panting. And now I'm panting, too. What am I trying to prove? If they do say anything, I probably won't be able to utter my standard French phrase. Okay. I'll do one more lap. But if nothing happens, I'm going home.
Three quarters of the way through lap four I'm not being chased anymore. I slow down just in case they're back there somewhere hoping to catch up. Still nothing. It's my chance to stop and breathe and think about how silly I'd been. Voila! There he was. Sweaty, exhausted and panting. Say something. Say something. I just said, "Merci," and smiled and he slowly ran past and didn't say merci and didn't smile. My jack rabbit had been behind me instead of in front of me, and he wasn't very friendly. The next time he's back there I know just what I'll say. "Hit the road, Jack." Then I'll only run two laps and won't miss my morning at the Seine.
Who let the frogs out?
I live a five-minute run from Jardin du Luxembourg. It's probably also a five-minute bike ride because the first half is uphill. That strikes me as odd because I live on a hill and no matter where I come home from I always have to come up a hill. Unless, I guess, I'm coming home from my run. Then it's downhill. So, I live on what I thought was the top of a hill, but the Pantheon is on the top of the hill and the Jardin du Luxembourg is back down the hill on the other side. It's a hilly city.
The first night I had my bike I rode to the garden. I knew it was only open for another 15 minutes or so, but I had to go somewhere on my new bike. (I don't think I told you how I got my new bike, did I? I took the train to a friend's house in the suburbs for dinner and she had her mom drive me and HER bike back to Paris. I couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to me. Then I remembered something. Three years ago a young Spanish girl lived in our building in Chicago. She needed a bike and I happened to have one that I wasn't riding, so I gave it to her and she couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to her. And now I am remembering even more. The bike was named Betty. I named it Betty because an old lady that lived in my studio building gave it to me because she couldn't ride a bike anymore. Give and you shall receive. But it's not really fair, is it? I got two bikes. I hope Betty got something.)
Back to the garden. It's 1.25 miles around the outer edge. I run up a hill and down a hill to get there and then I run a few laps and then up a hill and down a hill to get home. Before I go home, I buy my baguette, promise myself I'll only take the first hot bite and go to Arenes de Lutece for my sit-ups. It's an old arena from gladiator days and it's an ABSolutely perfect place for sit-ups. It's really like a big round park with gravel. On Saturdays and Sundays it's filled with little competitions of all sorts. You've got soccer, rugby, badminton and petanque all played simultaneously. When a soccer ball enters a petanque game, the ball gets kicked back to the appropriate group by an old man that probably used to play soccer here 40 years ago. Petanque is a kind of bocce. But, they don't use the same kind of balls we use. Their balls are all metal (steel?) and the two players are denoted by one set of balls with deeper grooves than the other. Maybe? I haven't been close enough to really analyze it yet. My favorite part is when they pick up their balls with a magnet on the end of a string. (It appears to be a sport for the older monsieurs.) When they're not playing they stand there swinging what looks like a yo-yo. When it's time to collect their balls, instead of bending down, they swing the magnet toward a ball and pick it up. Seems to me kind of like a fun game in itself.
Back to the garden. My first bike ride 15 minutes before it closed. There were still a lot of people there. Parks in Paris are really lived in. It's amazing. So, I'm enjoying the pond and the flowers and the trimmed trees and especially the green chairs randomly scattered about. Some are in small circles, some are in straight lines, some are used as footstools so they're facing each other and some are all alone (like me). As I'm taking in the sights, I'm struck by the sounds. All at once the frogs started croaking. (Is that what frogs do? I actually sat here for a minute trying to think of what we say frogs do. I think it's croak, but that seems more like toads. ) Anyway, it was bizarre. What made them all start at exactly the same time? It was loud and rhythmical and mysterious. I was really glad I'd decided to take this inaugural ride. I stopped to enjoy the frogs of Luxembourg in case they only had a short season and wouldn't be out the next time that I visited. No worries. They'll be out at 7:15 every night. They were the guards with whistles, all starting on the outer edge at the same time to clear the garden and send us home. It was riveting.
The first night I had my bike I rode to the garden. I knew it was only open for another 15 minutes or so, but I had to go somewhere on my new bike. (I don't think I told you how I got my new bike, did I? I took the train to a friend's house in the suburbs for dinner and she had her mom drive me and HER bike back to Paris. I couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to me. Then I remembered something. Three years ago a young Spanish girl lived in our building in Chicago. She needed a bike and I happened to have one that I wasn't riding, so I gave it to her and she couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to her. And now I am remembering even more. The bike was named Betty. I named it Betty because an old lady that lived in my studio building gave it to me because she couldn't ride a bike anymore. Give and you shall receive. But it's not really fair, is it? I got two bikes. I hope Betty got something.)
Back to the garden. It's 1.25 miles around the outer edge. I run up a hill and down a hill to get there and then I run a few laps and then up a hill and down a hill to get home. Before I go home, I buy my baguette, promise myself I'll only take the first hot bite and go to Arenes de Lutece for my sit-ups. It's an old arena from gladiator days and it's an ABSolutely perfect place for sit-ups. It's really like a big round park with gravel. On Saturdays and Sundays it's filled with little competitions of all sorts. You've got soccer, rugby, badminton and petanque all played simultaneously. When a soccer ball enters a petanque game, the ball gets kicked back to the appropriate group by an old man that probably used to play soccer here 40 years ago. Petanque is a kind of bocce. But, they don't use the same kind of balls we use. Their balls are all metal (steel?) and the two players are denoted by one set of balls with deeper grooves than the other. Maybe? I haven't been close enough to really analyze it yet. My favorite part is when they pick up their balls with a magnet on the end of a string. (It appears to be a sport for the older monsieurs.) When they're not playing they stand there swinging what looks like a yo-yo. When it's time to collect their balls, instead of bending down, they swing the magnet toward a ball and pick it up. Seems to me kind of like a fun game in itself.
