Cold, Smold!
The cold has never been an issue for me. I am quite warm, if not hot, 90% of the time. Part of me thinks this is why people tend to gravitate toward me. Im a warm body to stand next to. And actually now that I think about it perhaps this is why the french tend to knock into me all the time on the street. What?
Those of you that have been to Paris know that even when there is plenty of room to avoid contact on the street, the french will walk directly into you. I still dont understand this. But over these last few months I have become one of them.
Lets talk Metro for a minute. See French Run. See French Sprint. See french bags flailing everywhere, old ladies kicked to the curb and french babies held tightly like little rugby balls, because the French, uh hem, we, have got a train to catch!
Seemingly, all this hurry nonsense is for good reason. I dont quite know how to describe the feeling you get when you make a perfect train connection. I think its comparable to winning a Pulitzer or a Nobel Peace Prize. Its fantastic! For example, I take 2 trains to get to work everyday. The 9 ligne and the 3 ligne. I now know the rate of pace I need to keep and how many people I need to physically hurdle in order to make my connection. The doors even open while the train is still in motion so if you are looking for a competitive advantage its there for the taking! None of this complete stop bullshit. Every second counts, and when it works it works; Its magic.The first time I conquered the feat of exact train connection I really felt like a Professional in Paris. (This was actually the second time I had this feeling as the first time was at a Bar in Republique, but thats another story all together.)
The most fascinating part of the Metro game though are the consequences under which we are playing. IF you do not make your train in Pulitzer Prize fashion, then guess what? Are you sitting down? You will be subjected to a 2 minute wait! Im not kidding! 2 whole minutes. And while the Paris Metro is remarkably prompt (when not on strike that is) its still arguably the best transit system in the world. I know the Brits will argue this point for their "test tube" but this is my french blog so phepht!
Anyway, 2 minutes is the high stakes wager here. And in the grand scheme of things, 2 minutes amounts to tying a shoelace, answering a short text or reaching into your purse to find a lighter.
I think what this boils down to are the differences of culture in dynamics and proxemics I see and feel everyday here. I mean I see people running all the time. No offense but the only people running for anything in the states, are generally the Asians trying to get across the street. And to take this point further, if I saw someone running in the Metro or on the street even, I would naturally assume that person stole something and they were running away from the scene of the crime or the cops. Because why else would you RUN?
Moreover, are you wearing sensible enough shoes that allow you to run? I'd hope not because here in france we like to dress classy! To Monoprix, the frommagerie, the boulangerie, you name it- chicks here wear good shoes. And good shoes they may be, but alas even in France you walk that walk on the cobblestone (if you dare) and you run that race in the Metro.
Ce la vie.
Ive digressed so many times in this entry that I forgot my point, but I think it had to do with cultural something or other. Oh! I know. Me being hot all the time. Perhaps I start a new entry for that one. This one needs to end here as Ive got a train to catch! au revoir mon cheries!!!
December 14, 2007
December 5, 2007
An Inconvenient Truth
Women should not wear heels in Paris. Period.
The cobblestone streets, I'm convinced, were implemented by French Males in order to control the Female population. Only the strong survive and the weak will be eliminated on the spot; Feragamo, Choo, Manolo and all the rest. It is practically impossible to catwalk down these corridors without twisting an ankle or budging a heel.
Fortunately, yours truly belongs to the coveted Donatella society and could easily sleep in her heels should the situation ever be called for. And it has! I'm a Professional. I take my swing and swagger seriously and if you cant walk that walk, what's the point? Sadly, the truth here is that unless you have a death wish, you should not walk these cursed halls I now know as cobblestone streets.
Rue de Breaky, Boulevard le Twist, Avenue Embarrassing Memoir...Sure these paths are amongst the most quaint and inviting Paris has to offer, and it always seems like a good idea to take the road less traveled, or even journey down "the cute way," but I'm here to tell you ladies, and Sean Crowley, this Ducca don't work on those rocks, oooookkk?
Go wedge, or go home. Trust me.
The cobblestone streets, I'm convinced, were implemented by French Males in order to control the Female population. Only the strong survive and the weak will be eliminated on the spot; Feragamo, Choo, Manolo and all the rest. It is practically impossible to catwalk down these corridors without twisting an ankle or budging a heel.
Fortunately, yours truly belongs to the coveted Donatella society and could easily sleep in her heels should the situation ever be called for. And it has! I'm a Professional. I take my swing and swagger seriously and if you cant walk that walk, what's the point? Sadly, the truth here is that unless you have a death wish, you should not walk these cursed halls I now know as cobblestone streets.
Rue de Breaky, Boulevard le Twist, Avenue Embarrassing Memoir...Sure these paths are amongst the most quaint and inviting Paris has to offer, and it always seems like a good idea to take the road less traveled, or even journey down "the cute way," but I'm here to tell you ladies, and Sean Crowley, this Ducca don't work on those rocks, oooookkk?
Go wedge, or go home. Trust me.
December 2, 2007
I QWIT
AZERTY. QWERTY. Nothing is easy around here.
For those of you that are unfamiliar with AZERTY and QWERTY, these are two examples of the names given to the keyboards that accompany the different languages of the world. Most of the civilized, and uncivilized population as well, uses QWERTY. It is the standard default keyboard, much like English is the standard default language of the world.
The 6 keys are found on the top row from left to right of the keyboard.
AZERTY is the French variaation. And there are a few others for Chinese, German etc...
The major difference to contend with here is that the Q and A are switched. The other is that M is moved to the second row. But these changes are very manageable and not that big of a deal.
The real issue here is the punctuation factor.
For example, The [.] is located in 2 different places, but only one of them is the real period, and you have to press shift to get to it. You have to press shift to get to all the numbers. You have to press alt+ctrl to get to the 3rd layer of punctuation that lies on the number keys. This layer includes punctuation such as the apostrophe, quote marks and the various versions of the accented [a] that the French use in nearly every word.
So now while I work away in Levallois-Perret, I use the hunt and peck method via AZERTY for all forms of outgoing communication. At home, I use QWERTY.
I feel like I'm 4 years old again. Combined with my downward spiral of what used to be proper English, and now this infantile typing method, I'm pretty sure France has dumbed me down by extraordinary meeasures. It used to be difficult for me to remember what I had for breakast the day before. Now I can't even find a comma to break up my thoughts.
------------------------------
"Deeahnne, is not so difficult, you'll get it. It's just few letters," says Benoit.
"Oooh la la, Ben! You say everything is so simple because it's the way the French do it. Ce la vie, you say. But it is not always so easy."
"Easy?"
"Nevermind."
------------------------------
The first day of AZERTY use ended with me and a large headache, dreaming of a cocktail and excited to get home and onto my QWERTY so I could tell you all about this traumatic experience. I once considered myself a writer, to some degree at least. Now I am more of punctuation nazi whose mild OCD (obsessive compulsve disorder) makes it near impossible to move on to a new sentence knowing that I left a [:] to end a sentence simply because I didnt want to be bothered to use shift.
It's possible I Strike. Two can play at this game. The French take away my public transportation, I take back my right to QWERTY in the workplace. I mean, its bad enough the American dollar is in the toilet, but do you have to take away my keyboard too:
For those of you that are unfamiliar with AZERTY and QWERTY, these are two examples of the names given to the keyboards that accompany the different languages of the world. Most of the civilized, and uncivilized population as well, uses QWERTY. It is the standard default keyboard, much like English is the standard default language of the world.
The 6 keys are found on the top row from left to right of the keyboard.
AZERTY is the French variaation. And there are a few others for Chinese, German etc...
The major difference to contend with here is that the Q and A are switched. The other is that M is moved to the second row. But these changes are very manageable and not that big of a deal.
The real issue here is the punctuation factor.
For example, The [.] is located in 2 different places, but only one of them is the real period, and you have to press shift to get to it. You have to press shift to get to all the numbers. You have to press alt+ctrl to get to the 3rd layer of punctuation that lies on the number keys. This layer includes punctuation such as the apostrophe, quote marks and the various versions of the accented [a] that the French use in nearly every word.
So now while I work away in Levallois-Perret, I use the hunt and peck method via AZERTY for all forms of outgoing communication. At home, I use QWERTY.
I feel like I'm 4 years old again. Combined with my downward spiral of what used to be proper English, and now this infantile typing method, I'm pretty sure France has dumbed me down by extraordinary meeasures. It used to be difficult for me to remember what I had for breakast the day before. Now I can't even find a comma to break up my thoughts.
------------------------------
"Deeahnne, is not so difficult, you'll get it. It's just few letters," says Benoit.
"Oooh la la, Ben! You say everything is so simple because it's the way the French do it. Ce la vie, you say. But it is not always so easy."
"Easy?"
"Nevermind."
------------------------------
The first day of AZERTY use ended with me and a large headache, dreaming of a cocktail and excited to get home and onto my QWERTY so I could tell you all about this traumatic experience. I once considered myself a writer, to some degree at least. Now I am more of punctuation nazi whose mild OCD (obsessive compulsve disorder) makes it near impossible to move on to a new sentence knowing that I left a [:] to end a sentence simply because I didnt want to be bothered to use shift.
It's possible I Strike. Two can play at this game. The French take away my public transportation, I take back my right to QWERTY in the workplace. I mean, its bad enough the American dollar is in the toilet, but do you have to take away my keyboard too:
November 28, 2007
Nic at Nite
"A Penny for your thoughts... A "Nico" for your Kiss. A smile and I'll tell you that I love ya."
Or so it goes. Almost. But when it rains it pours, and this month's taste of love is filled with those of the Nico, Nick, and Nicolas variation.
Let's start with Boyfriend #1. Nico. A French man whose stunning good looks and constant gentlemanly behavior had me at 'Bonsoir' about 4 weeks ago. He brought me to, and stayed with me in the hospital, the jungle, and even during my post-needle traumatic period (aka. PiNT time). He laughs at me when I wince at the horrible taste of mineral water. He finds it charming that I NEED another pair of boots. He will reach for an air guitar pick when I break into a random air drum solo. He reminds me to take my "medeeehsun capsoool" and isn't afraid to tell me "No." Well, he hasn't actually tried yet, but I think he'll be up for it at some point. (Let's admit it, who wants Jello when they can have cake, know what I mean?)
Boyfriend #2. Nick. He's the British chap who you all met in the si'l vous plait mate story.
He's not actually a boyfriend, but qualifies more as a friend, who is a boy, with whom I like to play, cavort, and share the English language with. We hold the same interests and values when it comes to important matters such as Social status, Research, Sex, and Brand names. Oh and his accent is ooh la la sexy. And Yes, we all know the weakness I have for the British tongue. Whatever, I'm a sucker for a London boy.
