You know you're in the United States when...

Top Three Holy-Crap-I'm-Home Moments:

1. When I was in the Chicago airport and I saw a sign that said "toilets" and legit thought it was a typo for a few seconds. Toilets? What? Toilettes. It's not that hard to spell check a neon s... Oh. Chicago. Right.

2. When I got a soda from McDonald's and immediately got a chip of ice through the straw and freaked out because I thought it was a human finger or something. And then I remembered that there is ice in America.

3. That moment when I stepped into the shower and was like, the shower head is mounted on the wall! There's hot water! It's not absurdly small!

France friends, did you have any "aha moments"?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. The times they are a-changing. CHILDREN GET OLDER.

A lot of things have changed since August 22nd.

Where vacationing couples used to stroll along the hot sunny quais of the Seine, now only the most water-resistant Parisians walk, the cobblestones covered in puddles and strewn with rotting leaves. Where once there was scaffolding on the building across from me, now there is fresh-washed limestone. The sky has turned from deep summer blue to a variety of steel-grey and aluminum-grey and pewter-grey clouds.

There are neither leaves nor cobblestones in this picture. But I swear to god it's a thing.

When I first got to Paris, I walked past an abandoned office space every day on my way to class. After a week or two, the windows were boarded up and the abandoned office space became a construction site. It was a bit of a nuisance on my route, a gaping hole to sidestep, a pile of concrete dust that stuck to my shoes. And, like all construction sites, it seemed like it would never end. For three months, I walked past the men with jackhammers and sheetrock. The construction progressed, of course. One day they were bringing out the remnants of old walls, another day they were building new ones. But it never occurred to me that the construction would eventually be finished. I paid no attention to the progress, because construction is something that stretches on for all eternity. I never expected it to end.

But then, one day, they un-boarded the windows. And the new glass was shiny and clean, and the formica countertops inside beckoned like toys in a Christmas display, and the lighting setup was absolutely heavenly. Men in suits with clipboards replaced men in hardhats with power tools, and within a week there was a big red sign outside, and there were loaves of bread and macarons on the formica countertops, and there were fresh-faced young women with tidy hair behind the counter.

You can alllllmost see the baguettes.

I have been in Paris long enough to see the birth of a bakery.

Weird.

On Wandering

I'm leaving Paris on Friday, and I have a lot of feelings about that. But for now, I want to talk about wandering.

J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote, "Not all those who wander are lost." Well, J.R.R., I think your books need a really overzealous editor, because no one wants to read a description of a forest for 15 pages, and I think you get too much credit for that quote.

No all those who wander are lost? No shit, Sherlock. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that if you're wandering, you're not lost. Just awesome. You know what people do when they're lost? They cry. The pull out maps. They frantically ask for directions.

Wandering isn't like that. Wandering is poignant and stress-free.

About a week ago, I went to London with my two best France buds, Faith and Erin. We didn't have a whole lot of plans, because we're too cool for that. And we ended up just doing a lot of...well, wandering. It's funny, because if you ask us what we did that weekend, we just kind of shrug. What did we do that weekend? We walked past Buckingham Palace. We climbed some lions. We saw Wicked. We ate Indian food. But there are so many hours in the day, so much time that more driven tourists could have filled with museums and guided tours and whatnot.

Did I mention we climbed a lion?

But we just wandered. We wandered past some restaurants. We wandered around a department store. And we wandered down a long long long street, where we were expecting to find a tube station.

There was no tube station on that street.

Nope.

So I guess you could say we were lost. We didn't look at our maps, so I'm not sure if it counts as lost, just guessing that there will be a tube stop and not finding one. But we were looking for something and it wasn't there. But you know what we did find on that street? We found some piles of leaves to frolic merrily in. We found a statue with confusing dates on it. We found a free museum with the most fascinating exhibit on craftsmanship. And we didn't mind one jot that we were "lost."

Merrily frolicking!

So I guess what I'm saying, is that "wandering" is just a state of mind. And so is "lost." But I would say that the best way to explore a new place is not by making a great big schedule with all the things you want to do and see, and then getting "lost" trying to find them, but by setting out to wander, maybe in the general direction of something cool, maybe not.

All things considered, London was the best.

The. Best.

Givin' Some Thanks...

So, I know this is an unpopular opinion, but my favorite part of the Thanksgiving festivities is when everyone sits down and they all have to say what they're thankful for. (Fun fact: "my family" and "this wonderful meal" are super clichéd. Make a little effort, people. Come on.) The opportunity to be in France! Butterflies! These super warm socks! The Black Friday sale at Urban Outfitters! The Hunger Games! Julian Fellowes! That girl who gave me her super awesome pen for no reason! Public transportation! Love! Friendship! Living in a first-world country! The list goes on and on! And that exposition of thanks is my favorite part of Thanksgiving.

Oh wait, that's not right. Pie is my favorite part of Thanksgiving. MY BAD.

But the thanks thing is a close second.

