Amber the Pooh

Although adorable, lovable and sweet, Winnie the Pooh is famously known for his frustrating forgetfulness.  Last night I had two embarrassing Winnie the Pooh moments that involved riding a bike and my bank card.

Since it’s been quite a while since we’ve seen D.J.’s Connected Friend, yesterday evening we bundled up and traversed Paris for an intimate dinner party at Connected Friend’s beautiful Montmartre apartment.  As usual, the meal was wonderful, conversation was lively, and wine was pleeeentiful.  Side note: dinner parties and impromptu coffee dates with D.J.’s French friends are becoming increasingly more enjoyable as my French improves.  Grossly abbreviated English translations are no longer needed (although at one point during the evening a guest pulled up an apparently hi-larious Sponge Bob Squarepants parody on YouTube in what amounted to “ghetto French” that had everyone – except me – literally crying with laughter.  I was provided a one-liner translation of about 10 minutes of video: “They [Patrick the Starfish and Spongebob] are selling shit…” I wonder if one day I’ll be able to understand the Parisian equivalent of Ebonics).

Anyway, we caught the very last metro home at about 1:45 am, arriving at the Mairie d’Issy station at 2:20 am.  Surprisingly, public transportation in Paris stops at about 2 am, leaving us with a slight dilemma; D.J.’s new condo is a short bus ride (and long walk) from the metro station.  Unless he’s totally exhausted, D.J. tends to be a little hyper at night and was ready to make the hike from the station to our place.  He’s also quite tall and has long legs and walks stupid fast – great for him; not so great for high-heeled Vagabondventures.  Walking home with D.J. in -30 degree weather (possible exaggeration in temperature) was not a nice sounding option.

Like most major European cities (and even a few American ones), Paris has an incredibly practical public bike system.  D.J., in his best attempt to accommodate me (read: keep me from whining about walking home in the freezing cold), proposed riding bikes.  Great! Bikes are much faster than walking.  It costs, like, one Euro to rent a bike for 30 minutes but you have to use a bank card.  D.J. whipped out his bank card, pushed a few buttons on the bike kiosk screen and grabbed his bike.  (Before I write this next statement, please remember how quickly…or slowly…my mind works when I’m both tired and cold.) I mimicked D.J., pushing buttons and following electronic prompts until it came time to insert my bank card.  Just like D.J., I whipped my card out of my wallet and shoved it into the machine, after which I immediately forgot my pin code.  I stared blankly at the screen for a few good, long seconds before D.J. asked me what the problem was.  He was already holding his bike, ready to mount and peddle off towards home.  I keyed in what I thought was my pin code only to receive a “code faux” message.  I tried once more, changing the order of the numbers slightly.  “Code faux.”   Before I could make a third attempt, D.J. stopped me by reminding me that the third strike locks me out of my bank account. D’oh!

After floundering around for a few minutes, apologizing to D.J., and cursing myself for somehow forgetting the stupid pin code I use every SINGLE day, I was prepared to make the miserable hike home. The clever Parisian he is, D.J. grabbed my public transport card from me, took out his own bank card again, and somehow managed to rent himself two bikes.  Yay!

Elated, D.J. handed me my bike, jumped on his, and started peddling off.  Ever since D.J. mentioned the “riding bikes” option, I had been silently trying to remind myself what it felt like to ride a bike.  It’s been 10+ years since I even thought about riding a bike.  Wanting to stay close to D.J., I also jumped on my bike and started going.  However, not actually remembering how to ride a bike quickly put a stop to that.  It only took about five seconds for me to realize that I didn’t quiiiite remember what riding a bike was like. Well, it was more the braking that I didn’t remember how to do.  After I nearly smashed myself into a parked car, I leaped clear off the bike because I forgot how to use the stupid hand brake.  D.J. was ahead of me but had stopped riding and was watching me with a look of complete disbelief on his face.

After a quick verbal lesson from D.J., we were off and riding.  I made sure to stay well behind him so he couldn’t see my swerves and shakes.  At some point, I had wanted to roll my coat sleeves down and took just one hand off the handlebars to do so…disasterous. Screams were involved.

