Easy come, easy go, easy come back.
I am apparently back in the "performance" division, as the school secretary told me while I was asking a unrelated question.
Look for the "easy come easy go easy come back easy go again" message next week.
I have had many Alanis Morissette-esque moments in my life thus far, but the biggest one came yesterday. While searching for plastic utensils at Monoprix, I noticed there were plastic forks and spoons, but no knives. Incredulous, I asked a worker if they were actually dumb enough to stock every plastic utensil except knives (I phrased the question slightly more politely)--she responded in the affirmative.
It was like 10,000 spoons when all I needed was a knife.
It wasn't very ironic, it just pissed me off.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
...Mais Non
Easy come, easy go, right?
I am no longer in the "performance" division.
As usual, French bureaucracy has had the last laugh. When my teacher met up with the head of our school to request my change, he rejected the possibility because it would be "inappropriate" to have me skip another level. She insisted that I was ready for it. He insisted that it was just not something they do, and that it was "too fast." My teacher didn't even mention this yesterday until I asked her about it at the end of the lesson.
If you read the last post, you will notice I soothsaid this occurence. I don't know if "soothsaid" is a verb, but I was not surprised in the least to receive this news.
Philip suggested I burn down Paris. I don' t know. Displacing 11 million people and destroying billions upon billions of dollars worth of art and monuments might be a bit extreme, and I'd need a lot of matches.
I think the only thing left to do is to withdraw in despair to my practice room, suffer some horrible chemical burn, make a costume, and take my revenge out on the innocent citizens of Gotham.
At the very least, I can put on a cape and start yelling at people in the street. That'll show 'em.
Oh well, maybe next year. Stupid France.
A term in America is starting to catch on: "serial monogamist." This is that rare breed of person that moves from serious relationship to serious relationship with reptilian speed and cunning: they date somebody and live with them for two years, are single for a week, date somebody else for another two years, etc.
It's sort of a weird concept in America, but the French are the most heinous offenders when it comes to serial monogamy.
Although my methodology is probably flawed and my p value may be a bit high, I would guess that 80% of women over the age of 21 are in serious relationships. A Frenchman even admitted to me yesterday that by the age of 23, most French women are settled into something serious.
I was out at a medical school's soiree until 5AM. Although I rarely feel like I'm living the "early 20s in Paris life," this heaving club full of free alcohol, girls in nurses outfits, and strobe lights felt like a genuine "night out."
However, I only had to say "Salut" to a girl before some skinny dude wearing a black tank top with gelled hair would walk over and give me the "no go" sign.
If I find an unlocked Peugeot full of blood-stained gold bars outside my apartment, I will be mildly surprised.
If I meet a single French girl, I will conclude that the apocalypse has arrived.
Okay, this is the last time for a while I'll complain about French dating customs. I'll give it at least three days.
I am no longer in the "performance" division.
As usual, French bureaucracy has had the last laugh. When my teacher met up with the head of our school to request my change, he rejected the possibility because it would be "inappropriate" to have me skip another level. She insisted that I was ready for it. He insisted that it was just not something they do, and that it was "too fast." My teacher didn't even mention this yesterday until I asked her about it at the end of the lesson.
If you read the last post, you will notice I soothsaid this occurence. I don't know if "soothsaid" is a verb, but I was not surprised in the least to receive this news.
Philip suggested I burn down Paris. I don' t know. Displacing 11 million people and destroying billions upon billions of dollars worth of art and monuments might be a bit extreme, and I'd need a lot of matches.
I think the only thing left to do is to withdraw in despair to my practice room, suffer some horrible chemical burn, make a costume, and take my revenge out on the innocent citizens of Gotham.
At the very least, I can put on a cape and start yelling at people in the street. That'll show 'em.
Oh well, maybe next year. Stupid France.
A term in America is starting to catch on: "serial monogamist." This is that rare breed of person that moves from serious relationship to serious relationship with reptilian speed and cunning: they date somebody and live with them for two years, are single for a week, date somebody else for another two years, etc.
It's sort of a weird concept in America, but the French are the most heinous offenders when it comes to serial monogamy.
Although my methodology is probably flawed and my p value may be a bit high, I would guess that 80% of women over the age of 21 are in serious relationships. A Frenchman even admitted to me yesterday that by the age of 23, most French women are settled into something serious.
I was out at a medical school's soiree until 5AM. Although I rarely feel like I'm living the "early 20s in Paris life," this heaving club full of free alcohol, girls in nurses outfits, and strobe lights felt like a genuine "night out."
However, I only had to say "Salut" to a girl before some skinny dude wearing a black tank top with gelled hair would walk over and give me the "no go" sign.
If I find an unlocked Peugeot full of blood-stained gold bars outside my apartment, I will be mildly surprised.
If I meet a single French girl, I will conclude that the apocalypse has arrived.
Okay, this is the last time for a while I'll complain about French dating customs. I'll give it at least three days.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Un Peu de Succes
Remember this thing?
This is the quasi-choose your own adventure game that is the Ecole Normale de Musique.
As you may remember me saying back in September, I was expecting to be in the second year of the 4th level--at the end of this year, my path would be chosen for me: I would either be placed on the badass "performance" track (see left track) or the ultra-lame "teaching" track (see right track). And if I wanted to attack the Winter Wizard with my emerald wand, I would turn to page 173. But I digress.
When I first got here, my teacher bumped me up a level into the 5th "teaching" division. As of last week, she confirmed that I was doomed to stay in this level and live a life of mediocrity and quiet desperation.
I was disappointed and slightly devastated upon hearing this news last Tuesday.
Then I thought about it. Hell, I wasn't even expecting to be in the 5th level this year. To expect to be bumped up yet another level would just be greedy. I accepted my place, and I vowed to do the best I could anyway.
I was even ready to tell her today that I was fine with staying in said "teaching" level.
But then, one of those "blue moon" things happened.
I played well.
My Chopin "black keys" etude sparkled, the variations from Beethoven's Op. 109 sounded sort of coherent, and I was able to stumble my way through a bit of Albeniz' "El Puerto." I received the following comment:
"Hmm, now I don't know what to do about your level."
"Well, I was thinking--I'm fine with the teaching division."
"You've made lots of progress in eight days...okay, let's try the performance division."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Sure, why not."
Sweet.
Of course, this is France. She said she would "call the secretary" to confirm my bump-up, but I won't count my chickens until I get some kind of letter signed by Sarkozy himself confirming that I am now indeed in the "performance" level.
But it still means that my piano teacher has some kind of confidence that I'm getting somewhere, which was celebratory enough for me to treat myself to a Kir (i.e., wine with currant syrup. Divine).
True, my exams are now ridiculously hard to pass at the end of the year. True, I went to a cafe with my Chopin etudes just to see if the waitress would talk to me. True, I still have really weird looking toes and lots of back hair.
But the tides have shifted ever so slightly in my favor.
On another note, I made ratatouille tonight!
Now if that's not a good day, I don't know what is.
This is the quasi-choose your own adventure game that is the Ecole Normale de Musique.
As you may remember me saying back in September, I was expecting to be in the second year of the 4th level--at the end of this year, my path would be chosen for me: I would either be placed on the badass "performance" track (see left track) or the ultra-lame "teaching" track (see right track). And if I wanted to attack the Winter Wizard with my emerald wand, I would turn to page 173. But I digress.
When I first got here, my teacher bumped me up a level into the 5th "teaching" division. As of last week, she confirmed that I was doomed to stay in this level and live a life of mediocrity and quiet desperation.
I was disappointed and slightly devastated upon hearing this news last Tuesday.
Then I thought about it. Hell, I wasn't even expecting to be in the 5th level this year. To expect to be bumped up yet another level would just be greedy. I accepted my place, and I vowed to do the best I could anyway.
I was even ready to tell her today that I was fine with staying in said "teaching" level.
But then, one of those "blue moon" things happened.
I played well.
My Chopin "black keys" etude sparkled, the variations from Beethoven's Op. 109 sounded sort of coherent, and I was able to stumble my way through a bit of Albeniz' "El Puerto." I received the following comment:
"Hmm, now I don't know what to do about your level."
"Well, I was thinking--I'm fine with the teaching division."
"You've made lots of progress in eight days...okay, let's try the performance division."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Sure, why not."
Sweet.
Of course, this is France. She said she would "call the secretary" to confirm my bump-up, but I won't count my chickens until I get some kind of letter signed by Sarkozy himself confirming that I am now indeed in the "performance" level.
But it still means that my piano teacher has some kind of confidence that I'm getting somewhere, which was celebratory enough for me to treat myself to a Kir (i.e., wine with currant syrup. Divine).
True, my exams are now ridiculously hard to pass at the end of the year. True, I went to a cafe with my Chopin etudes just to see if the waitress would talk to me. True, I still have really weird looking toes and lots of back hair.
But the tides have shifted ever so slightly in my favor.
On another note, I made ratatouille tonight!
Now if that's not a good day, I don't know what is.
French Gaffe #20,000
Recently, I've been getting bored with normal French and have been attempting to use more cool slang.
I usually fail.
Most recent example:
I'm about to sit down with my friends for pizza. I want to think of a cool way to say "I'll sit down right here."
Me: Je me gare le fion ici!
(silence)
French guy: I think the English translation for what you just said would be, "I'm parking my asshole here."
Oops. Well, that was exactly what I wanted to say. Seriously.
I usually fail.
Most recent example:
I'm about to sit down with my friends for pizza. I want to think of a cool way to say "I'll sit down right here."
Me: Je me gare le fion ici!