Boyfriend #3: Mr. Nicolas Sarkozy.I can't help it!
http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1116322312
If it werent for his stifling 5'2" frame and his friendship with George Dubbya I think I'd be pursuing this one full force. I'm not sure if its because he's the President of France and I think I have a chance, or if I find him attractive. I'm pretty sure its the former. My "team" at work is adamant against me dating Mr. Sarkozy, (and trust me we've discussed this at great lengths) but I think it would be fun to have him out for drinks and even back for a late night game of Wii at my friend Olivier's. Although O says if I show up with Nic Sarkozy to his house, he'll poison him. So lets just keep this one on the back burner "as friends" for now. But when I start dating the President, I dont want anyone acting like it came out of nowhere. And what's in it for him you ask? a 5'10 American blonde that doesn't speak French of course. I'm the perfect accoutrement for a single French President!
Questions? comments? Go by the name of Nick and want to be entered into next month's boyfriend selections? Email Me: diane@rhymeswithnick.com
Or so it goes. Almost. But when it rains it pours, and this month's taste of love is filled with those of the Nico, Nick, and Nicolas variation.
Let's start with Boyfriend #1. Nico. A French man whose stunning good looks and constant gentlemanly behavior had me at 'Bonsoir' about 4 weeks ago. He brought me to, and stayed with me in the hospital, the jungle, and even during my post-needle traumatic period (aka. PiNT time). He laughs at me when I wince at the horrible taste of mineral water. He finds it charming that I NEED another pair of boots. He will reach for an air guitar pick when I break into a random air drum solo. He reminds me to take my "medeeehsun capsoool" and isn't afraid to tell me "No." Well, he hasn't actually tried yet, but I think he'll be up for it at some point. (Let's admit it, who wants Jello when they can have cake, know what I mean?)
Boyfriend #2. Nick. He's the British chap who you all met in the si'l vous plait mate story.
He's not actually a boyfriend, but qualifies more as a friend, who is a boy, with whom I like to play, cavort, and share the English language with. We hold the same interests and values when it comes to important matters such as Social status, Research, Sex, and Brand names. Oh and his accent is ooh la la sexy. And Yes, we all know the weakness I have for the British tongue. Whatever, I'm a sucker for a London boy.
Boyfriend #3: Mr. Nicolas Sarkozy.I can't help it!
http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1116322312
If it werent for his stifling 5'2" frame and his friendship with George Dubbya I think I'd be pursuing this one full force. I'm not sure if its because he's the President of France and I think I have a chance, or if I find him attractive. I'm pretty sure its the former. My "team" at work is adamant against me dating Mr. Sarkozy, (and trust me we've discussed this at great lengths) but I think it would be fun to have him out for drinks and even back for a late night game of Wii at my friend Olivier's. Although O says if I show up with Nic Sarkozy to his house, he'll poison him. So lets just keep this one on the back burner "as friends" for now. But when I start dating the President, I dont want anyone acting like it came out of nowhere. And what's in it for him you ask? a 5'10 American blonde that doesn't speak French of course. I'm the perfect accoutrement for a single French President!
Questions? comments? Go by the name of Nick and want to be entered into next month's boyfriend selections? Email Me: diane@rhymeswithnick.com
November 23, 2007
(part 3) You like Paris?
"No! No. No? No! No. Please. I dont want to go to the hospital."All I can think is please let me leave now while I've still got breath to give.
"It's just for a few days..." and the Doctor leaves the room. My Panic sets in. In America, if you are actually admitted into the hospital, post-ER, that's one thing. But it's certainly another to be told you'd be spending the better part of your PTO there. I was doomed.
Thankfully, my friend had stayed with me for the entire 8 hour ER episode and would be accompanying me to my new digs, out of the jungle and into the Maxi-hospital. So 2 of the nurses start to prep me and my IV laden wheelie-bed for the extravaganza to come. They throw a blue tarp over me and tell my friend to tell me to "hang on."
I can only imagine the look that must have come across my face when hearing this because my friend immediately starts laughing. The look must have been a cross between horror, surprise and what the fuck? Because he was in tears laughing and apologzing at the same time.I'll admit. It was kinda funny.
So out we go. Literally outside of the building they wheel me. It was freezing cold so thank god for the tarp and that it wasnt raining. And trust me, there were no overhangs in case it was. I would have just gotten drenched. Then we go down a long, cobblestone path, and the bed is shaking and rocking so much I think I'm going to fall. Here I think that same look comes across my face b/c my friend starts laughing again and at this point, so do I. As we roll down the rocky sub-terranean path to the hospital, he holds up an imaginary microphone to his mouth and says, "Deeahhne-- you like Paris?" Then swings the mike to me, where all I could do was laugh and reply a weak, "yes."
Oh the malpractice suits that await French Healthcare!It's truly unbelievable what is deemed "appropriate." I mean, really did have to hang on while we were wheeling through outside. Not only due to the adventurers-cobblestone path, but also partly due to the shady, misplaced man smoking in the public courtyard, the loose wires and construction everywhere, and finally the big bump that almost thrust the needle out of my arm when we made our entrance up into the hospital main floor.
Finally, to my room. Room 27.
4th floor. Infections.
I get into my new bed and let me tell you-- miles better than the crap beds they have in the jungle. I forgot that sheets werent made of plastic. I begin to nestle myself in, crying on the inside the whole time of course. Visiting hours are over so I bid my friend bonsoir and merci beaucoup and tell him he can have my itouch.
Now it's time for business. Me vs. the French. The nurse is hovering over me asking me questions in French. Instead of replying the already obvious, "je n'parle pas francais,"I try simply just to avoid eye contact. I could tell she was going to come at me with something, probably in the form of a needle, so this new approach was all I had. Avoidance.
Didnt work. She nabbed my right arm like a Trainspotting novice, wrapped it tight with a plastic death-band and took a large quantity of blood. damn. But at least now she was gone and I could sleep. But first I really had to pee.
This 1 minute activity that quickly turned into 20, can not be explained any other way than-- perseverence. As I mentioned, I'd never had an IV before so I wasnt sure how these contraptions worked. So I do my best to assess the situation. I had a 3 wheeler holding my med bags 5 feet off the ground. This was my mobile tubing headquarters and was to accompany me everywhere. I needed to shift that over so I could hoist myself up from my bed. As I stand, I notice there is now red (I assume blood) back tracking back up into my IV tube in my arm. That didnt look good. Ok so nowI had to hurry before the nurse came back with more excuses and needles telling me not to move. Long story, a little shorter, I got the tubes shut on the bathroom door, bruised my leg trying to be quiet as not to wake up Valerie, my new roomie. And my back hurt so bad that I could barely reach to the side to grab toilet paper and in doing so, I hit my hip on the wall and cry a little out loud in pain. Finally I hobble myself back to bed. Albeit, the experience left me feeling proud. Mission accomplished!I can do this!
So I beep the nurse to tell her the exciting news, oh and to mention about the blood/IV thing too. She walks in and before I could subtitle myself, she rips me a new one for going pee by myself (I left the light on). Thats what she was for and I was to use one of these! And holds up-- you guessed it, a bed pan. uh uh. no way no how. I was not 75 and certainly did not require a bed pan. Not to mention I have terrible aim and get extremely gun shy so if I was going to be doing any peeing, it was going to be on my own painful 20-30 minute expedition.
Sunday Morning.
6am. More needles. More blood drawn. IV bags changed. back to sleep.
8am. Breakfast is served: 1 croissant. 1 demi baguette.1 luke warm bowl of bad coffee.
11am: Intern asshole shows up with a whole lot of questions. one of them being, "An American in Paris? Why haven't you learned the language?" and shakes his head at me in disgust. He then shares what he considers enlightening news. "Deeahnne, it appears as though you have an infection in your kidneys. We'll need to do more tests." Then leaves.
1pm. Lunch is served: Pork with peas and carrots. a demi baguette.
I sleep. I sleep. I sleep. I go pee.
1pm-8m: No Doctor. No results. No timeline. No solutions.
8pm. Dinner is served: Ham steak on beans. 1 small baguette.
I quit.
For those of you that do not know, I am a vegetarian. I also eat fish which technically makes me a pescaterian. But for those of you doing the math here, keep in mind I have not eaten since Friday afternoon. It is now Sunday evening, and I have consumed 1 small croissant and 1 small baguette.
So I ask Valerie to go smuggle me some chocolate from the vend and tell her to get herself anything she wants too. "Its on me. Here's 7 euros in change. make it last Val!"
She brings me a Lion bar. I go to sleep.
This routine continues for another day...I needed to talk to someone. Or at the very least my painkiller dosage upped. I was dying and still no Doctor had come to see me.
It was Monday and I had not brushed my teeth or hair, nor had an outfit change in almost 3 days.
I was still screaming "aloha" from the waist up and I had no idea where my maroon pants were.
Tuesday. I take action. I make a plea bargain for my better health. Fortunately, I had a minor Degree in Persuasive Communication from USC and it was here I intended to outwit the French health care program.
"Doctor. Si Vous-plait. I'm extremely mal-nourished. I've developed an alergy to the color beige and to my roommate Valerie. If additional tests were needed I would appreciate the option of testing off-site and would make visits and appoinments my number 1 priority.Antibiotics are my middle name and I'm feeling a little better at the thought already. Please consider?"
Four hours later- Presto chango, they had come to their senses and agreed to an early release.
Beaucoup water, antibiotics 2x day, efferevescent codeine for pain as needed, and lots of rest.
So now I'm home. Thanksgiving has passed, but I did give thanks. For a lot...And It's still not over with me, but I do feel a hell of a lot better. Merci Beaucoup, Frenchies.
And I may have given this Medical experience a bad rap, but truth be told, the French know how to do it. They help. They dont ask a lot of questions but they do their best to make you better. And as far as ER's go, well I'm sure Saint Antoine is a lot better than SF General or Oakland County. No, I'm positive it is.
And now more than ever, I truly appreciate the importance of my learning French post-haste. It's possible I could have been out of there on Monday had I known how to ask "Do you have a Supervisor?"
"It's just for a few days..." and the Doctor leaves the room. My Panic sets in. In America, if you are actually admitted into the hospital, post-ER, that's one thing. But it's certainly another to be told you'd be spending the better part of your PTO there. I was doomed.
Thankfully, my friend had stayed with me for the entire 8 hour ER episode and would be accompanying me to my new digs, out of the jungle and into the Maxi-hospital. So 2 of the nurses start to prep me and my IV laden wheelie-bed for the extravaganza to come. They throw a blue tarp over me and tell my friend to tell me to "hang on."
