I had a rather interesting commute to work today.... I left very late because I had to call the internet/tv/telephone company and yell at them. They give as good as they get, so I was cowed and I probably won't have internet for the rest of November. They'll still charge me of course, by directly taking money out of my bank account, but if I send a reimbursement form by registered mail I should receive a response yes or no about the reimbursement in about three months. I tried to change my payment method to something besides direct debit from my bank account, but that apparently requires a 400 euro deposit, billed immediately, and probably taken directly out of my bank account. I don't remember that being mentioned when I was signing up....

So I walked to the bank in the mood you are usually in after talking to your local cable company-- after wasting half of your monthly allotted cell phone minutes-- after hearing a completely terrible American song about taking your spanish lover to bed on the hold-line for the cable company for 15 minutes....

I got some money from the bank, and a guy came up to me and said, "I saw that you just got money from the bank." This is not the kind of thing that you want a stranger to be saying to you, especially after my Equadorian friend's wallet was stolen right after she went to an ATM [she later found out that the guy had spied on her while she typed in her code, and after he had her card he made three separate withdrawals of 2000 euros each (the limit on the machine) in a matter of 10 minutes]. But the guy was very unsketchy-looking and had a tape recorder and a microphone, so I stopped to talk to him.
He explained that he was a journalist, and he was doing a piece on how French people feel about their banks. I told him that I was sorry but that I wasn't French. He said that he guessed that wouldn't work then, but then he asked me some questions about how American people feel about the bank, and whether recent events in world finance has changed the way that people feel about their money. It is true that almost everyone in France has a debit card instead of a credit card. They pay for most things, even very expensive things, in cash. Their bills are directly debited from their accounts. They are very suspicious of most things that involve credit and they like to keep their money close. Americans, on the other hand, have gone off the edge of the planet as far as charging things on credit, to the point that many people don't even pay off their credit cards completely every month, instead spending a month ahead of their pay checks and ending up SOL when their paychecks are delayed or they get fired.

To my great luck, we had just studied journalism and "expressing opinions" in french class, so I had all of my "I distrust..." "In my opinion..." "For my part..." expressions ready to use.

Once in the metro, I was chillin' and not really paying attention to anything when I saw a little tiny Japanese girl with arms no thicker than my wrists. She had a giant suitcase and a big duffle bag on top of the suitcase. When the train stopped, she rushed through a crowd of people to the next door down. She was too late in arriving, so she missed her stop. I was trying to figure out why she didn't just leave out of the door that she had been in front of, but then I realized that she didn't know what to do to make the door open, which is a big problem that all the tourists have here. She seemed to realize the way to do it after examining the exit latch, so I watched to see if she would get off at the next station. A french woman exited out of the door where she had originally been standing, but as the japanese tourist tried to lift the latch on her door, she found it impossible to move (the hydraulics kick in when the train comes into the station, making the doors impossible to open by old or weak people). She probably could have opened it, but now she was confused. She was about to try to drag all of her stuff back through the crowd of people to the open door when I got up out of my seat, ran the three doors down the subway to where she was standing, and opened the door for her in time for her to get out of the train. "Thank-you," she said gratefully in a small voice.

HEY FRENCH PEOPLE! If I can tell from a car away that she's having trouble working the door, then the twelve of you sitting on your asses directly in front of the door certainly have to know that she's having trouble with the door. OPEN THE DOOR FOR HER!

That was really bad, even for French people. I felt so sorry for the poor girl who would now have to drag that giant suitcase up the stairs of the station, down the stairs to the other side of the tracks, take the subway back to the last station, opening all the subway doors as she goes, and then dragging the giant bag up the stairs in the right station. I almost got out of the car to help her carry them. I probably should have.

Sometimes Japanese tourists break my heart.

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I'M SICK AGAIN!!! I JUST GOT BETTER!!!!

WTF!!!!

