de bon coeur

“People in Paris...they’re just mean,” says Jesse between bites of panini. We’re sitting against a bank of the Seine near Ile Saint-Louis. The sun is slowly sliding down behind the wall of Haussmanian apartments in the background, and it’s getting a bit colder out. “I mean, what did I ever do to them?” A month into her stay here, she is already defeated. I know how she feels. Being a veteran of this city for nine months (yeah I know, big whoop), it can be hard for me to not interject “I know how you feel but....” or “When I first got here....” into every conversation. So I just nod and bite into my own delicious food. Then I realize that maybe the reason I’m staying silent is because I can’t give her much encouragement.

French people-no, I don’t have the authority to make such a generalization-Parisian people have this way about them that can make a person feel, well, stupid. It can be exhausting, treading carefully when ordering food, when asking for help, when doing anything, trying to remember what you’ve done wrong this time, what terrible faux pas you’ve commited in their presence, and howdareyou? Yes, we will speak English for you stupid tourist but you will regret ever stepping foot into this business! I have to say, I miss always being right as a consumer in America. It’s been a long time since anybody has responded to me in English, and that makes me so proud. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t still battles. Tonight’s discussion with my boss, for instance. Picture me, timid, all of 63 inches asking my amazonian-former-Chanel-supermodel-owns-an-original-Picasso-drawing boss for this coming weekend off. Not pretty. After a b-a-d fucking weekend, my poor wimpy little self just couldn’t handle her backlash tonight. Everything she said pushed me further and further into a corner of submission, Yes, ok, no, it’s fine, yeah, of course, I understand, yep, sure. And when I stepped into the elevator outside of my apartment, a giant lump in my throat and my eyes watering, I felt like a big, fucking idiot. Why can’t I get what I want? Why can’t I stand up for myself? Mom, why did you not give me that gene? Can I have it now, please?

When I got out into the street, I decided I needed two things to calm down: a cigarette and a phone call to my mother. I had no way of getting either of these things (out of smokes, out of phone minutes) as it was 9:40 p.m. In France. I thought it was worth a shot to go to the tabac anyway, despite the fact it closes at 9 and I know that, but either way, I needed the walk. I got there, and the lights were still on, the owners were standing inside counting money and enjoying a beer after work. I pulled on the door and gave a sad look to the man inside. He came to open the door and I crossed my arms, bracing myself for his inevitable lecture on closing time, rude glare, muttering, etc. He knows who I am and he knows I am American because of the way I refuse to put a French accent on the word “camel” every single time I buy a pack.
The man smiled warmly.
“Vous êtes...fermé?” Half a question, half a resignation.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter.
“Allez-y, Mademoiselle! Pour vous, on est toujours ouvert.”

When I turned to leave, the tears I’d been trying to hold back still flowed down my face, but I was smiling, too.


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note: in case a family member or person who likes to lecture me about smoking is reading this, i don't REALLY smoke, i just like to add little touches about cigarettes because it makes me sound cooler. really!

also, it means: come in miss. for you, we are always open.

“I have no idea how people function without near-constant internal chaos. I’d lose my mind.”

A perfect day today. A perfect train ride through the perfectly beautiful French countryside with my perfect friends to the beautiful Chartres where we spend a perfect Sunday. Walking idly through the empty town, stopping to peer into quaint store windows. Sandwiches and beers and cigarettes on the grass behind the magnificent, astounding cathedral, laying under the sun, laughing, talking, nothing. Ida and I want to stay out sleeping under the perfect sky, Steve and the rest want to go look in the church. “This is what Sundays are for,” I say, my eyes still shut, my face warm. “Yes,” says Steve. “Sundays are for going to church, right, so let’s go?” I pause, consider, turn, lift my sunglasses. “Nature is my church,” and Ida laughs and I laugh and we say “it’s true” and don’t move. Somebody has released thousands and thousands of tiny strips of perfect white paper over the wall and onto the grass where we lay and the float over us, the wind carrying them perfectly. Finally we get up and walk into the building itself. I’m speechless. It doesn’t almost make me want to be religious but it maybe almost makes me want to be something.
And afterwards, somebody suggests drinks, and we find the most perfect cozy café and sit in a corner and sing along to A-ha and drink our perfectly cheap, delicious French beer. Finally it’s getting late, we want cigarettes and a train, so we find both, and we are back zooming through the fields and the most perfect sunset, all of us half-asleep on each other’s shoulders. Occasionally remarking on nothing or something, to nobody or to somebody, it doesn’t matter, every word hangs perfectly in the air in our little compartment, taking us back to the most perfect city in the world.

I will pay the price for all of this perfection though, another week of métro/boulot/dodo repeat repeat repeat repeat. Mornings have become my only time, a few small minutes to sip Earl Grey and perhaps even read before I’m out the door, on the train, at school, between classes, classes, classes, train, at work, and finally stumble home into my bed. Constanty turned on at full speed, my brain is working, working, working. Planning, planning planning. Calling, texting about these tickets to London, or those tickets to Belgium, or Blonde Redhead, or the bar tonight or the café tomorrow or whatever it is I’m trying to squeeze in to my airtight schedule. Constantly shuffling through my agenda, hastily flipping through the pages, momentarily heartbroken when it lands on a date after December, because in December it will be over and everything will be different and Paris won’t be mine anymore.

a pain au chocolat a day keeps the boyfriends away

Just kidding. I don't eat a pain au chocolat a day. But I think I should start. Life's too short not too, right? As it happens, this morning I was reading an article* which listed and described the "10 best pains au chocolat in Paris." In all honesty, there was a brief moment where I thought to myself, "Well, I've got nothing to do today..." but I forced myself** to stay home and do my work instead. Ah well. Maybe the tour du chocolat is best carried out over a long stretch of time rather than an afternoon.

For those of you who, upon reading my last entry, thought maybe I had actually fallen in love with somebody who loved me back and was in a healthy relationship or something, I'm sorry to say that is not the case. Every few weeks or so I will have an encounter with a very attractive man (this time it was a student who was in charge of helping us foreigners figure our school business out) and then convince myself that I am destined to be with this person forever. Besides this, I picked up a habit from Clara and Lucas of declaring I'm "in love with" anybody I might have the smallest crush on***. I think it is a result of trying to translate the word "amoureux" into english. Or maybe it is a result of me being silly and dramatic. And Parisien men being too goddamned attractive. Who will ever know?

Finally, I just want to give a small word of advice- never, ever try to purchase (transatlantic) plane tickets while intoxicated. I realize that for most people this is probably a given, but if you ever find yourself on the verge of doing it, know that you WILL drop your computer (although in my defense that less to do with my being inebriated and more to do with my having to sit on the microwave for internet), and you WILL make stupid decisions ("maybe being home for thanksgiving would be more important than finishing out the semester" ), but luckily you WILL get tired while expedia is loading and eventually give up.

*I can't pretend I innocently stumbled upon this article. google search: best patisseries in paris, et voila.
**sloth 1, gluttony 0
***I cringe when I end sentences with prepositions. Just in case anybody noticed that.

ah-mu-reeeeuse

I'm in love. Maybe?