Annnnnnyway, I'm very thankful (see what I did there, with the thanks?), to have nabbed an invitation to my Auntie Ann and Uncle Michel's place in central France for the weekend. It's not really for Thanksgiving, it's just a regular visit, but since I am so very gung-ho about the holiday, they are pulling some strings and we are going to have a magnificent turkey chicken dinner! (Turns out you can't get a turkey in France in November. Even if you make a personal call to your butcher.) And before I take off to have a delightful weekend in the country, I just wanted to tell all y'all back home/in Paris/in Chile/in one of those other weird countries that pop up in my stats without explanation what I'm thankful for.

I am thankful for France. It is beautiful and ancient and fascinating. I'm thankful for the opportunity to be here, and thankful to all those who helped me get here with money or he application process or moral support, and thankful for the things I've gotten out of this bizarre and wonderful culture.

I am thankful for America. It's so open and honest and friendly there. I'm thankful that I get to go back, and that I've been so privileged as to be raised in a country that is so rich in so many ways. And I'm thankful for PEANUT BUTTER.

I'm thankful for family, friends, family friends, friends' families, acquaintances I'd like to be better friends with, kindly strangers, and my gentleman friend Forrest Phillips. You're all perfect and I'll love you forever. For. Ev. Urr.

I'm thankful for Downton Abbey getting picked up for a third season. Also thankful that Parks and Recreation exists.

I'm thankful for The Hunger Games, and thankful that Kris is awesome and loaned it me.

I'm thankful for these socks I bought yesterday that don't have holes in the toes and are really warm.

I'm thankful that my hair is finally long enough that it doesn't look stupid more than half the time.

I'm thankful that the thrift stores here are filled with hipsterlicious basics from French brands.

I'm thankful for crème caramel.

I'm thankful for my hard-earned (and yet still kind of pitiful) knowledge of the French language.

De quoi êtes-vous raconaissants?

(See! Je parle français!)

Chartres: There's A Cathedral There (It's Kind Of A Big Deal.)

(It took a lot of tourist websites for me to give up trying to get that pronouncing-the-r/not-pronouncing-the-r balance just right and just say "shart." Sad, but at least I successfully bought a ticket from the train person.)

This weekend the people I hang out with basically all the time went to AMSTERDAM. WITHOUT ME. I mean, they did invite me. And I said no. Anyway. I spent the whole weekend by myself, which was actually quite nice, since I will be on the road for the next two weekends. But after catching up on all my television on Friday, I decided it was time to man up and go to Chartres by myself for the day on Saturday.

On the train! The tracks are blurry because I was so scared I couldn't focus. Get it? Focus?

It was surprisingly terrifying. I think if I were home it would be really fun and exciting, but since I'm in France and nothing makes sense to me and it's hard to communicate even the most simple requests such as "coffee" or "train ticket" or "baguette," it was just super scary to not have anyone to back me up. Even if the people I'm with don't speak any French and can't help me out of a tight spot, I really rely on having people around to commiserate with if I totally screw up my verb conjugations or whatever.

But I set my alarm for 6:30 and I made myself get up and make coffee and get on the metro. And guess what! I successfully purchased a ticket from a lady who didn't even have an English flag on her sign! (The English flag means she speaks English. But she DIDN'T. But it was FINE because I speak FRENCH.)

They had a bunch of scaffolding up, which put a serious damper on my photo ops.

It was a perfect day in Chartres, and it was really just a lovely experience. The sun was shining, I spoke French to people, some of them spoke French back, some of them spoke English and were actually excited to practice their English. I got a tour from the (in?)famous Malcolm Miller, who was every bit as knowledgeable as I'd heard, but not nearly as crotchety. And I took some photographs that I'm pretty excited about. If you've ever tried to take a picture of stained glass and been like, "DUDE IT LOOKS SO BEAUTIFUL IN REAL LIFE BUT THIS CAMERA JUST WON'T GET IT RIGHT," then perhaps you'll know why.

I feel so successful now.

Like, you don't even know. These pictures have validated my existence.

I actually think it's nice how hard to photograph stained glass is. I feel like it's something that you just have to experience and try to remember, because it will never look as good in a picture as it does in your eyes. Sacré Coeur, you show up, take a picture, and it looks just as beautiful on paper. You don't even have to stay. You can just take a picture and then go home to look at it in the comfort of your own home. You don't even have to go! You can just look at this picture that I took for you!

You're welcome.

But with a stained glass masterpiece, you're never going to get the same thing out of a photograph as you will from the real thing. It must be something about the way the light slants through, or the contrast between the glowing colors and the shadowy cathedral. But you really just have to sit down and look at it for a while.

You can also try to take pictures of it, like I did. I don't really practice what I preach. But I swear, after I took the pictures I sat down and stared at them for a long time. And trust me, my memory is prettier.

Soundtrack To My Life

So I will post about festive things that I've been doing soon, but for now I just want to share a few songs that are a perfect fit for moments of my Parisian life. I hope it will provide a tiny little aural window of insight into my currents haps. Haps as in "What's the haps, bro?" In case that wasn't clear.