Back to the garden. My first bike ride 15 minutes before it closed. There were still a lot of people there. Parks in Paris are really lived in. It's amazing. So, I'm enjoying the pond and the flowers and the trimmed trees and especially the green chairs randomly scattered about. Some are in small circles, some are in straight lines, some are used as footstools so they're facing each other and some are all alone (like me). As I'm taking in the sights, I'm struck by the sounds. All at once the frogs started croaking. (Is that what frogs do? I actually sat here for a minute trying to think of what we say frogs do. I think it's croak, but that seems more like toads. ) Anyway, it was bizarre. What made them all start at exactly the same time? It was loud and rhythmical and mysterious. I was really glad I'd decided to take this inaugural ride. I stopped to enjoy the frogs of Luxembourg in case they only had a short season and wouldn't be out the next time that I visited. No worries. They'll be out at 7:15 every night. They were the guards with whistles, all starting on the outer edge at the same time to clear the garden and send us home. It was riveting.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I'm anything but roundabout
Conquering the roundabouts is the next mission. Or should I say 'adventure'? Don't forget, I'm attempting to accomplish this task on my bike. If you're nervous, stop reading. There's nothing calming, beautiful or easy about a Parisian roundabout. I don't know what makes them seem different than others. Are they bigger? (six lanes of traffic or more) Are they faster? (I don't think so.) Is it that sometimes there's a random light in what seems to be the center of the roundabout? (which people don't seem to obey anyway) Oh yeah. Maybe it's just the fact that I'm on a bike surrounded by other bikes, cars, trucks and motorcycles. The safest place would seem to be in the right hand lane, on the edge of it all. Well, I quickly learned that you're really living on the edge if you try this move. The guy to your left wants to kill you because he's turning right on the next street. The guy from the next street wants to kill you because he's desparately trying to enter the big circle of frenzy. The gentle soul behind you is patient for awhile, but then he wants to kill you, too.
So, a few days later, I decided to try the left lane. It seemed to work at first. No one can turn left, so you're really not in anyone's way. The funny thing is, I usually have to go all the way around the roundabout. Maybe if I just had to go right two streets after I entered, I could manage. Back to picking the left lane. It's working. It's working. I've tucked myself safely against the fence thats protecting the monument in the middle of this grand plaza. But suddenly I realize that eventually I have to turn right and now I'm at the far left side of 23 lanes of traffic wondering how I'm going to work my way back to the right side so I can get out of this mess. Voilà ! There's a break in the middle and I can go left! But, I can only continue going left around and around and around the same statue. If only there was a prostitute around to save me from one more lap. (You won't get that one unless you've been reading from the beginning.) So, I hold my breath, smile, perhaps wince a little, and work my way back to the right. I made it.
The next day I left for work a little earlier. I took a paper and pencil and stopped at the first one to study it. Did I say 'first one'? It's true, I have to do two a day. That's really four if I don't have some fabulous plan after work that ends up taking me home in a different direction. Which I seldom do. So, I decide it makes sense to pick the middle lane. Then you're not making EVERYONE mad, just your immediate neighbors. And, it kind of worked! Don't ask me how. I was still having the same heart attack I had before, but when I finished, I pulled off on the sidewalk, sighed and reevaluated. And I actually laughed (out loud). In some strange roundabout way, I'd conquered Bastille.
So, a few days later, I decided to try the left lane. It seemed to work at first. No one can turn left, so you're really not in anyone's way. The funny thing is, I usually have to go all the way around the roundabout. Maybe if I just had to go right two streets after I entered, I could manage. Back to picking the left lane. It's working. It's working. I've tucked myself safely against the fence thats protecting the monument in the middle of this grand plaza. But suddenly I realize that eventually I have to turn right and now I'm at the far left side of 23 lanes of traffic wondering how I'm going to work my way back to the right side so I can get out of this mess. Voilà ! There's a break in the middle and I can go left! But, I can only continue going left around and around and around the same statue. If only there was a prostitute around to save me from one more lap. (You won't get that one unless you've been reading from the beginning.) So, I hold my breath, smile, perhaps wince a little, and work my way back to the right. I made it.
The next day I left for work a little earlier. I took a paper and pencil and stopped at the first one to study it. Did I say 'first one'? It's true, I have to do two a day. That's really four if I don't have some fabulous plan after work that ends up taking me home in a different direction. Which I seldom do. So, I decide it makes sense to pick the middle lane. Then you're not making EVERYONE mad, just your immediate neighbors. And, it kind of worked! Don't ask me how. I was still having the same heart attack I had before, but when I finished, I pulled off on the sidewalk, sighed and reevaluated. And I actually laughed (out loud). In some strange roundabout way, I'd conquered Bastille.
Live and let love
I'm not going to erase it anymore. It seems like at least fifty percent of the time that I send an email, (from my iPod, of course) I make a typo at the end. It often comes out:
Live,
Tenley
I kind of like it, but I still always fix it. And I always wonder why I'm fixing it. Each time I see it and erase it I smile a little at the coincidence of the error. I don't think I'll correct it anymore. I'll take note of which word I type most often and who most often receives the reminder to live. Maybe it's a sign for the sender AND the receiver. So, I'll start loving up to my end of the deal if you start living up to yours. Live, Tenley
Live,
Tenley
I kind of like it, but I still always fix it. And I always wonder why I'm fixing it. Each time I see it and erase it I smile a little at the coincidence of the error. I don't think I'll correct it anymore. I'll take note of which word I type most often and who most often receives the reminder to live. Maybe it's a sign for the sender AND the receiver. So, I'll start loving up to my end of the deal if you start living up to yours. Live, Tenley
Monday, October 11, 2010
Just one word
Not bad. My temporary blogger only made one little mistake. It was a teary night, not a testy one. But I suppose one might say I'm a little testy, too, after a two-hour session with Mike on the phone trying to make my computer work and getting nowhere. I finally said that I needed a break and would email him later with my progress. Guess what? I don't have his email address. So this is for you, Boog! MUCHAS GRACIAS.
I've stepped out for a nutella crepe
The original blogger on this site has taken a break (or had a breakdown). She's filling this post with kind words from her faithful followers. After rereading them, then rewriting them, she hopes to reevaluate and see that she really is kind of cool and she'll survive this testy night.
-Please be happy.
-You're on the right track, girl!
-I read your book. (she meant to say 'blog' but she's French and still struggles with English a bit). I love it:
funny, realistic and it shows us how you are brave.
-This is your day, 10-10-10! I've been celebrating this day all day!
-"Flexibility is the key to your power."
