So it's a lovely Thursday morning in sunny Paris, France, and Taryn and I decide to go for a power walk in the Bois de Boulogne (yes, I realize we're old ladies, deal with it). On our way there, we pass this sort of sketchy looking van and in the front seat is a woman wearing a red pleather bustier. So we kind of giggle and talk about how you see all types in the Bois de Boulogne. Only then, we pass another van with a similar pleather-clad woman, and another. Suddenly, we realized that we were passing prostitute row. SO MUCH PLEATHER. Prostitute count for the day: 4. So this clearly led to speculation as to why they were out at 11 a.m. Is there simply good business during the day?
That was pretty much the big event of the week. Otherwise, I was a little sick and I babysat a lot. Obviously my first thought when I got sick was that I probably had swine flu. I decided this wasn't the case, though, when it turned out to just be a sore throat. I didn't even have a fever. So maybe I overreacted a little, whatever. Just to be sure, I laid in the bed all day yesterday and drank hot tea and whimpered (and played spider solitaire). I'm fine now. Don't worry.
I did have kind of an exciting morning today. I got the my family's apartment at around 11, and the mom told me she didn't actually have any plans till around 1:30, so I could go run errands if I needed to. I did some really thrilling things: window shopped at Promod and H&M, bought face cream at Sephora, decided I had been ripped off and then bought face cream at Monoprix instead, learned that a pimple in French is a "bouton," which is way cuter than "pimple," let's be serious, and came home to make tea. However, the best part about the morning was that while I was in H&M, I had what I think might be my best yet
ERRONEOUS DENIM SIGHTING OF THE WEEK:
A jhirt (or a j-jacket, I'm not sure which). With puffy sleeves. And shoulder pads. In an acid wash. With pleated elbow patches. And Sgt. Pepper-esque military-style buttons down the front. But really, shoulder pads. SHOULDER PADS. Oh. My. God. You're welcome.
Something great you should know about H&M: they have a tacky, overly-trendy, 80s-esque section. This makes my day every time I go in there.
And now, a list.
Really awesome (sometimes bad) fashions that I love:
Sheggings (for those of you who have been living under a rock for the last year and/or not reading this blog, sheggings are shiny leggings)
Gratuitous fake fur
The fact that the grunge look is totally back in style (this is so good for me!)
Clashing plaids that would embarrass 1992
Really really cheap Chanel knock-offs (bags, jackets, whatever)
Sequins
Gold lamé
Motorcycle boots and jackets
Ray-ban sunglasses
French girls who actually wear striped shirts and berets
Shoulder pads (so shoot me)
Things I hate:
My closet is slowly filling up with neutrals because that is all French women wear
Short hair is not cool here
Shoulder pads
In other news, French computer keyboards are surprisingly different from American ones. I've gotten so used to typing on the family's computer that it has taken me an absurdly long time to write this post on my own laptop. I keep hitting the wrong buttons. This is eternally frustrating. However, I just got my new internet box in the mail, so now I will have internet in my own room (and I will never leave said room again) and I won't have to awkwardly come down to their apartment whenever I need to check my email. Awesome. Also, now I will be able to skype with everyone! All the time! Get ready.
Until next time, je t'embrasse!
21 November, 2009
18 November, 2009
An American Girl in Paris... AND LONDON!
So after laying in the bed all last week, I finally decided to get myself up and do something. This something happened to be GOING TO LONDON FOR THE WEEKEND! I flew out on Friday morning and rolled into the Kilburn Park tube stop around 10:30. My friend Pat met me at the gate to the Drew apartments, looking wonderfully bleary-eyed, and we both went upstairs to go back to sleep. When Matt got home from his lecture (he was being productive that morning, look at him), we went and got some Thai food. Side note: Pad Thai is all I eat these days. I have literally eaten it twice a week at the very least for the past month. This is not a bad thing. Anyway, Matt and I had a lovely weekend - we nerded out at the coolest museum ever and also the coolest library ever, we ate Thai food TWICE, we met up with my very good friend Drew for a couple of pints and a burger and we went to the perennial favorite bar of all Drew London semester students, the Westbury. All in all, a very good weekend. Also, British strangers are generally much more polite than French strangers, and this makes me smile.
