Adieu.

I’m sorry. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to talk about Paris.

The experience was so overwhelming. Each time I’ve come to write, I’ve been at a loss of words.

That is what Paris does to a young lover.

It is a city that does not change…each piece remains steadfast through time. Walking through the city felt like I was trekking across memories embedded deep in my heart…

…here was the café in Saint Germain des Pres that I could sit and read for hours, this was the little road in Bastille that led the way home from school, that was the metro stop that tells the story of a tearful goodbye between two lovers.

I remembered immediately how easy it is to suffer, for Paris is not an easy city to live. In the winter, the frost bites at your nose and ears and fingers. Heavy rains pour upon your head in the spring. The spaces are so compact and small there is no room to stretch long legs. The Parisians wear their exhaustion plainly on their faces, there is so little time to rest for those who are young.

Is there any other reason to flee to Paris besides for love?

It is love makes the city so magical. Perhaps this is why the Parisians love so fiercely. In love, the heavy rains become a gentle melody. The grey skies are a silvery backdrop of a radiant day. There is unlimited inspiration and excitement.

Once my heart is ready to follow the tides of destiny, I will pack my bags and fling myself back across the universe into that storybook of a life. But this is real life and at this moment I am resting. waiting. hoping. planning. growing.

La vie nocturne à Paris.

Rules for getting wasted in Paris.

1. Pre-game with a bottle of wine - Drinks at a nightclub can be from 15-20 euros a pop, which can tally up to quite a bill. Pre-gaming will loosen everyone up for the long, cold metro ride to Franklin D. Roosevelt, Palais Royal Musée du Louvre, or wherever you choose to party. (Plus your heals won’t hurt so bad).
2. Check in your coat - Even if you have a table, don’t leave your coat laying around, especially if you’re keys and wallet are in your pocket.
3. Set aside cab money - While the ideal night includes going home when the metro opens, it’s best to set aside some cab money just incase someone gets too drunk, the club is awful, or your just too tired.
4. Don’t accept drinks from men – When a man buys you a drink, you’re stuck with him for the night. Remember to only accept the drink you poured yourself.
5. Stick with your girlfriends - The night ends up so much better (and safer) if you’ve brought your best friends.
6. End the night on stage with the band- that is you’re ultimate goal. Begin by slipping into the VIP lounge if you don’t already have a table. Dance on the couches, eventually the party on stage will let you on.

The best nights at dawn when the metro opens after dancing all night on stage. Let loose and have fun, it’s Paris.

10 jours jusqu’à Paris.

Returning to Paris is like being flung by the legs into another universe….

…you’re never quite sure how you’re going to land.

Nothing is ever certain — not your finances, your friends, or the place that you will stay. The weather is unpredictable, the exchange rate mght be down, the Parisians will probably be moody and irrational. When traveling to Paris, you must remember that love is like oxygen… without it you will suffocate. So be sure to bring enough with you or find some when you get there…

And then there are all the Don’ts you must remember…

Don’t wear shorts or bright colors even on a sunny day. Don’t walk around smiling like an idiot. Don’t eat croissants on the metro. Don’t hand the woman at the bakery your change. Don’t step in dog poop. Don’t refuse the revered smelly cheese. Don’t pour wine for a gentleman. Don’t expect French people to show up on time. Don’t go out before midnight. Don’t dance like a stripper at the night club. Don’t go home with the cute boy on the moped.

(All these, of course, I have done….

…and will probably do again)

 

 

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La terreur à le Tour Eiffel

It seems there was a bomb scare at the Eiffel Tower!

BBC News reports that 2000 people were evacuated from the historic landmark and the surrounding areas including the Champ de Mars. Sources report that an anonymous caller warned the company that manages the Eiffel tower.

Luckily no one was hurt.

“Nothing was found,” a French police officer told AFP news agency…Within hours, the Saint-Michel train station – which was the target of a deadly attack in 1995 – was also briefly evacuated following a similar threat.

Who would do such a terrible thing?!

So many exciting (and horrifying) things happening in Paris this week!

Baby…Baby…Baby

This song has been stuck in my head again!

I saw the Victorias secret commercial, but not the video. I dunno, I guess getting naked and walking down the street to music was cool last year….like in that Erykah Badu video

baby baby baby …..

je veux des plans sur la commode
j’veux Tellier sur mon ipod
je veux l’amex black de ta mere
je veux la voiture de ton pere
j’veux sortir avec tes potes
j’mettrais ma plus belle culotte
j’veux une session un peu hot
j’veux bien qu’tu r’gardes mais pas qu’tu p’lote

baby baby baby ….

j’veux etre dans l’top de justice
la main d’ Gaspar sur ma cuisse
je veux compter même sans les doigts
je veux les tiens au bon endroit
je veux pas prendre les escaliers
tien c’est parfait, tu vas m’porter
je veux que moi sur les photos
et j’veux poser pour Saint Lau
je veux des enfants surdoués
et j’veux qu’mon chien soit diplomé
je veux ta tête sur un plateau
je veux pas d’ cake, j’veux de la coke
je veux sauter d’une grande échelle
je veux des glaces choco vanille
je veux tes boules à la myrtille

je veux danser comme Vanessa
j’veux voir son mec à Ibiza
je veux dormir quand tu te réveilles
et j’veux l’même T-shirt que Yelle
j’veux rentrer dans tous mes Jeans
et j’veux qu’tu rentres avec ta prime
j’veux des glacons dans mon verre
faire une souflette à ta grand-mère
j’ai vu ton ex, tu sais la sotte
dis lui qu’j'ai retrouvé ses bottes
j’veux pas noyau dans ma cerise
j’veux qu’tu redresse la tour de Pise
j’veux jouir dans une 2 chevauxx
et je vais l’faire derrière ton dos

Danse avec moi.

