Uninteresting

So I’d love to dish out a lengthy abroad update brimming with newfound sophistication, budget-savvy travel recommendations, provocative cultural comparisons, aix-istential musings, and whatnot. It pains me not at all to say that, considering I do absolutely less than nothing with my life on a day-to-day basis, an update of sorts is, as precedent would undoubtedly convey, laughable.

This week I had to make up a “midterm” that I had the misfortune of missing during my turbulent period of poor health. My “professor” asked that I show up at “school” at 11 in the morning to sit the exam. In order to make myself presentable by the crack of dawn as was cruelly demanded of me, I had to prepare myself by going to sleep very early the night before.

Going to sleep very early the night before in this context means that I didn’t open a tab and made it home before stores opened for regular business hours.

Slight sidetrack. Anyways, when walking to school the next day, poised and bright eyed comme toujours, something felt a little off about the light of day itself.  The reason for my feeling ill at ease, perturbed, if you will, strutting my way to “campus”, was due to the positioning of the sun. The world looks different in the middle of the morning and I had completely forgotten. Desolee. But hardly.

As an aside, I want to emphasize how absolutely difficile and a nightmare and a half it is to walk on cobblestone in heels. In Frog, heels are called talons, and to be honest they are literally the talons of Satan on a rough night out. One has not seen a stumble until witnessing a Tuesday night “stroll” on cobblestone. A little jaunt, if you will. SO QUAINT AND EURO.

However, I still insist upon wearing those bad boys every single fois I sort.

As an aside to the side that I have just made I should also mention that daytime marche-ing on cobblestone is also difficult. Particularly when I have my headphones in and am attempting to step/swag in time to the music, typically rap (or country, depending on how sorry I feel for myself at the time/if I'm wearing loose-fitted clothing which is for the most part, a rare occasion). ANYWAYS the walk ends up looking like kind of an uphill struggle waddle, SO enticing. And since I am in fine physical form there is usually a kind of panting associated with the walk, even more appetisante. 

Alas, it is, in fact, a Saturday night and due to the tiresome nature of the past week, what with the rigorous pursuit of academic excellence, intense endurance training/exploration of local mountains, resume padding, future planning, and the like, I am terribly exhausted. So now it’s just me, Greg House, and, by consequence, a lingering and currently heightened paranoia of contracting a foreign illness that does not adequately respond to Western medicine. All in all, today has been quite the casual affair. Currently contemplating a way to sneak around in the dark, unnoticed, and make my way to the kitchen, acquire the Nutella, and hold her captive till tomorrow. How very Entrapment of me.

It is currently only 11:45 pm. Or, as they say in France, 23h45.  Apparement, this is not only the land of flavorful biscuits but also the land of pretending to be in the military, all the time. Literally. For some godforsaken reason military time is not only used but also spoken out loud. I have yet, in my soon to be 21 years, (4 months from tomorrow, time doesn’t fly when you’re underage) to encounter a more useless lifestyle choice. Why yes, I would love to have my eyebrows waxed at 17:45. Let me just whip out my calculator and figure out what in god’s name you mean. Merci, bye.

TFlorenceM- ing this weekend with Lizzie Langs. Alex Dennett too.

In preparation for our reunion/the cult of Lilly koozies (minus MP/RP), I’ll close with a little proverb of the ages.

If you're not FaF, I DGaF. 

See, despite some evidence to the contrary, I haven't forgotten what's up.

Oh sorry is that rude,

Margarita 

Femme (dans une condition) Fatale

 In the most horrific and terrible twist of fate I am bedridden with some kind of exotic illness and unable to attend Sensation White in Belgium. If anybody is even reading this I would urge that person to call up some kind of hotline on my behalf. Oh and just to add insult to injury my exquisite French phone has just envoyed me a message (say it like MASSAGE,) stating that my credit has been depleted, what with  .14 cents remaining. Mother of all ironies what have me and my phone credit been reduced to.

Anyways I literally haven’t gotten dressed in 24 hours. I have been literally sitting in bed eating crepes drenched with tears and wondering if anyone has ever felt as sorry for themselves as I currently do. Through my impossibly tangled headphones the most somber of all playlists blares. I am literally wondering as to when my next encounter with another human being will be, eagerly anticipating the site of a friendly, familiar face.

