A Not So Dolce Vita

Warning: This content is not suitable for parental observation. Abort now.

So last we left off I was looking down the barrel of the finals gun. Little did I know what a shitfest December would be. I ended up being hospitalized, that was fun (that was sarcasm but actually it was kind of fun as soon as I got an IV drip and Caroline was there cracking me up. I warned you, mom.) December was not good at first. The dreadful events fell in crescendo. The week leading up to my hospitalization, the following happened:

1) After figuring out how our French oven works (and in my own defense, it’s a complicated bastard) I decided to give it a spin and see if French ovens get as hot as American ovens. Thanksgiving was in 3 days and I had big turkey plans. So then I thought it would be a good idea to put my socks in the oven for an out-of the-dryer effect. It was not. The phone rang. I ran a bath. Then I remembered and I have never seen so much smoke. I was scared. I think I actually said, “Help me!” and threw open the oven and tried to put the flaming socks out but there was so much smoke I couldn’t really breathe so I don’t really know what I said. Somehow I opened the windows and let the apt air out. People from the adjacent buildings were opening their windows and looking outside because it looked like I had a fire.

2) Later and probably suffering from smoke inhalation, I decided it would be a good idea to windex my keypad because it looked dirty. It was not. First s and t and l and n and all the really good letters stopped working then spacebar and delete went. I had papers due and I almost destroyed my laptop. The Apple store in the Louvre is the best place on the planet. There seemed to be sunshine and children’s laughter and soft streams and everyone spoke English. They saved me and had me good in 2 days.

3) By this time bubbles had formed on my eyeballs, yes I said BUBBLES HAD FORMED ON MY EYEBALLS, little clear bubbles that I could feel when I blinked and bloodshot red eyes that made me look way too high. FML.

4) While I was waiting those 2 days for Apple (Peace Be Upon Them) to return my joint I went to the AUP computer lab to finish up my 20 page paper to feed to the hungry Egyptian. I spent 5 straight hours (getting hot flashes thinking about this now) polishing and citing and footnoting and Power Pointing and making funny and this bastard didn’t save!!!! I had the tech team on this toute to the suite but nothing! They were like yeah, let us show you how to save and I was like NO, PLEASE DON’T BOTHER SHOWING ME HOW TO SAVE, MR. SINGH, THE FIRST FUCKING THING I LEARNED IN THE 1^ST FUCKING GRADE WAS HOW TO SAVE A GODDAMED PAPER but still somehow gone. Lost. Nothing. Tumbleweeds. Tears. Desolation. Mourning. I spent another 5 hours on another polish a few days later and got it done (the Egyptian gave me an A) but I will never forget.

5) Oh, you thought I was done? Oh no, no honey. So after mourning the loss of my paper and being reminded of my move to toast my socks 43x a minute because one must blink and feel the blisters on eyeballs, a friend in town called and I decided to catch up with her to try and forget my week. I called a cab and it pulled up with 21 Euro on the meter and I didn’t make him wait so this was unjustified. That’s about what I would have spent on a round trip. After a brief conversation I got out. So did the cab driver- an angry Arab madman chased me down and grabbed my arm and started trying to toss me around! Then he spat at me (missed)! I know a couple of the valets who work at the hotel right across from my apt and ran to them and they handled the guy and called the police. I just collapsed on the ground and cried.

Anyway, the American Hospital was great, I saw one other patient in the entire hospital the whole time, there was bamboo and the food wasn’t bad and I had a staff of 5. The French healthcare system really is all they say it is and more I think because they have things in the Pharmacies we don’t have in the US, things you don’t need a prescription for, like uber remedies that knock me out and kick a cold’s ass by morning.

I was at a pharmacie filling a prescription near my school and I couldn’t help but notice an enormous planet I mean redheaded American woman struggling with French and it seemed like she was asking for directions. I know the neighborhood pretty well, I thought, and my French is good enough to say go straight or take the second left or what have you and strangers have always helped me, so I butted in.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Are you talking to me?” the woman replied, and not in a DeNiro Taxi Driver way, she just wasn’t sure if I was talking to her.