(silence)
French guy: I think the English translation for what you just said would be, "I'm parking my asshole here."
Oops. Well, that was exactly what I wanted to say. Seriously.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Une Tele
I finally bit my lip, mustered up all of my courage, and went out to buy a TV yesterday.
I left at 4PM and got back around 8:15 PM.
This was the most epic journey of my life. I had triumphs and failures, did battle with knaves and enchanters, succoured French maidens, and almost got hit by a car in the suburbs.
Is it really that difficult to find a normal, non-flat screen, non-plasma, cheap TV? I feel like they're a dime a dozen in America.
As usual, this involved a 45 minute metro ride out to the suburbs to a French mall with the only remaining electronics store that sells cheap TVs.
I have seldom felt less comfortable than I did in the French mall. For you ATLiens, imagine North Dekalb Mall back when it was called "Market Square" circa 1991. Now fill it with hundreds upon hundreds of people. Now imagine everything is in French. (shudder).
Either way, I now have a TV, and I guess having Sarkozy in the room is better than no company...right?
I left at 4PM and got back around 8:15 PM.
This was the most epic journey of my life. I had triumphs and failures, did battle with knaves and enchanters, succoured French maidens, and almost got hit by a car in the suburbs.
Is it really that difficult to find a normal, non-flat screen, non-plasma, cheap TV? I feel like they're a dime a dozen in America.
As usual, this involved a 45 minute metro ride out to the suburbs to a French mall with the only remaining electronics store that sells cheap TVs.
I have seldom felt less comfortable than I did in the French mall. For you ATLiens, imagine North Dekalb Mall back when it was called "Market Square" circa 1991. Now fill it with hundreds upon hundreds of people. Now imagine everything is in French. (shudder).
Either way, I now have a TV, and I guess having Sarkozy in the room is better than no company...right?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Quel Loser
Last night one of my friends invited me to a birthday party for one of her friends in the suburbs. It was a nice gesture, considering I didn't know a single person there and felt like a bit of a crasher.
Anyway, after scanning the room, I scouted out a cute girl from Aix-en-Provence. I was wearing a tight, black t-shirt to show every nook and cranny of my perfectly toned pecs, and I had an adorable Anglophone accent--I was ready to work my "thang," as it were.
Something happened that only happens once in a blue moon: I was charming. We had a long conversation on everything from Aix, to Sarkozy, to how the effects of coffee don't actually come until six hours after you drink a cup, and how the "caffeine buzz" is just psychological.
Correct me if needed, but I'm still pretty sure she was incredibly wrong about this coffee thing. I've always read 15 minutes, but when you're going after a cute French girl, semantics don't matter. Six hours it is. As many hours as you want, mademoiselle.
We even got to the point of doing that little salsa dance where you hold each other and turn around. I told her she was cute, she giggled. We kept turning and looked longingly into each other's eyes. It was one of those ultra-rare moments when I had less than a 15% chance of rejection. I then did what anyone who knows me would expect me to do.
I stared at her like a goon and smiled awkwardly until the song was over. We let each other go, and there weren't any more salsa songs for a while.
The friends who invited me were tired and wanted to leave. But I needed another salsa song, dammit. Go ahead, friends! I'll catch up with you guys later! Haha!
Suddenly, when lift-off was imminent, the mothership crashed. I realized I didn't actually know anyone at the party anymore, and I was "that guy" who was clearly sticking around in a last-ditch effort for romance. I awkwardly ate snacks and tried in vain to strike up another conversation, but the iron had clearly cooled off. We did not dance again, and the night ended with an awkward French cheek kiss--a greeting which I have come to call the "Kiss of Doom," since it never signifies anything else.
In conclusion, I am ridiculously lame.
Note to you ladies: If you think I like you (and if you have to ask, the answer is yes), then make the move. We will see Korean reunification before I ever get enough confidence to actually kiss a girl and move past my 13-year old, Peter Pan-ish existence.
True, the relationship would have lasted for thirty minutes.
But children, strike while the iron is hot.
Anyway, after scanning the room, I scouted out a cute girl from Aix-en-Provence. I was wearing a tight, black t-shirt to show every nook and cranny of my perfectly toned pecs, and I had an adorable Anglophone accent--I was ready to work my "thang," as it were.
Something happened that only happens once in a blue moon: I was charming. We had a long conversation on everything from Aix, to Sarkozy, to how the effects of coffee don't actually come until six hours after you drink a cup, and how the "caffeine buzz" is just psychological.
Correct me if needed, but I'm still pretty sure she was incredibly wrong about this coffee thing. I've always read 15 minutes, but when you're going after a cute French girl, semantics don't matter. Six hours it is. As many hours as you want, mademoiselle.
We even got to the point of doing that little salsa dance where you hold each other and turn around. I told her she was cute, she giggled. We kept turning and looked longingly into each other's eyes. It was one of those ultra-rare moments when I had less than a 15% chance of rejection. I then did what anyone who knows me would expect me to do.
I stared at her like a goon and smiled awkwardly until the song was over. We let each other go, and there weren't any more salsa songs for a while.
The friends who invited me were tired and wanted to leave. But I needed another salsa song, dammit. Go ahead, friends! I'll catch up with you guys later! Haha!
Suddenly, when lift-off was imminent, the mothership crashed. I realized I didn't actually know anyone at the party anymore, and I was "that guy" who was clearly sticking around in a last-ditch effort for romance. I awkwardly ate snacks and tried in vain to strike up another conversation, but the iron had clearly cooled off. We did not dance again, and the night ended with an awkward French cheek kiss--a greeting which I have come to call the "Kiss of Doom," since it never signifies anything else.
In conclusion, I am ridiculously lame.
Note to you ladies: If you think I like you (and if you have to ask, the answer is yes), then make the move. We will see Korean reunification before I ever get enough confidence to actually kiss a girl and move past my 13-year old, Peter Pan-ish existence.
True, the relationship would have lasted for thirty minutes.
But children, strike while the iron is hot.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
La Voisine Folle Part 100
Around 11 this morning, after trying in vain to force hot water out my sink, I decided to ask my non-crazy neighbor if she had the same problem and discover if this was indeed the work of the devious French utility company against my apartment.
I rang at her door. Like clockwork, the *crazy* neighbor on the other side suddenly popped out of her own door.
"The police are watching you!"
"Go away."
"Look at you, spying on the neighbor with your ear against the door. They're watching you, the whole building is watching you!"
"Go away."
"I'm calling the police!"
"Go away."
"Son of a whore!"
Whoa. That was a left-turn.
Now normally I think crazy neighbors are kind of funny--at the very least, her psychotic rants are a small break in the routine over here. But menacingly calling someone a "son of a whore" drops from being "amusing" to "only slightly amusing." This comes only two days after she burst into my conversation party and made the same rants about owning a hotel, having the police spy on me, etc. etc.
Thus, I finally got enough motivation to go to the police and register a complaint against this lunatic.
Of course, this is Paris. I waited an hour in a line that I didn't even have to wait in. After I finally got inside, I waited alone in a pale-yellow room for nearly 45 minutes.
When I finally talked to a policeman, he informed me that since it was really just an "insult," nothing would hold up in a complaint against her unless she kept it up. So he registered some kind of preliminary complaint which will blossom into a full-grown one after a bit more harassment (which is sure to come).
I also noticed that the lock on my mailbox had been changed, as of this morning. The hilarity never ends!
I would like to briefly compare the American versus the French way of doing things. Let's say I need an electric razor. The American way:
I go to CVS whenever I want, 2 minutes away.
"A razor, please."
"15 dollars. Thank you, have a nice day!"
The French way:
I take a 45-minute metro ride to some obscure electronics store in the suburbs. I am fifth in line and wait 45 minutes.
"A razor, please."
"Okay. Do you have a copy of your CV, a letter of motivation, and three passport pictures?"
"A letter of motivation? I need to shave."
"Do not get huffy with me, young man!"
"Sorry. Here's three passport pictures.
"You are not wearing a green shirt in your pictures."
"What? Why do I need a green shirt?"
"Without a passport picture, you must carve a bust of yourself out of this block of marble before midnight."
"But I don't have a chisel."
"Then you must fill out these forms to apply for a government approved chisel which will arrive in 6 to 8 weeks."
"I don't have a pen on me..."
"You can fill out this form to apply for a temporary vistor's pen. Use this wedge of Camembert in the meantime."
"How can I write using cheese?"
(French person dumps pot of scalding water on my head)
Anyway, it's off to solfege.
I am coming to realize that, whatever slight talents I may have when it comes to actually playing the piano, I am far, far away from being a gifted "musician" in general. My sight-reading teacher actually whacked my hands yesterday and described my work as "frightful." And my solfege teacher gives far more attention to the only other student in the class--a 14-year old girl who obviously shows much more promise in solfege than a grizzled 23-year old with a large yogurt stain on his sweater. I'm going to the dry-cleaner's tomorrow, I promise.
I rang at her door. Like clockwork, the *crazy* neighbor on the other side suddenly popped out of her own door.
"The police are watching you!"
"Go away."
"Look at you, spying on the neighbor with your ear against the door. They're watching you, the whole building is watching you!"
"Go away."
"I'm calling the police!"
"Go away."
"Son of a whore!"
Whoa. That was a left-turn.
Now normally I think crazy neighbors are kind of funny--at the very least, her psychotic rants are a small break in the routine over here. But menacingly calling someone a "son of a whore" drops from being "amusing" to "only slightly amusing." This comes only two days after she burst into my conversation party and made the same rants about owning a hotel, having the police spy on me, etc. etc.