Disclaimer, my emphasis of “literally” means quite the opposite: theatrical exaggeration, self pity, and creation of drama are, when sullen, my only extracurricular activities so please, for those of you who are not aware of the full of extent of my ability to stretch the truth, please read as follows:

“exotic illness”--  “a cold of low to medium severity”,

“I haven’t gotten dressed in 24 hours”—“I haven’t applied mascara since yesterday”

“Crepes drenched with tears”—“Crepes saturated with Nutella, powdered sugar, and fuck, a slice of apple pie on the side too”

“the most somber of playlists”—contemplating whether I should pre-order the regular or Deluxe version of the new Britney album (March 29^th come sooner please) while simultaneously deciding which of the recently released singles I prefer.

The bit about human encounters- Getting ready to leave my house and go book a hotel room for an important celeb who is going to be in Aix THIS FRIDAY—DADDY T taking a break from work and hanging out with me in Provence!! Also he has agreed to have dinner with me Hannie and the ho-mo… I will have to devote an entire novel to that meal good gott in himmel. 

Regardless, my life is literally like a music video to the Dark Side of Indoor Track Meets right about now. The house is abandoned. House here roughly means une espace approximately the size of a master bathroom we don’t exactly live in any kind of luxury. Ho-mo is off cooking quiche in the Alps, while Sophie our 38 year old host sister alias SoSo (for whom our dependable, supersonic, and ever-reliable wireless internet, SoSo13, is named) is most likely painting landscapes and quietly crying herself to sleep about not being married.

This is undoubtedly one of the most depressing experiences,  so depressing in fact that the heavens have clouded over in sympathy avec moi. I can not even explain. I am attempting to drown out the sound of birds and children with Britney’s divine voice, attempting to erase the fact that there is human life outside my drawn shades and locked shutters. Lots of throat lozenges and mind-numbing Macbook activity to take my mind of the fact that everyone I know and care about is currently in Belgium raging without me. I knew this “schoolwork” would eventually contribute to the depression of my typically phenomenally functioning immune system. Jesus.

Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m really such a lady. It’s just that there is nobody even in Aix right now and I am really rather miserable, especially what with the ciel being so nuageux right about now, I am getting sunshine deficiency. Or that might just be the sobriety speaking. JUST.KIDDING.

don’t hold it against me,

M

As an aside, to one of my closest and first friends at Tufts (Milla1), Ben, Bborn, I love you so much and I am so thankful everything is okay. I am thinking of you always and I miss you so much. 

No Money Mo Problems

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

Sky High

Hey hey hey hey long time no post. But time does fly when you’re having fun and by that what I generally mean is that I am quite possibly one of the laziest people that ever lived. SO Right now I am back in the broom closet that is mon petit chambre here in Aix, listening to a little Wiz, reminiscing on bygone days, —aka last week. In this context reminiscing means eagerly uploading photos onto my computer and sorting them into various iPhoto albums with generally unrelated (but still clever nonetheless) titles.

So various updates, as I have just returned from the land of tapas, sangria, and Espanish espeaking epeoples. I had several amusing encounters in Spain, quite funny little anecdotes. Amusing is a relative term considering these experiences have left me quite traumatized and afraid for my existence but they will clearly amuse the masses at my expense. Regardless I am in quite a good mood after my return to Crepeland so I will share. As a slight warning, there is a little bit of profanity in this post for emphasis. Mom don’t text me complaining about this, my French phone is out of credit so I won’t get it anyway.