“Yes.”

“Me, well, I’m looking for morphine!”

She really said that. I thought we were talking directions. From now on I vow to shut my mouth.

If you’re not depressed and still here, things got better. Finals was a really big bastard but I studied a lot and Tommy provided his comic relief which was great because I think at one point after an all day library bender I took some snow off of a car and starting eating it.

Tommy keeps asking me what I’m going to be writing about for my Master’s research paper, and I have a few ideas. One idea emerged with the realization this semester that history and politics is usually about one group of men telling another group of men to bend over and grab ankles with the might of their military behind them. Another realization: I think men from miserable climates and men with small penises experience a bloodlust and thirst for war and slavery more than others. I’m thinking Napoleon wasn’t hung. I’m thinking this made him build and conquer and erect phallic monuments sans arrêt. I’m just sayin. Which African conquerors can you point to? Ok General Tariq of Moorish Spain but I don’t think African men feel the same need to conquer that some do because they conquer every night and feel sufficiently victorious. Could this be why they don’t encroach upon other people’s territories and resources the way our beloved Britain has? I want to steer away from generalizations but why exactly was Ivan so Terrible? Is there a correlation between penis size and the centers of world power? Did Muhammad have a small one? Still figuring out how I would research this (and would I use flow charts?) and if the director of my program would kick me out of school for proposing such a thing, especially since I ended my paper for his class by calling Islam a bunch of misogynist hubris. Probably the wrong audience.

Met a sweet guy. Not saying any names but he’s Italian. He makes good pasta.

Italy was wonderful if you can get around the aggressive Italian men, feeling completely inept as far as the language goes like I do, having a stone penis in your face every 5 feet and little infant Jesus everywhere. He’s a big deal there. Note to the Italians: Jesus wasn’t Italian and probably didn’t look like you. I’m just sayin.

We arrived on a bus from the airport and a car was blocking the bus. I loved listening to the agitated men talketh shit in Italian. It sounds wonderful, almost like music. A crowd formed around the offending car, people who probably didn’t have anything to do with the problem threw up their hands in disgust and seemed to stop their day to do this as the men out did each other talking shit. People laughed and I wish I could have understood what they said. I wouldn’t want to be the poor guy who parked this car. In LA, a tow truck would have swooped in out of nowhere in .5 and got rid of the problem like the vultures they are, but not in Rome. Four nice and hefty ones picked up the car and moved it to the side and out of the way. The bus went about its business and that was that.

I love the old world. I love reading about it, visiting it, listening to tour guides about it, I love everything about it and this is why I loved Italy and visiting Rome and Florence. The Sheraton Firenze I do not recommend. The Sheraton should be ashamed to have its name on that place. I’ll spare you the details but I now refer to it as the 7^th den of Satan’s anus.

Cairo’s my little buddy and keeping me warm since I returned and since my guests have left. I’m trying to enjoy the break from school but it’s so cold and snowing and I would like to go running at the lake with Cairo and walk around and see the city but I hesitate. BRRRRRRRRR.

La Conversion Commence

Paris has a way of making me smile even when everything feels like poo.

Today on my way home from the Arab market where I get my fruits et legumes every Wednesday….ok how can I just gloss over the Arab market? I’ve been going for a couple months now after having learned that I can buy more fresh vegetables than I can carry for 8 Euro, and so now I’m friendly with some of the vendors, and we all know that I have an Arabic name. Let me just say that it might be better to not have an Arabic name when at an Arab market if you don’t want your name shouted every time you pick up a brussel sprout. These men’s voices are probably the loudest I have ever heard in my entire life. Amirrraahh! Otherworldly loud. But the market is good because I brush up on my Arabic (hum de la) and of course the cost effective fresh produce, all under the aegis of Aziz and Ayman, who act as my protectors. They look out for me when I wander farther down, they shout to the other vendors and they give me a better price. At the market they roast chicken over open spits and try to out-shout and out-bid each other and flirt shamelessly with every woman who passes by. They’re characters.