Sitting In The Dawn Light Of The Kitchen By Myself Eating Tiny French Toasts And Doing My Homework This Blog Post:

So tiny! So French! So toasty!

Adele, Someone Like You. (But not in a depressing way.) Also, bonus, the music video is in Paris!

Walking The Town In The Late-Morning Light, On My Way To School, Trying Not To Get Run Over By Cars And Watching Everyone Wheel Strollers And Carry Baguettes:

You can simulate people watching with this photograph of interesting people.

Freelance Whales, Starring. I usually listen to the first line 15 times before I let the whole song play. "Shut me up with your long tube socks, they don't scream, 'Hey let's just be friends.' " Damn good writing. I have no idea why this feels so right for Paris, but it does.

Puttering Around At Night In The Dim Glow Of These Really Dim Lamps, Making Cheese Sandwiches And Painting My Nails:

You can thank Monday for my grouchy Kraken face.

Sufjan Stevens, Christmas In The Room. What's that you say, it's bad form to start Christmas celebrations before Thanksgiving? Well GUESS WHAT BUSTER, THEY DON'T CELEBRATE THANKSGIVING HERE! I COULD CELEBRATE ALL YEAR LONG IF I WANTED! WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT?? Anyway, major silver lining to the whole Thanksgiving thing. Tomorrow I might stop by the Monoprix and grab some paper for paper snowflakes. After that I might watch Love Actually. Maybe deck the halls. Hear those sleigh bells jingling, if I have a minute. Ring ting tingling too. Definitely going to go tell it on a mountain. And then I might just start dreaming of a white Christmas. And then I'm going to ride in a one-horse open sleigh. Hey! And you know what? YOU CAN'T STOP ME! It's Christmas year-round in France!

J'ai Deux Amours, Mon Petit Ami et Paris....

And last week, we were all together, my deux amours and me!

I met Forrest at the crack of dawn on October 30th at Charles de Gaulle, and I saw him off well before the crack of dawn on November 8th at Orly. In between we ate a lot of Nutella, saw a lot of Parisian stuff, and were really sappy. I know what you're thinking. Ew gross! Young love! No one wants to hear about that! Well SUCK IT. I am writing a post about it, and you just have to deal.

It was really cool having someone to show around Paris who had never been here before, because after a few months here it is too easy to justify staying home and knitting all day or just going straight back to bed after a difficult morning class. I feel like I've seen all the major monuments and museums, and sometimes I just feel like sleeping and watching TV. Which is fine sometimes, but it was so refreshing to have someone here to snap me out of it!

Anyway, we mostly went to places I'd been to before, because Forrest was here for a short time, so we took kind of a crash course tour of Paris. We hit all the big stuff:

The Seine

Hotel de Ville

Luxembourg Gardens

The Pantheon

The Arc de Triomphe

The Louvre

The Musée d'Orsay

The Tubey Museum

Sacré Coeur

...I forget where this is.

It's funny being this touristy again. I always feel like I'm somewhat better than your average tourist. I can pass for French, as long as I don't open my mouth. (Once or twice I've even passed as French for a whole sentence!) I keep my camera tucked away, my map folded up at the bottom of my purse, and I've yet to buy anything with an image of the Eiffel Tower on it. But at the end of the day, I'm kind of just a tourist. I take pictures of famous things, I'm still delighted by street musicians with accordions, and I struggle awkwardly when ordering coffee. It's always nice when something forces me to embrace my true nature, like Forrest's visit. I realized that it's okay for me to just be a tourist sometimes. If people talk to me they can find out that I am studying their culture and their language like crazy and trying to get something more out of this trip than a hideous purple "I <3 Paris" sweatshirt. And if they don't talk to me, it doesn't really matter if they think I'm a stupid American who doesn't know a boulangerie from a patisserie. They're just grouchy. So I'm going to wear my camera proudly for a while. Because I really like taking photographs of cool looking things, and tourist attractions are pretty cool looking.

Got a little side tracked there, sorry. Point is, Forrest was here and it was awesome. And a visit from a loved one is exactly what I needed. It made me way more excited to see all the best that Paris has to offer, and it also made me pretty psyched to see ALL OF MY LOVED ONES in about a month!

Ten Things I'm Excited To Be Home For

1. Hot showers.
2. Texting people and not worrying about the outrageous pay-as-you-go phone plan.
3. English movies without subtitles.
4. Peanut butter and burritos. (Not at the same time.)
5. Sewing machines.
6. Upper-division film classes.
7. Israeli folk dance.
8. Stress-free grocery shopping.
9. Thrift stores.
10. Hugs. :)

The Good, The Bad, and The Weird

(Full Disclosure: I haven't seen that movie.)

The Good

Today Faith and I had an awesome study party next to the Chateau de Vincennes. Even though we studied (ugh) some schoolwork type stuff (gross), it was really awesome because it was beautiful and warm out, I ate a ham sandwich with tons of butter, and there was a moat!

Serious thinkers.

We also took some quality portraits.