-The Chicago Marathon is this weekend. I'm not going to
watch it because my runner is not in it.
-You are on my mind as I try to speak English properly and realize how many languages you are speaking.
I think of you in my mind very often. I never forget those days when you were by my side with all your fruitful advises and help. I always have the deepest gratitude for you. (a refugee)
-My whole family is in awe of what you're accomplishing.
-Just remember, you're loved all around the world.
-Be well and BE TENLEY...the girl who flirts with people in front of coffee shops and makes people laugh.
-You've called me crying on EVERY one of your trips and you've always pulled through. I promise you you're going to make it this time, too.
-Don't be like me....be like YOU!
-It's not easy to live in a new country if you don't know the language. You might better understand your students (me) a little better. A big hug!
-My sister is quoted as saying she 'has channeled some Tenley synergies while on her trip' by navigating independently and meeting new people on the road.
-It pleases me the way you succeed in making friends with people even if it's the first time you see them. I remember with pleasure when I came in the churchyard and I found you encircled by people...men, women and children. All of them asking you questions and listening to your answers. In this moment I didn't have the courage to interrupt and I only sat on a bench and watched. I thought, "It reminds me of Christ with his disciples." Maybe it's not like you say, that I'm your teacher, but instead, that you're MY teacher. (translated from Italian)
Hopefully the Tenley that so many of you see as strong, will return tomorrow. (Because I can't continue to blog in her place on this iPod! It's crazy. You can't proofread anything.) She'll sleep on your words tonight and be
reenergized for a sunny tomorrow. MERCI BEAUCOUP!
-Please be happy.
-You're on the right track, girl!
-I read your book. (she meant to say 'blog' but she's French and still struggles with English a bit). I love it:
funny, realistic and it shows us how you are brave.
-This is your day, 10-10-10! I've been celebrating this day all day!
-"Flexibility is the key to your power."
-The Chicago Marathon is this weekend. I'm not going to
watch it because my runner is not in it.
-You are on my mind as I try to speak English properly and realize how many languages you are speaking.
I think of you in my mind very often. I never forget those days when you were by my side with all your fruitful advises and help. I always have the deepest gratitude for you. (a refugee)
-My whole family is in awe of what you're accomplishing.
-Just remember, you're loved all around the world.
-Be well and BE TENLEY...the girl who flirts with people in front of coffee shops and makes people laugh.
-You've called me crying on EVERY one of your trips and you've always pulled through. I promise you you're going to make it this time, too.
-Don't be like me....be like YOU!
-It's not easy to live in a new country if you don't know the language. You might better understand your students (me) a little better. A big hug!
-My sister is quoted as saying she 'has channeled some Tenley synergies while on her trip' by navigating independently and meeting new people on the road.
-It pleases me the way you succeed in making friends with people even if it's the first time you see them. I remember with pleasure when I came in the churchyard and I found you encircled by people...men, women and children. All of them asking you questions and listening to your answers. In this moment I didn't have the courage to interrupt and I only sat on a bench and watched. I thought, "It reminds me of Christ with his disciples." Maybe it's not like you say, that I'm your teacher, but instead, that you're MY teacher. (translated from Italian)
Hopefully the Tenley that so many of you see as strong, will return tomorrow. (Because I can't continue to blog in her place on this iPod! It's crazy. You can't proofread anything.) She'll sleep on your words tonight and be
reenergized for a sunny tomorrow. MERCI BEAUCOUP!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Au revoir, Monsieur Thomson
I went to see Mr. Thomson today and he wasn't there. Actually he locked me out. My work lunches consist of a baguette with Camembert and get this....butter! Yes. A cheese and butter sandwich. And it's bigger than a "footlong". And I eat the whole thing. I seem to have broken the 'I must have something crunchy with my sandwich' rule. Maybe the baguette gives me the crunch I need. Or maybe I've just realized that I don't really need a bag of chips in addition to a cheese and butter sandwich! It comes with a drink (I haven't kicked the Diet Coke) and it's only 4€. One day they only had cans instead of bottles and with a can it's only 3.50€. If the exchange rate is still what it was when I left (you probably shouldn't tell me if it's not), that's cheaper than my bagel at Einstein's and Coke and chips at the Sev. Anyway, I like the lady I buy it from. She knows what I want everyday and she quizzes me on my French. So, I get my goods and head to the canal to eat. It's perfect. The first day I tried my iPod I didn't have to log in to the usual free wifi spot (which works less than half of the time and doesn't seem to let me send messages) because Mr. Thomson opened his door to me immediately with a very strong signal. So, for two weeks this was my routine. I thought about making a little "merci" sign to hold above my head everyday at lunchtime in case he was looking out his window and could see how happy he made me when I got to connect with you! But today, I decided to test a different bike route to school on a non-school day to see if it was better. I stopped at the canal to check email and there was no signal. Mr. Thomson had locked me out. I'd never thanked him like I'd wanted to. He has no idea how much I appreciated him. My iPod wouldn't send messages from home. I couldn't get wifi at the quirky girl cafe. And it won't work at school. This was one place where I knew I could get what I needed and now it's gone. I can only hope that as things continue to improve I won't have to rely on Mr. Thomson like I used to. I'm going to try to be a bit more independent and when I'm stuck I'll spend my lunch hour figuring out the problem instead of emailing someone in Chicago for help. That will be good for all of us. Encore, merci, Monsieur Thomson! You've given me a little more independence.
Friday, October 8, 2010
To tea or not to tea
I briefly mentioned the quirky girl at the cafe where I got tea before school the first morning and she remembered me the second morning. She's a highlight of my day. She always wears green patent leather boots. She always wears one very long dangly earring and one short earring. She always wears something fabulous. A pink skirt with giant white polka dots down on her hips (just like me) because it's too big (and I'm hoping it's because she bought it at a secondhand store... just like me). A denim ultra miniskirt with leopard underpants sticking out the top to match her leopard shirt. Wool, horizontally-striped multicolored tights with cutoffs over them. Bib overalls unbuttoned at the hips and rolled up at the bottom. All with the green boots and asymmetrical earrings. And messy hair in a saggy ponytail. I don't know her name (yet) but I hope it's something like Cosette.