So on my way home from little Lebanon, a horde of young Irish, Heineken guzzling boys in bright green soccer jerseys board the train, some donning animal costumes, all singing their hearts out. First a song about being on the “one road”, a piece about it not necessarily being the ideal road, but their chosen road. I suspect this is a good drinking song. At first it was help, Lord Jesus, but they won me over within three stops. When we came in view of the Eiffel Tower it was “Thar she is boys!!!” and time for a new song. They made the cutest remarks, and when you looked around the train that they had managed to inundate with beer fumes, everyone couldn’t help but smile and giggle. So then, and only because I had a headache, a Spanish band enters THE SAME CAR. So the Spanish band starts, a lovely, gentle song about the usual corizon and esperanza, and it was “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” from our Irish boys. So then a Spanish-Irish fusion ensued, with the guitars and the passionate lyrics and “BUMBA LAY OHHHH!” from the guys in green, throwing out random lyrics a la Enrique Iglesias. When they finally got off the train and there was no more shamrock I was kinda sad. This is how you know a soccer game is eminent- men in jerseys sing.

The metro is pretty wild actually, and not always in a good way. I have seen men flip on poles, heard beat boxing in French (which is scary) and then the violent stalking episode that happened last night. On my way home from BHV this man from Pakistan wouldn't stop following me. I changed trains several times to get away and he would act like he wasn't getting off the train then follow me behind people at the last minute. I was civil at first, told him I have a boyfriend but he was focused. Finally I shouted, "Why are you following me?" and he answered evenly, "Because you're lovely." Believe me, I have lived a lot of life and I don't scare so easy and this guy scared me. I forgot my French, like maybe help there's a weirdo who won't go away! might have been handy. My mouth went dry and I finally lost him and sprinted all the way home. This was very unsettling, this isn't my city, I'm new here. I actually had the thought, "Maybe this is my last day on Earth." There was a sinister something in his eyes I dare not put a finger on.

Last entry I was just settling in, had moved to the 16^th avec the fabulous Caroline, into a nice apartment. Since then I’ve visited Normandy and Claude Monet’s house in Giverny, on a bike tour. That was one of the best days here so far, the quaint little market with smoked herring salad and cheeses from heaven, like cumin gouda. Then I went to the Loire Valley where there are dozens of old castles, with my sweet Romanian friend Serban. We spent the day hunting down chateaux and picnicking on the Loire, watching hot air balloons. Those castles are unreal. I love visiting them, I love Versailles, which I decided is on steroids compared to Giverny, but I love the quaint French towns more than anything.

Seto is what we call my Persian grandmother. She was visiting a friend in Geneva and so I went to see her a couple weeks ago. This was an interesting visit because Seto finally told me a little about her experience with the Iranian "Revelation", (and to pronounce this like her, you must employ a thick rolled r) which then turned into a story about how her father died the day the Revolution began in earnest, and her life never being the same since. My family never really talks about the tumultuous circumstances I was born into in Tehran, and I’m still unclear except I know well that the “bloody Imams have all my money” and "Khomeini was a big monkey", that there was fire and rioting, and that I was rushed out of Dodge. I also learned some very interesting things about my father, more on that later.

I discovered a forest at the end of Longchamp, my street, which is so pretty and seems like an enchanted fairytale forest until you look at the ground and realize you are walking on nothing but condoms and condom wrappers. There are also strange men in the forest that like to follow you and play peekaboo. Not sure what it is with the creepy following around business in this city.