Despite it all, I arrived in one piece.  And I even had fun! I forgot how much fun riding a bike is.  Maybe I’ll do it again soon.  Maybe not.  This morning when I went out to buy croissantes for breakfast (I’m so French now, pssssssshhhh), I wrote my pincode on my hand.  Turns out I had all the correct numbers but the order was all kinds ‘a messed up.  Ah well.  Another week in Paris-dise.

Peace out!

OMG I skipped class!

This is big!

D.J. just called to see if I wanted to meet up in Montparnasse after I got out of class. Since I took a long afternoon nap instead of going to class today, I totally panicked and spit out what amounted to a five-year-old’s guilty explanation of why I was still at home.  Think stuttering, rapid speech, inability to use big words or string coherent sentences together. Although it was a completely instinctual response, I surprised even myself at how childish I sounded.  It was one of those instances when you spit out the absolute first thing that pops into your head, take the time to actually hear what you’ve said after you say it, and then mouth, “what the hell…???” to yourself. As grown as I am, I sounded like I was talking to my daddy.

I am interpreting that little episode to mean that I just felt so guilty about taking an unscheduled day off of school that I reverted to my grade-school alter ego, which, in the end, may not be so “alter.” I may just be a slightly melodramatic school girl at heart.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I might just be one giant cornball.  I’ve been called variations of that for as long as I can remember…

My sister used to make fun of me for my once-termed ‘OCD’ cleaning habits and illogical obsessions with order. My college friends routinely and mercilessly joked about my habitual use of terms like, “holy moly” and “oh my goodness” (who knew 1960’s nomenclature isn’t considered “cool” at a black school?!). My former co-workers in Lanham used to mock me for my preoccupation with getting to work 10 minutes early and compulsion to tell on myself.

Thankfully, I’ve managed to maintain enough of a language barrier between myself and pretty much everyone else in France that I have been mistaken for cooooool in some circles (until I learn French well enough to prove them all wrong). A few wry Americans in my class and at work have caught on, however, and have picked up the friendly taunting right where others left off.

I cannot fight it. “Corny” is written all over my DNA. But as time marches on, things that were once considered ‘cool’ eventually become less so (Starbuck’s, Hummer trucks, hightops, professional wrestling, TMNT, and the list goes on…) and vice versa.

Ipso facto I’m totally cool.

Pretty Wings!

Although it is only early Sunday afternoon, I think I’m gonna go ahead and call this weekend a bust. It’s a shame too since we had been so looking forward to a relaxing Saturday and Sunday.  Between catching a cold, a visiting friend, work, school, and all other Monday-to-Friday crap, D.J. and I had more or less been two ships passing in the night since last Sunday.  We did manage to have one evening together late this week until a phone call from his job left us scrambling to get from the sushi restaurant to the apartment so he could fix whatever computer issue was going down in the office.

Yesterday morning, while I trotted off to work for two hours, poor D.J. started what he thought would be a relatively short workday.  12 hours+ later, he was still sitting in front of the computer.  Lucky me, I managed to escape from the apartment for a solo afternoon of wandering around St. Michele.  I stopped in a kebab restaurant for a hit of my new favorite fast food addiction and had a nice chat with the Iranian owner.  Then, I headed down the block to the Institut du Monde Arabe for the first time.  Not only is the building a piece of art, the museum was also pretty decent.  It takes me quite a bit longer to sift through museums when all the signs and diagrams are in French.  The only way I can really, really understand French is to read out loud still.  I look like an illiterate ignoramus on the metro (or anytime I’m in the company of French people, for that matter…) because, in addition to having to hold the newspaper two inches from my eyes (I hate wearing my glasses), I have to speak what I’m reading loud enough to hear myself.  I get a lotta looks. All that to say that it took me such a long time to get through the four floors of artifacts and multimedia presentations that the museum closed before I could finish.  I’ll have to budget an entire day the next time ’round.

Sleep-deprived D.J., who seems to now be more than a little pissed with a colleague or two, is back at it this morning.  My attempt at wandering a second day in a row was relatively brief as I forget that everything in this entire country is closed on Sunday (that wasn’t annoyance you read in my voice; it was merely an observation).  I left about noon, did a tour of Issy les Moulineaux, and was walking back through the front door again by 12:35pm. Despite the loss of a decent-weather weekend, it’s all good because………..