Do I drink tea in the morning in Chicago? No. I've always wanted some kind of morning ritual, but running and a bit more time in bed have always won. So, I'm trying it in Paris! So far, I'm enjoying it. Not the tea, really, the quirky girl. She apologized after the first couple of days that it was so expensive. She thinks it's dumb that it's more than coffee. So, a couple of times I've had hot chocolate. I really don't need that before work, but it's delicious.
So, Monday through Thursday, I leave for school a little early and get my expensive tea that I don't even want just to see quirky girl and feel like there's a cafe in Paris where everybody knows my name! (even though they really don't)
Do I drink tea in the morning in Chicago? No. I've always wanted some kind of morning ritual, but running and a bit more time in bed have always won. So, I'm trying it in Paris! So far, I'm enjoying it. Not the tea, really, the quirky girl. She apologized after the first couple of days that it was so expensive. She thinks it's dumb that it's more than coffee. So, a couple of times I've had hot chocolate. I really don't need that before work, but it's delicious.
So, Monday through Thursday, I leave for school a little early and get my expensive tea that I don't even want just to see quirky girl and feel like there's a cafe in Paris where everybody knows my name! (even though they really don't)
Sorry I fell asleep on you
Sorry about last night! To continue and clear things up a bit. In fact, there was a key on my bike, I just didn't see it! He used white tape to tape it to my white bike. So, I got his text the next day after I parked my bike at school. I ran back out and there it was. I took a picture because I was feeling so happy to have a "bike message." I've always thought it was a fun way to communicate and I didn't think I'd be doing it in Paris. I was "super contente." (they really say this!) I couldn't be luckier to have this fabulous neighbor. (he does have one flaw. He speaks English. :-( But......he also speaks Italian. And he's French, so he speaks French.) He helped pump up my bike tires. He gave me the key. He installed Internet at his place because he's been thinking about it lately and just not getting around to it. He said he'd do it for me and I don't even have to pay him! And......get ready Mike, he leaves me LENGTHY notes telling me just what keys to push on my
computer to get me hooked up. He already knows to treat me like a three-year old in this department. I thought it might be wiser to get through all of the internet
stuff in English and then I might ask him to switch to italian! Grazie to Alex, it won't be long and I'll be
connected at home and can blog from my computer instead
of from my iPod. And just as I've started to get used to
my French keyboard at school, I'll try to type from my computer at home and I'll be back to my zills and
zoulds.
computer to get me hooked up. He already knows to treat me like a three-year old in this department. I thought it might be wiser to get through all of the internet
stuff in English and then I might ask him to switch to italian! Grazie to Alex, it won't be long and I'll be
connected at home and can blog from my computer instead
of from my iPod. And just as I've started to get used to
my French keyboard at school, I'll try to type from my computer at home and I'll be back to my zills and
zoulds.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
I think I need to update you on the keys in my life.
The front door key that I broke.....
I feared everyday that I would come home, the door would be fixed and locked and I wouldn't have a new key. I told my neighbor that I might have to buzz him one night in case this happened and he said it would be fine. One day that I knew I'd be pretty late I left him a note to say that if he could pick up my key if the door was fixed that he could just tape it to my bike. (yes!! I have a bike. I can't remember if I told you. It's white with a red seat and I
love it!) anyway, I told him to text me if he did it. I got home at 00:30 (I think that's how I'm supposed to be learning to write the time. That's 12:30 a.m.)voilà ! I was locked out. I went and checked my bike. Nothing. I couldn't check my texts because I forgot to charge my phone. No key! And it seemed a bit too late to buzz Alex, don't you think? I considered sleeping in the lobby which might have been nice--it's a lot bigger than my apartment. Fortunately, within minutes, two boys came running out and I ran in,
went to bed and decided to worry about the key the next
day.
The key the next day.......
I couldn't go running because I couldn't get back in. Oh well. The Seine can wait. As I was leaving for work another neighbor ran out in her pajamas and said she had my key. The lobby door that I broke more than a week ago is fixed and now I have a key. One more down...how many to go? (don't forget about the bureau key.)
The trash key....
There's a back door in the lobby that leads to the trash cans. You need a key for the back door and I don't have one. The trash cans get wheeled to the front of the building around 7:30 and I just pop my trash in the front can on my way to work. I was sure that one day I'd make it all the way down (how many stairs do I have?), the trash cans wouldn't be there and I'd have no choice but to climb back up and leave my garbage in the apartment until the next
morning. I'm sure yesterday wasn't the last time that will happen.
Why don't I just get that key......
I'm a little worried about disturbing my landlord these days. I'm sorry I can't remember if I already wrote this, but when I realized last week that my "private" bathroom wasn't really private, I called my landlord and said I was moving. He agreed to return the check for october and the security deposit. I said I'd have to stay awhile longer now and he said that'd be okay.however, yesterday around 3:00 pm (oops. I mean 15:00) I decided to stay put. I just can't bear the thought of searching for an apartment again and then moving. (uh oh. I just fell asleep with the iPod in hand. That's not safe for a girl like me that bumps the wrong button even when I'm awake.
So, I met a spanish ......oops. No joke. I just fell asleep again and as far as I know, I didn't meet anyone Spanish. I don't think this post can be finished and get posted in my current condition. At this point, I think a good night's sleep is KEY.
The front door key that I broke.....
I feared everyday that I would come home, the door would be fixed and locked and I wouldn't have a new key. I told my neighbor that I might have to buzz him one night in case this happened and he said it would be fine. One day that I knew I'd be pretty late I left him a note to say that if he could pick up my key if the door was fixed that he could just tape it to my bike. (yes!! I have a bike. I can't remember if I told you. It's white with a red seat and I
love it!) anyway, I told him to text me if he did it. I got home at 00:30 (I think that's how I'm supposed to be learning to write the time. That's 12:30 a.m.)voilà ! I was locked out. I went and checked my bike. Nothing. I couldn't check my texts because I forgot to charge my phone. No key! And it seemed a bit too late to buzz Alex, don't you think? I considered sleeping in the lobby which might have been nice--it's a lot bigger than my apartment. Fortunately, within minutes, two boys came running out and I ran in,
went to bed and decided to worry about the key the next
day.
The key the next day.......