Damn it. I had to leave.

Right when the weather started to get warm ..right when school was over and we no longer had to worry about class …right before les soldes rush began …just when I was starting to find myself in French….

….I had to say goodbye.

In those last few weeks I decided to let myself go, embrace life, and stop worrying so much. “My time here is limited” I thought, “why not take a plunge“. And it was then that I finally started to understand the Frenchman.

I realize now that the Frenchman can be quite charming. He is the sensitive sort with curious pensées, soucis, and resolutions that occupy his mind. I must admit — he is rather pale and quite lanky — but his masculinity lies in his gallantry not his machismo. He has a love for beauty in all its forms: music, art, poetry, literature; but his favorite form of beauty is in the form of a woman. She stirs something within him and makes him forget himself. But it’s alright, for it would be a egregious towards God to not to enjoy His creation.

Alas, I am back in The States where the men chug beer and do not sip wine. This is a land where quantity proceeds quality … But how can we enjoy the moment when consumption prevails?

Regardless, flirting is flirting and I am throwing my rule book out the window. I have been taught that it is like a subtle dance…There is no prey, there is no chaser; only two people dancing together.

So come dance with me.

Complexe de taille.

I have a real problem and I need some advice.

This is serious. It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life if I don’t do something about it. Last night, I went to a fantastic boat party right under Pont Alexandre III. The setting was beautiful and I met a lot of cool people. There was a man there that I’d known briefly from before. We sat and chatted and I realized I really liked him. But when we stood up the devastating truth set in:

He was short.

Okay. This is starting to become a real problem.  You see, we tall people (and our short friends) have a complex…a complex that people of normal height may not understand. At 5’11, I view the world from an entirely different setting. It’s a life experience that can be ostracizing or empowering — depending on what you make of it. Do I feel bad this? No, not at all. But I need a man who sees the world from the same place. In fact, I need a man who I can gaze up at and allow me to feel like a woman.

But if I’m gazing down at him too, the whole dynamic of the relationship is thrown off!!!! How can I feel like a woman if I can’t snuggle in his chest. (Snuggling in my chest is just weird and annoying and creepy. Bleeh)

If you’re a woman, you know how wonderful it is to tilt back your head and kiss a man. The further I can tilt my head, the happier I feel. For a tall woman to nestle in the arms of a tall man is like curling up in a comfy bed after a long hard day. (For him too! No bending down! She’s just right there with you.)

Unfortunately men who are 6’4 are — well — a gift from God, especially in Paris. They usually know it and can get any girl they want. They don’t even have to try, women gravitate! In normal people world, a nice guy who is 5’8 is quite alright. But for me, it’s quite a lot to ask. I have to shut off a part of my soul, really it’s a ridiculous complex.

But then again, I really do like him….

“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”

Anaïs Nin

c’est un club de striptease, Madame

Last night was girl’s night out.

My friends and I arrived too early to favorite club of mine (00h30 est trop tôt??? come on!), so we decided to visit the swanky club next door. Besides the 5 bouncers standing outside and the flashing neon pink lights, the place was pretty discreet and when I asked the grosse mec what it was he whispered to me “c’est un club de striptease, Madame“. So we entered.

The place was pretty sultry — with  sexy couches, dim lights, loud music, and beautiful topless people I felt like I was back at Abercrombie and Fitch.

What was really impressive were the women. Their bodies were fantastic! Normally when I think of strippers, I think of fat chicks off of Hollywood and Western with cellulite and stretch marks dancing naked in front of you (blehhh). But no, these women were hot. “Why are they doing this” I wondered, “Perhaps they are just trying to work their way through school…or perhaps they have a son to feed“. But those thoughts didn’t occupy my mind long. We were too busy taking notes.

Nobody looked at us; each person in the audience was too captivated by the naked amazon on stage. Was she powerful or degrading? Did you want her or hate her? No one knew. But to take your eyes off of center stage and acknowledge the real world around you would ruin the effect and bring you back to reality. This was not reality, this was a fucking illusion.

We left before the hour was over and soon forgot about sexy, broken women with fantastic fake breasts.  At the club, (some using the notes we learned at the club before) each of us ladies went home with someone fantastic.

But that’s another story.

La soiree sporadique.

There is a phenomenon in Paris that I’d like to share with you.

Every so often,  when the weather is warm and the moon is full,  7 or 8 French strangers gather — preferably along the Seine or at a someone’s house. At first it is awkward, as no one knows each other and there is usually no purpose for this gathering. And then slowly individuals divide amongst themselves to politely exchange interests, occupations, current events, and culture (over wine).

In a timely fashion the harder alcohol is introduced and something strange occurs: yelling, laughing, singing, taking silly pictures and exchanging stupid remarks. The boundaries dissolve and finally the Parisian man is allowed to express the loneliness he feels. And at last, there is no need for la parisienne to be a self-involved bitch. With her new found friends she can sing in the streets, ascend underground to disrupt the metro, laugh obnoxiously, stumble into a random apartment, disrobe herself during sexy drinking games, and embrace a woman she would otherwise despise.

More hard alcohol. Loud music. Dancing. Un homme.

black out.

“My heart is yearning but Paris is burning, Paris is burning all night long.

My heart is dreaming but Paris is screaming, Paris is screaming all night long…”