I can only imagine the look that must have come across my face when hearing this because my friend immediately starts laughing. The look must have been a cross between horror, surprise and what the fuck? Because he was in tears laughing and apologzing at the same time.I'll admit. It was kinda funny.
So out we go. Literally outside of the building they wheel me. It was freezing cold so thank god for the tarp and that it wasnt raining. And trust me, there were no overhangs in case it was. I would have just gotten drenched. Then we go down a long, cobblestone path, and the bed is shaking and rocking so much I think I'm going to fall. Here I think that same look comes across my face b/c my friend starts laughing again and at this point, so do I. As we roll down the rocky sub-terranean path to the hospital, he holds up an imaginary microphone to his mouth and says, "Deeahhne-- you like Paris?" Then swings the mike to me, where all I could do was laugh and reply a weak, "yes."
Oh the malpractice suits that await French Healthcare!It's truly unbelievable what is deemed "appropriate." I mean, really did have to hang on while we were wheeling through outside. Not only due to the adventurers-cobblestone path, but also partly due to the shady, misplaced man smoking in the public courtyard, the loose wires and construction everywhere, and finally the big bump that almost thrust the needle out of my arm when we made our entrance up into the hospital main floor.
Finally, to my room. Room 27.
4th floor. Infections.
I get into my new bed and let me tell you-- miles better than the crap beds they have in the jungle. I forgot that sheets werent made of plastic. I begin to nestle myself in, crying on the inside the whole time of course. Visiting hours are over so I bid my friend bonsoir and merci beaucoup and tell him he can have my itouch.
Now it's time for business. Me vs. the French. The nurse is hovering over me asking me questions in French. Instead of replying the already obvious, "je n'parle pas francais,"I try simply just to avoid eye contact. I could tell she was going to come at me with something, probably in the form of a needle, so this new approach was all I had. Avoidance.
Didnt work. She nabbed my right arm like a Trainspotting novice, wrapped it tight with a plastic death-band and took a large quantity of blood. damn. But at least now she was gone and I could sleep. But first I really had to pee.
This 1 minute activity that quickly turned into 20, can not be explained any other way than-- perseverence. As I mentioned, I'd never had an IV before so I wasnt sure how these contraptions worked. So I do my best to assess the situation. I had a 3 wheeler holding my med bags 5 feet off the ground. This was my mobile tubing headquarters and was to accompany me everywhere. I needed to shift that over so I could hoist myself up from my bed. As I stand, I notice there is now red (I assume blood) back tracking back up into my IV tube in my arm. That didnt look good. Ok so nowI had to hurry before the nurse came back with more excuses and needles telling me not to move. Long story, a little shorter, I got the tubes shut on the bathroom door, bruised my leg trying to be quiet as not to wake up Valerie, my new roomie. And my back hurt so bad that I could barely reach to the side to grab toilet paper and in doing so, I hit my hip on the wall and cry a little out loud in pain. Finally I hobble myself back to bed. Albeit, the experience left me feeling proud. Mission accomplished!I can do this!
So I beep the nurse to tell her the exciting news, oh and to mention about the blood/IV thing too. She walks in and before I could subtitle myself, she rips me a new one for going pee by myself (I left the light on). Thats what she was for and I was to use one of these! And holds up-- you guessed it, a bed pan. uh uh. no way no how. I was not 75 and certainly did not require a bed pan. Not to mention I have terrible aim and get extremely gun shy so if I was going to be doing any peeing, it was going to be on my own painful 20-30 minute expedition.
Sunday Morning.
6am. More needles. More blood drawn. IV bags changed. back to sleep.
8am. Breakfast is served: 1 croissant. 1 demi baguette.1 luke warm bowl of bad coffee.
11am: Intern asshole shows up with a whole lot of questions. one of them being, "An American in Paris? Why haven't you learned the language?" and shakes his head at me in disgust. He then shares what he considers enlightening news. "Deeahnne, it appears as though you have an infection in your kidneys. We'll need to do more tests." Then leaves.
1pm. Lunch is served: Pork with peas and carrots. a demi baguette.
I sleep. I sleep. I sleep. I go pee.
1pm-8m: No Doctor. No results. No timeline. No solutions.
8pm. Dinner is served: Ham steak on beans. 1 small baguette.
I quit.
For those of you that do not know, I am a vegetarian. I also eat fish which technically makes me a pescaterian. But for those of you doing the math here, keep in mind I have not eaten since Friday afternoon. It is now Sunday evening, and I have consumed 1 small croissant and 1 small baguette.
So I ask Valerie to go smuggle me some chocolate from the vend and tell her to get herself anything she wants too. "Its on me. Here's 7 euros in change. make it last Val!"
She brings me a Lion bar. I go to sleep.
This routine continues for another day...I needed to talk to someone. Or at the very least my painkiller dosage upped. I was dying and still no Doctor had come to see me.
It was Monday and I had not brushed my teeth or hair, nor had an outfit change in almost 3 days.
I was still screaming "aloha" from the waist up and I had no idea where my maroon pants were.
Tuesday. I take action. I make a plea bargain for my better health. Fortunately, I had a minor Degree in Persuasive Communication from USC and it was here I intended to outwit the French health care program.
"Doctor. Si Vous-plait. I'm extremely mal-nourished. I've developed an alergy to the color beige and to my roommate Valerie. If additional tests were needed I would appreciate the option of testing off-site and would make visits and appoinments my number 1 priority.Antibiotics are my middle name and I'm feeling a little better at the thought already. Please consider?"
Four hours later- Presto chango, they had come to their senses and agreed to an early release.
Beaucoup water, antibiotics 2x day, efferevescent codeine for pain as needed, and lots of rest.
So now I'm home. Thanksgiving has passed, but I did give thanks. For a lot...And It's still not over with me, but I do feel a hell of a lot better. Merci Beaucoup, Frenchies.
And I may have given this Medical experience a bad rap, but truth be told, the French know how to do it. They help. They dont ask a lot of questions but they do their best to make you better. And as far as ER's go, well I'm sure Saint Antoine is a lot better than SF General or Oakland County. No, I'm positive it is.
And now more than ever, I truly appreciate the importance of my learning French post-haste. It's possible I could have been out of there on Monday had I known how to ask "Do you have a Supervisor?"
(part 2) The Jungle
Welcome to Saint-Antoine Hospital, ER, aka. the Jungle.
I swear they were trying to kill me. It may have been the drugs, but I'm pretty sure there was a grand conspiracy in both the ER and the hospital to "off the American."
I arrive to Saint Antoine Emergency Room in Paris on Saturday afternoon. The non-cute paramedic takes me in to the jungle, telling me jokes (in French) and looking at me like he expects a laugh. If I could have made a fist, I'm not kidding you, I would have bopped him one good.
So once inside the jungle, one of the nurses puts me on a wheelie bed and I am so thankful to be lying down, I just want to nap as I am so exhausted.However, I am immediately told, "no nap, no sleep, just in case..." OK, well lets hurry this along then. Didn't they know who I was? Surely I had to know someone at this hospital...if I could just have a quick peep around...Oh who was I kidding? Sometimes even I wonder who I am. To thinkI am going to be admitted to a FRENCH hospital, a non-french speaker, run into someone I know, and then be the very first one looked after. I could see it in my thoughts."Hurry! Go make sure the American is OK!" Riiiiight....
Ok so 4 hours later, I am diagnosed with Viral Menengitis. Bring on the Sars Masks!
http://www.webmd.com/a-to-z-guides/meningitis-topic-overview
Everybody that entered "Box 3"(my little ER room) had to wear a mandatory mask. Even me. [Side note here, but its funny how karma works-- since 2001 I've had a mild fascination/preoccupation with the Sars mask phenomenon particularly that stemmed from the Burberry Sars Season. And now here I was starring in my own sars mask line. Not Burberry. I think it's called M3 and they also make post-its.] Anyway...
I'm pretty sure at this point I'd reached the end of my line, so it didnt matter what kind of mask I had. I had a french doctor that was now telling me he had to take this special kind of test that would essentially remove liquid from my spine. And not to mince words, he kindly added, "This WILL hurt, so we'll need you to hold still and if you want, we can give you some gas before that should help with some of the pain."
Um, Ok.
So I'm breathing like a maniac to try and get as much gas as possible into my system before he gets going. The doctor keeps coming over to me while I'm inhaling his magic toxins and asking if I'm Ok. I was. The problem was, this shit wasnt working fast enough and I felt way too coherent to be probed in any sort of menacing way. But because its the ER, I could feel his time line closing in on me, and I had only a few puffs left. Fuck. I didn't want this. I didnt want this. I didnt want this. I think even on the gas I may have tried to click my heels like Dorothy in the Whiz. Unfortunately, I had no shoes or socks on, so my dreams were quickly smashed.
The Nurse sat me up and she and the doctor got behind me. The next thing I know, there is a VERY large needle curving into my spine and I have never, ever, make no mistake about it, felt pain like this before in my life. I cry. Loudly. I was now the girl in Box 3 who was not going to make it. Meanwhile, the Doctor is saying "perfect.perfect."
Excuze moi, Doctor? Perfect? Are you joking me? F Off! I should have killed you and that stupid paramedic when I had the chance! et Voila. Spine check= done.
Next up? IV's and Brain scans? Great! Can't wait.
"Deeahnne, we now go to check your brain for damage and after that we hook you up to IV, ok?" Do I have a choice?
So the nurse wheels me into another section where the labs and scans are and hands me off to two 20-something "dude's" that run the lab. Right before I am automated into the MRI/Xray machine is when the Doctor appears and says, "its forbidden to move your head." I was so stressed out now. He didnt indicate how long I would be in there or how long the process would take, just that it was forbidden for me to move. And we all know saying something like that to someone is like saying, "Hot plate! Don't touch!"
I was now completely out of sorts, feeling compelled, and sweating profusely from 1) the fever and 2) the stress of not moving my head a centimeter, or else! When the Jack Nicholson head strap velcroed tight over my head, all I could do was begin making out my christmas list. Oh, that and determining who the lucky individual would be to inherit my itouch.
I go in. I come out. Time escaped me here, but it felt like forever. I needed to call my Dad.
et voila. Head check= done.
Back through the jungle and back into Box 3. Yes, still wearing Sars Mask! 3 hours later...
Lets do blood now shall we? Before I get into this, let me tell you, I have a severe case of needle-phobia. I detest needles. They detest me more. I have been known to pass out even on sight of a needle. Big or small, no matter. This is where the adult Deeahnne exits the building and the biggest baby on earth enters. I cry. I plead. I sob. I beg for mercy and God and if you could just NOT stick a needle in me, we'll all be better off. However...