I couldn't go running because I couldn't get back in. Oh well. The Seine can wait. As I was leaving for work another neighbor ran out in her pajamas and said she had my key. The lobby door that I broke more than a week ago is fixed and now I have a key. One more down...how many to go? (don't forget about the bureau key.)
The trash key....
There's a back door in the lobby that leads to the trash cans. You need a key for the back door and I don't have one. The trash cans get wheeled to the front of the building around 7:30 and I just pop my trash in the front can on my way to work. I was sure that one day I'd make it all the way down (how many stairs do I have?), the trash cans wouldn't be there and I'd have no choice but to climb back up and leave my garbage in the apartment until the next
morning. I'm sure yesterday wasn't the last time that will happen.
Why don't I just get that key......
I'm a little worried about disturbing my landlord these days. I'm sorry I can't remember if I already wrote this, but when I realized last week that my "private" bathroom wasn't really private, I called my landlord and said I was moving. He agreed to return the check for october and the security deposit. I said I'd have to stay awhile longer now and he said that'd be okay.however, yesterday around 3:00 pm (oops. I mean 15:00) I decided to stay put. I just can't bear the thought of searching for an apartment again and then moving. (uh oh. I just fell asleep with the iPod in hand. That's not safe for a girl like me that bumps the wrong button even when I'm awake.
So, I met a spanish ......oops. No joke. I just fell asleep again and as far as I know, I didn't meet anyone Spanish. I don't think this post can be finished and get posted in my current condition. At this point, I think a good night's sleep is KEY.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
At least my iPod is in English
Sorry guys. I write a blog and then try to reread it before I actually post it. But, sometimes what I've written seems to have disappeared up into the top of my iPod and no matter how much I scratch at the screen, it won't come back down. So maybe I hit the backspace a few times to try to get back up there and sometimes I watch myself erasing something that I know I'll have to rewrite, but I just have to get back to the top to proofread. And sometimes it's the other way around and I can't get to the bottom. It's like my words are hidden under the keyboard. So, sometimes the only option is to hit "post" and hope that something sensible comes out! In the 'bureau' blog, I seem to have erased the part where I explained my issue to my office mate and asked for help. Suddenly, he just had me by the hand leading me to find a key. It wasn't a terrible transition, but for those of you that I've spent hours with a red pen in hand editing your writing, I had to let you know that this really isn't MY writing. It's Tenley in Paris typing with one finger on an iPod with NO technical support. I'm sure the solution is very easy if I could just ask someone for help. Can you imagine me at school with my whole computer in French? I don't know how to cut and paste or save or print or copy (can you do that on a computer?) on my Apple in English without someone standing right over my shoulder guiding me. With a French keyboard and screen, I'm helpless. I couldn't even get the caps unlocked yesterday! So, please read my blog with a smile. If something doesn't seem to make sense, I'm sorry I've lost you. The words were there before, you just can't find them. It's kind of like me trying to figure something out on my computer at school. I know it's all there, it just doesn't make sense and I can't always figure it out. Thanks for hanging in there. I'm hanging in there, too.
You can't lock a bureau if you can't find one
As trusting as I generally am, I decided the other day that it might not be the smartest move I'd ever make to leave my bag with my iPod, French phone, Italian phone and passport in my office with the door unlocked when my office mate or I weren't in there. So, in French (need I remind you again that I really don't speak French?) he took me by the hand to go find a key and then told me to lock my bag in the bureau. Seemed like an easy enough solution. But, I went back to the office and couldn't find a bureau. A french office is really quite basic. You don't leave any clues about your personal life in an office. No photos. No Star Trek calendars. No extra high heels hidden under your desk. And as far as i could tell, no bureau. Fortunately, somehow, as I was walking back out to tell him that we didn't have a bureau in our office, it dawned on me that a bureau IS an office. The key worked just fine in the office door, so I locked my bag inside and went to teach English to 19 adorable French boys and 3 beautiful girls that I'm sure would never steal my bag
anyway.
anyway.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Am I too old for dreadlocks?
I've stayed in plenty of cheap hotels where the shower head was handheld. I always saw the little attachment to the wall and it was always broken. I guess maybe my current living quarters might be even worse than a cheap hotel. There's not even a spot that it was ever attached to the wall and now broken! Im sure it was never attached because my "telephone booth shower" next to my stove is plastic and there's no way to attach it. But, there's a small pipe going around the top of the room and im thinking i might be able to tie the handle to that and hang it in my roofless telephone booth. Kind of like one of those camping showers. So, how do I wash all of this hair with one hand and a constant fear that I'm almost out of hot water? There are a lot more people in the streets of Paris with dreadlocks than there are in Chicago and maybe now I know why. So, maybe I'll have a surprise for you when I get home. Dreadlocks kind of go with my apartment. 110 stairs. Hot in the summer and cold in the winter (my only heat is a space heater). And there's not enough room for a space heater because when I open my sofa bed (which is called a "click-clack" because I'm sure it makes my neighbors nuts) there is only an extra two feet at the bottom and at one side of my bed. Period. It's smaller than any hotel room I've ever stayed in other than a night on Tokyo! I know the song is about Bangkok, but my room in Bangkok was bigger. All in all though, the place is growing on me. Even though I found out last Thursday that my "private" toilet in the hall isn't so "private", when I spent today thinking about starting the search again and making appointments in French and doing paperwork in French and not being called back and if I am called back taking lots of trips up and down those stairs and up and down the stairs in the metro and moving in and breaking off another key in my next new front door....it makes me think that my little turquoise (Mer des Caraibes is the paint name, and yes, I chose it) isn't so bad. One friend likes to remind me that I'm not sharing barracks like a soldier that can't fly off to Spain and London and Italy whenever they want to use an appropriate toilet. He's got a point. So maybe I should go for a military haircut instead of dreadlocks?
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Shall I hang it up?