It has come to my attention that while Europe is typically deemed a relatively inefficient continent, Spain takes this to a whole new level. Do not attempt to get a blow dry in Spain. A 3 o’clock appointment starts at 4 o’clock. It’s fine, I’m used to ghetto tardiness I live in Medford. I can handle this. But my complete and utter lack of Spanish prevented me from explaining that I need a non-Sulfate based shampoo (don’t get me started) so I settle for just conditioner. It’s fine, just give me a good style. As long as they are enthusiastic and polite, I’ll be fine.  I mean, in a country whose language utilizes an exclamation point on either sides of a word, one would assume friendliness and hospitality. Pas du tout mes amis. Pas du freaking tout. Moral of this generally useless update, if you want a chic blow dry and style in Spain, save time and ask for a 60 Euro migraine and some shitty service on the side. There you go, I basically have my own Yelp site it’s fine. Oh also I charged this to the room, and needless to say when I got my final bill they had put down a service charge for serving my a glass of water. 9 Euro. Now I’m no frugal Fran but hey now.

The world is a very, very, very petite place. In my early abroad Facebook album entitled Triple Aix (GET IT) please examine the gentleman at the left of photo 14 (of 118). For the lazy: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=500884471715&set=a.500325046715.265459.673271715&theater

Lauren, Hanna, and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his dear “co-pilot” on our very first night out (of abroad) in Aix in January. This gentleman enjoys purchasing giraffes of Hoegaarden beer for young Americans, has an ear fetish, and thinks it is funny to fly planes when severely inebriated. He even mentioned Sundays being the worst days to fly because of the hangover. This is when he told us he was a “pilot” to which I spat up liquor all over his face and told him that I was an American TV personality.

Coincidentally this lovely Espanish especimen, as depicted with his echic Espanish escarf, was none other than the FUCKING pilot on my flight from Madrid to Marseille today.

 I also found this extremely amusing. At the time. When I wasn’t a passenger. On a plane that he was FUCKING flying. Excuse my English. It’s generally terrifying to place your life in someone’s hands, but it is even more terrifying to place your life in this man’s hands. Hands that came way too close to my ears. Because, as I mentioned earlier, he has an ear fetish. And likes to fly planes while intoxicated. And finds Sundays difficult to fly, because of the hangover, AS I EXPLAINED EARLIER. And at 38,000 feet over the Mediterranean the irony that today was none other than the Lord's Day was just too much to bear.

I want to take a second to make this a real abroad blog and not just a place where I sardonically bitch about everything and everyone. It might be completely trite and annoying to say, but this is not real life. I have been to three amazing cities in the past twelve days, been inside 7 story clubs, walked down the Barcelona boardwalk, saw my beautiful family in London, slept at the Palace hotel in Madrid…This is the most amazing time I have ever had, a glorified vacation completely free of worry and stress. I am currently attempting to extend my stay till September, so fingers crossed that all works out. There is so much in store, so much to experience, it’s just absolutely overwhelming when I think about it.

The world is a very, very, VERY VERY VERY petite place. Lauren and I decided to pay a visit to the world-renown Sagrada Familia Gaudi church in Barcelona, a site unlike anything I have ever seen or will see again. Absolutely remarkable, stunning, you get the general idea. Because this sacrosanct Barcelonan symbol is just so splendid, tourists flock from all across the globe to see it. So it came as no surprise that we had to wait in line for about half an hour to enter (might have been a lot more, or a lot less… my sense of time is terrible in a worrisome way). So as Lauren and I are casually discussing the ins and outs of Barcelona, comparing cities, life musings and the like,  we come to the topic of how Barcelona somewhat resembles downtown Boston in some ways (I don’t recall exactly how we came to this conclusion, I think mostly because they are both, well, cities) but I took this opportunity to thank my lucky stars that I was nowhere near Medford. I think my exact words were, “I mean I like Boston a fair amount, but Medford is fucking disgusting. A complete and utter shithole.” (Disclaimer I don’t actually fully even feel this way but sometimes I tend to exaggerate for emphasis)

But I might actually feel this way. Just a little bit. Sorry I’m not sorry.

Lauren chuckles, then there is silence as we stare up at Gaudi’s unfinished wonder— gleaming in the absolutely brilliant Espanish esunlight in front of us. The silence is broken about a minute later as the elderly gentleman standing behind us, vacationing with his lovely wife quietly interjects.

“We’re from West Medford, we actually live on Monument Street.”

FUCKING townies.