Here at Saint Antoine, if you arent going to regret coming to the hospital, they'll make sure you do. And in we go... the nurse preps my arm for an IV. I've never had one of these before and it certainly wasnt on my top 10 List. I ask her about "alternaciones" or "d'leau" and I'm basically trying to stall her with any nonsense I can think of so she'll forget what she was doing and leave my arm alone!
She didnt. Obviously this sucked for me.
I cried. I cried again. and again for what may have been the next 2 hours until the doctor barged in on my pity-party and took my sars mask off. "Deeahnne, good news. It doesnt look like you have viral meningitis. " I un-enthusiastically reply, "Super."
I'll admit it. At this point, I was broken. I was hurt. I was hot. I was cold. I was still sweating. And now even my sars mask was gone. That mask had actually become quite comforting to me, and what? In walks our Hero and just rips it off me? What did this guy want? A standing ovation? He put a 10 inch needle in my back and made me see God, then decries its not meningitis? F- Off! So what then...?
"Deeahnne, we think there's a problem with your kidneys. We're admitting you into the Hospital."
I swear they were trying to kill me. It may have been the drugs, but I'm pretty sure there was a grand conspiracy in both the ER and the hospital to "off the American."
I arrive to Saint Antoine Emergency Room in Paris on Saturday afternoon. The non-cute paramedic takes me in to the jungle, telling me jokes (in French) and looking at me like he expects a laugh. If I could have made a fist, I'm not kidding you, I would have bopped him one good.
So once inside the jungle, one of the nurses puts me on a wheelie bed and I am so thankful to be lying down, I just want to nap as I am so exhausted.However, I am immediately told, "no nap, no sleep, just in case..." OK, well lets hurry this along then. Didn't they know who I was? Surely I had to know someone at this hospital...if I could just have a quick peep around...Oh who was I kidding? Sometimes even I wonder who I am. To thinkI am going to be admitted to a FRENCH hospital, a non-french speaker, run into someone I know, and then be the very first one looked after. I could see it in my thoughts."Hurry! Go make sure the American is OK!" Riiiiight....
Ok so 4 hours later, I am diagnosed with Viral Menengitis. Bring on the Sars Masks!
http://www.webmd.com/a-to-z-guides/meningitis-topic-overview
Everybody that entered "Box 3"(my little ER room) had to wear a mandatory mask. Even me. [Side note here, but its funny how karma works-- since 2001 I've had a mild fascination/preoccupation with the Sars mask phenomenon particularly that stemmed from the Burberry Sars Season. And now here I was starring in my own sars mask line. Not Burberry. I think it's called M3 and they also make post-its.] Anyway...
I'm pretty sure at this point I'd reached the end of my line, so it didnt matter what kind of mask I had. I had a french doctor that was now telling me he had to take this special kind of test that would essentially remove liquid from my spine. And not to mince words, he kindly added, "This WILL hurt, so we'll need you to hold still and if you want, we can give you some gas before that should help with some of the pain."
Um, Ok.
So I'm breathing like a maniac to try and get as much gas as possible into my system before he gets going. The doctor keeps coming over to me while I'm inhaling his magic toxins and asking if I'm Ok. I was. The problem was, this shit wasnt working fast enough and I felt way too coherent to be probed in any sort of menacing way. But because its the ER, I could feel his time line closing in on me, and I had only a few puffs left. Fuck. I didn't want this. I didnt want this. I didnt want this. I think even on the gas I may have tried to click my heels like Dorothy in the Whiz. Unfortunately, I had no shoes or socks on, so my dreams were quickly smashed.
The Nurse sat me up and she and the doctor got behind me. The next thing I know, there is a VERY large needle curving into my spine and I have never, ever, make no mistake about it, felt pain like this before in my life. I cry. Loudly. I was now the girl in Box 3 who was not going to make it. Meanwhile, the Doctor is saying "perfect.perfect."
Excuze moi, Doctor? Perfect? Are you joking me? F Off! I should have killed you and that stupid paramedic when I had the chance! et Voila. Spine check= done.
Next up? IV's and Brain scans? Great! Can't wait.
"Deeahnne, we now go to check your brain for damage and after that we hook you up to IV, ok?" Do I have a choice?
So the nurse wheels me into another section where the labs and scans are and hands me off to two 20-something "dude's" that run the lab. Right before I am automated into the MRI/Xray machine is when the Doctor appears and says, "its forbidden to move your head." I was so stressed out now. He didnt indicate how long I would be in there or how long the process would take, just that it was forbidden for me to move. And we all know saying something like that to someone is like saying, "Hot plate! Don't touch!"
I was now completely out of sorts, feeling compelled, and sweating profusely from 1) the fever and 2) the stress of not moving my head a centimeter, or else! When the Jack Nicholson head strap velcroed tight over my head, all I could do was begin making out my christmas list. Oh, that and determining who the lucky individual would be to inherit my itouch.
I go in. I come out. Time escaped me here, but it felt like forever. I needed to call my Dad.
et voila. Head check= done.
Back through the jungle and back into Box 3. Yes, still wearing Sars Mask! 3 hours later...
Lets do blood now shall we? Before I get into this, let me tell you, I have a severe case of needle-phobia. I detest needles. They detest me more. I have been known to pass out even on sight of a needle. Big or small, no matter. This is where the adult Deeahnne exits the building and the biggest baby on earth enters. I cry. I plead. I sob. I beg for mercy and God and if you could just NOT stick a needle in me, we'll all be better off. However...
Here at Saint Antoine, if you arent going to regret coming to the hospital, they'll make sure you do. And in we go... the nurse preps my arm for an IV. I've never had one of these before and it certainly wasnt on my top 10 List. I ask her about "alternaciones" or "d'leau" and I'm basically trying to stall her with any nonsense I can think of so she'll forget what she was doing and leave my arm alone!
She didnt. Obviously this sucked for me.
I cried. I cried again. and again for what may have been the next 2 hours until the doctor barged in on my pity-party and took my sars mask off. "Deeahnne, good news. It doesnt look like you have viral meningitis. " I un-enthusiastically reply, "Super."
I'll admit it. At this point, I was broken. I was hurt. I was hot. I was cold. I was still sweating. And now even my sars mask was gone. That mask had actually become quite comforting to me, and what? In walks our Hero and just rips it off me? What did this guy want? A standing ovation? He put a 10 inch needle in my back and made me see God, then decries its not meningitis? F- Off! So what then...?
"Deeahnne, we think there's a problem with your kidneys. We're admitting you into the Hospital."
(part 1) The Paramedic, Deeahnne and the Wardrobe
"Deeahnne, it is forbidden to move your head while inside the machine."
I asked no questions. How could I? He didnt speak English and the French translation for "imminent death" wasnt coming to mind.
I couldnt even think straight. What was happening?
Lets go back to Saturday.
All week I had been fighting this mild cold and headache. The cold Paris winter was setting in and my body was aching all over. Especially my lower back. Chick thing, maybe. whatever. I didnt really didnt think about it too much. That is, until Saturday morning when I woke up in a pool of sweat and could barely walk 2 steps. I called a friend and asked him to please come over as I think I need to go to the hospital. Something wasn't right.
1 hour, 3 prayers later, two paramedics show up, one of which is ooh la la so cute (even sick my mind is still in the gutter). Anyway, before we leave the apartment, let me describe the scenario.
Imaginee- Deeahnne sitting slumped on the couch, sweat glistening on every uncovered part of my body, my mouth half open, staring at something, not sure what, but it must have been very important b/c diverting my eyes for even a second was going to be a task. I couldnt form words. My english had officially broken and I couldnt form a phrase if my life depended on it and maybe it did. So I'd point to the areas of pain and I believe it is here when I started rocking back and forth. I was getting cold and I needed action.I just kept thinking, "lets go, lets go lets go."
Finally they feel my forhead and we're outta there. 42 degrees.
We walk out the door and into the elevator when the paramedic sees that im not wearing any shoes. I hadnt even noticed. didnt care really. so my friend runs upstairs to my bedroom and grabs, of course, the ugliest pair of shoes I own. perfect.
So I leave my house for the adventure into the famed world of French healthcare wearing: a shiny navy blue windbreaker, a shortsleeve yellow T shirt that reads "Aloha", maroon sweatpants with bedazzling on the waist, black socks, and bright coral flats with gold embellishment on the toes. And even after all this, I thought to myself in the elevator on the way down, "I should have grabbed a hat."
Lets check in shall we?
I asked no questions. How could I? He didnt speak English and the French translation for "imminent death" wasnt coming to mind.
I couldnt even think straight. What was happening?
Lets go back to Saturday.
All week I had been fighting this mild cold and headache. The cold Paris winter was setting in and my body was aching all over. Especially my lower back. Chick thing, maybe. whatever. I didnt really didnt think about it too much. That is, until Saturday morning when I woke up in a pool of sweat and could barely walk 2 steps. I called a friend and asked him to please come over as I think I need to go to the hospital. Something wasn't right.
1 hour, 3 prayers later, two paramedics show up, one of which is ooh la la so cute (even sick my mind is still in the gutter). Anyway, before we leave the apartment, let me describe the scenario.
Imaginee- Deeahnne sitting slumped on the couch, sweat glistening on every uncovered part of my body, my mouth half open, staring at something, not sure what, but it must have been very important b/c diverting my eyes for even a second was going to be a task. I couldnt form words. My english had officially broken and I couldnt form a phrase if my life depended on it and maybe it did. So I'd point to the areas of pain and I believe it is here when I started rocking back and forth. I was getting cold and I needed action.I just kept thinking, "lets go, lets go lets go."
Finally they feel my forhead and we're outta there. 42 degrees.
We walk out the door and into the elevator when the paramedic sees that im not wearing any shoes. I hadnt even noticed. didnt care really. so my friend runs upstairs to my bedroom and grabs, of course, the ugliest pair of shoes I own. perfect.
So I leave my house for the adventure into the famed world of French healthcare wearing: a shiny navy blue windbreaker, a shortsleeve yellow T shirt that reads "Aloha", maroon sweatpants with bedazzling on the waist, black socks, and bright coral flats with gold embellishment on the toes. And even after all this, I thought to myself in the elevator on the way down, "I should have grabbed a hat."
Lets check in shall we?
November 12, 2007
Lighting up Paris
Rightfully so, many of you have expressed concern with all of the drinking I appear to be doing. To you people I say, "Mind your own business and read a sober person's blog then. Lets see how long that lasts."