I thought I'd made it through a day with no comic relief. But, I guess it will be awhile until that happens. I needed hangers. I went to the famous Parisian store that is cheaper than our cheapest----it's called Tati. An employee smiled at me when I went in which doesn't seem to happen that often, so I accidently said, "Buonasera" (good evening in Italian) because I'm used to them smiling at me in Italy. Rather than ask immediately where the hangers were, I made a lap. I didn't find them, so I went back to the smiling man. He was more than happy to help. I brought him with me. When we came to some random items on hangers, I pointed to the hanger and asked if they had any. He brought me to the women's fashion to find the lovely blue sweater with rhinestones that was hanging on the hanger. I said that wasn't what I wanted and tried to demonstrate again. This time he wanted to sell me a Hello Kitty t-shirt. This is when I got frustrated and started speaking Italian again. (that seems to be what comes out more naturally) I finally made my point and he led me to an aisle and I could see the hangers sticking out at the end. There was a small group of employees in the aisle. He told them what I wanted and one of them answered that I couldn't buy them until tomorrow! Have you ever heard of this? Fortunately, I have, so I didn't have to ask them what on earth they were talking about in French. I'm sure I would've thought they were kidding. When I tried to buy the black heart-shaped footstool at Tati last week I took the time to read the sign with my dictionary. It said, "Don't touch, s'il vous plait, these items can't be purchased until tomorrow." Okay. No hangers. So Mr. Smiley walks me back up to the front and asks me how to say hanger in Italian. I said I didn't know. He said, "You're Italian and you don't know how to say hanger!" I told him I'd know tomorrow.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The waiter didn't kill me, but you might
Mamma Mia! I couldn't get to the page to type! So I think I sent a blank page. (or two) Sorry. Anyway, to finish last night's adventure. I'm sorry I didn't sign off properly and left you in such a hurry. Could you sense my stress? I didn't really think the waiter would appreciate watching me continue to type on my iPod when I had just explained to him that I forgot my wallet! But I did stay long enough to write the final sentence and hit publish and I think it worked. (keep in mind how long it probably took me to do that!) Anyway, I forgot my wallet. This is Rainman, who seldom forgets anything. Now I guess I see what a little stress can do to a person. So, try explaing to a waiter when you don't speak French, "REALLY, I live around the corner! I'll just run home and up 110 stairs to get it." Actually, had I really said the 110 stairs thing he probably would've believed me. A tourist would never have known that people really do have to go up 110 stairs everyday to get home. So, I left my bag with the waiter, ran home in the rain, ran back in the rain and finally, enjoyed a nice walk home on the shiny, slippery cobblestones laughing all the way. And now, j'ai finis. Au revoir.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I just told the waiter I'm dead
Someone corrected me last week and I still can't remember. Je suis finis or j'ai fini?? (those are spelled incorrectly) One of them means that I'm finished and is the right thing to tell a waiter and the other is close to saying, "I'm dead." Yes. I remember now. It's supposed to be, "J'ai finis."
I'll catch on sooner or later. Did I tell you about the taxi driver that I thought asked me where I was from so I said, "Chicago." then he said that was too far. He really
asked where I was going.
Okay. Now maybe I really am je suis finis. To be continued.....
I'll catch on sooner or later. Did I tell you about the taxi driver that I thought asked me where I was from so I said, "Chicago." then he said that was too far. He really
asked where I was going.
Okay. Now maybe I really am je suis finis. To be continued.....
"I won't give up" was lost. This is titled, "I quit"
Is there blogger school? There are three posts missing. So, the one from Sunday that appears makes no sense because it refers to the one from Sunday that is lost! For now, lucky for you, I quit! Sorry.
Give me a pen and paper please
I can't seem to proofread until after it's sent! Help me Mike. Don't worry, I know you can't. I just wanted you to know you're needed.
Anyway, I believe I actually wrote something in that last one that would have led you to believe I knew what I was doing! The sentence was missing a "not" or a "can't" or something to make it negative. No, I can't put this on hold and go see exactly what the mistake was because I don't know how! I hope you will enjoy watching my progress! Don't worry. I'll check my followers every now and then and when you've all signed off, I'll stop writing. Sadly, I'll probably just about had it figured out by then!
Anyway, I believe I actually wrote something in that last one that would have led you to believe I knew what I was doing! The sentence was missing a "not" or a "can't" or something to make it negative. No, I can't put this on hold and go see exactly what the mistake was because I don't know how! I hope you will enjoy watching my progress! Don't worry. I'll check my followers every now and then and when you've all signed off, I'll stop writing. Sadly, I'll probably just about had it figured out by then!
Friday, September 24, 2010
first week
ok. This will not be very creative or clever, but here goes. I started in on my ipod, but I cant figure it out. So, I will start again.
first things first. The lovely French keyboard. If I worry about all of these typos, I zill never do this thing.
--in the place where the *a* should be, it is a *q*.
--to make a period you have to hit control
--the place where the *m* should be is the comma
--i cqnt find the apostrophe ( there is that *q* that should reqlly be qn *a*)
whatever. here is what I have been up to if you care to continue reading.
day 1.
flight from miami to paris had to be redirected to NYC. They didnt say why, but you can imagine that i wasnt terribly calm. we were greeted in NYC by a parade of firetrucks. but, we everything was fine.
day 2.
one of my favorite students from the summer class in chicago picked me up at the airport. that really means that he just met me on the train to help me carry my three bags. he asked if i wanted to go to my hotel or to go meet my boss at school and go for lunch. since i didnt have a hotel, i opted for school. so my introduction to new colleagues and old students was straight from the airport after being on the go for 25 hours.
we got there too late for lunch and my boss was already busy. so, I think I got on Paris Craigslist to search for aparrtment. there were loads of choices when i looked in july and august, but very few now. A girl in the office helped me and we answered a few. but, since i dont have an email connection, they had to answer her. if they did answer, they were booked. thats the beginning of the apartment search. i know i am not used to having a boss, but if everyone else wqs telling me it was too late to find an apartment, shouldnt he have known?
he found me a place for a week while i looked for an apartment. that meant that we would go to dinner and then he would deliver me there with my bags. but, he has a mini and only two of the bags would fit in the car! off to dinner. (i am in hour 27.5 at this point). where do you suppose he takes me for dinner? SUSHI. thats all i will say.
the mysterious man with the guy was unavailable. we killed time with a chocolate crepe and then set out to get the key. we met two men in a car in an alley. one got out and kept talking to the other and the only zord (apparently the *z* is in the place of the *w*.) that i understood was "madame." then he came to us. he talked to my boss and gave us the key and me his number in case i needed anything. and i am sure he would really come to my rescue and understand what i needed in french!