This time it's a cold though. Sore throat, runny nose. Usual stuff. It doesn't freak me out as much. I don't think it will stop me from going to see Muffy jumping, but I will try to avoid sneezing all over him in his moment of greatness.

This must be like when the Europeans first came to the New World and gave everyone every disease known to man. Those disease-ridden Europeans, I swear.

GO MUFFY!!!!

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So today was better than the other days.

I got up, listened to FG "Fucking Good" Radio.... yeah, after every couple of songs they say, "FG Radio... F! Fucking! G! Good! ... Fucking Good Radio!" They play "electro and dance".

After that I ate some pieces of white bread, which has become my staple, and until today, the only thing I've been eating. There were occasional coco puffs.

I surfed the web, got mad at web comments [WHY do I READ them??], and organized a weekend trip for Sharkboy and myself to go Strasbourg for the giant Christmas market:






I'm pretty excited.
After that I took a shower for the first time in...... maybe 5 days... shaved my legs, very clean. I put on CLEAN clothes, which I washed last night. Then I ATE a HOTDOG. Yeah, that's right, a HOTDOG, with ketchup and everything, oh, it was so good, and it didn't hurt my stomach!!!! I surfed the internet some more, and by this time it was 4:30 already, so I went out to the Orange (France Telecom) store to try to get a phone/internet/mobile. The saleswoman was craaaazy. The adorable little old woman in front of me was trying to get a sim card, and the saleslady said, "GIVE ME YOUR ID CARD" and the woman said, "What? I need an ID card?" and the saleslady said, "You've always, ALWAYS needed an ID card." and the old lady said, "well the last time I got a phone..." and the saleslady said, "You've always needed an ID card, ALWAYS." This was also funny because the saleslady must have been younger than me. What does she know about how things always have been?

So I was scared. But when my little quiet sick french voice emerged to ask my little quiet carefully posed questions, the crazy saleslady softened a bit and explained to me that I needed a bank account routing number, an ID card, and a lease in order to set up my internet/tv/phone/mobile. H�las, I must put it off until Monday when I can get my bank account routing number from my office. On the positive side, I can apparently get a landline that calls any country for free for unlimited minutes, DSL, cable TV and a cell phone for a total of ~50 euros a month! That's not bad! I then went to a store where they sell masquerade outfits, almost exclusively men's masquerade outfits. The internet said that it was a cool store but that they weren't very nice to their customers.

I found this to be accurate.

I wanted to walk to the Gardens of Luxembourg to sit in the sunshine, but I was just too tired from walking the half a block to the Orange store so I decided to go home.

I stopped at the grocery store and found the holy grail: SALTINES. I also found apple sauce. So I got some more bread, saltines and apple sauce, and had a lovely dinner. Then, as I was sitting down to write this entry, I saw 99 red balloons floating across the sky. Ok, so they were all colors, and I did not count them, but there were so many colored balloons just floating along! A lot of them were in a big bunch all together, and then the rest were just strung out across the sunset. +Eiffel Tower. Excellente.

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I have the stomach flu. Some kind of horrible stomach flu. Yeah, you know, living the dream.

I've had it since Saturday/Sunday. I don't think I've ever felt so continuously horrible without respite.... ever. Ever. I've had a stomach flu before. You throw up, you lie on the bathroom floor, hoping to die, hoping God will intervene and kill you in his ultimate mercy, etc. But you know, occasionally after throwing up you feel better for a few moments, maybe you sleep a little bit with lots of drugs. I just feel like someone has been stabbing me repeatedly in the gut for five days and as a result my stomach is leaking acid all over the inside of my body. I probably shouldn't complain judging from what ThisCharmingMan has been going through. When I eat, it is painful like being stabbed. When I drink water, it is painful like being stabbed. When I don't eat or drink, the drugs make me sick because you're supposed to take them with a meal. When I don't eat or drink or take drugs, I feel pain which I have now connected with being hungry. It doesn't feel like being hungry, it just feels like you have a big hole in your stomach. Trade pain for pain. The drugs just don't actually do anything at all.


