Aix-en-Vacances

HOLA MY FRIENDS

So French accents in general never cease to amuse me, particularly when I was attempting to get into our apartment (see previous post with regard to the key situation, these keys are exceedingly tricky and the door seems to have a vendetta against me, meanwhile the locals find it vraiment amusant when I resort to pounding and kicking at the entryway in attempts to gain entry. And by finding it vraiment amusant what I mean is quite the contrary.)

Just got off track. Where was I? Ahhhh (donc en Français on prononce ca comme EHHHH), oui. Les accents.

So the other day a dog walked by me and whacked me really hard in the shins with its tail, its owner—a male wearing the most ornate scarf and tightest pants I have ever seen—then casually explains, DO NOT BE AFRAID MY FRIEND… THIS DOG.. IS VERY.. HOW YOU SAY…  VRAIMENT GENTILLE? Not so freaking gentille when I have more bruises to add to my collection due to this foaming canine’s disproportionately large tail but it’s casual. The purpose of this story was solely to demonstrate the French accent, which has been somewhat futile because there is no audio accompaniment to this post.

Meanwhile the language barrier proves, for some, exceedingly frustrating at times. My lovely roomie and very petite friend of many years Hanna recently ran into some difficulty attempting to buy a blow dryer at the Monoprix. (Luckily some of us are just born—oh and to clarify “born” in this context means spending exorbitant amounts of money to ensure maximum weightlessness/bounce factor of les cheveux)

In an attempt to ask the woman where she could find a device that would permit her to dry her hair, she eagerly asked, est-ce que vous avez quelquechose pour secher les cheveux? Meanwhile the lovely woman from the esteemed grocery chain Monoprix pointed, unenthusiastically (SO uncharacteristic of French service), to a towel.

So I know you’re all just squirming in your seats eager to hear about the absolutely stark-raving mad Euro nightlife and about cigarettes and such. Well, unfortunately, I don’t rage and tell. Mostly because my parents read this blog. (hey mom and dad classes are scintillating, can’t get enough) I have found that the only thing better than my beloved Tuesday night is Mardi soir. And for the linguistically retarded (excuse my use of the word…or don't I don't care, I'm not in Boston anymore. PC refers to a ghetto COMPUTER and nothing more for all of you), Mardi soir means Tuesday night but in French, clearly upping the ante and the level of sophistication with which my favorite evening is approached. We went to various local etablissements , starting off at a hodgepodge of bars and then wrapping up the evening and starting the morning off at a nightclub called Le Mistral—which is, ironically, the name of a Zagat-rated French restaurant in Houston. No comparison can be drawn between the two and that reference was generally irrelevant. The menu at the former consisted solely of a liquid dinner with a side of seizure-inducing lighting. Also please note that I use the term nightclub loosely here because when we returned, shopkeepers were preparing to open their businesses for the morning. Also we found a local 24-hour pasta/burger place and even made some new friends who attempted to engage Lauren and I in a political debate while simultaneously attempting to sell us drugs. Also, I should mention that the blatant French sexism works considerably in my favor considering entrance/cover charge sont gratuites for the ladeez. Convenient. Meanwhile it is currently 11 am and I am about to go to sleep. Had class at 9 am this morning  (I know right) and not again till 3:30 so I am going to take advantage of this time in this culturally rich endroit and spend it sleeping resting up for my second favorite night of the week, THURSDAY. I expect a very casual evening, game of cards, maybe a movie, you know me.

AIX-O AIX-O (it’s pronounced X, so this is clearly a clever pun)

Margarita

Ps. I introduce myself as Margarita to the Frenchies here because it makes me sound like a sophisticated Spaniard of sorts. This amusing little ruse can only broken should I have to spastically whip out the Bank of America card to pay for my drinks. Which undoubtedly means I have been having an unsuccessful evening if I need to get the credit card out to begin with.