got to the apartment on hour 31.5. my boss left and i ran out to mcdonalds for wifi and to email lance. i could see the Arch du Triomphe from my front door! in all the excitement, i didnt pay attention to my surroundings. i figured if I could see the Arch and it was five minutes away, how could i get lost? well........i got lost. there is a big circle of rods thqt come off the Arch. id assumed i would just look for mine. whqt i didnt know was that the roads had one name at the top of the hill and another at the bottom. my place was at the bottom. after two hours circling the Arch (its really quite impressive) and asking 10 people thqt couldnt help me, i asked a prostitute and , voila!! got to bed after 34 hours.
day 3.
woke up to the sound of bells. one of my favorite things in foreign travel and in Old Town. but, there were no towels. should I call my mysterious alley man for that? no. i used a dishcloth.
i cant remember anything terribly significant about day 3 other than the call i got from my boss saying that i wasnt his responsibility anymore and i should deal with sylvestre and patrick. i told him that it would have been nice if he had introduced me to them! continued the apartment search with no luck. decided to walk towards home and go through some neighborhoods that i know.
day 4.
it was saturday. another morning of drying off with the dish rag. decided to find my own hotel. took one bag on the metro. checked in and returned for the other. that was a three hour adventure. got a call from one apartment and looked at it en route, but even if I wanted it, it wouldnt be available until october 16. it was small, dirty, and 790 euro. got to hotel and talked to the guy at the desk a little and then i went upstairs and cried. he called the room phone and told me to come back down. he said that the owner of the hotel had an apartment that she would rent to me. i could meet her the next day.
day 5.
shopped for a bike. walked around my new possible neighborhood. looked for a running route. got the call that the lady had to cancel our meeting. i am sure that botthered me at the time, but it seems like nothing now. had pizza for dinner. no one came to seat me so i sat down myself. when the lady appeared she kind of laughed. oh well. there was one good sign. everything was decorated with italian photos and then right over my table there was an old, stained print of a little girl with a headband and flower in her hair and a strand of beads in her mouth. i think i had this same picture in my bedroom when i was a little girl.
after dinner i must have asked the wazitress a question and we started talking. i asked why she laughed in the beginning and she said because i wasnt supposed to sit down. we talked for an hour. she is egyptian and i think i have a new friend. decided to end the evening with a walk to the seine. decided i would be happy to live here!!!! had a sundae at mcdonalds and skyped lance and got kicked out at 1a.m. went back to my ripped wallpaper room and went to bed.
day 6.
days are blurring. at some point i saw the apartment. it is on the 6th floor, which is really the 7th. no elevator. toilet in the hall (but private) and a shower plopped in the apartment like a london telephone booth. and.......i kinda liked it.
day 7.
met another teacher from spain. she has been here for ten days and still no apartment. i decided to take mine! nuts? school will be interesting. feeling like they all have to cater to me because i dont speak french. met my office mate. a short little man that wears red shirts and black ties!
day 8.
first day of school. got tea at a cafe and loved the quirky barrista! had a meeting to sign a contract for my apartment. i actually had to sign it for a different apartment that this lady owns. she only rents the one that she is renting to me. it just sits there empty. She only has it so her kids can go to school in that neighborhood! (to my chicago friends, that will be funny) so, she pays rent to one lady and i pay her but pretend that i am really paying for a building that she owns.
day 9.
went to the same cafe as yesterday and was greeted by the quirky one with "tea with lemon?" in French. made my day. until i got to school and got the double kiss from my new office mate! that was a treat. got the keys to the apartment and tried to hurry there at 5 pm to clean a little before it got dark, because there was no elecctricity; I never got the code for the outside door, but fortunqtely someone was leaving. so, i went in but couldnt go back out again to buy supplies. so, i sat there and daydreamed. its so small; will send dimensions later. you wont believe me. had dinner with the hotel guy and his 12 year old niece. spent one more night here because i hadnt checked out on time.
day 10; what???? i havent been here for ten days. oh well. just follow along. took a taxi at 6 a.m. with all three bags to my new place. i think there are 119 steps. I wasnt sure the difference between buzzers and lightswitches, so i made three trips up by the light of my cell phone!! after school i bought cleaning supplies and zorked until dusk. then i lit candles! dinner at the pizza place looking for the egyptian. she wasnt there but the owner knew who i was. he said, mi casa su casa, when i left!
day thursday.
cold shower. no electricity, remember? walked an hour to school because the metro is on strike! what a walk. i really live in paris! more cleaning and candlelight.
day friday. that is today. i am sure there were other things i wanted to tell you and didnt, but i am happy to have started this. i will continue tomorrow. i am afraid i have to post this as is with no proofing becaquse i am at qn internet place and not even sure i knoz hoz to post!!! i promise i zill get shorter and more accurqte. keep in mind, i have the same keyboard at work with all the x=screens in french!! i will have to learn. my address is 40 rue monge if you want to google the neighborhood. it is the 5th arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. i feell like Mary Tyler Moore ready to throw my beret. home now to the broken apartment door. i broke it. i got my key stuck and now it has to be rekeyed. in the meantime, the door is propped open. fortunqtely its an interior door. i am sure my neighbors zill love me. i like my new accent when i reread "zill"!!! au revoir.
first things first. The lovely French keyboard. If I worry about all of these typos, I zill never do this thing.
--in the place where the *a* should be, it is a *q*.