#complaincomplaincomplain

Vive la France!

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Let's see if we can itemize the lovely things that have happened to me since I moved to Paris:

1. Air France loses luggage.
2. Shuttle company tells me wrong door, wait for more than two hours for shuttle.
3. Hotel 1 is kind of dirty, bitten by mosquitos.
4. Start feeling sick if I spend too much time in my office.
5. Hotel 2 has bedbugs.
6. Allergic to bedbug bites, my arms, legs, ankle, hands, and face swell up many times their normal sizes and itch like crazy. Old bites turn into boils and explode.
7. Hotel proprietor washes all of my clothes.
8. Allergic to the soap, I break out in a rash.
9. Dry all of my clothes on high heat to kill the bedbugs, burning my favorite shirt and melting my favorite purse. Bedbugs explode making blood spots on clothes.
10. Smoke pours out of the laundromat, a woman comes and orders me to remain where I am until the owner of the laundromat comes.
11. Wait for 45 minutes, the owner comes, there is nothing wrong with the machine, it was just my clothes that were burning and melting, he confides in us that the woman hates his shop and she's always trying to make trouble.
12. Decide to clean office floor. Discover mouse droppings and mold everywhere.
13. Post-floor cleaning, sick office feeling stops happening.
14. 3rd hotel. Creepy Jorge and noise at all hours. But a restaurant!
15. Eat at restaurant. Get food poisoning.
16. A new man replaces Jorge in the room. Turns out he is a well-known thief who buys a room in the hostel for a single night and then steals everything in his neighbors' luggage. Maria discovers him going through an Australian girl's suitcase in the middle of the day. A bottle of vodka goes missing. The thief is reported to the hotel staff, who confirms that his key-card has been disabled and he will not be able to re-enter the room.
17. Thief re-enters the room, starts to get ready for bed. Australian girl rushes to the reception, they get together a bunch of security guards and managers and escort the thief from the room. Since all of my luggage is in my office to keep it free of bedbugs, not a problem.

Conclusions:
1. Hostels are great for vacationing, but do not ever live there.
2. Cleanliness is next to godliness
3. I can't wait to move into my apartment tomorrow!!

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{on the way back from lunch, after talking about how many Americans only take a half an hour to eat}
French1: America is ok for Americans, but it's not for Europeans.
French2 [brightly, trying to avoid unpleasantness]: You know Z is an American, she is from Denver.
French1: And?
French2 [changing the subject]: I am going to Boulder in October, maybe you know of a good place to stay?
Me: I'm not very familiar with the hotels there because I'm usually visiting friends. Maybe there is a hostel or something that is cheap?
French1: There are no cheap hotels in the US. They don't have the same cheap hotels like we have.
French2: You went to Boulder?
French1: Yes, I went there, it was horrible.
French2: Oh? I heard it was nice.
French1: Oh, the city is ok, but it's the PEOPLE who are horrible.
French2: Um....
French1: Oh yes, in France the first thing you are taught as a little child is to say "Good day" to someone, but do Americans say this? Nooooo.
French2: Oh really? I usually think of Americans as being overly friendly, like "HI! HOW ARE YOU!!!!"
French1: No, that is not true. The people in Boulder are awful.
Me: We'll, they're hippies....
French1: NO THEY ARE NOT HIPPIES. They are not. They are "bobos" [the french word for hippy is "baba"]
Me: What is a bobo?
French1: It is a person who likes to pretend that they are so cool and like a hippy and into nature but they're actually rich assholes.
Me: Well, that does actually describe people from Boulder pretty well.
French2[brightly]: I heard that Boulder has lots of sports!
Me: Boulder does have a lot of hiking trails and bike trails.
French1: Bobos.
{french1 goes to her office}
Me: Um.... so honestly Boulder is a nice town. I think you'll have a good time there.
French2: Thank-you.