MAXWELL IS COMING!!!!!!

Miami informed me that Maxwell will be live and in concert in Paris November 3!! I almost screamed in McDonald’s when he told me.  As much as I am learning to thoroughly enjoy my new city of residence, I could sure do with a hard shot of Maxwell to teleport me back to DC circa 2001, even if it’s only for one night.  For me, nobody coaxes young memories of Chocolate City and black college flirtation quite like Maxwell.  Unless the show is somehow sold out by the time I get paid this week, nothing’s gonna keep my starry-eyed self from screeching out-of-tune along with Maxwell to “Pretty Wings,” “Bad Habits,” and the rest of <<Black Summer’s Night>>.

If he throws in an old track like “This Woman’s Work” or “Let’s Not Play the Game” for nostalgia’s sake, I might faint.

I’ve included links to several Maxwell classics for your viewing pleasure.  I know you’ll all enjoy.  Have a great Sunday!  Peace!

I hope I don’t have Swine Flu

And so it begins…

Since Tuesday my body has been courageously fighting off some kind of flu. Despite the clever employment of all known war strategies, I think my body is losing this battle.  All the symptoms are present: body aches, headache, continual nasal drip, yucky fluid-filled lungs, phlegm-y cough, etc…you know the drill.

I doubled up on my intake of orange juice and mega vitamins like I normally do when I feel a cold virus setting up shop in my body, but this time I was told that an overdose of vitamins C, D, E (the entire alphabet) wasn’t going to patch me up. I’ll admit that sometimes I’m a bit dense and instinctively ignore inconvenient problems (you know, the problems that aren’t big enough to make you totally stop what you’re doing until it’s too late. Like taking your computer into Best Buy to have all the viruses removed. Or taking the car to get new oil. Or changing the air filters in the heating ducts.) For the two days that this cold was harboring itself in my chest (fingers crossed that it’s just a cold and not any version of the flu), I kept on doing my work and school thing completely oblivious to the fact that random people around the world are being diagnosed daily with this Swine Flu, some of whom have died.

Now, I know what you’re saying, “Vagabondventures, stop exaggerating the situation. Thousands, if not millions, of people contract the seasonal flu every month and live to tell about it.” – and you’d be right to say that – but I’m a hypochondriac; an imaginative one at that. Mention my name and the word ” illness” in the same sentence to any one of my family members and I can almost guarantee you’ll be met with a healthy eye-roll.

Lovely D.J. has kept me well medicated since yesterday. French medicine tastes disgusting.  It’s not all sugary and watermelon-flavoured like the stuff I take in the states.  The throat spray, losonges, cough drops, and syrups over in France are no doubt designed for efficiency rather than yumminess.  I guess this is the point.

Since I’ve been coughing myself awake every hour during the night (in addition to D.J.’s sing-songy on-call cell phone that regularly sounds between midnight and 4 am), I haven’t been catching many Z’s.  When I used to live in Washington DC, I used to just “medicate” myself with NiteQuil and/or Benadryl when I couldn’t sleep, despite repeated warnings from my younger sister. I’ve since discontinued that habit and adopted caffeine abuse for the reverse effect the following morning.

Thanks to Lovely D.J., I’ve now got an arsenal of flu-fighting, tastebud tourturing pills and liquids that should murder any virus infections within days.  Unless something drastic happens (like I suddenly lose the ability to type thanks to my extremities turning from hands and feet into hooves as a result of Swine Flu!) I will be typing, sleeping, drinking, and poppin’ those pills.

Peace!

Mecredi apres-midi 13H26

Michael Jackson is singing to me in the background. “The Way You Make Me Feel” is definitely on my list of top ten favorite songs ever. One of my English students – the Art Director/Chief Animator for a new Universal Pictures CGI movie that’ll be coming out in a year or two – recently told me that his biggest professional nightmare is staring uninspired at a blank sheet of paper with the knowledge that an entire movie is to revolve around whatever he decides to doodle.  That’s how I’m feeling today as I try to write this blog post.  Obviously Vagabondventures.wordpress.com is as important as a multi-million dollar CGI production from legendary movie house Universal Pictures.