The Bad

The other day, when I got onto the RER, the turnstile machine thing wasn't working, so my ticket didn't get stamped. When leaving the RER, since I didn't have a stamped ticket, I figured I would just walk out behind my friend who had a Navigo pass and everything would be cool. FALSE! Everything was not cool. I got in trouble with the POLICE.

Sad times.

Apparently what I should have done in that situation was use a fresh metro ticket to get out. Didn't even know you could do that. Dumb American here. Anyway, they thought I was just scamming the system, so they gave me a ticket. But I was nice and tried really hard to explain everything and was clearly very apologetic, so they gave me a smaller fine (25€ instead of 50€) and by the end of it we were all good friends. The guy who pulled me aside actually held up my tickets and very deliberately explained which one I was supposed to use and which one I was supposed to throw away. And we all parted ways with love and mutual respect warming our hearts.

But I still cried a lot.

Anyway, on the plus side I can now make jokes about that one time I got in trouble with the po-po.

And on the other, completely unrelated side, they don't even know who I am. They were just like, "Pay us!" and then gave me a receipt and let me go. I find that surprising. But I don't know that much about the fuzz, so maybe that's how these things always work.

Or maybe France is just weird.

The Weird

I saw a guy emptying his catheter bag on the street yesterday.

So yeah.

I made soup!

I have like, the worst cold in the entire world, and today after school I got really frustrated that I haven't been able to find any nice hot minestrone, so I just opened up the window, yelled "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!" and went to the open market to get some vegetables.

It wasn't the best soup ever. I used some really low quality hamburger and bouillon, which kind of made it taste like feet. Delicious, flavorful feet, but still.

Treat yo self! To soup!

But I just love buying things here. Like, not even buying things I like, like shoes and sweaters and cookies. I just like making purchases because I get to talk to someone who doesn't know I'm American at first and then they figure it out and judge me. It's like a parlor game. It's fun! I get a real kick out of grocery shopping, but open markets are my favorite because the people there are so weird and the process is really confusing and the veggies are super cheap. Today I bought some tomatoes and a zucchini from these two guys, and one of them was peeling a mandarin and he offered me a piece, as a sample or whatever. And I said no thanks because I am morally opposed to trying samples of things I have no intention of buying. And the he was like, "You want, or you don't want?" (But in French and grammatically correct.) And I was like, "I don't want." (But in French and grammatically correct.) And then...well, he handed me half a mandarin anyway. It was really good. And then he realized I don't speak French and I realized that he didn't speak English. Come to think of it, not really sure he spoke French either.

Good times.

Then, after I made a giant pot of soup in a house that's not mine with dishes and tupperware that I'm not 100% sure I'm supposed to use, I went to this really creepy housewares store across the street. It was soooooo huge, and they had so many different types of pillows and so many different kinds of knives and coffee mugs, but there were only like 4 people in there and there was only one kind of tupperware. Seriously. 15 colors of coffee cup and only one size, one color, one style of Tupperware in the whole place. I don't get it.

Anyway, when I was purchasing several of this one kind of tupperware they had, the guy asked me if I had a Conforama card (who has a loyalty card for a housewares store? How often do you need new linens?), and then he asked me if I was interested in getting one. But I wasn't quite sure that that's what he said, so I said, "...no?" instead of "no merci, monsieur!" I don't know if he figured out that I'm not a native French speaker, but it was really awkward and hilarious because he thought I was just being mean, and then I started laughing quietly to myself.

All my best adventures are in checkout lines!

By the way, it really was the creepiest store. The checkout was weird and looked like it was part of this mini loan office that was there too, so I spent a long time looking around before I got in line. And he didn't have a cash register, he just had a regular keyboard and a cashbox. And my shoes were really loud and it echoed. It was eerie.

Dear Friends, Family, And Acquaintances Who Stalk My Blog But Never Comment:

I am not going to extend to the program in Bordeaux, and instead will be coming home in December! Yay! Cut some paper snowflakes, put the lights on the tree, get me something gold and sequined, and buy all the boxes of panettone that you can find, because I'll be home for Christmas, bitches*.

I haven't actually seen this movie.

I know you're all too polite to ask, but I'm sure you're whispering amongst yourselves. Why is she coming home? Did she cry every night? Is her French really that bad? Does she hate fun and adventures? Does she hate cheese? Is she pregnant with the Pope's illegitimate son? Did she get expelled for complaining about her homework? Did she get deported for replacing the Mona Lisa with an impeccable forgery?

 Just checking.

Well, sadly, the answer to all of those questions is no. I love both fun and adventures. I haven't even met the Pope. I'm awesome at French, and I'm actually having a really good time, with negligible homesickness.

The reason I'm coming home is actually pretty mundane. It just doesn't make that much sense for me to stay here for the entire school year, and I really want to start making movies. Like, now. I didn't realize exactly how long 4 months was when I left, and I've realized that it is exactly the amount of time I want to be here. France is fascinating, and if I went to Bordeaux I'm sure I would have an amazing time. (Yes, possibly even a more amazing time that I will back in the States.) But I've already had an amazing experience, just in the time I've spent in Paris. 4 months is nothing to sneeze at, and I think after that it will be time to get back to my regularly scheduled education.

