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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!