It’s “freezing” in my new apartment.  My definition of “freezing” and D.J.’s differ greatly.  This will have to be sorted out in the coming weeks since the temperature in Paris has recently nosedived into the single digits. Ok, ok, ok…single digits in Celcius. Still… If I resign to paying the entire electricity bill, I guess he can’t say anything when I crank up the heat to “tropical.”

Speaking of paying bills, work has been interesting.  Last week I ran across a memo (in French) to all company employees advising them that unfavorable mention of management and/or the company in any blog or web posting will result in immediate contract termination and a fine. As I’m a bit fuzzy on the wordy French details, I’ll sum up my on-the-clock life by saying that I have enjoyed my students thoroughly and am learning a lot about French culture via conversations with various French adults.

That brings me to a sore spot in my new fabulous French life: French people kinda suck sometimes. Slowly, slowly I’m learning how to read between the lines to decipher Parisian mannerisms and (im)polite behavior. I’ve been told that Europeans in general are not nearly as optimistic about life as Americans are but that’s not something one really cares about unless confronted by that reality on a daily basis.  I’ve spent several hours identifying what exactly confuses me about the French and how I can navigate my way through life here without picking up what I consider to be bad habits. Even though I’ve made a list of the French characteristics I could easily do without, I won’t list them here. Instead, I’ll just say that I’m determined to remain myself whilst in Paris.

A classic example of my misunderstanding French culture: I can be quite gregarious sometimes and I like to talk about things in detail; everything including my day, my trip to the store, how much I miss shopping, what my friend said at lunch that made me laugh uncontrollably, etc…every little mundane occurrence can be turned into a 10-minute story.  Anyway, over the past few weeks I had been growing increasingly more annoyed with D.J. because he would routinely interrupt my stories with complex questions and unnecessary comments. He never let me finish even one sentence without butting in and adding his own commentary or assessment of my story thus far.  The culminating moment came when I literally grabbed his hands mid-question and told him to not say a word until I was finished speaking. He was shocked. The next week, I was in class and my French teacher told us an identical story (in reverse) about how, when speaking to an American several years ago, she became SOOOOO offended when the person failed to become “engaged” in her dramatic story.

“I was telling a very exciting story and the person just looked at me! He didn’t make any sounds or say anything while I was talking.  He waited until the end of the story to comment!!”

Most of the students in the class were visibly confused as to why she was upset that someone would have the decency to wait until she was finished speaking to make comment.  Suddenly, it clicked. While Americans might find it incredibly rude to interrupt someone’s story with a question or comment, most French people display their interest in a topic by being “engaged” (i.e. interrupting with exclamations, remarks, questions, etc…while the story is still being told).  Such a small discovery has made life at my house so much more pleasant now.

Thankfully, I’ve got a whole bunch of non-French co-workers and classmates with whom I can vent about cultural calamities and confusion.  All of my co-workers are either married to or dating a French person, which makes for hi-larious relationship and co-habitation tales. In addition to those folks, one of my classmates who hails from Miami keeps me regularly in stitches with stories of his Paris exploits.  Now, Miami is much more social than I am, and he’s quite the night owl at that, so his stories involve nightclubs, music studios, girls (and their parents), and basketball games; obviously, they’re much more entertaining than mine.  I just re-read all of my posts right in a row…I eat a lot of junk food and lead quite a vanilla existence, don’t I? If I get permission, maybe I’ll tell you all some of Miami’s adventures.

One of my own grand adventures has been the new condo.  Because D.J. bought a unit in a brand new building, there are a few small things that have yet to be installed/finalized.  For example, we don’t have a kitchen. This is alright for the time being since we are both out at work and school until relatively late and don’t have much time to cook anyway.  However, this has resulted in near-weekly trips out of the city to Ikea-land.  I looooove Ikea but I don’t love the spats that crop up like clockwork every time D.J. and I are in Ikea trying to pick out a kitchen design.  Because we both lack sufficient vocabulary in each others’ language to adequately defend our often times conflicting choices of counter top color, cabinet finish, sink basin, etc…we end up frustrated and mad at the other person for failing to grasp the nuances of exactly what is being explained. My initial response was to shut up (after all, it’s his house) until D.J., sweet as he is, hissed in retaliation, “But YOU have to live there too, so help me decide on the kitchen!” I convinced myself that it was his way of saying that my input is valued

Whatever the kitchen ends up looking like, it’s got to be built, installed, and functional by the third Thursday of November.  That’s right folks, I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner!