Because it's sexy.

I might not be able to explain why I'm so excited about the classes I get to take at UC Santa Cruz next quarter (let's just say I hope they will include a lot of actual moviemaking and some quality time with Buster Keaton), but you're just going to have to trust me on this one. I have this feeling that if I really throw myself into it, I can make something of myself as a filmmaker (or at least a key grip or a key grip's coffee girl or something), but I have to learn the basics first. So I guess, if you wanted to oversimplify things, you could say I'm going home so I can enroll in Film 170B and learn how to use expensive video equipment. But it's really more of a gut feeling decision. When I was trying to talk myself into staying, it felt wrong, and I was in a constant state of discomfort. But this decision feels right. It's what I'm supposed to be doing, I'm almost positive.

Now that my decision is pretty much final, I'm excited to stop worrying about whether or not I should stay, and instead just enjoy the hell out of the time I have. I'm going to spend the next nine weeks making you all super jealous with my awesome stories and Facebook pictures. I apologize in advance!

This is an awesome story in the form of a Facebook photo.

Now I am going to make you all super jealous by....cleaning my room and writing this paper I've been putting off all weekend! And blowing my nose every minute or two because I'm dying slowly! How much do you wish you were me right now?

*Sorry about the language, it was necessary! :)

The Best Pain Au Chocolat Experience Ever

I know, I know. Pain au chocolat is always a wonderful experience. So delicious! So crispy! So warm!

But I swear, this one was the best.

A lot of times, I will say something to someone in French. It's usually just a word or two, that I'm sure I'm not mispronouncing and have said and heard a million times. "Une baguette s'il vous plait." "Un pain au chocolat, s'il vous plait." "Un café, s'il vous plait."And then the person starts talking to me in English. What! I said that right! I think to myself. I don't think they mean anything by it, they just assume that I don't know anything but the names of pastries in French. Yes, I have been studying French for more than 5 years and I can use the subjunctive (under very special circumstances), but I understand. A lot of Americans in Paris don't know squat! So I don't blame them for speaking English to me, but it makes me feel like I have failed and then I am grouchy for the rest of the day.

But today...oh, today! I walked into this bakery, said hello with a very good accent, and I asked the guy for a pain au chocolat. And he smiled a little bit and said "Yes." Very deliberately, too. Like he was saying, "I know your dark secret! You speak English! Me too!" And I was disappointed for a second, but then he said:

"If you want to seem more Parisian..."

And if you're in a study abroad program in Paris, you probably feel the same way as I do. Seeming Parisian has somehow become my ultimate goal in life. I don't know why, because it doesn't matter at all, but if people ask me directions I do a little dance of joy, and if people offer to point me towards the Eiffel Tower I cry for days. I make all m clothing choices based on blending in. I hide my camera. I hide my map. I carry my textbooks with the covers towards me so no one can see that they're in English. So when he said "If you want to seem more Parisian..." I was instantly hanging on to every lightly accented syllable like he was some kind of messiah.

"If you want to seem more Parisian," he said, "you should say 'pain au chocolat.'"

Now, you're probably wondering what the difference between "pain au chocolat" and "pain au chocolat" is. I was too! At first I thought he meant I had said it wrong, but then I realized what he was saying was that I should not use a liaison between the n of pain and the a of au.

Side note for you non-Francophones: 
Generally you don't pronounce the last consonant in a word, unless the next word begins with a vowel sound. For example: 
"Je suis très cool." = Zjhe swee tray cool. = I am very cool.
"Je suis interessant." = Zjhe sweez anterressant. = I am interesting.
Hey, I never said French was easy. (Wait, did anyone ever say French was easy? They were lying to you.)


He explained very nicely that I was actually grammatically correct to use a liason, but that you would never catch a Frenchperson saying "pan-oh-shock-oh-lah."And then he sent me on my merry way, pai(n) au chocolat in hand, with an awesome new tactic for seeming French. :)

I love when people help you learn French instead of just brushing you off.

It was a beautiful moment.

My life is so quirky right now.

So, first of all I have a really important story to tell you. Last night I was in one of the major chain grocery stores, FranPrix, and I saw a mouse scamper across the aisle right in front of me. It went under the fresh produce area. I just started cracking up in the middle of the store. It was the best thing ever.

Adorably weird things seem to be happening to me all the time now. I made small talk in French with a drunk architect while she walked to the metro station. I saw a girl dance with a boy who was on a train across the platform from her and then sign him her number. I saw a hipster roller skating (yes, on skates) like it wasn't super nerdy. Some drunk guy gave my friend a French dictionary and wrote his number in it! Life is good. There is no end of amusement for me on the streets of Paris(/Lyon).

