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?
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