Thus, I finally got enough motivation to go to the police and register a complaint against this lunatic.
Of course, this is Paris. I waited an hour in a line that I didn't even have to wait in. After I finally got inside, I waited alone in a pale-yellow room for nearly 45 minutes.
When I finally talked to a policeman, he informed me that since it was really just an "insult," nothing would hold up in a complaint against her unless she kept it up. So he registered some kind of preliminary complaint which will blossom into a full-grown one after a bit more harassment (which is sure to come).
I also noticed that the lock on my mailbox had been changed, as of this morning. The hilarity never ends!
I would like to briefly compare the American versus the French way of doing things. Let's say I need an electric razor. The American way:
I go to CVS whenever I want, 2 minutes away.
"A razor, please."
"15 dollars. Thank you, have a nice day!"
The French way:
I take a 45-minute metro ride to some obscure electronics store in the suburbs. I am fifth in line and wait 45 minutes.
"A razor, please."
"Okay. Do you have a copy of your CV, a letter of motivation, and three passport pictures?"
"A letter of motivation? I need to shave."
"Do not get huffy with me, young man!"
"Sorry. Here's three passport pictures.
"You are not wearing a green shirt in your pictures."
"What? Why do I need a green shirt?"
"Without a passport picture, you must carve a bust of yourself out of this block of marble before midnight."
"But I don't have a chisel."
"Then you must fill out these forms to apply for a government approved chisel which will arrive in 6 to 8 weeks."
"I don't have a pen on me..."
"You can fill out this form to apply for a temporary vistor's pen. Use this wedge of Camembert in the meantime."
"How can I write using cheese?"
(French person dumps pot of scalding water on my head)
Anyway, it's off to solfege.
I am coming to realize that, whatever slight talents I may have when it comes to actually playing the piano, I am far, far away from being a gifted "musician" in general. My sight-reading teacher actually whacked my hands yesterday and described my work as "frightful." And my solfege teacher gives far more attention to the only other student in the class--a 14-year old girl who obviously shows much more promise in solfege than a grizzled 23-year old with a large yogurt stain on his sweater. I'm going to the dry-cleaner's tomorrow, I promise.
Ca Suffit!
Note to France:
END THE FRICKIN' METRO STRIKE ALREADY.
When I'm starting to agree with the words of devious supervillain Nicolas Sarkozy, something is wrong.
On another note, I woke up this morning to find myself without hot water. While I haven't investigated the cause, I have a sinking suspicion that it was cut off by "EDF," the French utilities.
The reason for this would be simple: when I first signed up with my utilities, I set my monthly payments to be automatically withdrawn from my account, starting on Nov. 14th. I deposited a British check into my account at the beginning of the month, which would involve the apparently ardurous task of converting pounds into Euros.
In a developed country, it would take less than a week to cash the check. But this is Paris. I opened my account over a month ago, and I still don't have a debit card. When I went to the bank and inquired into this yesterday, the woman told me it would be ready in "a week...well, maybe two." Read: "It will be ready when you start coming here every day and harassing me until I finally begrudgingly give you a card to leave me alone."
Apologies for such an acrimonious post, but no metro and no hot water makes Adam grouchy.
END THE FRICKIN' METRO STRIKE ALREADY.
When I'm starting to agree with the words of devious supervillain Nicolas Sarkozy, something is wrong.
On another note, I woke up this morning to find myself without hot water. While I haven't investigated the cause, I have a sinking suspicion that it was cut off by "EDF," the French utilities.
The reason for this would be simple: when I first signed up with my utilities, I set my monthly payments to be automatically withdrawn from my account, starting on Nov. 14th. I deposited a British check into my account at the beginning of the month, which would involve the apparently ardurous task of converting pounds into Euros.
In a developed country, it would take less than a week to cash the check. But this is Paris. I opened my account over a month ago, and I still don't have a debit card. When I went to the bank and inquired into this yesterday, the woman told me it would be ready in "a week...well, maybe two." Read: "It will be ready when you start coming here every day and harassing me until I finally begrudgingly give you a card to leave me alone."
Apologies for such an acrimonious post, but no metro and no hot water makes Adam grouchy.
Monday, November 19, 2007
La Greve Part Deux
Armed with a suitcase full of random papers and photocopies, I made my second sally today down to Paris' Chinese neighborhood to get my long-stay visa.
I might as well add here that we're in the midst of a crippling metro strike, and I live a good half hour metro ride away from this place. Thus why I woke up at 7AM to start frantically calling taxi companies to come pick me up--of course, this is Paris, so every person I talked to said that it was "too far" or that it just "wasn't possible."
After waiting half an hour in the street, I finally got my taxi and found myself back in the barren basement of the student "Cite Unversitaire." This must be the most stereotypical "bureaucrat" room in existence--everything is dimly lit by fluorescent lights, the walls are a pale-yellow color, and there's no decorations except a wilted plant and a sign on the mirrors on the walls saying "Do not dirty the mirrors."
And of course, since it's a metro strike, and a "suspicious package" was found on the one working line, there were no workers at the place. I joined a group of angry Turks in asking the one woman what the hell we were supposed to do with our appointment now. She assured us, in a very loud and belligerent voice, that she was "just like us" and didn't know how to handle the strike either.
Yes, I am just like her--except that I have a heart instead of some sort of robotic machine that pumps pure evil throughout my veins.
I waited three hours, which actually is completely painless by France's standards.
At the very end, everything was finally sorted out and printed and all I had to do was sign inside of the green rectangle on the form without touching the rectangle itself.
I failed.
Under the pressure to not touch the lines of the rectangle, I made some sort of big tail on the end of "Jaffe" that crossed way over the top.
The guy working with me took the paper back and looked at me incredulously.
"I told you to sign inside of the rectangle."
"I know, I'm sorry."
He audibly sighed and started to print everything all over again. That one slip added ten minutes to the process.
The next time I signed, I was visibly shaking under the pressure, but I somehow scrunched up my name into two little scribbles that just made it into the rectangle. I did it. I now have a temporary "carte de sejour." All I have to do now is go for a medical check-up in January, gloss over my €1,000 a week smack habit, and I'll finally be done with this bureaucratic nonsense.
I'm hosting a French/English conversation party at my apartment tonight, which has inspired me to make radical changes, such as wiping my bathroom mirror with Windex and squeezing a lemon into my sink. I don't know where I came up with this "lemon" idea--I feel like it's something I read in "Good Housekeeping" circa 1995, but that's the sort of knowledge I have to rely on to make my living space presentable.
And of course, I just got an email saying that probably nobody would show up the conversation due to the strikes, leaving me alone in my newly-freshened apartment with a bottle of wine and a carton of Flanby.
Flanby, by the way, is flan in a little yogurt carton--it even comes with a little pull tab that, once pulled, will make the entire blob of flan slip out of the carton at once and make a little splash onto your plate.
Who needs friends?
I might as well add here that we're in the midst of a crippling metro strike, and I live a good half hour metro ride away from this place. Thus why I woke up at 7AM to start frantically calling taxi companies to come pick me up--of course, this is Paris, so every person I talked to said that it was "too far" or that it just "wasn't possible."
After waiting half an hour in the street, I finally got my taxi and found myself back in the barren basement of the student "Cite Unversitaire." This must be the most stereotypical "bureaucrat" room in existence--everything is dimly lit by fluorescent lights, the walls are a pale-yellow color, and there's no decorations except a wilted plant and a sign on the mirrors on the walls saying "Do not dirty the mirrors."
And of course, since it's a metro strike, and a "suspicious package" was found on the one working line, there were no workers at the place. I joined a group of angry Turks in asking the one woman what the hell we were supposed to do with our appointment now. She assured us, in a very loud and belligerent voice, that she was "just like us" and didn't know how to handle the strike either.
Yes, I am just like her--except that I have a heart instead of some sort of robotic machine that pumps pure evil throughout my veins.
I waited three hours, which actually is completely painless by France's standards.
At the very end, everything was finally sorted out and printed and all I had to do was sign inside of the green rectangle on the form without touching the rectangle itself.
I failed.
Under the pressure to not touch the lines of the rectangle, I made some sort of big tail on the end of "Jaffe" that crossed way over the top.
The guy working with me took the paper back and looked at me incredulously.
"I told you to sign inside of the rectangle."
"I know, I'm sorry."
He audibly sighed and started to print everything all over again. That one slip added ten minutes to the process.
The next time I signed, I was visibly shaking under the pressure, but I somehow scrunched up my name into two little scribbles that just made it into the rectangle. I did it. I now have a temporary "carte de sejour." All I have to do now is go for a medical check-up in January, gloss over my €1,000 a week smack habit, and I'll finally be done with this bureaucratic nonsense.
I'm hosting a French/English conversation party at my apartment tonight, which has inspired me to make radical changes, such as wiping my bathroom mirror with Windex and squeezing a lemon into my sink. I don't know where I came up with this "lemon" idea--I feel like it's something I read in "Good Housekeeping" circa 1995, but that's the sort of knowledge I have to rely on to make my living space presentable.
And of course, I just got an email saying that probably nobody would show up the conversation due to the strikes, leaving me alone in my newly-freshened apartment with a bottle of wine and a carton of Flanby.
Flanby, by the way, is flan in a little yogurt carton--it even comes with a little pull tab that, once pulled, will make the entire blob of flan slip out of the carton at once and make a little splash onto your plate.
Who needs friends?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Les Ricains
Last night may have been the first time I got an exciting slice of the seething anti-Americanism that France is fabled for. And of all places, I got it from a taxi driver.
