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.