Other than that, not much has been happening.  I’ve started running again in preparation for the Paris Marathon in April (provided I get my paycheck in time to pay for race registration). D.J. keeps conveniently “forgetting” that he agreed to run it with me.  Therefore, I keep reminding him in the company of his friends so that they get all excited and make a big deal of it.  I’m evil. Muahahaha!

Sorry for the hum-drum-ness. I’ll be sure to write a detailed next post.  Oh! I almost forgot – an old co-worker from waaaaay back in the day is in Paris this week for vacation (by “waaaaay back in the day” I mean back in my days of waitressing on U Street, Washington DC. Yeah. Waaaaaay back).  I’ll be seeing her tonight. Of course, I’ll let you know what happens

Vagabondventures over and out. Peace!

Do I need a kid for this?

Click, clack, click…

It’s Wednesday afternoon, just before 1 pm in Issy les Moulineaux. I’ve finished typing another few paragraphs of the latest children’s story that I’ve been writing since yesterday morning. It’s coming along nicely. Even so, I am in need of my mother’s creative writing expertise.

On most days, in the early morning hours between the time when alarm clock first sounds and D.J. leaves for work, I experience strangely vivid dreams. Usually these dreams are detailed and instructive.  Yesterday I dreamt that I was the wildly successful author of a children’s book series.

I think that in my state of half-consciousness I even mentioned my dream to D.J. while he was putting his shoes on to leave.  Regardless, as soon as I woke up that morning I had an urge to start writing.

Over the past three or four years, I’ve dabbled with the idea of writing a novel.  I’ve even developed my characters, outlines and story plots. While I was living in Bangkok, I started my novel.  Twice.  After I moved back to DC, I had another vivid dream that turned into another unfinished story.  In between DC, Bangkok, and Paris I wrote several short stories when I wasn’t putting together freelance press releases, media pitches, web content, etc…

This time around it’s a children’s book that revolves around a nine-year-old Indian-American girl named Indira and her band of friends. Half of her friends come from her old school and the other half come from the new school she moved to in the middle of the school year. The first episode is called “Happy Birthday, Indira.”

I’m halfway done with the first draft of the first short story. After I finish, I’ll turn it over to my mother for critiques and edits.

I don’t know if it’s even a smart idea for me to try and write a children’s book. I don’t have kids. I don’t frequently come into contact with them. I don’t know what kinds of issues they have. I just remember my own childhood, which was wrought with hypochondriactic crises and severely exaggerated self-inflicted “dilemmas,” not unlike most children/teenagers.  I am a bossy and dramatic, extroverted, Taurian, eldest child princess.  My family has learned to live with my behavior.

I just don’t know if it is enough fodder for a book.

I guess a lot of children’s authors don’t actually have kids. They just have child-like imaginations.

Francaphile just finished a beautifully illustrated book for her niece and nephew back in Ireland. It was a lovely poem about their whirlwind adventures in Paris. She’s banking on the two of them forever treasuring their aunt’s hand-drawn masterpiece and, in turn, supporting her in her old age.  I’ve seen pictures of the book and I think she’s golden.

In a sort-of similar fashion, I dreamt (literally dreamt) of creating some sort of residual income via my uber successful book series for children and living comfortably, not lavishly, into old age.  Three cheers for making this dream a reality.

My family members know better than anyone that my “grand” plans tend to fizzle out within a few months.  But lately I’ve been feeling very committed to writing a bit every day or two. If I can keep that up, I might have enough material for a collection of short stories soon.  Maybe I’ve been feeling so motivated because I have no job (until Monday morning at 8 am) and no paying freelance gigs have come my way recently. Whatever the reason, I’m running with this motivation…let’s see where I end up.

Happy day-after Hump Day!