I met a guy about a month ago. He is tall and alarmingly good looking, French but fluent in English, school in London. He was very sweet and would call often, he would give me detailed accounts of his day and of the time we were apart, wanting to explain what had kept him away. He would arrive early (anyone who knows me knows this makes me pee my pants), I asked for a wine once at dinner that they didn't have and the next time he came around he brought me a bottle of it. He was very affectionate, a gentleman, we would smile little silly smiles at each other. Ok so I needed a little time to adjust to purple Dolce and Gabbana sweater with tight jeans and pretty dress shoes, but then the other side of that we must remember, is that suit with cuff links and cologne happens. Suits and cuff links make me sweat. You don’t get much of that in LA. He was perfect. Then all of the sudden, nothing. Really, absolutely, glaringly, vehemently- nothing! After not hearing from him for about a week, I text, "Busy week?" and the response was oh yeah, blah blah busy, how are you? And nothing else. I hate busy. I really don't like it. Oh yeah, look at me, I'm so important, and just so- busy! I don’t get it. So then my ex calls, he’s in London and wants to get together. Fml. I want to know what happened to French boy. No luck in the love department. None.

Went on a Black Americans in Paris/Belle Epoch walking tour of Pigalle and Montmartre, where Josephine Baker made her debut, where Edith Piaf slept on benches and sang for bread, where F. Scott Fitzgerald, Langston Hughes, Cole Porter, even the Prince of Wales came to drink and listen to jazz. I love historical tours it’s so interesting to go to these places but also a little sad, that for example, what was at one time Bricktop’s famed watering hole where Hemmingway and the Lost Generation would frequent is now a... pharmacy. Saw old brothels and Degas’ painting studios. Went to the Moulin Rouge and been zipping around Paris on the back of a motorcycle. Now that's fun.

Huh? School? Oh yeah. It’s good, almost over with if I can satiate the Egyptian, then I get a month off and am planning Italy for Christmas. Things are good, I’m happy, Cairo’s happy. All that is missing is the love thing, which can be heart wrenching and terrible so maybe I’m better off.

Paris Revue

Ok so I’ve never blogged before, I’m not really a big blog reader and I must admit I feel some pressure to perform, to be funny, to provide unflattering pictures of celebrities or to generate clever Haikus that will move the crowd. I feel I must have some sort of magic trick to make me official I guess. Not sure I have any of these things but I did just move to Paris.

Oooolala!!! I think. Not sure yet. Decision still pending.

Decided to move to Paris after a delicious three days I spent here in the Fall of ‘08. I started in London and why go all the way to London without going to Paris? was my reasoning, so I planned both. I realize now that the events of this trip could be constructed into some sort of film montage you would see in some sweet indie flick where soul searching quirky heroine searches for happiness abroad after kissing her share of toads in love and career both. In London I met up with an old friend, shopped, met very interesting characters, including a Canadian politician, a Colorado oil guy, and a few rough shod West End (I think East is the posh one?) chaps who, pint by pint managed to get us kicked out of pub, which was kinda fun actually. Saw the best play I’ve ever seen in my life, fell in love with the British Museum and had the best….um…waffles? Let’s call it waffles- of my entire life. Maybe this list isn't very impressive but every moment was magic.

On the way to Paris, on the TGV or Eurostar or whatever that seemingly noiseless, motionless train is, I dozed off and woke up with a beautiful breakfast tray in front of me with the full spectrum of breakfast wonder. There were even flowers and chocolate. Wow, how great! I thought, these Europeans can’t be so bad, what with all this hospitality! After I finished my feast- somewhere between the second coffee and the hot hand towels I realized what had happened and sank in my chair a bit. I noticed everyone around me was donning rather fancy suits and shoes, serious expressions and not just pretend reading the business section. First class. Oops. I think the way it works is that you have to walk seven miles to the economy seats and can't just plop down in the first car as you see fit. As we pulled into Paris Nord I remembered from booking my ticket online that I nearly choked reading the price of the first class fare. The train stopped and I became a Jamaican sprinter from the Olympic Games. I forgot my fancy umbrella in my rush. In my mind this makes us even.