I always strike up conversations with taxi drivers here, but it rarely leads to good places. Last night's conversation went something like this:
Driver: How are you?
Me: Good! This metro strike is bad though.
Driver: You're American.
Me: Uhh, yes. Good ear. I'm from Atlanta.
Driver: Have they abolished the death penalty in Georgia?
Me: I don't know.
Driver: You all still have it in Texas and California. It's disgusting.
Me: Umm, yeah, I'm not a big fan of the death penalty.
Driver: It's horrific! In France, you're presumed innocent. In the US, you're caught, and you're guilty, and they're going to kill you. And then there's Iraq.
Me: Hmm, yeah, the Iraq thing is no good.
Driver: Millions of Iraqis have been killed. And all for oil, it's all for oil, it's disgusting.
Me: Yeah, uh, I guess my country's done a lot of things that I'm not too happy about.
Not that I really disagreed with his attitudes, but I was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was getting worked up and starting to raise his voice, he was humming manically along with Mozart's "Jupiter" symphony on the radio, he had a lisping, Mike Tyson-esque voice, and he had an axe in his passenger seat that he kept caressing. The axe is only a slight exaggeration.
At the end of the ride, I gave him a nice tip. Even globalizing war-mongers can have hearts.
I always strike up conversations with taxi drivers here, but it rarely leads to good places. Last night's conversation went something like this:
Driver: How are you?
Me: Good! This metro strike is bad though.
Driver: You're American.
Me: Uhh, yes. Good ear. I'm from Atlanta.
Driver: Have they abolished the death penalty in Georgia?
Me: I don't know.
Driver: You all still have it in Texas and California. It's disgusting.
Me: Umm, yeah, I'm not a big fan of the death penalty.
Driver: It's horrific! In France, you're presumed innocent. In the US, you're caught, and you're guilty, and they're going to kill you. And then there's Iraq.
Me: Hmm, yeah, the Iraq thing is no good.
Driver: Millions of Iraqis have been killed. And all for oil, it's all for oil, it's disgusting.
Me: Yeah, uh, I guess my country's done a lot of things that I'm not too happy about.
Not that I really disagreed with his attitudes, but I was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was getting worked up and starting to raise his voice, he was humming manically along with Mozart's "Jupiter" symphony on the radio, he had a lisping, Mike Tyson-esque voice, and he had an axe in his passenger seat that he kept caressing. The axe is only a slight exaggeration.
At the end of the ride, I gave him a nice tip. Even globalizing war-mongers can have hearts.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
La Greve!
I finally shook off my ever-growing apathy long enough to go apply for my long-stay visa. I remembered applying for my student visa, and had steeled myself for an army of unattractive, hostile French bureaucrats and discussions such as:
French person: Do you have a photocopy of your birth certificate translated into French?
Me: Umm, yes, I think it's here...
French person: (pours pot of scalding water onto my head)
Needless to say, French bureaucracy did not disappoint. Although I got to the place as soon as it opened (at 8:30 AM) and was about tenth in line, I waited for almost two hours. I listened to the entire Goldberg Variations with repeats while in line, and was thus exhausted on multiple levels by the time I finally talked to anybody.
I was instantly rejected, since I didn't have proof that my apartment was insured. This was never, ever mentioned on the website, or any instructions for applying for the long-stay visa. I showed the woman my apartment contract to prove that I was indeed sleeping in a bed, and not on a bed of straw in the metro. Her response was typical:
"Humph, well, anybody could have that contract. It doesn't prove anything."
Except that I have an apartment. And that I hate you all.
No, that's not fair--I've met some very nice people in Paris recently, although I keep making awkward gaffes that put friendship just out of reach.
Example:
French girl: Did you hear that a woman in Belgium had her daughters kidnapped?
Me: How can she complain? They have the best waffles in the world in Belgium.
French girl: (silence)
Was I wrong? I've never heard anyone complain about extra whipped cream and strawberries, but maybe it just doesn't suit some people.
I have lost pretty much all of my battles here in Paris until now, but I believe I have emerged victorious from the one with my crazy neighbor. I crossed her while leaving my building yesterday and prepared for the inevitable psychotic rants and poxes on my head. I glared at her as she came inside. She looked to the ground and didn't say a word. I even held the door for her.
I then immediately walked outside and whispered "I win" to myself and gave a little cackle. I wish I was making this up.
It's going to be a fun week--we're looking at one of the biggest metro/public transportation strikes in history. Of course, this is Paris, so the students have now joined forces with the transportation workers and are blocking off the universities.
And of course, this is Paris, so there's a huge counterprotest against the strikes on Sunday. Obviously my work is cut out for me, and I need to organize a protest against this counterprotest until the entire country implodes, like when you put a humidifier and a dehumidifier next to each other.
Vive la France!
French person: Do you have a photocopy of your birth certificate translated into French?
Me: Umm, yes, I think it's here...
French person: (pours pot of scalding water onto my head)
Needless to say, French bureaucracy did not disappoint. Although I got to the place as soon as it opened (at 8:30 AM) and was about tenth in line, I waited for almost two hours. I listened to the entire Goldberg Variations with repeats while in line, and was thus exhausted on multiple levels by the time I finally talked to anybody.
I was instantly rejected, since I didn't have proof that my apartment was insured. This was never, ever mentioned on the website, or any instructions for applying for the long-stay visa. I showed the woman my apartment contract to prove that I was indeed sleeping in a bed, and not on a bed of straw in the metro. Her response was typical:
"Humph, well, anybody could have that contract. It doesn't prove anything."
Except that I have an apartment. And that I hate you all.
No, that's not fair--I've met some very nice people in Paris recently, although I keep making awkward gaffes that put friendship just out of reach.
Example:
French girl: Did you hear that a woman in Belgium had her daughters kidnapped?
Me: How can she complain? They have the best waffles in the world in Belgium.
French girl: (silence)
Was I wrong? I've never heard anyone complain about extra whipped cream and strawberries, but maybe it just doesn't suit some people.
I have lost pretty much all of my battles here in Paris until now, but I believe I have emerged victorious from the one with my crazy neighbor. I crossed her while leaving my building yesterday and prepared for the inevitable psychotic rants and poxes on my head. I glared at her as she came inside. She looked to the ground and didn't say a word. I even held the door for her.
I then immediately walked outside and whispered "I win" to myself and gave a little cackle. I wish I was making this up.
It's going to be a fun week--we're looking at one of the biggest metro/public transportation strikes in history. Of course, this is Paris, so the students have now joined forces with the transportation workers and are blocking off the universities.
And of course, this is Paris, so there's a huge counterprotest against the strikes on Sunday. Obviously my work is cut out for me, and I need to organize a protest against this counterprotest until the entire country implodes, like when you put a humidifier and a dehumidifier next to each other.
Vive la France!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Caca
I have stepped in dog poo three times in the last 24 hours, which is pretty heroic even by my standards. One of the incidents was so catastrophic, that I was forced to throw out a pair of Pumas after many attempts at salvation.
I also spilled eggroll sauce all over my sheet music.
Stupid Paris.
Although I guess the eggroll thing was my own damn fault. And China's.
Stupid Hu Jintao.
I also spilled eggroll sauce all over my sheet music.
Stupid Paris.
Although I guess the eggroll thing was my own damn fault. And China's.
Stupid Hu Jintao.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Dans la Merde
I met a Caribbean guy in one of my classes last night who had been at my school for three years. Since my school feels like some kind of cosmic prank that's been organized by aliens, this was the first time I could actually talk with somebody, in English, who was "in the know" about things.
Ever since "Casey at the Bat" set me straight, I have never counted my chickens before they hatch. But my teacher hinted yesterday that I had made "huge changes" in the last few weeks and that she may switch me into the "performance" division. I was happy until I met said Caribbean guy who described the final exam for the 5th level:
1. The students (15 to 20) all play a Chopin Etude and a prelude and fugue. The teachers then instantly fail half of them, meaning they have failed the entire year.
2. The rest of the students go on to play the rest of the their program (a whole Beethoven sonata, a concerto movement, etc.) The teachers then fail half of these students.
Me: Holy shit! So only a quarter of the students pass at the end of the year?
Caribbean Guy: If even that! Sometimes only one or two pass. I know people who have stayed three years just trying to get past the fifth level.
Me: But...there's a sixth level, right?
Guy: HA! I only know one guy who ever passed that exam--he had been playing concerts around Russia for years, and he did it nine years ago.
Me: (vomits everywhere)
I don't want to be a negative Nancy, but I believe I am in way over my head here. I had the idea that this was basically a degree program--I do my work for the year, and as long as I make progress, I get something to show for it.
Instead I've apparently signed up for the Van Cliburn competition.
Maybe I'm just naive, but why do they do it this way? Why do they make 3/4 of the students waste the best years of their life trying to get this one degree? Why does every class lead up to one single exam in June, completely discounting any other progress made throughout the year? Why are literally all French people my age in really long-term relationships? I don't understand any of it.
I guess this doesn't really change anything for right now--I was practicing a lot anyway and shall continue to do so, although with maybe a bit more urgency and panic than before. This has even inspired me to sign up for yoga classes again, meaning that Shivam and I may meet again for a final showdown.
See you all in Atlanta next year!
Ever since "Casey at the Bat" set me straight, I have never counted my chickens before they hatch. But my teacher hinted yesterday that I had made "huge changes" in the last few weeks and that she may switch me into the "performance" division. I was happy until I met said Caribbean guy who described the final exam for the 5th level:
1. The students (15 to 20) all play a Chopin Etude and a prelude and fugue. The teachers then instantly fail half of them, meaning they have failed the entire year.
