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.
October 28, 2007
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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