Paris was more of the same. Smiling, helpful people, St. Germain, boating down the Seine, frommage and tartine, all the fountains and the friendly group of guys I met, all good looking, charming, realizing this place is romanticized for a reason. This is the home of Sartre, of Foucault, Joan of Arc, Victor Hugo, the croissant. Btw, croissants do not exist outside of Europe. That clammy, bland thing I was eating with turkey and swiss was not a croissant. Real croissants are light, buttery, flaky, so flavorful and make a really big mess. Too much cannot be said about the croissant.

My first trip to Versailles left me dumbfounded. I mean, seriously, was that a gold sofa? And MA built herself a real farmhouse with sheep and everything so she could pretend she was a peasant? Wth? I think Versailles may have contributed to the rise of Communism, seriously. I think Karl Marx visited and was none too pleased. Ok so let me see if I have this right- You get to have maids, a dressmaker, a gilded bathtub, an orchestra, most of the civilized world and I get to sell the milk from my three goats?

Anyway, I felt alive, stimulated in new ways and decided I needed to live in the EU. My first thoughts went to London, but after considering the Pound and that I could pick up a new language (ok and the croissants) I decided on Paris. I also realized after my dreadful, soul -wrenching year of unemployment that I could have worked on another degree in this time. These two ideas merged and I applied to AUP, to the Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies Program, spearheaded by prominent thinkers in the field, and that was that.

Oh yeah- I guess I’m glossing over boy that happened between trip to EU and decision to move. He was British, charming, creative, possibly a genius. Six hours together felt like 20 minutes, we laughed and created our own world. It didn’t work out probably because I was ready to give more emotionally than he was. That and his decision to vacation in Costa Rica without me for two weeks.

Countdown:

Spent summer of this year preparing, but I would soon find out this wasn’t enough. Merde. Examinations for Cairo (my dog, not the city), visa, packing, garage sales, going away party, storage arrangements and going through my entire life of stuff, trying to see everyone before I left, quality family time, and oh yeah the summer reading for my program- 3 very intense reads. What am I forgetting? I guess feeling like I was in limbo, a little disjointed and nervous, anxious and fidgety, and developed a smoking habit thanks to boyfriend at the time. Somehow with all of this I managed to finish a draft of my 1st screenplay I’ve been working on for a couple years. This happened after someone I know in the business told me he would read and help me. This lit a fire under my ass like no other- all my months of stagnation evaporated and in 3 1/2 days of not sleeping, showering or eating properly I finished. Still waiting for his comments.

And we’re off!:

The day came all too quickly and me and Monsieur Cairo boarded the plane with my 39 suitcases, etc. And I drugged him, since you asked. He is still a puppy and an 11- hour journey with him wouldn’t have worked otherwise. He was a soldier.

The first thing that struck me upon arrival was that the guy didn’t seem to notice or care that I had an animal with me. He stamped my passport because I had it out but wasn’t insisting on seeing any documents. This is French customs. After all of the running to and fro for this paper and go to the USDA for that stamp and get this, that and the other turd meant nothing in the end.

My 56 suitcases have been the bane of my existence until about a week ago. The French were not very helpful when I arrived. Here is poor, disheveled Amirah, with whimpering startled animal in tow, struggling to get 4,000 pound suitcases off the belt, and a huge box with no handles, and no one tried to help me. I pleaded (plead?) with some official behind a desk for help but he couldn’t have been bothered. I fought back tears and osteoporosis. Finally a nice man helped me out and I was able to get everything onto the cart. Negotiating said cart through Charles De Gaulle airport is worthy of an entire blog entry of it’s own. Suffice it to say, 5 year- old children who cannot even see over cart should not be permitted to push their family’s belongings anywhere at anytime.

Condomgate:

Ok so remember I told you about the box I packed? Back at LAX I was over my weight by almost a planet. So in my rush to reorganize so as not to be charged exorbitant fees, things got messy. Cut to me, in France, having found my fellow classmates there to shuttle us to housing at last. Cairo was able to finally pee. I could stretch my legs and embark on this new chapter of my life. The decision to pack condoms came from- well, ya never know….waffles…and I’m an adult and don’t feel the need to explain myself except to say that this decision was intended to be a discreet one.

