So the thought of abroad ending at some point in time literally sends me into an absolute panic-induced frenzy. I am spastically attempting to piece together a summer of substance and not just substances but I feel as though that is becoming exceedingly difficult on account of me currently being incapable of having intelligible thoughts or function. Just kidding. Except not at all. Let's not discuss this anymore.
This weekend Annie visited HEY GIRL you little Francophile you. In fact I found myself very surprised that someone who despises baguetteland to such an extreme would visit, and yet here I was showing her around our Aixciting little town. Shocking. And, even more shocking, I believe a return trip has or will be scheduled in the very near future. I just came to say HELLO and OH WAIT I’M COMING BACK BECAUSE I JUST COULDN’T GET ENOUGH. Oh how far we’ve come since the fond days of Tufts in Talloires managed to slash a good thirty years off my life span. (RIP my dignity you are sorely missed). Desolee I got sidetracked I forgot to mention that Annie is, in fact, allergique to France. Actually an amusing side side track, we found my Crolard pass in an old purse this weekend and I almost had an epileptic seizure upon holding it in my currently terribly manicured hands.
So après we went to Paris to meet up with Shaun and Lizzy and JJo was there too hey hey. So the French, as much as they adore eating cheese that has passed its prime, drinking Communion wine with dinner “casually” for health benefits (I am anticipating the day that I, too, can consume in this manner…oh wait), and capris on men (and women, unclear which is worse), adore ripping off Americans in a quite sadistic but somewhat amusing fashion. Twice in our two day trip our “check” was handwritten on a napkin. Literally the most SDF-ass shit I have ever seen. After seeing the splendors of la ville lumiere late Saturday night we decided we would love some hot chocolate. We stepped into a little café that we stumbled upon—in this context "stumbled upon" means chased by the proprietors down the street who shouted at us and demanded we enter, and thus we obliged mostly out of terror— where, unlike traditional French service, everyone was extremely genial and kind, there were simply so many waiters, everybody was taking our orders, fawning over us, and eager to serve. This is when we realized that everyone in the café was blackout. Actually most of the people taking our orders didn’t work there. This is hard to explain. I’m doing my best. One of our “waitresses” was an Amazonian-esque woman (wearing her purse while working, etrange) who was completely Tuesday status. As in, eye contact was tricky at this point. She proceeded to give us our hot chocolate, napkins, and asked us to raise our hands (she demonstrated, it was like a cross between Saturday Night Fever and I’m scared for my life if she gets any closer) if we needed anything. Oh and then she casually explained that she didn’t work there. It was naturally even more baffling then, when she handed us a bill on a napkin for 18 Euro. LA VIE CHERE. Good thing I don’t sporadically go on psycho shopping trips for myself so I always have cash to pay for the essentials like a warm drink. (HA)
Of course Lizzy was, in true form, perfectly polite and friendly, meanwhile I was gawking, pointing, and making a general scene, as happens to be my way. GOIL
Upon arrival back in Aix after taking a 5 am TGV back on Monday morning, I found myself exhausted and in desperate need to do laundry. I was trying discreetly to weasel change out of my ho-mo for the Laundromat (don’t EVEN talk to me about it) I would have enough change to do the 50 pounds of wash that I needed to do. She was laughing in my face. I desperately repeated, exhausted and not really wanting to deal with French hijinks, “Madame, je voudrais faire la vaisselle aujourd’hui. Avez-vous de la monnaie pour moi?”
The reality of my inquiry is bemusing in retrospect. In my exhausted semi-rage I was asking her to give me money to do the dishes. Like a servant. Cool. Glad my domestic vocabulary is nothing short of stellar. I’m not cut out for this life. Yes yes I adore the faire la fete aspect but not so much the Laundromat/stray dog in the street aspect. I have been fatigued lately due to the “assignments” I have had to do for “school”. Currently formatting a “bibliography” which includes various Wikipedia “articles”, and attempting to disprove, in a Pulitzer prize-worthy redaction for my Communist Communications class, the commonly held French attitude that Mo Money= Mo Problems. At this rate, expected graduation date from Tufts= 2015. Meanwhile, I had to wheel my garments to the Laundromat in an oversized Tumi suitcase. Like, the kind that you check when embarking on a Transatlantic voyage for a period of at minimum 3 months. So basically I rolled up (rolled in with? rolled the bag in? I don't know/care) at the local laverie with a suitcase for a hamper.
I feel as though the only difficile things about being so far away from Hotdogland are missing bad bitch Meredith Paul (probably one of the few who will appreciate the GOIL reference that I cleverly inserted— the cult of competition? why yes I would love some), the Alice & Olivia cruise collection which I want more than anything to peruse in person at the moment, and quesadillas slathered in white queso very much.
So, Belgium this weekend for a 45,000 people all-white Rave with DJ Martin Sovleig. OHHHHH, okay. See you never.
Infinite bisoux to most of vous,
M
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