Loving and missing each and every one of you beaucoup,

Mags

Safety first

They say that a safe topic of polite conversation in France is the weather. So I’d like to start off with an obligatory weather update. Currently I’m thanking my lucky stars I’m in the marvelous sud de la France where each day is warmer than the one before and the sun shines 360 days out of the year. This little weatherbug-esque tidbit is spurred by the catastrophe and a half that is the current apocalypse-status weather in the motherland (miss you, you commercial, efficient, beautifully superficial, home of country/rap music aka the only kinds that matter, speedy little place we like to call les Etats-Unis ). But oui oui I’m pretty sure there were icicle spottings in Screwston, which leads me to believe that it is, in fact, brrrrrrr and also very possibly the second coming.

Here when the weather forecast anticipates a partly cloudy day, what that generally tends to mean is that, at some point during the day, you may be able to spot a cloud if you squint really hard and stare into the sun until you can’t really see much of anything at all. Meanwhile, my excessive viewing of House re-runs on the ordinateur have me panicking over the possibility of having acquired a terrifying, undiagnosed illness of sorts, whereas most of the time what I’m dealing with is just a hangover. JUST KIDDING!!!! MOM, SERIOUSLY...I’M KIDDING. If you send me another email chastising me for my cavalier attitude towards alcohol I will knock myself over the head with the next bottle of rose I find. But just for you I’ve dedicated this post to safety and topics of discussion befitting a well-traveled young woman such as myself.

So now that I’ve covered my first safe topic, onto the next. Food. Cultural disparities abound, be warned. The French vivent pour manger, while we tend to manger pour vivre. (Duh) The frighteningly compulsive, blink-and- that-quarter-double has just done a vanishing act, characteristic of the morbidly obese aka your average American, is looked upon with disdain in France. In this context disdain reads more along the lines of sheer terror. They like to take their time, painstakingly drawing out their meals, which last for hours on end.They attempt to eat dinner as close to the witching hour as is humanly possible, thereby bringing you to the very brink of hypoglycemic-induced shock and starvation before aggressively shoving a wheel of unrefrigerated, unpasteurized cheese in your mouth, offering a baguette as a chaser. Apparement our confusion and the sound of growling tummies as we wait, salivating, for the next course, is dubbed uncultured, we're labeled base creatures incapable of comprehending the mighty art de vivre. What can I say, my pauper tastes just can't keep up. Shieeeeeeet. 

That being said, the Nutella banini (banana panini) that I’ve been concoting (don’t even worry I’m such a down to earth domestic woman, future fantastic breakfast maker extraordinaire for certain) for myself as of late is a true masterpiece. My tastebuds sing its praises on the reg. Speaking of tastebuds, my tastebuds haven’t been inflamed at all the entire time I’ve been abroad! For those who don’t know, my tastebuds swell up when I’m stressed out. At Tufts a walk down Professor’s Row after a Tuesday night out is enough to trigger those bad boys into proper ouchies. Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but it’s not like I have a penchant for excessive embellishment so pas de probleme really. MEANWHILE my real point-- I’m just living the life over here with great new friends, a fabulous new city, exciting travels/swimsuit season in the very immediate future, and petite, trendy tastebuds just right for sampling des choses comme French cheese, or different fine wines de la region consumed slowly, moderately, and solely for epicurean purposes. To be honest, which is something I rarely am, I forget what real life is like.

SO. Moral of the story, safety first. The French and their “wines” are not your friends. If there’s one thing I excel at, it’s safety, and if there’s one thing I possess en abondance, it’s the proper savoir-faire in a foreign country full of hedonistic fiends.

If you ain’t running with it, run from it mutha-frenchers

xo Mags

PS  On the subject of politics, one of my professors is an anarchist. Like fully a member of the Socialist political persuasion. Which he attempted to sell us like a freaking product on the home shopping channel in class the other day. Like, I’m almost certain I saw him strolling on le cours the other day with a defined French surly glare, coffee in one hand, and something by Engels dans l’autre. A combo of chic, caffeinated, and, oh, casually COMMUNIST.