The driver loaded my belongings into the van. Mind you, this huge box purchased from Target in order to accommodate my overflow is clear plastic. And said condoms were not regular clear condoms, they were Red-Light District Red. And of course they couldn’t have been thrown into the center of the box like nice, inconspicuous condoms. And of course they had to be jelly side up, pushed against the side of the box for all to see, like flagrant, shithead condoms. And by “all” I mean all of the new, arriving students also taking the shuttle, and the 20 or so AUP student and administrative organizers. And of course my box had to go in last so all is in full view of these new people I will be spending the next 1-2 years with. I slunk into the van.

After about 20 minutes into the drive we were all talking and I mentioned being slightly embarrassed about my condoms.

“We know, we saw!” said the nondescript English girl with a big smile.

“I didn’t see but my friend just called and told me about it! Hahaaaaaa!” declared the obnoxious, very blonde, chubby Swiss girl after clicking her cell shut.

“At least they weren’t blue or anything, and at least you couldn’t see the actual condom, right?”

Wrong, dairy maid, wrong. Bright red. Peanut butter side up. Everyone saw. This was my very first episode in France; managing to be humiliated even before leaving the airport. It was awesome. After this experience I think I have developed an allergy to most undergrads at my school. Stay far away, please.

Classes started and wow I wasn’t ready for that. Classes made me feel like I wasn’t even sure if I was actually able to read. Being expected to read 500- 1000 pages a week and digest and regurgitate in a coherent, comprehensive argument after years of being out of school is bit frightening. There are characters, ideas and salient themes that stand out when I’m reading, but sorry folks, I’m not always able to draw parallels on my own between the reformist thinkers of 19th century Iran and the Tanzimat notables. What is a notable anyway? Isn’t “notable” implied because we are talking about it? And if any of my classmates reply to this and correct me, just know I’m slapping you the next time I see you.

My instructors’ mantra (except one- more on her later) seems to be NO NORMATIVE DISCOURSE. But I would rather you argued one way or the other so I could decide if I agree with you or not, instead of these constant inundations of information that become skewed and really just too much. And in your very selection of the material, periods and players we are to undertake, one could argue that you are actually taking a normative stance by choosing what should be explored. For example, why do we have to spend half of my life span on the Ottoman Empire? Maybe I feel this way because I’ve already studied it, but why not Pakistan, for example? I’m not sure she’s included as part of the Middle East, but definitely the Orient, and she cannot go ignored with regard to Islam. Ataturk, the Sultans and the Young Turks- I get it already.

Homeless and the City: A Tale of Redemption

So I figured it would better to look for an apartment once I got to Paris, because I didn’t know the city and it didn’t make sense to get an apartment online and then move in and discover I was living next to a Mafia- run brothel. I mean those run rampant, right? And there were so many scams online, and my school has a lame no help with housing policy if you have pets, so I thought I’d hit the ground running and find something toute suite when I got there, right? And screw the housing office anyway- what damage my 6 lb little guy could do is beyond me. He’s at my feet now, looking up and me and just adoring me to death. That’s the only damage he could do to anyone! I digress.

After staying (ok now he’s humping my foot hard. It’s always awkward and makes me blush) in the God-forsaken FIAP (don't ask) I moved in with a friend I knew from before, and crashed on his couch while I continued my apt search. The horror I encountered during my quest cannot really be conveyed, but I’ll try. Imagine walking up 5 flights of very spiraling, very narrow, urine soaked stairs in a dank building with walls splattered with some sort of fuck- some sort of unidentifiable matter, and getting to the cinqieme etage out of breath only to discover yourself in a small, hat box- sized space, with a slanted ceiling that won’t permit you to stand up all the way on one side of the “room” and then being told all of this can be yours for- wait for it- wait-----700 Euro a month! Oh, not including utilities. This sums up my apartment search experience. I began developing a not -so- garden- variety brand of heart palpitation that I’m not sure has left me completely. Sometimes when I hear trigger phrases like, “landlord” or “paid up front” I twitch a little.

