From our class room there is a view of le Sacre Ceur. I walked up there Tuesday afternoon. Today is Friday and my calves are still diamond-shaped, rock hard and sore like a hooker on Navy Week.

I go to class in the morning and on my way I meet the dads. Impeccably clad in dark suits and very nice shoes, they push their kids in strollers. The kids are adorable and speak bleu-bleu in tiny French voices, which makes it so cute there are no words to do it justice.

In the evening I meet the same kids again when their moms or nu-nus have picked them up from la crèche. The nu-nus are big black women with braided hair and gigantic butts in tight jeans.

Young, female, urban professionals in Paris wear booties. Short little boots with hard heels that make a very determined sound, as their owner stride forward in her world; clac- clac, clac-clac.

Actually, the sound is more French: claque-claque, claque-claque.

Me, in hoarse voice: “I want you inside of me”. To almond croissant.

Monsieur le Professor, in heavy French accent: “It isn’t rocket science”. (Explaining brain surgery.)

Monsieur le Professor, in heavy French accent: “So, theoretically, you can have quality of life worse than death”.

Guy next to me, whispering: “Yeah. Like this lecture.”

Les boulangeries bake fresh baguettes several times a day. They wrap them in paper, leaving the ends sticking out.

I was crossing a busy intersection in a business district, when towards me came a clown. He wore big shoes, rainbow hair, white face, red nose – the works. No one paid any attention to him. The incongruity was huge – a clown amidst all these busy city-people??  I sent him a huge smile and as a reward, he kissed his hand, and as he blew the kiss towards me, I was showered in glitter.

I was showered in glitter!

But.. How.. What?..

Was he carrying glitter in his hand all along?

How did the glitter get there?

I went into a tiny little shop, where they sold LPs and graphic novels. I wormed my way around the narrow isles; opening a book here, touching a book cover there. The owner took up conversation and I smiled and nodded and tried to say “oui-oui” but soon he saw through my scam and switched to English.

“We have a department with books in English too”, he said, and pointed at a plastic bag with books in it. I bought two beautiful little books.

Sometimes I get away with it and have very small conversations in French. I am so proud when I have a transaction without them noticing (or pretending not to notice?) that I actually don’t really speak French. “Bonne journée”, I yell convincingly, as I walk out the door.

Like saying it louder will make it better.

I ask for the menu in French and then lean over to look at my neighbours’, which is in English. If I insist on staying in French language-mode, sometimes the waiter patiently explains a dish by making animal sounds. Sometimes they point at stuff while making animal sounds. Life is good.

Why do they call Paris “the City of Lights”? In my experience, it should be called: ”the City of Complex Carbohydrates”.

I have to have confit de canard. One day, I had it twice – for lunch AND dinner. And I wasn’t even ashamed. Not one bit. I greedily ate every morsel of sweet, tender meat off the bone. Twice in one day. No shame. Not one bit.

I miss my guys. It is great and all. But I miss my guys.



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Set your Twitter account name in your settings to use the TwitterBar Section.