2. The rest of the students go on to play the rest of the their program (a whole Beethoven sonata, a concerto movement, etc.) The teachers then fail half of these students.
Me: Holy shit! So only a quarter of the students pass at the end of the year?
Caribbean Guy: If even that! Sometimes only one or two pass. I know people who have stayed three years just trying to get past the fifth level.
Me: But...there's a sixth level, right?
Guy: HA! I only know one guy who ever passed that exam--he had been playing concerts around Russia for years, and he did it nine years ago.
Me: (vomits everywhere)
I don't want to be a negative Nancy, but I believe I am in way over my head here. I had the idea that this was basically a degree program--I do my work for the year, and as long as I make progress, I get something to show for it.
Instead I've apparently signed up for the Van Cliburn competition.
Maybe I'm just naive, but why do they do it this way? Why do they make 3/4 of the students waste the best years of their life trying to get this one degree? Why does every class lead up to one single exam in June, completely discounting any other progress made throughout the year? Why are literally all French people my age in really long-term relationships? I don't understand any of it.
I guess this doesn't really change anything for right now--I was practicing a lot anyway and shall continue to do so, although with maybe a bit more urgency and panic than before. This has even inspired me to sign up for yoga classes again, meaning that Shivam and I may meet again for a final showdown.
See you all in Atlanta next year!
Madeleine
On a more positive note, however, I ate madeleines yesterday. I then suddenly realized that I was in front of the Madeleine metro sign, and next to the Madeleine church.
It was kind of like the time I ate cake while listening to Cake, or the time I shot up while listening to the song "Heroin."
Just kidding. I would never listen to Cake.
It was kind of like the time I ate cake while listening to Cake, or the time I shot up while listening to the song "Heroin."
Just kidding. I would never listen to Cake.
Putain de Housse
I had the most stressful morning of my life a few days ago. Since my futon, as of Sunday, was just a white mattress on top of some wooden planks, I figured I should get some sort of cover for the mattress. I wouldn't even know how to ask for it in English, let alone in some weird Romance language in a country where most people don't even know what a futon is.
Apparently the word for those things that you stuff your comforter or mattress inside is a "housse." I used this word about 40 times over the course of a half hour conversation at a French department store:
"You know, I have a futon...you understand 'futon?' Yes? I need something to cover my futon."
"Ah, yes, a bedsheet."
"No, to cover the mattress. A housse? A housse for the mattress?"
"A housse for the mattress? This does not exist!"
"Yes, a housse...uh, for the mattress."
"You do not know how to express yourself, young man!"
It's the first time I've gotten this particular insult, but it stuck with me. I ended up leaving empty-handed, as I do from most encounters with the French these days.
And yet again, my neighbor pounded on my door at midnight, claimed to be the owner of a presitigious hotel next door (I checked, and she is not), screamed that she was going to call the police, and then ran off cackling.
Can I come home yet?
Apparently the word for those things that you stuff your comforter or mattress inside is a "housse." I used this word about 40 times over the course of a half hour conversation at a French department store:
"You know, I have a futon...you understand 'futon?' Yes? I need something to cover my futon."
"Ah, yes, a bedsheet."
"No, to cover the mattress. A housse? A housse for the mattress?"
"A housse for the mattress? This does not exist!"
"Yes, a housse...uh, for the mattress."
"You do not know how to express yourself, young man!"
It's the first time I've gotten this particular insult, but it stuck with me. I ended up leaving empty-handed, as I do from most encounters with the French these days.
And yet again, my neighbor pounded on my door at midnight, claimed to be the owner of a presitigious hotel next door (I checked, and she is not), screamed that she was going to call the police, and then ran off cackling.
Can I come home yet?
Friday, October 26, 2007
Faux
Is anyone else aware of this phenomenon where Americans will study abroad in Paris for a month and then pretend they've forgotten how to speak English? They'll say things like, "Oh, how do you say that in English again?" Or they'll talk about how they've started using French grammar in English and how much they've confused their families with their new speech patterns. In the most egregious case I've ever seen, a girl who had lived in Paris for a semester had actually begun speaking with a French accent that she claimed she couldn't turn off.
I have been guilty of the same crime--I remember pretending to forget how to say "hostel" in English after living here two months last time, in a smug effort to show how immersed I had become in French culture. I've never felt dirtier in my life.
So yes, new study abroad students, I'm always polite whenever you tell me about how you're forgetting English. But I want you to know I can see right through you. Miraculously, I have yet to forget the language I spoke for the first 22 years of my life.
On another note, the reigning champion of "worst candy ever" has been spectacularly dethroned by a candy so foul and evil, that it had to be banished to the Netherlands.
These are called "Duble Zout," or "Double Salt" licorice. They are horse saltlicks, carved into the shape of coins and dyed black. I guess they're supposed to be "fun," but they could easily be used in harsh interrogation practices.
I have been guilty of the same crime--I remember pretending to forget how to say "hostel" in English after living here two months last time, in a smug effort to show how immersed I had become in French culture. I've never felt dirtier in my life.
So yes, new study abroad students, I'm always polite whenever you tell me about how you're forgetting English. But I want you to know I can see right through you. Miraculously, I have yet to forget the language I spoke for the first 22 years of my life.
On another note, the reigning champion of "worst candy ever" has been spectacularly dethroned by a candy so foul and evil, that it had to be banished to the Netherlands.
These are called "Duble Zout," or "Double Salt" licorice. They are horse saltlicks, carved into the shape of coins and dyed black. I guess they're supposed to be "fun," but they could easily be used in harsh interrogation practices.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
La Voisine Folle Part Deux
I mentioned at the beginning of this blog that my new neighbor was supposedly mentally disturbed. And apparently this description was right on the mark.
The first time I saw her a week or two ago, she chased after me yelling "Jeune homme! Jeune homme!" ("young man!").
"Yes?"
"Please stop slamming the door at night."
The first time, I thought maybe this was a rational complaint. With my brawny, manly arms that are great for cuddling on cold nights, it can be easy to overdo a door closing. I told her I would try to keep it down.
Since then, I've made a conscious effort to never slam my door--I even do that little thing where you turn the knob while closing the door to avoid making any noise. The next time I saw her in the hall, I couldn't wait to be congratulated on my good work. Instead:
"Young man! You must stop slamming the door every five minutes!"
Every five minutes? Okay, I told her, I would try to keep it down.
Wednesday marked our first smackdown. As I walked into the building, the elevator doors suddenly opened and she screamed at me like some kind of raging beast:
"YOUNG MAN! I've asked nicely, but you keep slamming the door every five minutes! I know the police!!!"
"Bonne journee, Madame" ("Have a nice day, Madame." This was a very French way to handle things).
"Stop! I know the police!"
"You know the police? Well, I know them too, and I'm going to file a complaint against YOU if you continue. Bonne journee."
When I got back to my apartment and started working on assembling my IKEA futon, I overheard her next door on the phone. I was enough of a snoop to leave my room and go stand at her door to listen. I overheard her talking about the "Young man who doesn't work, doesn't go to school, who just stays here all day and amuses himself with the door."
I then realized I still had an IKEA wrench in my hand. My intentions may have been misinterpreted if I was caught at my neighbor's door with a wrench in my hand, so I returned to my room.
On that note, however, I now have a sweet futon for YOU to sleep on. Come on over!
The first time I saw her a week or two ago, she chased after me yelling "Jeune homme! Jeune homme!" ("young man!").
"Yes?"
"Please stop slamming the door at night."
The first time, I thought maybe this was a rational complaint. With my brawny, manly arms that are great for cuddling on cold nights, it can be easy to overdo a door closing. I told her I would try to keep it down.
Since then, I've made a conscious effort to never slam my door--I even do that little thing where you turn the knob while closing the door to avoid making any noise. The next time I saw her in the hall, I couldn't wait to be congratulated on my good work. Instead:
"Young man! You must stop slamming the door every five minutes!"
Every five minutes? Okay, I told her, I would try to keep it down.
Wednesday marked our first smackdown. As I walked into the building, the elevator doors suddenly opened and she screamed at me like some kind of raging beast:
"YOUNG MAN! I've asked nicely, but you keep slamming the door every five minutes! I know the police!!!"
"Bonne journee, Madame" ("Have a nice day, Madame." This was a very French way to handle things).
"Stop! I know the police!"
"You know the police? Well, I know them too, and I'm going to file a complaint against YOU if you continue. Bonne journee."
When I got back to my apartment and started working on assembling my IKEA futon, I overheard her next door on the phone. I was enough of a snoop to leave my room and go stand at her door to listen. I overheard her talking about the "Young man who doesn't work, doesn't go to school, who just stays here all day and amuses himself with the door."
I then realized I still had an IKEA wrench in my hand. My intentions may have been misinterpreted if I was caught at my neighbor's door with a wrench in my hand, so I returned to my room.
On that note, however, I now have a sweet futon for YOU to sleep on. Come on over!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Un Peu de Jupon
I went on some sort of quasi-date last night with a French girl. Although it was fun enough, the sparks weren't exactly bursting out of the seams, and I made a fair amount of blunders which shattered my cool facade. Example:
Me: Oh, your last name is German?
Her: Yes, it's a family name. My grandfather actually fought in WWII on the German side.
Me: Ha, well, we all make mistakes.
Her: Huh?
Me: Err, I mean, no, I'm not insulting your grandfather, just...