So I meet a nice girl from class who offers me to stay with her while I’m looking. Looking back, I should have taken into account how persistent she was. Seemed normal enough, loved animals, went to my school, and besides I didn’t want to get on my first friend’s nerves. Was it Benjamin Franklin who said “Fish and houseguests both smell after three days?” Anyway, I didn’t want to be on his nerves, I had learned from all my spiritual consultations that one must stay open in order for the flow to happen, so me, dog and parade of suitcases moved once again.

I thought I had a good craz-o-meter but in all of my stress this person went undetected. Not only that but the really good ones wear masks. This was not a good arrangement. I think she wanted to keep my dog. She would ask me everyday, after telling me I could stay as long as I needed, if I had found a place yet, adding to my panic, and that if I had to take a place that didn’t permit my dog she would keep him for me and I could come visit him and watch tv. I was more stressed than I can remember being in a long time, having started school and trying to keep up with my reading while living out of my suitcases in a new country where I don’t speak the language very well, trying to negotiate the metro, how to order food, etc, etc and I started smoking. After telling me to relax and be at home, this person would toss out a “Do you ever buy cigarettes?” after I had brought groceries and offered her $ several times, but yes, was smoking her cigarettes she told me to help myself to. I should have just stayed at a hotel, right? But by the time I would get home I would be so exhausted, and then all my suitcases, and budgeting for apt, and hotels aren't cheap and they don't usually allow dogs unless you are Madonna and stay at Le Crillion. She would alternate from nice to aloof, trying to monopolize my evenings, being controlling and manipulating while I was feeling out of sorts and panicked to say the least. I would not wish this week I had on anyone. Thinking about her makes me shudder. I felt like a wandering, tribeless Bedu, not unlike the people I've been reading about, searching for my Zamzam well.

Finally I met another classmate who needed a roommate, and we hit it off. When I told the girl I was staying with I was leaving she grew more distant and weird, and “You know your dog has a place here whenever he needs it.” In a stony silence she helped me with my suitcase procession down her many flights, even though I hadn’t asked for her help. I was struggling a bit and had to put my end down at one point.

“PICK IT UP!!!!!!!!” she exploded, in a very Single White Female fashion. I was stunned. Then felt the strong urge to throw the dumb bitch down the stairs but I realized that if I did this or say, punched her in the face, I could possibly go to jail and get kicked out of school. So I took a deep breath and PICKED IT UP!!!!!!!!!, got in the cab and moved to Trocadero, in the 16th, a fantastic neighborhood, into an amazing apartment with a wonderful, fun, sweet, adorable, easy going person who loves my dog and animals like I do. I mean this apartment is huge and so nice. And close to school. And I can see the Eiffel Tower from my street. And my roommate is adorable. And there's a cute cafe right here where I can write. I feel like all of my suffering and praying over the least few weeks has been rewarded with a living arrangement that is much more than anything I was expecting and feels as much like home as anything could, considering the decision to turn my life upside down and move to Europe. I’m still settling in, still trying to feel normal and adapt to my crazy new schedule, but I’m happy and I really think I’m going to love it here.

Paris Itself:

Haven’t said much about this but here is some:

L'entrecote. Hash sticks. Le metro. Skinny jeans without trying because I walk everywhere. Nondescript looking boulangerie on the corner making the best sandwich I've had all year. Food is fresh and amazing. Chateau D'eau if you need some hood in your life. Hot men everywhere but everywhere, good lord, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this. Everywhere. The women here dress very well, must step my game up. Kir. Parades and protests. Jardins du Luxembourg. The Seine and Eiffel Tower as constant companions. Three and four year-olds speaking French is the most precious thing I think I have ever heard. Pastries, tartines, baguette- oh my!

I get the feeling no one really cares what you do here, except for when it comes to fashion. I feel like you could get away with all sorts of debauchery as long as you don’t do it in flip flops or sweats like this is LA, which it very much is not.