We r who we r

First off. Last night as I was waiting for my vodka redbull sans sucre (sugarfree—you know just my favorite PHP classic but in Europe, so obviously more trendy and sophisistiquee)—a lovely young French man asked me a question that I was not paying attention to. I figured he was trying to squeeze into the bar or just casually attempting to place a drink order. I assumed this on the basis that my typical behavior in the vicinity of a bar is pretty needy, selfish, and, at times, downright rude. Realizing the error of my ways I decided to give him the response many deserve but never hear.

I responded, with a sheepish, “bien sur, Monsieur. Un moment j’attends mon vodka redbull sans sucre.” (it is in my experience quite a crucial conversation starter to drop that this is my drink of choice due to many people’s sadly misguided and small-minded opinions that mixing energy drinks and alcohol is for some reason a health hazard, and then gaining amusement from their failed attempts to justify this silly little notion and/or convert me to the cult of drinks that don’t induce heart palpitations) . Off track, And a big grin spread across his face—kind of like a deranged cat. Using all my Duchesnian intellect and acquired $omerville $treet $marts I recognized this as a warning sign of sorts. A red flag, if you will, that all was not well. After a brief translation (I didn’t need a translation, my French is fine, I just was more focused on the RBV) Turns out he was asking if I would kindly take off all of my clothing, s’il vous plait. Clearly I stormed off in a feminist rage, shuddering at the nerve of this horrifically leather-clad misogynist. He ended up following us to the 24 hour shwarma place, he’s actually a hoot and a half, pretty witty indeed.

Furthermore, clubbing apparently starts at 3 am. Fashionably late, clearly. (Where have I heard that before… excuse me while I off myself) Meanwhile the IPN club is so stocked they even have a stripper pole! Straight class. Thanking baby Jesus I made the clutch call to bring my Lysol wipes which I cleverly fortified with some Purell. So sanitary. Eric and I then befriended the owner. And by befriended clearly I mean accosted and photographed incessantly.

SO, this weekend we went to Nice, Monte Carlo, and Cannes. Glitz and glam. Except not quite when we roll up in a tourbus full of Americans with 70 year old chaperones wearing fanny packs. Fun weekend, lots of fun. We stayed in a hostel. Yes I spelled that correctly, I didn’t accidentally type an extra “s”. let me just reiterate, I stayed in a hostel.  Okay. A hostel. Well you get the general idea. It’s not a hotel. And we ate off trays. You know how they say, when on the French Riviera, eat at a cafeteria-style meal hole and sleep in bunkbeds. I was too __________ to care so it doesn’t really phase me, I was just that excited to be on the Cote d’Azur. I feel as though the physical beauty goes without saying, so I’ll just say it anyway. It’s very beautiful. Quite a long bus ride, but thankfully I had my jamz/my favorite playlist "rap songs for white girls" because its a rap playlist for white girls.

Currently re-evaluating my schedule and thinking of switching into a French lit class, mostly because I have to drop the 9 am as it is physically impossible that I will be able to wake up that early.

At the moment desperately trying to upload pictures but failing miserably because of the sub-human internet in my ho-fam’s “house.” Also, tonight at dinner ho-mo (stands for host mom, relax Tufts) attempted to lecture Huckie and I on the dangers of being loose women and urged us vehemently to spend more time in the library meeting French gentlemen and not rogue street walkers-- who, she seems concerned, might not actually even be really French. She then launched into a tirade about the opening of the frontiers and how permissive French culture has become, meanwhile I wasn't quite paying attention because the news was on in the background and it's supposed to be sunny this whole week. Sweet.

She also didn't laugh when I made a joke about meeting perfectly respectable gentlemen on the Cours Sextius (the street upon which most of our local haunts are located) at 5 am. She also urged us never to find ourselves on the Cours Sextius to begin with, which was kind of lost on us  je pense but nonetheless, in her words, she is not worried because we become wiser. Literally, she said, on grandit un peu plus chaque jour. In other words, we get bigger each day. I agree ho-mo, I have been getting bigger. Probably from all the cheese you're feeding us.

Au revoir for now.

Love, 

M

PS Expect pictures never. Expect stories always.

In the meantime I will enjoy being treated like a battered wife by Facebook.

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.