Her: No, I mean, I literally didn't hear what you said.
Me: Oh, uh, that we all make mistakes.
Her: You mean in general, or my grandfather fighting for the Germans?
Me: Uh, both, I mean. Yes, in general, but also...fighting for the Nazis, yes. Mistake.
This was followed by a lot of incomprehensible mumbling on my side and uncomfortable laughs. I am never, ever going to reproduce.
However, I have another quasi set-up tomorrow with a girl named Eve (insert biblical joke here). I figured that with my American accent and the right-colored skin-tight shirt, I couldn't go wrong.
Then I woke up this morning with some kind of eye problem that looks like pink eye. I don't know what girls like, but I would guess that puffy, red, gooey eyes aren't high up on their list, right behind "a good sense of humor."
I repeat: I am never, ever going to reproduce.
Me: Oh, your last name is German?
Her: Yes, it's a family name. My grandfather actually fought in WWII on the German side.
Me: Ha, well, we all make mistakes.
Her: Huh?
Me: Err, I mean, no, I'm not insulting your grandfather, just...
Her: No, I mean, I literally didn't hear what you said.
Me: Oh, uh, that we all make mistakes.
Her: You mean in general, or my grandfather fighting for the Germans?
Me: Uh, both, I mean. Yes, in general, but also...fighting for the Nazis, yes. Mistake.
This was followed by a lot of incomprehensible mumbling on my side and uncomfortable laughs. I am never, ever going to reproduce.
However, I have another quasi set-up tomorrow with a girl named Eve (insert biblical joke here). I figured that with my American accent and the right-colored skin-tight shirt, I couldn't go wrong.
Then I woke up this morning with some kind of eye problem that looks like pink eye. I don't know what girls like, but I would guess that puffy, red, gooey eyes aren't high up on their list, right behind "a good sense of humor."
I repeat: I am never, ever going to reproduce.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Les Cours Sont Chiants
Like a big, creaky, ungreased wheel, classes have progressively started to roll out at L'Ecole Normale. Apparently they actually started last week, although my piano teacher told me they were starting this week. When I pointed this out to her, she shrugged. Ehh, it's probably not a big deal, right?
Anyway, today was a big day in that I had my first class--solfege. For the uninitiated, solfege is more or less ear training--the teacher plays something on the piano (which can be a simple melody or crazy counterpoint and moving chord voices) and you transcribe it, you learn to sight-sing complicated stuff on the spot, etc . etc.
There is nothing I hate more than solfege, and nothing I am worse at. I'm convinced it's one of those things you either "have" or don't "have," like herpes.
The subject matter aside, I am one of three people in my class, along with a guy in his early forties and a 14 year old girl. The image of us hunched around the piano, pitifully singing exercises we didn't know could have easily been a scene in a dark comedy. I was hoping, perhaps in vain, that once school started I would actually meet people and have some sort of human contact.
Even worse, classes and homework are just as bureaucratic and complicated an affair as applying for a carte de sejour--we have no less than six books for our solfege class, and our homework is along the lines of "Book #1, analyze and read exercises #45, #2, and #78, Book #2, sing #3 and #37" etc. etc. My teacher was shocked when I asked her if she could repeat our assignments. I guess this is something I have to get used to.
Tomorrow morning I have "dechiffrage"--I have yet to look this word up, but it either has something to do with sight-reading or untying nautical ropes. I'm wearing my sailing gloves, just in case.
Anyway, today was a big day in that I had my first class--solfege. For the uninitiated, solfege is more or less ear training--the teacher plays something on the piano (which can be a simple melody or crazy counterpoint and moving chord voices) and you transcribe it, you learn to sight-sing complicated stuff on the spot, etc . etc.
There is nothing I hate more than solfege, and nothing I am worse at. I'm convinced it's one of those things you either "have" or don't "have," like herpes.
The subject matter aside, I am one of three people in my class, along with a guy in his early forties and a 14 year old girl. The image of us hunched around the piano, pitifully singing exercises we didn't know could have easily been a scene in a dark comedy. I was hoping, perhaps in vain, that once school started I would actually meet people and have some sort of human contact.
Even worse, classes and homework are just as bureaucratic and complicated an affair as applying for a carte de sejour--we have no less than six books for our solfege class, and our homework is along the lines of "Book #1, analyze and read exercises #45, #2, and #78, Book #2, sing #3 and #37" etc. etc. My teacher was shocked when I asked her if she could repeat our assignments. I guess this is something I have to get used to.
Tomorrow morning I have "dechiffrage"--I have yet to look this word up, but it either has something to do with sight-reading or untying nautical ropes. I'm wearing my sailing gloves, just in case.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Plus de Copine
Well, that's it. Despite my recent, half-hearted attempts to seduce my ex-girlfriend away from her current, French boyfriend, she has informed me that she has no interest in ending her current relationship. It's funny, because I also don't especially want to be back with her--after all, for the first time, I am now a single, swingin' bachelor in Paris with a cute little accent. Maybe I'm just bored, or getting sick of sitting home alone and drinking Gazpacho straight from the bottle (what I actually do with shocking frequency in my apartment).
She informed me that if at some point next year we're ever both single, she might be interested in trying to restart things. However, I shouldn't wait for her. And I shan't.
So, for the first time I can remember in a very long time, I am actually looking for a date. I even signed up for the French dating site "Meetic"--a site which is free for women but costs men 20 euros a month if they want to read any of the messages that women send them or communicate with anybody on the site. Since I'm nowhere near desperate enough to pay for this kind of thing, seeing that I keep getting new messages in my "meetic" mailbox is really just another negative force in my life.
Any takers for a strapping, 23-year old lad who plays piano? Just kidding.
But not really.
She informed me that if at some point next year we're ever both single, she might be interested in trying to restart things. However, I shouldn't wait for her. And I shan't.
So, for the first time I can remember in a very long time, I am actually looking for a date. I even signed up for the French dating site "Meetic"--a site which is free for women but costs men 20 euros a month if they want to read any of the messages that women send them or communicate with anybody on the site. Since I'm nowhere near desperate enough to pay for this kind of thing, seeing that I keep getting new messages in my "meetic" mailbox is really just another negative force in my life.
Any takers for a strapping, 23-year old lad who plays piano? Just kidding.
But not really.
Faire Du Piano
I have my second piano lesson today with Madame Francoise Buffet, who, if you believe the sensational French press, more or less ignited Civil War in China.
For those who can't read the article, she apparently recently played a concert in China in which, after enduring noise and heckling from the dastardly Chinese, she left the stage in tears. This apparently sparked a polemic around the country and a bunch of flame-wars on the internet. It's exciting to know that I have a controversial teacher, I guess.
My school works in all sorts of weird levels and divisions and paths--it's like a choose your own adventure game. I knew it'd be complicated, but not this complicated:
Oh wait, that's Scientology. Well, mine is almost as complicated:
So from what I understand, after finishing the 4th level, it branches off into the "execution" (performance) path and "enseignement" (teaching) path for the less gifted. I was supposed to be finishing up the second year of the 4th level, at which point my path would be chosen for me, but my teacher went ahead and placed me in the 5th "teaching/you are awful" division. I told her I would rather be moved back down to the 4th level and spend another year here than waste my time getting a mediocre degree for mediocre people.
Basically, we agreed that if I was making good progress, she would move me into the "performance/fuckin' awesome" path by winter break. So come winter break, I will either be in a very good mood, or have self-inflicted stumps instead of hands.
My teacher is surprised to see that I actually have ambition this time around--I think she even audibly laughed when I told her I was working on Schumann's "Carnaval." Oh, Adam wants to be "serious," that's cute.
Although I admit it is strange to feel like I have goals and/or direction for once. It makes me feel sort of uncomfortable.
For those who can't read the article, she apparently recently played a concert in China in which, after enduring noise and heckling from the dastardly Chinese, she left the stage in tears. This apparently sparked a polemic around the country and a bunch of flame-wars on the internet. It's exciting to know that I have a controversial teacher, I guess.
My school works in all sorts of weird levels and divisions and paths--it's like a choose your own adventure game. I knew it'd be complicated, but not this complicated:
Oh wait, that's Scientology. Well, mine is almost as complicated:
So from what I understand, after finishing the 4th level, it branches off into the "execution" (performance) path and "enseignement" (teaching) path for the less gifted. I was supposed to be finishing up the second year of the 4th level, at which point my path would be chosen for me, but my teacher went ahead and placed me in the 5th "teaching/you are awful" division. I told her I would rather be moved back down to the 4th level and spend another year here than waste my time getting a mediocre degree for mediocre people.
Basically, we agreed that if I was making good progress, she would move me into the "performance/fuckin' awesome" path by winter break. So come winter break, I will either be in a very good mood, or have self-inflicted stumps instead of hands.
My teacher is surprised to see that I actually have ambition this time around--I think she even audibly laughed when I told her I was working on Schumann's "Carnaval." Oh, Adam wants to be "serious," that's cute.
Although I admit it is strange to feel like I have goals and/or direction for once. It makes me feel sort of uncomfortable.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Mon Appart
I have miraculously and successfully moved into my apartment in the 17th arrondisement. Yes, it's a quiet corner of Paris, but there's a bakery, a nice cafe, and lots of tree-lined streets, and what else do you really need in life?
Here's a couple pictures of my new nest:
This is my bed
This is my desk/wardrobe
And this is my toilet
Despite the cool bonus of getting about 50 rolls of scented TP for free, the seat broke instantly the first time I ever touched it. I should get around to fixing that at some point, I guess.