The truth is, I really miss having my own spots and my own bars that I can call my own(see temporary residences in glossary) like I did in SF. Being out and about in a city has always provided me with a certain level of comfort and in a weird way, justification and liberte. On one hand, i do owe it to my people to respresent my city, as well as America, and lets not forget the most important part here- who am I to withhold my beauty and charisma from such a fine city? I do this for them, the Parisians. I make their lives better. I light up the room with my smile and I'll light your cigarette too if you ask nicely.I drink. I smile. I am.
Now seeing that I cant (yet) discuss the who's who and the what's what of Paris, You are basically hearing about my take on the bars, clubs and levels of cocktails I consume with some other crap thrown in for good measure. Once I get you all hooked on"French with English Subbys," dont fret- there will be plent of long walks, leisurely moonlit dinners, fashion shows and art exhibits to boot. For now, just sit back, relax and enjoy me enjoying Paris.
Otherwise, I can recommend a good Frommers "Paris in 7 days" for you.
besos
The truth is, I really miss having my own spots and my own bars that I can call my own(see temporary residences in glossary) like I did in SF. Being out and about in a city has always provided me with a certain level of comfort and in a weird way, justification and liberte. On one hand, i do owe it to my people to respresent my city, as well as America, and lets not forget the most important part here- who am I to withhold my beauty and charisma from such a fine city? I do this for them, the Parisians. I make their lives better. I light up the room with my smile and I'll light your cigarette too if you ask nicely.I drink. I smile. I am.
Now seeing that I cant (yet) discuss the who's who and the what's what of Paris, You are basically hearing about my take on the bars, clubs and levels of cocktails I consume with some other crap thrown in for good measure. Once I get you all hooked on"French with English Subbys," dont fret- there will be plent of long walks, leisurely moonlit dinners, fashion shows and art exhibits to boot. For now, just sit back, relax and enjoy me enjoying Paris.
Otherwise, I can recommend a good Frommers "Paris in 7 days" for you.
besos
November 8, 2007
Take a Stand for a Seat
Can we talk about the toilet seat cover situation for a minute? What's the deal???
I'm not really sure whats going on here but most establishments, including my office in Levallois, have the bins installed that are to hold said covers, but none are ever to be found. Ever!
Its like "Neat Seat" went around and installed a sampling of bins throughout all of Paris, but never actually followed through with the distribution of its plasticky paper products.
So I usually spend 2 minutes double wrapping 3 separate strips of TP so I can sit.
I'm a tall girl. Squatting is not really that cool or convenient for me. Aside from the fact that unless I'm camping, on most other occasions I'd like to consider myself a civilized human being.
Are the French sitting on the seats or do they squat? Do they do what I do? Where's the TP build up in the pipes? Someone send me some seats-to-go please.
I just dont get it. Maybe I'll write a letter...and then another letter, and another letter every day just like Andy Dufraisne did in Shawshank Redemption. Before you know it, I'll have 12 libraries and toilet seat covers in all of Paris!
Genius. I know.
I'm not really sure whats going on here but most establishments, including my office in Levallois, have the bins installed that are to hold said covers, but none are ever to be found. Ever!
Its like "Neat Seat" went around and installed a sampling of bins throughout all of Paris, but never actually followed through with the distribution of its plasticky paper products.
So I usually spend 2 minutes double wrapping 3 separate strips of TP so I can sit.
I'm a tall girl. Squatting is not really that cool or convenient for me. Aside from the fact that unless I'm camping, on most other occasions I'd like to consider myself a civilized human being.
Are the French sitting on the seats or do they squat? Do they do what I do? Where's the TP build up in the pipes? Someone send me some seats-to-go please.
I just dont get it. Maybe I'll write a letter...and then another letter, and another letter every day just like Andy Dufraisne did in Shawshank Redemption. Before you know it, I'll have 12 libraries and toilet seat covers in all of Paris!
Genius. I know.
November 7, 2007
Drinking for the French
Sante!
A new drinking game was invented last night at Dinner of all places.
I met up with a few of my friends at a really great restaurant near my new pad in Bastille. It was super fun and I was so glad to be out with people that I'm not actually sleeping with. Its refreshing actually, and I felt like a real live french person! Well, one with subtitles anyway.
So here's how the game works. Everytime I say something correct in French we all drink.
That's it! Its really a genius game for several reasons. The first being that I control it the whole time. Its like being the President in a good game of Asshole. Second, I only know a few key phrases, one of them being "Je ne se pas" which translates to "I don't know." So I just keep saying je ne se pas and we all drink. Not sure who this game is more entertaining for- me or the french who, now that I think about it, do always seem to be laughing at me. I'm laughing at them too, I guess, but on the inside where it counts. OK, no thats a lie. I laugh at them to their faces too. Because lets face it, the French are pretty funny assholes.
A new drinking game was invented last night at Dinner of all places.
I met up with a few of my friends at a really great restaurant near my new pad in Bastille. It was super fun and I was so glad to be out with people that I'm not actually sleeping with. Its refreshing actually, and I felt like a real live french person! Well, one with subtitles anyway.
So here's how the game works. Everytime I say something correct in French we all drink.
That's it! Its really a genius game for several reasons. The first being that I control it the whole time. Its like being the President in a good game of Asshole. Second, I only know a few key phrases, one of them being "Je ne se pas" which translates to "I don't know." So I just keep saying je ne se pas and we all drink. Not sure who this game is more entertaining for- me or the french who, now that I think about it, do always seem to be laughing at me. I'm laughing at them too, I guess, but on the inside where it counts. OK, no thats a lie. I laugh at them to their faces too. Because lets face it, the French are pretty funny assholes.
November 6, 2007
I'm a si'l vous plait-mate
Sometimes the sexual deviant rule applies. Even in Paris.
Sometimes the "poke" rule applies. Even outside of Facebook and especially in Paris.
When I first met Nick Morgan he was looking very nonchalant and sort of gazing off to the left. He was wearing a white t-shirt, had a huge gold hoop earring hanging from his lobe, and was dedicating a "peace sign" in front of his mouth to some lucky individual across the room. It was probably one of the sexiest pictures I had ever seen in my whole life and I poked him right there. Instantly. Didnt hesitate and knew it was just a matter of time before he poked me back. Next thing you know, we're poke buddies. Like extreme poke buddies. We're sending gifts, and whispering sweet absolutely nothings to each other, and as Nick put it, we're on the far right edge of the scale. Here's an article to help explain the "poke phenomenon" for those you that dont already know.
http://valleywag.com/tech/facebook/poke-epidemic-reaches-crisis-proportions-314264.php
So Nick walks in and instantly I know a few things. (To my Friends-you know it when I know it, and yeah, obviously its the first thing. To my Parents- I knew that Nick was a trustworthy, stand up guy, who I could tell was going to be a gentleman the whole weekend. )
So Nick shows up with 4 bath products, a briefcase carrying no papers, and 2 cel phones- I'll mention this for Nick- but yes readers, Nick bought the Prada (never shoulda oughtta) cel phone."Its nice on dinner tables," he says. And I say, "But so are high heels, and..... Oh Ok, I see your point." And thats how it goes for the rest of the weekend, se la vie!
I will only sum up this weekend via personal email and phone calls, otherwise you guys are just gonna have to deal with an ellipses...
Please indicate which part of the Pokend you'd be interested in hearing about:
-C&A
-Sexual Deviance at LePub
-Nick "the Flame" Morgan and how it all began
-the governessesss
-Mexican Fernet, part 1
-Indiana Tex Mex, part 2
- the safety pin and button debate
-the best way to sleep in Boots
Sometimes the "poke" rule applies. Even outside of Facebook and especially in Paris.
When I first met Nick Morgan he was looking very nonchalant and sort of gazing off to the left. He was wearing a white t-shirt, had a huge gold hoop earring hanging from his lobe, and was dedicating a "peace sign" in front of his mouth to some lucky individual across the room. It was probably one of the sexiest pictures I had ever seen in my whole life and I poked him right there. Instantly. Didnt hesitate and knew it was just a matter of time before he poked me back. Next thing you know, we're poke buddies. Like extreme poke buddies. We're sending gifts, and whispering sweet absolutely nothings to each other, and as Nick put it, we're on the far right edge of the scale. Here's an article to help explain the "poke phenomenon" for those you that dont already know.
http://valleywag.com/tech/facebook/poke-epidemic-reaches-crisis-proportions-314264.php
So Nick walks in and instantly I know a few things. (To my Friends-you know it when I know it, and yeah, obviously its the first thing. To my Parents- I knew that Nick was a trustworthy, stand up guy, who I could tell was going to be a gentleman the whole weekend. )
So Nick shows up with 4 bath products, a briefcase carrying no papers, and 2 cel phones- I'll mention this for Nick- but yes readers, Nick bought the Prada (never shoulda oughtta) cel phone."Its nice on dinner tables," he says. And I say, "But so are high heels, and..... Oh Ok, I see your point." And thats how it goes for the rest of the weekend, se la vie!
I will only sum up this weekend via personal email and phone calls, otherwise you guys are just gonna have to deal with an ellipses...
Please indicate which part of the Pokend you'd be interested in hearing about:
-C&A
-Sexual Deviance at LePub
-Nick "the Flame" Morgan and how it all began
-the governessesss
-Mexican Fernet, part 1
-Indiana Tex Mex, part 2
- the safety pin and button debate
-the best way to sleep in Boots
October 28, 2007
Mixers and Bitches
It's so fucking complicated sometimes! The French want to add mix to everything! Leave my mother f"ing drink alone!
No, I do not want Perrier in my red wine! Nor do I want Coca Cola in it!
I would like a Perrier(1) and (2)Red wine. Fine, yes I'm double fisting. For god sake, I'm really thirsty and nice beverage would be delightful before the night's research begins.
It's seriosuly mind boggling that these people get through the day without 12 mixers in their sack.
So, here's the pinnacle of this phenomenon, and obviously when I had to write.
I go into a bar.
I order a Fernet Branca. (Yes the Branca part is usually necessary to help the Bartender identify). I allow processing time, and then I order a ginger ale or shweppes.
After the bartrendress gives me the standard look of disgust and "ew"I can see that she has now mentally agreed to serve me my drink. Although we both know what she is thinking.
So I watch her go pour. Just in case. (Well you know how the French can be). I notice she goes straight back to the bar and pulls a PINT Glass.