The American

Bonjour mes chers amis. I hope all is right in your worlds. I know I’ve been a little lazy lately in posting…I have no excuse.  I could moan about how French lectures, phonetics classes, and grammar courses have been kicking my backside; or how trips to the Office Francais de l’integration et l’immigration in between phone calls to my company HR department have left me both physically and mentally done in. But I won’t complain about either.

I just finished one of my favorite activities in life – jabbering with my father.  When I lived in the states, I would talk to my dad at least five times a week about everything under the sun, from gossiping coworkers to dating woes to fishing tournaments.  Now that we live with an ocean between us, our conversations have, unfortunately, diminished in number.  When we do talk, it’s generally me blabbing off at the mouth for 30 straight minutes trying to simultaneously make him laugh and keep him abreast of what’s really going on in my life.

Tonight, in response to his habitual question – What’s going on in France? – I recalled an interesting self-observation I’ve noted since arriving in Europe.  I’ve become strangely patriotic.  Don’t get me wrong, I have my own delicate love affair with the United States (and I won’t bore you here with the critical praise I have for America) but I have never been one to move through foreign countries loudly proclaiming my American-ness.  In fact, I’ve spent my overseas jaunts for the past 10+ years deliberately trying to assimilate into local populations and forget momentarily my superficially unexciting American life.  I focused my “militant” college years at Howard University, condemning American institutions built upon the flawed and unjust principles that perpetuated centuries of slavery and killing.  But here in Europe, in France, in the heart of modern socialism, I’ve become a defender of America.

This is not to say that I enthusiastically agree with either side of the political continuum. I don’t theoretically disagree with socialism or communism.  I don’t embrace capitalism as my religion, nor do I support the rhetoric of 89 percent of elected public servants. But I do find myself steadfastly willing to defend America against pointed verbal attacks against her political practice, against her social standards, against the intellect and value of her citizens.  I’m a bit surprised with myself actually, especially when I find myself in agreement with many of America’s critics.

I’m now confronted with the same simple-minded analyzes I rolled my eyes at in disgust while I still lived in Washington DC, but this time they’re aimed toward the U.S.  I once mistakenly thought that the only “scarlet letter” I would don would be the one denoting the fact that I was the only black kid in school.  Since then, I’ve learned that most people wear their own badges of dissimilarity in America – females, ethnic and cultural minorities, artists, the disabled, etc…Being a half Asian, half black non-U.S. born American citizen living in Paris means that I’m the “universal representative” for a whole lot of demographics.

And I love it.  It helps me prove my point that Americans are not a homogenous group of credulous non-voters. We’re not a nation of fanatics blinded by misplaced vengance and we’re not most accurately represented by pop culture, CNN and Fox news, and/or Hollywood.

I’ve become very touchy about Europeans accusing the United States of various atrocities, crimes of war, failures of historic proportion, worldwide sabotage, etc… Least we backtrack a half century or two and examine who did what to whom and how those lasting effects have manifested themselves in today’s global society. Even though I may or may not agree with these accusations, I’ve unconsciously adopted the juvenile belief that I can pick on my own as much as I’d like, but as soon as YOU start picking on what’s mine, well, we’re gonna have a problem…

So there we have it. I’d like to say that I’ll one day be able to calmly discuss critiques of American society/culture/foreign policy/business practices/and whatever else with a wide variety of non-Americans without becoming offended or made to feel as though I am personally responsible. I don’t have any desire to resort to playground “us” vs. “them” mentality. But today, today I admit I’m having a hard time with it…

Too busy…

I’m not falling off the blog, I’ve just been a bit busy.

Last week was kind of full.

Thursday: D.J.’s birthday

Friday: I forget

Saturday: Slept till noon, wandered around Paris.  One of the biggest hair FAILs in my life (hint: it involved me following a random man off the street into an African hair salon…the rest of the story need not be told. Hair rehab for the next several months…).

We also met up with Actual Friend for drinks with her Actual Boyfriend.

Sunday: Out for a long cloudy afternoon walk with D.J. in Paris.  When I say “long,” I really mean it.  I have absolutely no idea how much time we spent actually walking; however, I’m certain that time stood still for our all out scream-fest in the middle of several streets.  What began as an innocent observation of how residents in Montparnasse are lucky to now have such a top notch grocery store open on Sundays somehow turned into a heated “discussion” about the crumbling institution of family in France as compared to the US, with lots of “extras” thrown in just to make it a really good argument.  Details will not be published here. I have just enough good sense as to not replay that episode even if it is for the comic pleasure of my three readers. Sorry to Pithy, Francophile, and the parents. But fret not; all was resolved over coffee before we reached the apartment again.