Anyway, somebody come visit me! I have a little twin bed we can share! And a stove and a little refrigerator! And a jar of raspberry jam!
Here's a couple pictures of my new nest:
This is my bed
This is my desk/wardrobe
And this is my toilet
Despite the cool bonus of getting about 50 rolls of scented TP for free, the seat broke instantly the first time I ever touched it. I should get around to fixing that at some point, I guess.
Anyway, somebody come visit me! I have a little twin bed we can share! And a stove and a little refrigerator! And a jar of raspberry jam!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Le Jean
Unless I'm mistaken, someone just stole my favorite pair of jeans out of the dryer at the laundromat. Granted, maybe it was foolish of me to leave my clothes unattended for 45 minutes in the thick of the Marais, with two homeless people loitering outside.
I guess my problem is that I just didn't think people did that. It never, ever crossed my mind that anybody in their right mind would care about my clothes. They aren't particularly nice or interesting, and who the hell just walks into a laundromat and digs around in the dryers anyway?
I did the only thing I could do, which was to go back to the laundromat and have some incoherent conversation with a bum who had been sitting there the whole time. He started rambling about the metro and what time it was, and his little sack didn't look big enough to hold any jeans anyway, so I left in despair.
I didn't pay my $1.50 for the metro this morning (my year-long pass is in the mail), so maybe this is karma. Except it came back to me 30X.
What the hell is wrong with the human race?
I guess my problem is that I just didn't think people did that. It never, ever crossed my mind that anybody in their right mind would care about my clothes. They aren't particularly nice or interesting, and who the hell just walks into a laundromat and digs around in the dryers anyway?
I did the only thing I could do, which was to go back to the laundromat and have some incoherent conversation with a bum who had been sitting there the whole time. He started rambling about the metro and what time it was, and his little sack didn't look big enough to hold any jeans anyway, so I left in despair.
I didn't pay my $1.50 for the metro this morning (my year-long pass is in the mail), so maybe this is karma. Except it came back to me 30X.
What the hell is wrong with the human race?
Friday, September 28, 2007
La Magie
Did the famed French mime Marcel Marceau really just die? I literally could have sworn on my life that he died several years ago. I specifically remember declining tickets to go see him when I was at Interlochen, and then regretting this several years later saying, "Now I'll never get to go see him! He's dead!"
And lo and behold, he's apparently dead again. I guess I can expect to read about it again in another couple years. Maybe he just mimed it the first time.
Or maybe cabin fever is starting to sink in, and I'm just going nuts. A couple days ago, I went to the market at Hotel de Ville to get some fruit. I asked for a box of raspberries and a clementine. "One box of raspberries, and one clementine!" the vendor repeated. I saw him put *one* box into a bag and hand it to me along with my clementine.
When I got up to my room, I opened the bag. There were now two boxes of raspberries. Where was the clementine that was just in my hand? Nowhere to be found. I like magic, but I don't want people pulling this David Copperfield bullshit when I'm trying to buy fruit. I really wanted that clementine.
And lo and behold, he's apparently dead again. I guess I can expect to read about it again in another couple years. Maybe he just mimed it the first time.
Or maybe cabin fever is starting to sink in, and I'm just going nuts. A couple days ago, I went to the market at Hotel de Ville to get some fruit. I asked for a box of raspberries and a clementine. "One box of raspberries, and one clementine!" the vendor repeated. I saw him put *one* box into a bag and hand it to me along with my clementine.
When I got up to my room, I opened the bag. There were now two boxes of raspberries. Where was the clementine that was just in my hand? Nowhere to be found. I like magic, but I don't want people pulling this David Copperfield bullshit when I'm trying to buy fruit. I really wanted that clementine.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Quelle Arnaque
Excuse the lack of posts, but my productivity level has reached such terrifying lows, that my dad called me and suggested I spend this week in Oxford instead of continuing to waste his money on hostel rooms, practice rooms, the roulette wheel, and cheap ecstacy. Here's the purification false-purpose rundown of the noteworthy things that have happened:
1. Since I'm currently paying an exorbitant amount of money to practice piano, which again, could be better spent on the roulette wheel, I kindly asked the woman today if we could strike some sort of deal. You know, "I scratch your back, you scratch mine, and we're Even Steven, okay tiger? Say, do you like Poptarts? Cause I've got a box of them back in my apartment, if you get my drift." That kind of thing. Paris runs off of corrupt bargains.
Not only did she say no, but she informed me that the studio would be permanently closing in a week. Was there another store to practice in, somewhere in this city of 11 million people?
Shrug, maybe, she had heard of one somewhere in the vicinity that charged 12 euros an hour.
Did she know its name?
Shrug, ehh, not really.
Great! So come one week, I will no longer have a piano to practice on.
2. I went to my school today to do some sort of final registration. I got there as soon as it opened, and there were three women working in the office. One of them opened up my file on her computer, and then abruptly got up and left.
I waited for her for over 45 minutes. One of the other women kept looking at me and saying, "Oh, where did she go? I'm sorry." Finally, I took action.
"Can't you help me? I'm really just here to turn in some paperwork."
"No! She has already opened your file!"
"I know, but she hasn't done anything with it or changed it in any way. All she did was open it and leave."
"No! Absolutely not, no, I cannot help you."
I waited for about another ten minutes, as she continued to help people in the line growing behind me. Finally, I barged in front of someone else and said, "Look, I just want to give you my passport pictures and social security form. My dad is sending the necessary checks today."
"What? You don't have the checks with you?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, I can't help you if you don't have the money on you. I'll call you when the checks arrive. Bonne journee."
It's fine, I guess that hour wasn't all that important anyway.
3. Ex-girlfriends are difficult to hang out with, I'm coming to realize. Every comment sounds like some kind of back-handed insult, even if its not meant to be, like, "Your new boyfriend sounds like Ike Turner." Well, okay, maybe I should've thought that one out first.
4. I went to my umpteenth house birthday party in the French suburbs. I wasn't even really invited, everyone knew each other already, and I had trouble following the conversation on the role of marriage in French society. I sat at the snack table and ate quiche far and dangerously beyond the point of satisfying my hunger.
5. According to my French dictionary, "bouncy castle" translates as "chateau gonflable (which serves as a giant trampoline for children)." Finally, I'll be able to find a good place in this city to polish off a handle of rum.
So that's my life: I have no piano. One of my French friends has become a heavy-duty shoplifter. I forgot to bring toenail clippers with me. I accidentally ate shrimp eyes out of a bowl of paella last night. I went to see "A Mighty Heart" last night.
And Nixon talkin' about "Don't worry."
Sorry, a Curtis Mayfield reference always seems appropriate.
1. Since I'm currently paying an exorbitant amount of money to practice piano, which again, could be better spent on the roulette wheel, I kindly asked the woman today if we could strike some sort of deal. You know, "I scratch your back, you scratch mine, and we're Even Steven, okay tiger? Say, do you like Poptarts? Cause I've got a box of them back in my apartment, if you get my drift." That kind of thing. Paris runs off of corrupt bargains.
Not only did she say no, but she informed me that the studio would be permanently closing in a week. Was there another store to practice in, somewhere in this city of 11 million people?
Shrug, maybe, she had heard of one somewhere in the vicinity that charged 12 euros an hour.
Did she know its name?
Shrug, ehh, not really.
Great! So come one week, I will no longer have a piano to practice on.
2. I went to my school today to do some sort of final registration. I got there as soon as it opened, and there were three women working in the office. One of them opened up my file on her computer, and then abruptly got up and left.
I waited for her for over 45 minutes. One of the other women kept looking at me and saying, "Oh, where did she go? I'm sorry." Finally, I took action.
"Can't you help me? I'm really just here to turn in some paperwork."
"No! She has already opened your file!"
"I know, but she hasn't done anything with it or changed it in any way. All she did was open it and leave."
"No! Absolutely not, no, I cannot help you."
I waited for about another ten minutes, as she continued to help people in the line growing behind me. Finally, I barged in front of someone else and said, "Look, I just want to give you my passport pictures and social security form. My dad is sending the necessary checks today."
"What? You don't have the checks with you?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, I can't help you if you don't have the money on you. I'll call you when the checks arrive. Bonne journee."
It's fine, I guess that hour wasn't all that important anyway.
3. Ex-girlfriends are difficult to hang out with, I'm coming to realize. Every comment sounds like some kind of back-handed insult, even if its not meant to be, like, "Your new boyfriend sounds like Ike Turner." Well, okay, maybe I should've thought that one out first.
4. I went to my umpteenth house birthday party in the French suburbs. I wasn't even really invited, everyone knew each other already, and I had trouble following the conversation on the role of marriage in French society. I sat at the snack table and ate quiche far and dangerously beyond the point of satisfying my hunger.
5. According to my French dictionary, "bouncy castle" translates as "chateau gonflable (which serves as a giant trampoline for children)." Finally, I'll be able to find a good place in this city to polish off a handle of rum.
So that's my life: I have no piano. One of my French friends has become a heavy-duty shoplifter. I forgot to bring toenail clippers with me. I accidentally ate shrimp eyes out of a bowl of paella last night. I went to see "A Mighty Heart" last night.
And Nixon talkin' about "Don't worry."
Sorry, a Curtis Mayfield reference always seems appropriate.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Le Sandwich Des Rois
I had a quasi-religious experience this evening on the way back from some piano concert. I happened to pass by Notre-Dame. It was sort of late on a Thursday evening, it was all lit up, and I was all alone. I stopped in front of it.
