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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!