Readers: At this point, a few things are going through my head-
1.Gold Mine! Woohoo! I hit the jack pot! What is the name is the bar? Can I get a card? What are your business hours? Do you have a place for me to crash, maybe, just in case...? J'mepelle Diane. I'm sorry about earlier confusion...
and
2. Piss off! How hard is it to pour me a shot of Fernet???!!!!!!!!!!!!!ugh ugh why me?
[Now please understand that this is a real issue for me because most of the bartenders here shockingly, do not speak English. So when they start to fuck up, there isnt much I can do b/c
9 times out of 10, they really just want to be finished with the American.
So I'll continue..]
"Uh Uh Uh Mademoiselle? Perdon?"
No use. She is absolutely done with me and will pour the drink she wants to pour.
A very tall glass of fernet with ginger ale and coke. I assume she added the coke b/c I am american and we all love coca cola!
Bitch.
I take a sip. Its undrinkable. And to be fair, it may have been ok if the bottle of fernet was a good one. But I'll assume they arent serving much of this stuff, so it was in fact, one of those bottles that is so bitter, so messed up, that it literally just makes you want to lose it on first contact.
Check please.
No, I do not want Perrier in my red wine! Nor do I want Coca Cola in it!
I would like a Perrier(1) and (2)Red wine. Fine, yes I'm double fisting. For god sake, I'm really thirsty and nice beverage would be delightful before the night's research begins.
It's seriosuly mind boggling that these people get through the day without 12 mixers in their sack.
So, here's the pinnacle of this phenomenon, and obviously when I had to write.
I go into a bar.
I order a Fernet Branca. (Yes the Branca part is usually necessary to help the Bartender identify). I allow processing time, and then I order a ginger ale or shweppes.
After the bartrendress gives me the standard look of disgust and "ew"I can see that she has now mentally agreed to serve me my drink. Although we both know what she is thinking.
So I watch her go pour. Just in case. (Well you know how the French can be). I notice she goes straight back to the bar and pulls a PINT Glass.
Readers: At this point, a few things are going through my head-
1.Gold Mine! Woohoo! I hit the jack pot! What is the name is the bar? Can I get a card? What are your business hours? Do you have a place for me to crash, maybe, just in case...? J'mepelle Diane. I'm sorry about earlier confusion...
and
2. Piss off! How hard is it to pour me a shot of Fernet???!!!!!!!!!!!!!ugh ugh why me?
[Now please understand that this is a real issue for me because most of the bartenders here shockingly, do not speak English. So when they start to fuck up, there isnt much I can do b/c
9 times out of 10, they really just want to be finished with the American.
So I'll continue..]
"Uh Uh Uh Mademoiselle? Perdon?"
No use. She is absolutely done with me and will pour the drink she wants to pour.
A very tall glass of fernet with ginger ale and coke. I assume she added the coke b/c I am american and we all love coca cola!
Bitch.
I take a sip. Its undrinkable. And to be fair, it may have been ok if the bottle of fernet was a good one. But I'll assume they arent serving much of this stuff, so it was in fact, one of those bottles that is so bitter, so messed up, that it literally just makes you want to lose it on first contact.
Check please.
A Panda in Paris
Sometimes it goes like this...
Diane: So Benoit, I'm thinking of getting a dog after the New Year. A little one. A pooch I can put in my purse and take with me everywhere. Someone to call a companion.
Benoit: You, um, hmmm?Huh?
Diane: (lauhging) You know! A dog? a puppy? Iimitates standard dog paws in front of bosom begging for food) a little arf arf? A puppy...?
Benoit: Dee-ahnne(my name in francais) uh, what you saying? (he is laughing at my idiot-ness)
Diane: OK, um, I want to get a dog. a DOG.!A dog? A puppy! (frustrated now)
Benoit: Oooooh! uuuh, you are ging to get a PANDA?
Diane: (hysterical) Yes.I'm getting a Panda. What do you think?
Benoit: oooh Deeahhne!So americane...
------------------------------------------------------
So After this exchange happened, I'm proud to report that a new word for several meanings has been developed. Sort of like "Right" or "Cool." When you are ever in a situation with someone and you have no idea what they saying to you, just say "Panda?"
The beautiful part of this new addition to english slang is that I think it would work even better between two people that actually do speak the same language, but are just not hearing each other.
Friend 1: Do you want another drink?
Friend 2: Huh?
Friend 1: Do you want ANOTHER DRINK?
Friend2: I'm sorry its so loud in here...What?
Friend 1: PANDA???(motioning glass to mouth)
Friend 2: Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks.
Try it. It's cool.
Diane: So Benoit, I'm thinking of getting a dog after the New Year. A little one. A pooch I can put in my purse and take with me everywhere. Someone to call a companion.
Benoit: You, um, hmmm?Huh?
Diane: (lauhging) You know! A dog? a puppy? Iimitates standard dog paws in front of bosom begging for food) a little arf arf? A puppy...?
Benoit: Dee-ahnne(my name in francais) uh, what you saying? (he is laughing at my idiot-ness)
Diane: OK, um, I want to get a dog. a DOG.!A dog? A puppy! (frustrated now)
Benoit: Oooooh! uuuh, you are ging to get a PANDA?
Diane: (hysterical) Yes.I'm getting a Panda. What do you think?
Benoit: oooh Deeahhne!So americane...
------------------------------------------------------
So After this exchange happened, I'm proud to report that a new word for several meanings has been developed. Sort of like "Right" or "Cool." When you are ever in a situation with someone and you have no idea what they saying to you, just say "Panda?"
The beautiful part of this new addition to english slang is that I think it would work even better between two people that actually do speak the same language, but are just not hearing each other.
Friend 1: Do you want another drink?
Friend 2: Huh?
Friend 1: Do you want ANOTHER DRINK?
Friend2: I'm sorry its so loud in here...What?
Friend 1: PANDA???(motioning glass to mouth)
Friend 2: Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks.
Try it. It's cool.
October 22, 2007
*Glossary of Terms
Check back as this document will be updated as needed.
Temporary Residence- A bar you feel so comfortable in you could sleep there(given sanitary conditions). The owners would entrust the keys to you and more often than not, will let you and your friends stay to drink until well after 2am. Sometimes, you go there during the day even though you know you shouldn't.
Team (My Team) - This is a core group of friends at the Office consisting of, The Music Man, Olivier, Julian, Yann, and George Michael. These are my boys, my confidantes, and my drinking buddies. They tolerate me and do their best to understand my broken english and growing french. They also let me sit with them at Lunch.
Research - a long overdue project that began in San Francisco, CA. My Research study started as "Top 10 places to drink by yourself in SF." Well seeing as how I moved before my research could be completed, this developmental article has carried itself overseas and requires a lot more attention/ research. In other words, Research=Drinking.
Maddy - Madeleine. Arrondissment 1/2. This is the Ritzy, well-to-do area I currently reside in. Of course, I hate it. Too many tourists, a Starbucks, and not enough trouble.
FN - French Nazi, (see also Celine) French Instructor
Home - Not my actual residence, but where I will spend the majority of my time. The people who share this home with me can be called Bartenders and fellow Bar Patrons.
Temporary Residence- A bar you feel so comfortable in you could sleep there(given sanitary conditions). The owners would entrust the keys to you and more often than not, will let you and your friends stay to drink until well after 2am. Sometimes, you go there during the day even though you know you shouldn't.
Team (My Team) - This is a core group of friends at the Office consisting of, The Music Man, Olivier, Julian, Yann, and George Michael. These are my boys, my confidantes, and my drinking buddies. They tolerate me and do their best to understand my broken english and growing french. They also let me sit with them at Lunch.
Research - a long overdue project that began in San Francisco, CA. My Research study started as "Top 10 places to drink by yourself in SF." Well seeing as how I moved before my research could be completed, this developmental article has carried itself overseas and requires a lot more attention/ research. In other words, Research=Drinking.
Maddy - Madeleine. Arrondissment 1/2. This is the Ritzy, well-to-do area I currently reside in. Of course, I hate it. Too many tourists, a Starbucks, and not enough trouble.
FN - French Nazi, (see also Celine) French Instructor
Home - Not my actual residence, but where I will spend the majority of my time. The people who share this home with me can be called Bartenders and fellow Bar Patrons.
I'm Weak at a Glance
I mean, Week at a Glance!
(*Denotes to check Glossary of Terms for definition)
Wednesday 9:15am:
Arrive to office in Levallois and am greeted downstairs by one of the guys on my *Team. He informs me that my new French teacher is here and, "Wow, is she Hot!" I thought this a curious and strange coincidence that she actually was, since I'd had this convo with the boys the week prior. They were very excited to see who my teacher would be as I think this is a sort of fantasy for French men. Anyway, I make my way upstairs and through reception only to note one man, wait no, one woman, wait, a woman with a mustache, who stops me in my tracks as I walk straight past doing a double-triple take on the character before me. I stop and say hello and she utters something to me in French. She follows me in and then to the conference room we were going to use for the next 3 hours.
The French Nazi (FN), also called Celine, proceeds to utter not one word of Anglais to me for the entire 3 hours! Turns out she does not speak English at all actually.
We get by like this:
* FN says: "tu travaille in Levallois?"
I shake my head like I have no idea what she is asking me. FN mimes typing on a keyboard, gestures at my office behind her and pretends to drink a coffee etc...
I say "oh work!" to myself then I say back to her what she just said to me, but substituting "je" for "tu" as in "Je travaille et Lavallois."
And we go on like this for 3 solid hours. Yes I'm going to learn quick and yes I am going to be an alcoholic by the time I learn French. Our lesson ended at 12:30pm and never before have I needed a cigg and a cocktail so badly during office hours.
Thursday AM:
The Metro workers go on strike! WooHoo! What this means my friends is that because yours truly works outside of Paris in Levallois Perret, there is no feasible way for me to get to work. Too far to walk, dont own a bike or a car and apparently finding a taxi would be out of the question. So I play the incompetent card and this American "works from home" in *Maddy. Plenty of time to download songs to my itouch and conclude Research findings.
Have I mentioned how much I love Paris?
Friday pm:
The strike is only half over so in honour of my hard working, blue collar citizens, I decide today is the day I try to find Mexican food in Paris. I was determined to have Mexican food, not for a selfish craving but to represent those Union workers in America. Thanks to a colleague I was sent directly to an upscale mexican place in Saint Germain- do not stop, do not collect $200, just get your ass to Mexican. Friday night can be summed up by paying hommage to "Deadly Margaritas" and again the poor decision to go to Bar Hemingway after I'm hammered. What is it about me wanting to go to the Ritz Carlton after putting on my drinking cap? Bar Hammeredway?