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The room is full of Brazilians. The whole city is full of Brazilians, my new Brazilian friend Julianna would say. But right now I live in a 10 person room in a party hostel near the Canal de Saint-Martin and the presence of the Brazilians tends to dominate the room. To be sure, there are two Australians, but when it comes to having a party, Australians are just paler Brazilians who can't dance. My Australian friend told me that the proper term for a group of Australians is "an annoyance", as in "an annoyance of Australians". I don't know the appropriate term for a group of Brazilians.

The best Brazilian is a girl, young and beautiful with a big camera. She reminds me of my friend Srog the Dane. We'll call her Maria.

The worst Brazilian is Jorge, who is very drunk.

Jorge is drunk because three men attacked him and stole 1000 euros and all of his papers. Jorge is drunk because he wants to go home but he doesn't really have a home to go to. Jorge is drunk because even if he did have a home, he doesn't have the paperwork he needs to get there. Jorge is drunk because if it had been two guys instead of three, you'd better believe he would have fought them off.

Jorge likes to take pictures, explains Maria. Maria explains most of what Jorge says because through the alcohol everything comes out as a vaguely portuguese slur of words incomprehensible to the Australians. The preceding paragraph of information about Jorge, explained by Jorge himself, was reduced to "I am a man of the world. The world is my country."

Jorge doesn't like to take, how do you say, paysages?
Landscapes, I supply.
Landscapes. Jorge likes to take the pictures of the people.
Portraits, I supply.

Jorge calls me AMERICAN GIRL.
He doesn't call me for any reason, though. He just shouts, "AMERICAN GIRL!" until I look at him, and then he is so drunk that he doesn't know what to say.

"AMERICAN GIRL. I take your photograph," Jorge finally says.
"No, thank-you" I say, by now curled up with my book in my pajamas, trying to ignore the cacophany of the room. I am exhausted, I am no fun, I have a job in the city. I am content to listen to the Brazilians and Australians bond over the fact that their capital cities were invented by politicians.

"AMERICAN GIRL, pretty girl, I take your photograph." He takes a photograph of my hand, which I have stretched out to prevent his photograph. Maria thinks that it looks very artistic.

Jorge presents me with two options: "Either I take a photograph now, or while you are sleeping," he says. He reminds me that when I am sleeping I will be naked. He also reminds me that when I am sleeping I cannot stop him from taking the photograph.

I pretend to consider these two options for a moment.

"I decide.... no and... no."

He persists. Maria comes to my aide. "You don't understand Jorge, she is an American, that means you have to respect her."

My curiosity is piqued.

"I mean to say, that when a North American say 'no', she actually mean 'no', and you have to give respect to that. He is from South America, and in South America when you say 'no' all of the men think that it really mean 'yes'."

I agree that I am certainly not in agreement with the South Americans on this point. I underline the sentiment by shutting the curtain that encloses my bed. A shy Brazilian is already trying to sleep in a bed across the room. After an hour or so the annoyance of Australians gets the idea and proposes to move the party downstairs. They drag Jorge out of the room.

Very late in the night I hear a voice at the edge of my bed.

"I can see you," the voice says.

I am facing the wall. I pretend that I am asleep.

Later still: some rustling. A flash. I can't be sure it wasn't a dream.


Goddamnmotherfucking Jorge, I'm from NORTH AMERICA.

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My new chinese-canadian friend in the Parisian Tourist Info Center:

My Friend: Hello, can I have a map?
French Guy Behind the Desk: :::sigh:::: here is a map.
My Friend: Could you tell me any good places to just walk around?
French Guy: :::reaches under the desk and slaps down a guidebook to Sicily::: Do you know what this is?
My Friend: Um...
French Guy: It is a guidebook. Do you know why I have it?
My Friend: No...
French Guy: BECAUSE I'M TAKING A TRIP TO SICILY. Because you see, when you go to a place, you buy a GUIDEBOOK beforehand. Then you know where to go.
My Friend: Ok.... um... I'll just.... :::heads out the door with map:::
French Guy: PARIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CITY IN THE WORLD!

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