Monday:  An interesting dilemma has cropped up in the past week.  I’ve been cleared to work part time by the French embassy; however, I’ve got to wait for my carte de sejour to be officially official.  This can take up to two and a half months and Vagabond has got to feed herself in the meanwhile.  I’ve been told by my new boss that I can start work and they’ll simply document my work status as being “in process.” Great.  HR, however, needs some kind of proof that my carte de sejour is being processed.  Fair enough.  In July of this year the French government decided to streamline this immigration process and eliminated about ten steps.  Three cheers for the French catching up to the modern era! The only problem is that my new HR department hasn’t been through this new process yet and is asking papers of me that I’ve never received and have been informed that I’ll now never receive.

So, I took a trip to the Office Francais de l’integration et l’immigration (OFII) on Monday morning.  I get a headache thinking about how slow new government procedures are actually implemented in France, so I’m going to summerize the morning with this: After a short wait and many conversations with OFII employees, it was determined that my status is completely out of my hands, there are no documents I can request to prove I’ve done everything I’m supposed to for my carte de sejour, it’s all up to God at this point.  I called my new boss and left a detailed voice mail in English followed immediately by an equally detailed voice mail in French, courtesy of the nice secretary at the OFII office.

Tuesday: I’ve had my daily dose of chocolate cereal and soy milk, watched “Gangs of New York,” and thought about going running.  It is now four minutes to 1 pm and I’m still in my pjamas.  I’m going running now…

Catch you all on the flip side!

Today I dislike: Arrogance

Far be it for me to criticize anyone’s humanly faults, Lord knows I have many. However, some earthly shortcomings are best pointed out and then stomped out.  This evening I witnessed a shining example:

I had just parted with two of my new classmates and jumped on the metro train.  Since I was in particularly high spirits this evening after French class, I hardly minded waiting the four minutes it took for the next train to breeze in (btw, four minutes is an unusually, dare I say painfully long time to wait for a train on line 12 of the Paris metro).  Since it was rush hour, naturally, a hord of commuters impatiently queued behind on another at each train door.  I was waiting behind a very small elderly woman who was not in a particular rush.  Picture this: the woman was small and frail in her red baret and grey cardigan.  She had red lipstick on that was smudged around the corners but her mouth was in a permanent smile.  She looked continuously from side to side, smiling at everyone around her.  She was, without a doubt, the sweetest Parisien I have ever seen.

So, we’re queuing, right? From the back of the crowd comes this tall, white guy in a slate business suit.  He literally knocked the sweet lady down and kept it moving as to be the first on the train.  Visibly stunned, several passengers helped the woman up and all the while she never stopped smiling. It doesn’t end there…

This jerk proceeded to stand directly in front of the door even though passengers were clammoring for space behind him.  Obviously he needed to be the first one off the train as well as the first one on.  His stifling self-importance caused a near pile up at the entrance of the train car that left more than a few riders on the wrong side of the doors when they closed.

A few stops down the way and the train car begins to empty.  Since there was now no one to block his hasty exit when the time came, he moved to one of the poles in the center of the car.  Instead of politely holding onto the pole as normal metro travelers do, he decided to lean on the entire pole, forcing those who would have otherwise had plenty of room, to move. “Grrrrrr, I dislike him very very much,” was my thought.

These small discourteous gestures continued for the next six stops, at which time the train came to a screeching halt.  I was unsure if any one of my fellow commuters had been taking note of this creep’s behavior in quite as detailed a manner as I had.  It turns out they had.  As the train squealed to a stop just before the final station, the idiot who was not holding the pole but rather leaning on it, lurched forward directly towards me.  Instead of attempting in any way, shape or form to lessen his tumble, what seemed like the entire cabin shifted in the opposite direction, leaving him to stumble and fall to his knees.  “Huh,” I thought to myself.  Without any eye contact, hand gestures, verbal agreement, all the passengers had been on the exact same page. Interesting.