Saturday AM: Sleep
Saturday PM-Sunday PM:
This is what we'd call a date with destiny. I decided to head over to Oberkampf, (my potential new neighborhood beginning Nov 1). I wanted to check the place out and see if I felt a fit. I did. I absolutely love it! So as I begin my foray into the Weekend Research edition, I walk aimlessly up and down the streets. Noting all the shops, cafes, bars and restos. I finally land in the quintessential spot-- A big screen TV so I could watch the loathful Final World Cup Rugby game, 2 cute bartenders, a few available tables, and 1 prime seat left at the silver bar we'll call *Home. Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make...Fernet has a new competitor...
It's herbal, it's clear, and I forget the name, but holy mother, its delicious. If I find my way back home, I'll be sure to let you all you know. Anyhoo, drinks turned into more drinks which ultimately turned into complete nonsense and finally I found my way back to Maddy sometime on Sunday afternoon. Had high hopes for a nice lunch in the sun, but ended up buying a baquette and some cheese and a bottle of wine and curled up with myself in my bosch and laquered apartment.
Will get back to you with details as it's only Monday and usually it takes a few days for the "pieces of me" (as Ashley Simpson would say) to unfold.
Tre Ducca!
(*Denotes to check Glossary of Terms for definition)
Wednesday 9:15am:
Arrive to office in Levallois and am greeted downstairs by one of the guys on my *Team. He informs me that my new French teacher is here and, "Wow, is she Hot!" I thought this a curious and strange coincidence that she actually was, since I'd had this convo with the boys the week prior. They were very excited to see who my teacher would be as I think this is a sort of fantasy for French men. Anyway, I make my way upstairs and through reception only to note one man, wait no, one woman, wait, a woman with a mustache, who stops me in my tracks as I walk straight past doing a double-triple take on the character before me. I stop and say hello and she utters something to me in French. She follows me in and then to the conference room we were going to use for the next 3 hours.
The French Nazi (FN), also called Celine, proceeds to utter not one word of Anglais to me for the entire 3 hours! Turns out she does not speak English at all actually.
We get by like this:
* FN says: "tu travaille in Levallois?"
I shake my head like I have no idea what she is asking me. FN mimes typing on a keyboard, gestures at my office behind her and pretends to drink a coffee etc...
I say "oh work!" to myself then I say back to her what she just said to me, but substituting "je" for "tu" as in "Je travaille et Lavallois."
And we go on like this for 3 solid hours. Yes I'm going to learn quick and yes I am going to be an alcoholic by the time I learn French. Our lesson ended at 12:30pm and never before have I needed a cigg and a cocktail so badly during office hours.
Thursday AM:
The Metro workers go on strike! WooHoo! What this means my friends is that because yours truly works outside of Paris in Levallois Perret, there is no feasible way for me to get to work. Too far to walk, dont own a bike or a car and apparently finding a taxi would be out of the question. So I play the incompetent card and this American "works from home" in *Maddy. Plenty of time to download songs to my itouch and conclude Research findings.
Have I mentioned how much I love Paris?
Friday pm:
The strike is only half over so in honour of my hard working, blue collar citizens, I decide today is the day I try to find Mexican food in Paris. I was determined to have Mexican food, not for a selfish craving but to represent those Union workers in America. Thanks to a colleague I was sent directly to an upscale mexican place in Saint Germain- do not stop, do not collect $200, just get your ass to Mexican. Friday night can be summed up by paying hommage to "Deadly Margaritas" and again the poor decision to go to Bar Hemingway after I'm hammered. What is it about me wanting to go to the Ritz Carlton after putting on my drinking cap? Bar Hammeredway?
Saturday AM: Sleep
Saturday PM-Sunday PM:
This is what we'd call a date with destiny. I decided to head over to Oberkampf, (my potential new neighborhood beginning Nov 1). I wanted to check the place out and see if I felt a fit. I did. I absolutely love it! So as I begin my foray into the Weekend Research edition, I walk aimlessly up and down the streets. Noting all the shops, cafes, bars and restos. I finally land in the quintessential spot-- A big screen TV so I could watch the loathful Final World Cup Rugby game, 2 cute bartenders, a few available tables, and 1 prime seat left at the silver bar we'll call *Home. Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make...Fernet has a new competitor...
It's herbal, it's clear, and I forget the name, but holy mother, its delicious. If I find my way back home, I'll be sure to let you all you know. Anyhoo, drinks turned into more drinks which ultimately turned into complete nonsense and finally I found my way back to Maddy sometime on Sunday afternoon. Had high hopes for a nice lunch in the sun, but ended up buying a baquette and some cheese and a bottle of wine and curled up with myself in my bosch and laquered apartment.
Will get back to you with details as it's only Monday and usually it takes a few days for the "pieces of me" (as Ashley Simpson would say) to unfold.
Tre Ducca!
October 19, 2007
James Bond and Pinky
I've been a little distraught lately over an internal debate I've been having with myself. I even went as far as to seek advice from friends and pose my question on Facebook. The answers were varied, and although quite helpful, I'm still at an impass here.
I mean, on one hand, Arthur "the Fonz"Fonzarelli is so unabashedly cool, while James Bond, given all variations and my personal favorite, yes Roger Moore, has the style and wit any man could ever hope for- how do you choose- Bond or Fonz??
So here's how it began. Not with the Fonz living above Mr. and Mrs. C's garage scoring chicks, or with Roger Moore chasing after the Faberge egg in Cairo, but me with my brand new little baby--my ipod itouch.
My sparkly new itouch needed a name. In fact, both my computer and itunes were demanding a title for my new treasure and I was not prepared at all for this request.
Its black and silver. debonaire. shiny. the epitome of first-class cool and the envy of all those with Hands and Fingers. The companion to my new accessoire' is my hot pink ipod nano. She is a beaute as well. Also top of her game, feminine, unique to me, and so appropritaely named "Pinky Tescadero." She is tip-top.
As you can see, my first instinct would of course be to name my new itouche' "the Fonz." But would I be pigeon-holing myself into a genre that in general I wasnt that crazy about to begin with? And how do I know James and Bond and Pinky Tescadero would even get along? They'd have to share the same speaker set at home, but they are worlds apart. Pinky is from the wrong side of the tracks, and well James... he's sort of a loose canon, a wild card. Totally unpredictable and maybe a little too up-class for Pinky. (Although, I'm sure once dolled up, she could pass for a high class hooker in the Bond world.) And now that I think about it, "Pinky" would be kind of a cool name for a Bond girl. But would it be fair to either of them to force this duo, or could I be creating something so magical that Jerry Bruckheimer will try to buy the rights of this scorching couple from me?
And then what about the Fonz? Other than Pinkie, Joanie and Mrs.C there's not much else left for him. But you know what?
Screw the Fonz! What's he ever done for me?
hE'S a fake and a phony and at least James Bond never pretended to be something or someone he's not. OK, scratch that last part, but I might be on to something here.
I mean, on one hand, Arthur "the Fonz"Fonzarelli is so unabashedly cool, while James Bond, given all variations and my personal favorite, yes Roger Moore, has the style and wit any man could ever hope for- how do you choose- Bond or Fonz??
So here's how it began. Not with the Fonz living above Mr. and Mrs. C's garage scoring chicks, or with Roger Moore chasing after the Faberge egg in Cairo, but me with my brand new little baby--my ipod itouch.
My sparkly new itouch needed a name. In fact, both my computer and itunes were demanding a title for my new treasure and I was not prepared at all for this request.
Its black and silver. debonaire. shiny. the epitome of first-class cool and the envy of all those with Hands and Fingers. The companion to my new accessoire' is my hot pink ipod nano. She is a beaute as well. Also top of her game, feminine, unique to me, and so appropritaely named "Pinky Tescadero." She is tip-top.
As you can see, my first instinct would of course be to name my new itouche' "the Fonz." But would I be pigeon-holing myself into a genre that in general I wasnt that crazy about to begin with? And how do I know James and Bond and Pinky Tescadero would even get along? They'd have to share the same speaker set at home, but they are worlds apart. Pinky is from the wrong side of the tracks, and well James... he's sort of a loose canon, a wild card. Totally unpredictable and maybe a little too up-class for Pinky. (Although, I'm sure once dolled up, she could pass for a high class hooker in the Bond world.) And now that I think about it, "Pinky" would be kind of a cool name for a Bond girl. But would it be fair to either of them to force this duo, or could I be creating something so magical that Jerry Bruckheimer will try to buy the rights of this scorching couple from me?
And then what about the Fonz? Other than Pinkie, Joanie and Mrs.C there's not much else left for him. But you know what?
Screw the Fonz! What's he ever done for me?
hE'S a fake and a phony and at least James Bond never pretended to be something or someone he's not. OK, scratch that last part, but I might be on to something here.
Introducing the new Bond girl... Pinky Tescadero
and James Bond 007(8g) starring in...
ITOUCHE'
October 16, 2007
The Keytar
On Sunday, I went to the Bastille. Some notes from my afternoon lunch...
I am at Cafe Bastille. It's warm, lively and the sun is shining very bright. Front row to all the action- Young, french hippies crowd the metro exit offering Free Hugs. An elderly gentlemen graces us with his presence and plays his acordion to the tune of the Wizard of Oz . I gave him .50E and told him it would have been 10E had he been playing the "Keytar."
My latest favorite thing in the instrument category.
The keytar was quite close to becoming wildly popular in the 80's (i'm sure of it). This half guitar, half keyboard piece of magic has actually made its comeback posing as a childs toy in bright friendly colors and now includes an on/off button. Regardless of its origin, purpose or where its fame really came from, I cant really think of anything sexier than old guy playing "The Wiz" on the keytar in the Bastille.
Trust me.
I am at Cafe Bastille. It's warm, lively and the sun is shining very bright. Front row to all the action- Young, french hippies crowd the metro exit offering Free Hugs. An elderly gentlemen graces us with his presence and plays his acordion to the tune of the Wizard of Oz . I gave him .50E and told him it would have been 10E had he been playing the "Keytar."
My latest favorite thing in the instrument category.
The keytar was quite close to becoming wildly popular in the 80's (i'm sure of it). This half guitar, half keyboard piece of magic has actually made its comeback posing as a childs toy in bright friendly colors and now includes an on/off button. Regardless of its origin, purpose or where its fame really came from, I cant really think of anything sexier than old guy playing "The Wiz" on the keytar in the Bastille.
Trust me.
October 15, 2007
Bar Hemisphere
Also known soberly as Bar Hemingway.
A Paris tradition with fame, glory, a snuggled spot in the Ritz and a recco from my dearest, Steven. Unfortunately, the Bar Hemi was my chosen location for the Wake, after France died to England in Rugby on Saturday night. I'm pretty sure things went down like this...