"Wow," I thought. "Here's one of Europe's, if not the world's, most famous churches, and I am the only person on Earth standing in front of it right now."
I paused. Something didn't seem right. So I went to Subway (one of a handful in Paris) just next door at Saint-Michel. I returned.
"Now," I thought, "I am the only person standing in front of Notre-Dame. And I am eating Subway."
And it was good.
The sandwich, that is. It had turkey. And sweet onion sauce.
"Wow," I thought. "Here's one of Europe's, if not the world's, most famous churches, and I am the only person on Earth standing in front of it right now."
I paused. Something didn't seem right. So I went to Subway (one of a handful in Paris) just next door at Saint-Michel. I returned.
"Now," I thought, "I am the only person standing in front of Notre-Dame. And I am eating Subway."
And it was good.
The sandwich, that is. It had turkey. And sweet onion sauce.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
La Vie Solitaire
I guess communicating with other humans is one of those things that you don't miss until it's not there, like a guy who's shaved off his eyebrows.
Although I was busy enough the first few days not to notice it, my activity level is beginning to wane with the realization that, like one of those LucasArts games from the 1990s, everything I'm supposed to get done is interconnected in some complicated way--I need an address to get a long-stay visa, I need a long-stay visa to stay in an apartment, I need an apartment to get some French tail...well, scratch that last one. Quick-Burger works fine as a hunting ground in the meantime.
But anyway, since I can't move into my apartment until September 30th, that basically puts my metro pass, visa, and school forms on hold. Although I usually practice during the morning, that still leaves me about ten hours of the day to kill.
I somehow had the illusion that I knew lots of people in Paris. In reality, I have an ex-girlfriend, a couple of her friends, a guy from IES, and the guy who serves me coffee every morning and mumbles something that sounds like "blood" to himself (I think his name is Jean, but I may be totally inventing that). Thus, when I'm not out watching Michael Moore movies or symphony concerts by myself, I'm holed up in my budget hotel.
Oh, I make little errands for myself. I bought pens today. And a bottle of water. And some raspberries. And a kimono. And twenty boxes of Kleenex. And more jars to urinate into and stack against my wall. Again, I exaggerate only slightly.
Oh well, at least school starts in...11 days? That's not so bad--I can even go without shaving in the meantime. I'm not sure what that would accomplish, but something about it would amuse me.
Although I was busy enough the first few days not to notice it, my activity level is beginning to wane with the realization that, like one of those LucasArts games from the 1990s, everything I'm supposed to get done is interconnected in some complicated way--I need an address to get a long-stay visa, I need a long-stay visa to stay in an apartment, I need an apartment to get some French tail...well, scratch that last one. Quick-Burger works fine as a hunting ground in the meantime.
But anyway, since I can't move into my apartment until September 30th, that basically puts my metro pass, visa, and school forms on hold. Although I usually practice during the morning, that still leaves me about ten hours of the day to kill.
I somehow had the illusion that I knew lots of people in Paris. In reality, I have an ex-girlfriend, a couple of her friends, a guy from IES, and the guy who serves me coffee every morning and mumbles something that sounds like "blood" to himself (I think his name is Jean, but I may be totally inventing that). Thus, when I'm not out watching Michael Moore movies or symphony concerts by myself, I'm holed up in my budget hotel.
Oh, I make little errands for myself. I bought pens today. And a bottle of water. And some raspberries. And a kimono. And twenty boxes of Kleenex. And more jars to urinate into and stack against my wall. Again, I exaggerate only slightly.
Oh well, at least school starts in...11 days? That's not so bad--I can even go without shaving in the meantime. I'm not sure what that would accomplish, but something about it would amuse me.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
La Voisine Folle
Although I've been staying at the "Friends" hostel for the last couple days, I have since moved to a budget hotel in the Marais. "Friends" has left me with a enough memories to last me a few weeks, in the form of mysterious bite-marks which appeared after the last night, when I finally gave in and used the one ragged, multi-colored blanket they supplied.
Although I suppose I can't legally prove that these marks came from the hostel, I took the liberty of pulling up my shirt and showing my lower back to a few of the Germans in my room as a warning. I love making friends.
Not that the new hotel is much better--I already feel like I'm in some kind of ancient Syphinx-ien riddle. I checked out the (communal) bathroom about an hour ago, and realized that the toilet had no seat. Hmm. I climbed the stairs to the next landing to check out their bathroom. It had a toilet seat, but the door didn't close. I don't like crowds forming at the door. Hmm...next floor. No toilet paper. Next floor...two dwarves guarded the door, one that always lied, and one that always told the truth. Well, you get the idea. I'm still trying to figure out which of the evils to choose when it comes time.
In other news, I met the guy who's renting my apartment to me today. Although I've already paid him some rent and talked with him for almost a week, today marked the first time that he actually told me his name. Given that renting a Parisian apartment is insanely complicated for non-French people, we had to organize a complicated system that involved my dad meeting up with his daughter in London to give her a check and a wad of blood-stained money...I exaggerate only slightly. He gave me the contract today and said that there should be no problems...except. Except?
"The neighbor is very disturbed," he said as he tapped his head.
He used the word "derangé" in French, which is indicative of something pretty serious.
"Derangé?" I asked.
"Euhh, no...no, not exactly. Well, she's very aggressive."
Oh, good. I was worried for a second.
"She...hears things. And gets very angry."
Apparently this woman has a habit of knocking on the door in the early hours in the morning to complain about the noise of non-existent pianos (an actual story he told me), and such other antics. He warned me that, for the love of God, I should not actually put a piano in my room or make any noises at night.
He paid for my coffee, which was nice. Maybe it was some kind of compensation for the year of raving lunacy ahead of me.
Although I suppose I can't legally prove that these marks came from the hostel, I took the liberty of pulling up my shirt and showing my lower back to a few of the Germans in my room as a warning. I love making friends.
Not that the new hotel is much better--I already feel like I'm in some kind of ancient Syphinx-ien riddle. I checked out the (communal) bathroom about an hour ago, and realized that the toilet had no seat. Hmm. I climbed the stairs to the next landing to check out their bathroom. It had a toilet seat, but the door didn't close. I don't like crowds forming at the door. Hmm...next floor. No toilet paper. Next floor...two dwarves guarded the door, one that always lied, and one that always told the truth. Well, you get the idea. I'm still trying to figure out which of the evils to choose when it comes time.
In other news, I met the guy who's renting my apartment to me today. Although I've already paid him some rent and talked with him for almost a week, today marked the first time that he actually told me his name. Given that renting a Parisian apartment is insanely complicated for non-French people, we had to organize a complicated system that involved my dad meeting up with his daughter in London to give her a check and a wad of blood-stained money...I exaggerate only slightly. He gave me the contract today and said that there should be no problems...except. Except?
"The neighbor is very disturbed," he said as he tapped his head.
He used the word "derangé" in French, which is indicative of something pretty serious.
"Derangé?" I asked.
"Euhh, no...no, not exactly. Well, she's very aggressive."
Oh, good. I was worried for a second.
"She...hears things. And gets very angry."
Apparently this woman has a habit of knocking on the door in the early hours in the morning to complain about the noise of non-existent pianos (an actual story he told me), and such other antics. He warned me that, for the love of God, I should not actually put a piano in my room or make any noises at night.
He paid for my coffee, which was nice. Maybe it was some kind of compensation for the year of raving lunacy ahead of me.
Le Debut
Somehow, in some way or another, I am now in Paris. I left a day later than I planned, forcing me to spend most of my birthday on planes and in airports, drinking and sobbing hysterically in the Houlihan's bar by myself. It's eerie to be back in this city for a few reasons. I've always liked lists, so here goes:
1. I am staying in the "Friends" hostel at the Barbes metro stop. For anyone familiar with Paris, this is not exactly the most romantic, timeless area of the city. In the first two hours, I saw three people get clapped with handcuffs on separate occasions. Even worse, the woman working there was one of my co-workers from (shudder) the Peace and Love hostel (see www.livejournal.com/users/adaminparis) who asked me how my summer in Oxford with the master-piano teacher went (note: this was a lie to tactfully quit my work at the Peace and Love hostel. I never thought I would ever hear it again). Oh, and we don't get pillows at the hostel.
2. The last time I was in this city, I had a girlfriend. I do not anymore. This leaves me to walk along the Seine alone as accordion music plays, see French romantic comedies by myself, buy two crepes and eat both of them, and sob alone at the bar in Houlihan's.
3. My once pristine French is now atrocious. When people in stores don't speak back to me in English, they laugh and ask me to repeat myself. Then they keep asking until I burst into tears.
4. The place where I was planning to practice piano charges 6.50 euros an hour. That means that a normal 3-hour practice session would cost me about 20 euros a day, i.e., the cost of a pretty nice apartment in Paris when it all adds up. I am searching for something else. And I will probably fail.
5. I have a date with a Macedonian girl tonight from the hostel. Macedonia is apparently a country, located somewhere, with its own language and culture. I guess there's nothing eerie about that, but I need to do some quick wikipedia-scanning on this alleged country.
In conclusion, I also have to find an apartment, get my carte de sejour (i.e., another lovely visa process that will require all sorts of forms, copies, registrations, urine samples, intense interrogations, mind games, etc.), and get a year-long metro pass (comparable to visa process).
I've actually already found an apartment and am ready to take it, just so I can get the hell out of the Friends hostel. It's more expensive than it should be, and it's not in the most exciting area of town, but at this point, I'd be fine with renting a tent next to the Seine, as long as it could zip up most of the way. Anyway, vive la France yet again!
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