--to make a period you have to hit control
--the place where the *m* should be is the comma
--i cqnt find the apostrophe ( there is that *q* that should reqlly be qn *a*)
whatever. here is what I have been up to if you care to continue reading.
day 1.
flight from miami to paris had to be redirected to NYC. They didnt say why, but you can imagine that i wasnt terribly calm. we were greeted in NYC by a parade of firetrucks. but, we everything was fine.
day 2.
one of my favorite students from the summer class in chicago picked me up at the airport. that really means that he just met me on the train to help me carry my three bags. he asked if i wanted to go to my hotel or to go meet my boss at school and go for lunch. since i didnt have a hotel, i opted for school. so my introduction to new colleagues and old students was straight from the airport after being on the go for 25 hours.
we got there too late for lunch and my boss was already busy. so, I think I got on Paris Craigslist to search for aparrtment. there were loads of choices when i looked in july and august, but very few now. A girl in the office helped me and we answered a few. but, since i dont have an email connection, they had to answer her. if they did answer, they were booked. thats the beginning of the apartment search. i know i am not used to having a boss, but if everyone else wqs telling me it was too late to find an apartment, shouldnt he have known?
he found me a place for a week while i looked for an apartment. that meant that we would go to dinner and then he would deliver me there with my bags. but, he has a mini and only two of the bags would fit in the car! off to dinner. (i am in hour 27.5 at this point). where do you suppose he takes me for dinner? SUSHI. thats all i will say.
the mysterious man with the guy was unavailable. we killed time with a chocolate crepe and then set out to get the key. we met two men in a car in an alley. one got out and kept talking to the other and the only zord (apparently the *z* is in the place of the *w*.) that i understood was "madame." then he came to us. he talked to my boss and gave us the key and me his number in case i needed anything. and i am sure he would really come to my rescue and understand what i needed in french!
got to the apartment on hour 31.5. my boss left and i ran out to mcdonalds for wifi and to email lance. i could see the Arch du Triomphe from my front door! in all the excitement, i didnt pay attention to my surroundings. i figured if I could see the Arch and it was five minutes away, how could i get lost? well........i got lost. there is a big circle of rods thqt come off the Arch. id assumed i would just look for mine. whqt i didnt know was that the roads had one name at the top of the hill and another at the bottom. my place was at the bottom. after two hours circling the Arch (its really quite impressive) and asking 10 people thqt couldnt help me, i asked a prostitute and , voila!! got to bed after 34 hours.
day 3.
woke up to the sound of bells. one of my favorite things in foreign travel and in Old Town. but, there were no towels. should I call my mysterious alley man for that? no. i used a dishcloth.
i cant remember anything terribly significant about day 3 other than the call i got from my boss saying that i wasnt his responsibility anymore and i should deal with sylvestre and patrick. i told him that it would have been nice if he had introduced me to them! continued the apartment search with no luck. decided to walk towards home and go through some neighborhoods that i know.
day 4.
it was saturday. another morning of drying off with the dish rag. decided to find my own hotel. took one bag on the metro. checked in and returned for the other. that was a three hour adventure. got a call from one apartment and looked at it en route, but even if I wanted it, it wouldnt be available until october 16. it was small, dirty, and 790 euro. got to hotel and talked to the guy at the desk a little and then i went upstairs and cried. he called the room phone and told me to come back down. he said that the owner of the hotel had an apartment that she would rent to me. i could meet her the next day.
day 5.
shopped for a bike. walked around my new possible neighborhood. looked for a running route. got the call that the lady had to cancel our meeting. i am sure that botthered me at the time, but it seems like nothing now. had pizza for dinner. no one came to seat me so i sat down myself. when the lady appeared she kind of laughed. oh well. there was one good sign. everything was decorated with italian photos and then right over my table there was an old, stained print of a little girl with a headband and flower in her hair and a strand of beads in her mouth. i think i had this same picture in my bedroom when i was a little girl.
after dinner i must have asked the wazitress a question and we started talking. i asked why she laughed in the beginning and she said because i wasnt supposed to sit down. we talked for an hour. she is egyptian and i think i have a new friend. decided to end the evening with a walk to the seine. decided i would be happy to live here!!!! had a sundae at mcdonalds and skyped lance and got kicked out at 1a.m. went back to my ripped wallpaper room and went to bed.
day 6.
days are blurring. at some point i saw the apartment. it is on the 6th floor, which is really the 7th. no elevator. toilet in the hall (but private) and a shower plopped in the apartment like a london telephone booth. and.......i kinda liked it.
day 7.
met another teacher from spain. she has been here for ten days and still no apartment. i decided to take mine! nuts? school will be interesting. feeling like they all have to cater to me because i dont speak french. met my office mate. a short little man that wears red shirts and black ties!
day 8.
first day of school. got tea at a cafe and loved the quirky barrista! had a meeting to sign a contract for my apartment. i actually had to sign it for a different apartment that this lady owns. she only rents the one that she is renting to me. it just sits there empty. She only has it so her kids can go to school in that neighborhood! (to my chicago friends, that will be funny) so, she pays rent to one lady and i pay her but pretend that i am really paying for a building that she owns.
day 9.
went to the same cafe as yesterday and was greeted by the quirky one with "tea with lemon?" in French. made my day. until i got to school and got the double kiss from my new office mate! that was a treat. got the keys to the apartment and tried to hurry there at 5 pm to clean a little before it got dark, because there was no elecctricity; I never got the code for the outside door, but fortunqtely someone was leaving. so, i went in but couldnt go back out again to buy supplies. so, i sat there and daydreamed. its so small; will send dimensions later. you wont believe me. had dinner with the hotel guy and his 12 year old niece. spent one more night here because i hadnt checked out on time.
day 10; what???? i havent been here for ten days. oh well. just follow along. took a taxi at 6 a.m. with all three bags to my new place. i think there are 119 steps. I wasnt sure the difference between buzzers and lightswitches, so i made three trips up by the light of my cell phone!! after school i bought cleaning supplies and zorked until dusk. then i lit candles! dinner at the pizza place looking for the egyptian. she wasnt there but the owner knew who i was. he said, mi casa su casa, when i left!
day thursday.
cold shower. no electricity, remember? walked an hour to school because the metro is on strike! what a walk. i really live in paris! more cleaning and candlelight.
day friday. that is today. i am sure there were other things i wanted to tell you and didnt, but i am happy to have started this. i will continue tomorrow. i am afraid i have to post this as is with no proofing becaquse i am at qn internet place and not even sure i knoz hoz to post!!! i promise i zill get shorter and more accurqte. keep in mind, i have the same keyboard at work with all the x=screens in french!! i will have to learn. my address is 40 rue monge if you want to google the neighborhood. it is the 5th arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. i feell like Mary Tyler Moore ready to throw my beret. home now to the broken apartment door. i broke it. i got my key stuck and now it has to be rekeyed. in the meantime, the door is propped open. fortunqtely its an interior door. i am sure my neighbors zill love me. i like my new accent when i reread "zill"!!! au revoir.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)