I remember going IN, uttering something charming I'm sure, to the Bartender, Colin. (Yes S.O. I found him!) Ordered a Fernet with a Gingey back and it's here that my tale takes an ususual twist. Lets go back a few hours...
I'm in Saint Germain enjoying research and the comraderie that surrounds Les Bleus. I was gently tossing back red wine, voddy tons, and well yes Beer in a large plastic cup. All the bars in Saint Germain were so incredibly packed [Picture: Rbar on Saturday night at 1am and the bartenders DO NOT KOW YOU] that we had no choice but to order drinks by the four-some.The voddy-ton double fist action lasted about 8 rounds-ish.I think. I digress.
France loses. Silence and tears fall over Paris. All of a sudden I hate Rugby.
So it's off toBar Hemingway I go to drown my sorrows. I take a seat at the bar and order my fernet and gingey. One thing to note:The French Do NOT drink Fernet as a shot. It's an actual drink that they serve up, relatively warm and equates to about 2-3 shots per glass/drink.
This my friends, is where your champion lays to rest at what has become her own wake. This rule of "drink" vs. "shot" had long been forgotten and I hastily throw back my old friend, Fern.
I put the glass down and immediately feel my saliva glands go into double time and that look one gets knowing they made a poor drinking decision slowly crept up to my face. Sadly, this was not the only creeping of the night. (No, the man in shiny peugeot did not appear.) Rather the nights intoxicants suddenly had something to say to me and needed to say it now!
I throw 20E on the bar, do not make niceties with Colin on the way out, and I get the hell out of Bar Hemi ASAP! (My first Real French Exit!)
Well low and behold, magic and geographic karma were on my side, b/c it turns out the Bar Hemi is literally less than 50 yards from my apartment. (This is a front door/back door discovery I'd just made). So I stumble in, pass my stupid doorman, my hand is over my mouth (just like Britney lip-synching at the 2007 VMA's), and I run upstairs (ok, speed walk) to my apartment. Open the door and just making it to my upscale marble, my second french exit of the night. God, I hate Rugby.
Finally I rest in Peace. France and I together.
I knew it was meant to be.
A Paris tradition with fame, glory, a snuggled spot in the Ritz and a recco from my dearest, Steven. Unfortunately, the Bar Hemi was my chosen location for the Wake, after France died to England in Rugby on Saturday night. I'm pretty sure things went down like this...
I remember going IN, uttering something charming I'm sure, to the Bartender, Colin. (Yes S.O. I found him!) Ordered a Fernet with a Gingey back and it's here that my tale takes an ususual twist. Lets go back a few hours...
I'm in Saint Germain enjoying research and the comraderie that surrounds Les Bleus. I was gently tossing back red wine, voddy tons, and well yes Beer in a large plastic cup. All the bars in Saint Germain were so incredibly packed [Picture: Rbar on Saturday night at 1am and the bartenders DO NOT KOW YOU] that we had no choice but to order drinks by the four-some.The voddy-ton double fist action lasted about 8 rounds-ish.I think. I digress.
France loses. Silence and tears fall over Paris. All of a sudden I hate Rugby.
So it's off toBar Hemingway I go to drown my sorrows. I take a seat at the bar and order my fernet and gingey. One thing to note:The French Do NOT drink Fernet as a shot. It's an actual drink that they serve up, relatively warm and equates to about 2-3 shots per glass/drink.
This my friends, is where your champion lays to rest at what has become her own wake. This rule of "drink" vs. "shot" had long been forgotten and I hastily throw back my old friend, Fern.
I put the glass down and immediately feel my saliva glands go into double time and that look one gets knowing they made a poor drinking decision slowly crept up to my face. Sadly, this was not the only creeping of the night. (No, the man in shiny peugeot did not appear.) Rather the nights intoxicants suddenly had something to say to me and needed to say it now!
I throw 20E on the bar, do not make niceties with Colin on the way out, and I get the hell out of Bar Hemi ASAP! (My first Real French Exit!)
Well low and behold, magic and geographic karma were on my side, b/c it turns out the Bar Hemi is literally less than 50 yards from my apartment. (This is a front door/back door discovery I'd just made). So I stumble in, pass my stupid doorman, my hand is over my mouth (just like Britney lip-synching at the 2007 VMA's), and I run upstairs (ok, speed walk) to my apartment. Open the door and just making it to my upscale marble, my second french exit of the night. God, I hate Rugby.
Finally I rest in Peace. France and I together.
I knew it was meant to be.
October 11, 2007
The Grass is always Greener...
But One thing is for sure-- freshly cut grass smells the same in Paris as it does in America.
I was walking to work this morning, hungover and in a french fog. My broken english is getting worse yet I still dont know French. I exit the station at front of train and wonder up the escalator and then down the street to my new office in Levallois-Perret. Levallois is much like Reno-- only there is no gambling and the people and fashion are more sophisticated, and the cuisine is...Let me back up. Levallois is like Reno in only one way-- it's "the biggest little city." Levallois has been a town for only 14 years and my how its grown. Its modern, clean, totally random and I guess sort of like South Beach in SOMA. You are intrigued by it,yet totally annoyed that it even exists. This is how I feel about Levallois.
This is also how I feel about having to work today. That said, the grass did smell nice this morning and you just cant replace those nostalgic memories, especially when they sneak right up on you.:)
Tomorrow is Friday and then I'm Levallois-Free for 2 days. I need to rest up. My men are playing Rugby on Saturday, and I need to practice mouthing the words to the french anthem song that everyone but yours truly knows.
I know what you're thinking... first I go to Paris and pick up an outrageous affinity for Rugby. Last night I get picked up (literally) by an unknown French man in a shiny Peugeot, and now i'm more than OK practicing a lipsynch for a song I dont even know the words to.
So I ask, who is coming for the first visit? You guys better make it soon-- the office band tryouts are next week and I'm considering entering my famous "one-arm air drum' routine.
I was walking to work this morning, hungover and in a french fog. My broken english is getting worse yet I still dont know French. I exit the station at front of train and wonder up the escalator and then down the street to my new office in Levallois-Perret. Levallois is much like Reno-- only there is no gambling and the people and fashion are more sophisticated, and the cuisine is...Let me back up. Levallois is like Reno in only one way-- it's "the biggest little city." Levallois has been a town for only 14 years and my how its grown. Its modern, clean, totally random and I guess sort of like South Beach in SOMA. You are intrigued by it,yet totally annoyed that it even exists. This is how I feel about Levallois.
This is also how I feel about having to work today. That said, the grass did smell nice this morning and you just cant replace those nostalgic memories, especially when they sneak right up on you.:)
Tomorrow is Friday and then I'm Levallois-Free for 2 days. I need to rest up. My men are playing Rugby on Saturday, and I need to practice mouthing the words to the french anthem song that everyone but yours truly knows.
I know what you're thinking... first I go to Paris and pick up an outrageous affinity for Rugby. Last night I get picked up (literally) by an unknown French man in a shiny Peugeot, and now i'm more than OK practicing a lipsynch for a song I dont even know the words to.
So I ask, who is coming for the first visit? You guys better make it soon-- the office band tryouts are next week and I'm considering entering my famous "one-arm air drum' routine.
Le Pouf and Le Doorman
I will be moving out of my apartment at the end of the month. I love it. Its cute and very nice,but its so friggin small its giving me anxiety. I can t even really unpack b/c there isnt enough space for my baggage and clothes. Not even HALF! so... i shall talk to the french director about that remedy tomorrow. moving onward and upward!
But more so than the space...is the fact that my doorman/concierge does not speak English- at all! and even with my vast knowledge of french, eh hem, our relationship is nil.Who can I talk to when I stumble home, if not my door guy? thats not what I waited this long to have a doorman be to me!! He needs to be my rock. My pillow. My cutting board and my muse and confidant to which i can tell anything, and he can see anything... but No. he is none of that. I even gave up on Bonjour with him. I now just say "Hi" and secretly cry inside.
Last week when I blew a power fuse and had to go down for help barefoot and in a robe at 2pm, he didnt even laugh at me. he stared at me until I showed him my dazzling jazz hands and went "pouf" and then held up hands one, then zero then seven on my fingers. "poof, poof, le poof" while kicking and hand jazzing and sure enough, the international language worked! he was at my door (#107) ready to flip switches in 5 minutes flat.
That my friends is what we call French with English Subtitles.
But more so than the space...is the fact that my doorman/concierge does not speak English- at all! and even with my vast knowledge of french, eh hem, our relationship is nil.Who can I talk to when I stumble home, if not my door guy? thats not what I waited this long to have a doorman be to me!! He needs to be my rock. My pillow. My cutting board and my muse and confidant to which i can tell anything, and he can see anything... but No. he is none of that. I even gave up on Bonjour with him. I now just say "Hi" and secretly cry inside.
Last week when I blew a power fuse and had to go down for help barefoot and in a robe at 2pm, he didnt even laugh at me. he stared at me until I showed him my dazzling jazz hands and went "pouf" and then held up hands one, then zero then seven on my fingers. "poof, poof, le poof" while kicking and hand jazzing and sure enough, the international language worked! he was at my door (#107) ready to flip switches in 5 minutes flat.
That my friends is what we call French with English Subtitles.
Game on!
So... Last night I was in a bar, drinking heavily by myself (Research) well not by myself but with about 70 others. We were apparently watching a sports game called Rugby. Once I figured out there was a game on, and much to my pleasant surprise, a game with big, sweaty, oafy, for the most part quite goodlooking men tumbling all over each other, I was in! (But also left wondering wht we dont popularize this game in America?) It's fan-fucking-tastic! I love it!
Everyone in the bar was hooting and cheering and singing, and not in a marina way, but in a really patriotic, commraderie sort of way. Men and women both, just couldnt get enough. And since we won, (by we, I mean France) people went crazy! The streets were filled and singing lasted well into the night. oh boy I cant wait for the finals! I think its oct 20. in Paris. Not sure as Im just getting into this whole thing, but wow, good times!
Anyway, Gotta run- need to practice my choreography for my dance routine that will accompany my lip synching of that french anthem they sing!
Everyone in the bar was hooting and cheering and singing, and not in a marina way, but in a really patriotic, commraderie sort of way. Men and women both, just couldnt get enough. And since we won, (by we, I mean France) people went crazy! The streets were filled and singing lasted well into the night. oh boy I cant wait for the finals! I think its oct 20. in Paris. Not sure as Im just getting into this whole thing, but wow, good times!
Anyway, Gotta run- need to practice my choreography for my dance routine that will accompany my lip synching of that french anthem they sing!
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