But yeah, basically things are cute right now. I got home today and my host mom had cleaned my room. (PS, super awkward, right? I've never had this little privacy. I'm always worried that she'll judge me for reading terrible books or see the spoon I use to eat yogurt when I'm at school that I never wash or find my stash of crack cocaine.*) She had taken Iceland, my stuffed bunny who I generally hide shamefully under the bed because I am 20 years old and sometimes sleep with a rabbit, and put him under my lap blanket. Which is both nice, because I don't have to hide poor Iceland anymore, and hilarious, because she put him under the blanket.

Who's a cozy wabbit? You're a cozy wabbit! Yes you are!

 The other awesome thing in my life is actually something I initiated. We're reading The Stranger by Albert Camus in French, and the cover was kind of stupid. So I, uh... improved it.

JAZZ HANDS!

I keep on seeing it on the metro and laughing to myself like a crazy person. I'm pretty sure no one else gets it, but come on. Mersault! In a top hat! With a cane! So yeah, that basically made my life.

And this isn't really cute or quirky or charming, but LOOK HOW MUCH YOGURT I BOUGHT. I have decided to prioritize traveling and having adventures over food in my budget, so I have invested in a few filling and nutritious staples for my lunches. I'm really excited by their giant multi-flavor packs of yogurt here. Like, really excited. I walked the mile home with 18 cups of yogurt under my arm. I felt pretty cool.

Also, this picture is deceptive. There is absolutely no light in the kitchen. Well, there's a window and one light, but the light isn't very bright to begin with, and there's a weird chimney thing or something in the middle of the kitchen, so one side has no light sources at all. The shutter speed on this was 1.3. Just saying. That's a lot for a fridge picture taken at noon.

*Just kidding. I don't smoke drugs.

My Eating Habit: Cheap, Delicious, and Shameful

Sometimes, when I'm in a hurry or feeling a little down, I turn to Picard for my suppers. Oh, Picard! A magical land of wonder and freezers!

Picard is a frozen food store, but it's a frozen food store like no other. The quality is comparable to Trader Joe's, in that it's about as delicious as frozen food could ever be. But because Picard sells nothing but frozen food (and a couple random knick knacks like ice cream cones and balsamic vinegar), the selection is incroyable. They have frozen puff pastry hors d'oeuvres. They have frozen red currants. They have frozen waffles, crepes, french toast, bread, croissants, viennoisseries. They have fish. They have chicken. They have prepared pasta dishes and ethnic food dishes and traditional French dishes. They have juice. They have soup. They have pizza. They have ice cream. They have pies. They have cake. They have shrimp.

So if I don't want to have to think too hard, I go to Picard and I pick out exactly what I want to eat, already prepared, with simple cooking instructions in simple French. Twenty minutes in the oven and voila! Goat cheese and spinach pastries for dinner.

The only problem with this is that it encourages me to eat exactly what I want for dinner. Which was, tonight, quiche lorraine and lemon sorbet. It was less than 5€ for two meals' worth of food, but I can't say it hits a lot of food groups...

The other problem is that since Picard is a 30 econd walk from my apartment building, and since I only buy a couple things at a time, I just carry the boxes in my hands. And then the traditional French people eating traditional French dinners at the traditional French bistro on the corner eye my sorbet and quiche disgustedly. They know exactly what I'm doing. They are ashamed for me.

Actually, on second though, there's no way they could know that I eat my sorbet right out of the carton. But I swear to god, they can read it in my face. And then they judge me for it. 

Harshly.

"If you have sex with someone, you can call them "tu." No problem."

My film professor is hilarious. He also recommended a book by Jean Cocteau's lover, but then warned us that there was some "kinky stuff." He also thinks Le Jour Se Leve is a good movie.

Funny guy.

LIST TIME!! I don't have time for a legit update.

Sorry guys, 18 days is quite a long unannounced hiatus. But I'm alive! And I'm happy.

Here is a list of awesome things that happened in the past 7 days:

1. Fall TV premieres finally started happening back home, and I watched a couple things online and started a television blog called Jam and Telly. 
2. My weird word-vomit approach to job applications (where I just awkwardly explain with creative use of the English language that I'm good at everything but have no experience) finally worked!
3. I went to what may or may not have been Israeli folk dance on the Quai Saint-Bernard. Regardless, I tried and miserably failed to join a circle dance, and then a couple dapper old men asked me to dance. One of them was a foot shorter than me and shuffled the whole time. I'm pretty sure the other one was a spy from a Slavic country. (He had a nuclear-code kind of a briefcase.)
4. I saw my fabulous family! Auntie Ann, Uncle Michel, Cousins Tom, Emelle, Mehdi, and Lillia, and friends were probably the highlight of my week. It was so lovely to spend a little time with family. It's nice not having someone's opinion of me rely on me being the perfect exchange student or French speaker or bread-orderer. I don't even have to be the perfect niece! (Just a pretty good one.) I love knowing that there are a few people who know me pretty well and like me anyway. That's family. You're blood relations and you haven't murdered anyone lately? You're good with me!It's just a wonderful feeling when you're in a foreign country. Plus my fam-fam is pretty much the best ever. Uncle Michel told me cool stuff about Paris, Auntie Ann and I talked shop (ie discussed knitting), and the wee cousinskies just showed up and were too cute for words. Oh my god, so cute.
5. I MADE A MOVIE. In 48 hours. I responded to some guy on Craigslist and next thing I know, I'm leaving the house at 5:15 am, on my way to orchestrate the one-day filming of a 4-minute fantasy short. I worked 19 hours straight. I made sandwiches, a postman's cap, and a bucket full of fake human feces. I learned how to keep a log sheet of all the good or bad takes and time codes. I probably got second hand lung cancer but I did NOT take up smoking, despite almost 24 hours spent on a team made up of 11 chain smokers and little old asthma-free me. I climbed the 5 flights of stairs between our set and our headquarters at least 15 times. I learned a lot about lighting. You know, I don't mean to brag, but I figure if you're reading this you like me enough to forgive me: I got an email the next morning that included the line, "Thanks to all for the really great time we had today, in particular to Jethro for letting us in his palace, and to Zoe for doing everything for everyone." Also, during one of our sleep-deprived delirious smoke breaks, a couple of the middle-aged professional filmmakers I was working with told me that if I could keep up this pace at multiple locations for multiple days, I'd make a really great producer. And even though I did not actually mean I wanted to be a film producer when I said I wanted to major in film production at our planning meeting, it's starting to sound like a possible option for me. I've never felt less like a lazy useless slob. It was beautiful.
6. I actually paid attention in Cultural Identities In France! Miracles do happen.

Feeling Like Myself Again

For the past few weeks, I've been trying really hard to fit in here. Making friends, studying more than I ever do (not that that's really saying anything), and making a serious effort to acclimate to the general Frenchiness. I've been wearing makeup, eating breakfast at the table, glowering at passersby and using the magic words almost until their enchantment wears off completely. But I think I tried so hard to be French that I kind of forgot to continue being me. Up until a couple of days ago, I hadn't cooked, crafted, or been obsessed with a song because it made me feel like I was in a movie in weeks. And then I decided it had to stop.

On Tuesday I went to this awesome yarn store called "La Droguerie" with a new friend. After wandering around for three hours fingering the yarns (both fingering and worsted...YARN JOKE!) and generally being too wussy to ask someone who you had to screw around here to get a ball of yarn, someone finally came up to us and (rather pointedly?) asked if we needed some help. I came away with some really lovely deep purple wool and a set of dpns, and last night I started to make some sweet mittens for the cold unforgiving Paris winter to come!

It was just good to do something that I've always enjoyed, you know? I feel like being The American Student Living In Paris has kind of clouded my identity. I forgot that I was also Zoe Toffaleti, who likes to do things that are not related to France, French, or homesickness. I like a lot of things! Almost all of the things, actually. (Except mushrooms.) And I think it's really important that I keep doing stuff I enjoyed back home, even if it isn't "what I should be spending my precious time in France on." That's dumb. I should do whatever makes me happy. And you know what makes me happy? This sandwich.

Hello, sexy.

I think this is a really important breakthrough. Just because I'm in a different country doesn't mean I don't need to do the same soul-sustaining activities I did at home. I'm still the same person. I still need to knit and make elaborate dishes. And I need a sick soundtrack to accompany that! So here is a Ukranian polka band cover of Hot and Cold by Katy Perry:

You're welcome.

I promise I'll post something travel bloggy next time.

Watch out girls, that apple juice is trouble!

Today I bought some apple juice. I chose it over the other juices purely because it was called "jus de pomme trouble." Which means "apple juice" and whatever "trouble" is. I never really figured it out. Anyway, I just thought it was hilarious, so I bought it even though I don't really like apple juice. COOL STORY BRO.

Yesterday we moved into our host family residences. I'm staying with a very nice femme named Monique, in a cute little apartment on the 6th French floor. Which is like the American 7th floor. There's no elevator, but it's surprisingly easy to walk up 6 flights of stairs. I think there's something in the water here. I always feel so capable of walking and climbing stairs. And crossing the street! I used to be scared of that.

There's something in the water here that makes my hair gross and crunchy, but that's another story.

My room is very cute, and looks into a little courtyard, with a view of some similarly cute French buildings and some not-so-cute office structures. But there is a little window grate and the windows are faux stained glass and it is airy and ensoleillée. I kind of love it.

This is a window grate. Do you think there's a legitimate name for them?

Today was also special because it started out terrible, and then somehow the magic of the universe took over and everything was perfect. I was running late in the morning, so I decided to take the metro instead of walking, and then things got comically difficult. While wander around the surprisingly giant Place de la Nation, my shoe broke. It's been a long time coming, but  was still surprised when, in the middle of the crosswalk, the entire back half of my flat just unraveled, leaving me with essentially half a shoe and some rags. I swore quietly and continued on my frantic search for a metro station. I finally got to class half an hour late (after a serious battle with the printer), and was very very ashamed of myself.