**As always, there were approximately 1.7 million other things that bothered me today, but that was by far the most grating.  I will not bore you all with the other minor irritants in my day; I will continue eating mini ice cream Mars bars and folding laundry.  Peace out!

I’m bad, I’m bad, you know it, uh huh!

Hello once again, friends.  I hope you all had a nice, low-key/rambunctious, high-octane weekend – whichever is your style. Me, I did some walking around Paris, lots of eating, slept till late, the usual.

I got some good news this morning from la Sorbonne, but I’m gonna make you wade through tales of my relatively mild weekend before giving you the goodies.

Quick sum up: Friday, after spending the morning in the hellish prefecture, I met up with Actual Friend and one of her actual friends for coffee and dinner.  I’m beginning to really depend on my weekly coffee gossip sessions in English with Actual Friend. Trudging through a week of impolite Frenchies and language exhaustion leaves me jonesin’ for an evening of relaxation, I mean real relaxation in a language in which I need not put forth (much) effort to be understood.

Saturday morning was completely wasted followed by an afternoon-long walk around Paris. Right when I arrived here, I read in a random line in a random blog about how Parisiens spend hours and hours in cafes, wandering the streets, catching up with friends, basically anything to avoid running straight home to tiny, dark apartments.  One can find throngs of coffee house vagabonds at any given time, on any given day, in any given weather. This is so true, and I’m starting to love it.  Before, when D.J. would suggest we just go “out,” I was always confused by what he meant.  But, inevitably, we would manage to let an entire six or eight hours go by just eating, walking, drinking coffee, and then eating again. Now, I love just going “out” in the middle of the day, for no reason. It’s definitely something I wouldn’t have done in the states.

Even though we swore up and down (read: I swore up and down) that we’d go jogging on Sunday, we didn’t. Shocking. Instead, we went walking once again in Paris and met up with D.J.’s Connected Friend for coffee in the sunshine of the Concord park.  We then met up with D.J.’s and Connected Friend’s friend and continued our saunter from Concord to Montparnasse.  I was tired of walking pretty much the entire time but insisted I was fine since I’m the youngest of the bunch and never want to sound like a wimp. Now, I just adore being with D.J., Connected friend, and their mutual friend too, but being the only one who doesn’t speak fluent French is such a bore some times.  I feel silly and very unintelligent.  No one besides D.J. knows the charming, hilarious, charismatic, BRILLIANT Vagabondventures. *chuckles to herself* “She’s hilariously humble,” is what you’re saying to yourselves. I’ll have to fix that very soon.

Speaking of that, French class 101 begins this evening.  Ok, on to the good news…

So, I had a large and important French placement test early last week.  I told you about how more than a few English speaking students (all from the US – d’oh, how embarrassing) simply walked out of the test because they could understand nothing.  This morning we were to find our ways to la Sorbonne to see our test results and find out into which class we had tested. Fastforward: I placed into the third of five levels!! I am not a “Beginner,” nor am I in the “Elementary” course.  Oh no, my friends, I am an “Intermediate” student.  Tadaaaaaa! When they looked up my results and handed my the “Intermediate” card and then proceeded to speak to me in rapid-fire French (since I am obviously now an “Intermediate” French student), I was giddy.  Since, at that moment, I was surrounded by polite, quiet, unexcitable Asian students, all I could do was smile.  But, as soon as I left the building, I called D.J. in a fluster of hyper energy to tell him the good news.  His response: “I told you so.”  He’s lovely.

Ok, now I’ve got to brush up on my English grammar before training tomorrow. I’ve got three hours of training for my new job tomorrow and, not surprisingly, I suck at grammar.  Well, let me clarify: I don’t suck, I’m just not as good as I should be. Anyway, the lady giving me my training is a 40-something South Asian woman who (as surmised from brief conversation) also lived in Britain.  Not the kind of person to whom you want to accidentally reveal grammatical deficiencies.  Grrrr to those former English colonies who take grammar and literature seriously.

So, I’ll keep you all posted as to how the French class and new job turn out. Have a great Labor Day all my American people, and everyone else have a great Monday varrking aard.  Peace out!