At lunch, though, things quickly turned around. I asked a randomly selected group of friends/acquaintances if they knew where a shoe store was (because hell if I was going to take a walking tour of La Jardin des Plantes and las Mosquée in one and a half shoes), and one of them suggested a cheap store directly across the street. At the store, I found some flats on sale for 6€. Even better, they looked a little like my ailing shoes: pointed toes, lace pattern. Even better, they were insanely comfortable and didn't give me blisters all day! So that was a win. After that, the day just got better and better. Here are the shoes:

Hello, my pretties.

It's been a good day. I am sleepy. Perhaps I'll take a nap.

Le Quartier Latin: This was adapted from an essay for class, so it's a little overblown...

Singing bro statues at the Pantheon

I think that many young tourists, when they think of Paris, are imagine the Latin Quarter. (Whether they realize or not.) Other parts of Paris are more modern and more grimy than what you imagine as you search for cheap tickets and pack suitcases full of striped shirts and what you think are stylish French shoes. (I don't even understand French fashion. Sometimes it's fabulous. A lot of times it's kind of orthopedic. A lot of times I'm not sure if someone is homeless or not.) What you imagine is a beautiful city, filled with mimes and dashing young men who read poetry. The Paris of our imaginations is picturesque, charming, and quaint. The Paris we see when we arrive is different. Dead birds. More homeless people than mimes. More catcalling creeps than dashing young men. But the Latin Quarter is surprisingly similar to the très chic sugarplum Paris in our heads.

Beige beige beige.

It's a bit more modern, a bit dirtier, and there are creeps and hobos; after all, Paris is a big city with big problems. But the Latin Quarter doesn't have a lot of graffiti or bars on the windows or gross new cement architecture housing sketch-sketch businesses. The buildings are old, and all beige. Light beige, dark beige, regular beige. The monochrome views look like Paris feels. Refined, serious, subtly lovely. Intellectuals, artists and students from all over the world yearn for Paris, and the Paris they yearn for is not expensive couture shops with big windows or those shady stores with windows completely covered in advertisements. It's beige stone and sculptures and centuries upon centuries of history in the very streets you walk on.

La Sorbonne

I don't love the latin Quarter because it's "so Paris,"and I don't regret that the seedy dirty (almost-)ugly parts of Paris exist. Every part of paris is equally Parisian, because that diversity is part of the Paris identity. But I love the Latin Quarter because to me, it represents what I loved about Paris before I even knew anything about it. Just that nebulous aura of poignant beauty and ancientness and glamour that makes everyone perk up a little when they hear "Paris."

Jet Lag, baby! Wooooooo!

I'm so tired right now.

In other news, I arrived safely in Paris, and (after a ridiculously long and arduous journey through the Parisian public transportation maze) was efficiently shepherded into my temporary lodgings.

I admit, I cried a little bit on the plane. It was pathetic, but I kept thinking about how much I like my life right now and how in the movies when people go off on grand adventures to new places, it's always to fill a void of some sort, and I couldn't remember anything I liked about France. All I could think about was everything I like about home and how I wouldn't get to see it for months.

But then... Bam! After leaving Charles de Gaulle (which is a total clusterfuck and couldn't make anyone fall back in love with Paris), after carrying my gigantic suitcases down a million flights of stairs, I got on the RER. (The RER is Paris' less deep, more rural underground train.) And all of a sudden, everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. I had successfully pulled off a crazy amount of luggage carrying. I was strong! I was independent! I was on my favorite train! People were speaking French!

The contrast between verdant foliage and graffiti gets me every time.

The rest of the day has been similarly heartening. The girls seem nice. The guy who got us settled is funny. There are things to see and do and I had some grapefruit juice earlier. Oh, and did I mention? Our hotel is adorable:

Who's a cute wittle hwotel? You are! Yes you!

Anyway, I'm not allowed to sleep for another few hours and I can't Skype anyone for at least another half hour. Maybe I'll just "not sleep" until then. "Not sleeping" sounds really nice. I want to be "not well rested" for my Skyping.

Pre- Postparting Depression

That was supposed to be a play on "postpartum depression." In case that wasn't clear.

Anyway, exactly two weeks until I board the plane. (Not exactly exactly. My flight isn't at 2 am, thank god.) And I still have all this stuff to do! It's real stressful. So I am coping by not sleeping ever! Yay! I'm doing a lot of quality late-night blogging.

A few minutes ago I went downstairs to turn off the lights in our car, and as I was leaving I caught the screen door so it didn't slam. And there was this weird wave of like, nostalgia or something that came over me. But I haven't left yet, so I don't think that's quite the word. But I just loved that I knew I had to catch the screen door. I loved it so. damn. much. I really like the feeling of knowing a place really well. I like being one of the few people able to coax the television into behaving, and knowing where everything is, and knowing all the little tricks for making coffee and getting ice and taking out the trash. I'm gonna miss that.

But then I'll find that in Paris and I'll be catching someone else's screen door, and that will probably feel awesome too.

Also, I just heard the screen door slam last night which is why I remembered it, so that's kind of ridiculous. I'm making it out to be some great knowledge I have garnered over the years. Nope. Just a thing from last night, when I was also going in and out of the house at 2 in the morning.