This week, however, I am back in Paris. The weather has been nice here, so I went for a run today. Given that it's been a little windy, I decided to wear spandex running tights. Warning: never wear spandex around jogging Frenchwomen. You will feel inferior. Even if you're a babe and in great shape. As a Frenchwoman herself once told me, they all have butts like 12-year-old boys. So now, a haiku:
Curse you, you French girls
With your perfect bottoms make
Me feel like a cow
And now, sightings of the week:
Erroneous denim - I must admit that I wore a j-jacket in public, on purpose. What made it worse was that I did not look trendy at all. I was also wearing sweatpants and an old camp t-shirt and Chuck Taylors. Not cute. But whatever, I needed to go to the grocery to get some snacks so I could keep laying in the bed playing spider solitaire.
Peeing Frenchman - Saw one today on my run. He was peeing in the bushes next to the running trail, which I guess would be fine except it was on the part of the running trail that also goes right next to a really really busy road. And he was walking, and then jogged to the busiest section before dropping his pants. I mean, what?
This week, however, I am back in Paris. The weather has been nice here, so I went for a run today. Given that it's been a little windy, I decided to wear spandex running tights. Warning: never wear spandex around jogging Frenchwomen. You will feel inferior. Even if you're a babe and in great shape. As a Frenchwoman herself once told me, they all have butts like 12-year-old boys. So now, a haiku:
Curse you, you French girls
With your perfect bottoms make
Me feel like a cow
And now, sightings of the week:
Erroneous denim - I must admit that I wore a j-jacket in public, on purpose. What made it worse was that I did not look trendy at all. I was also wearing sweatpants and an old camp t-shirt and Chuck Taylors. Not cute. But whatever, I needed to go to the grocery to get some snacks so I could keep laying in the bed playing spider solitaire.
Peeing Frenchman - Saw one today on my run. He was peeing in the bushes next to the running trail, which I guess would be fine except it was on the part of the running trail that also goes right next to a really really busy road. And he was walking, and then jogged to the busiest section before dropping his pants. I mean, what?
11 November, 2009
Jet-setting? Jet-lagging.
So, after a two and a half week stint in sunny Atlanta, GA, I am back in Paris. The good news is that I got my visa (don't worry, they didn't make it easy - I went to the Consulate no less than 3 times in 2 weeks, bringing me to a grand total of 5 French consulate visits in 3 months). The bad news is that, as usual, I got a little caught up in being home and all that it entails and left my packing to the very last minute. This means that I left behind lots of important things. So if anyone wants to send me my ski clothes, jewelry, sheggings (yes, I bought some), vitamins, hot rollers, and frizz-ease, I would be eternally grateful.
Being at home taught me some important life lessons:
1. It is not ok to spend all weekend in bed reading Twilight (it's actually a deceptively entertaining series, for real, even though it is just horrible). The reason that it's not ok is because people will mock you. So I guess I should say it is not ok to ADMIT that you spent all weekend in bed reading Twilight. Oops.
2. When dealing with French authorities who conveniently do not have answering systems on their phones, your best bet is to send belligerent emails that increase both in frequency and rudeness until someone responds. I think the trick here as that until you make yourself so irritating that no American (or Australian or Brit) would ever want to deal with you, the French will ignore you. Only when you venture far beyond the boundaries of common courtesy and decency will the French finally, grudgingly do what you ask.
Since I've been back, I've been deeply jet-lagged and therefore relatively useless. I've seen Taryn once, when she came over to my house, and Nicola twice, only at school. Otherwise I have literally lain in the bed, not bothering to change out of my pajamas, and read Daughter of Fortune and played spider solitaire. Today, however, I had to sit in my host family's house all day because they have workers here remodeling the bathrooms. This foiled my highly ambitious plan of going for a run, but whatever. I sat in tile dust all day and, once again, played spider solitaire and read a book. The real kicker here is that one of the workers just walked into the one functional bathroom in the apartment which happens to be right next to the sofa on which I have parked my butt and peed... with the door wide open. I'm sorry, but I seem to be encountering a trend of French men peeing right in front of me. Is this some bizarre voyeuristic thing I'm missing out on? I feel that I might need to drown my horror in some pasta.
Last but definitely not least, erroneous denim sighting of the week: Juitcase!!!!! No jokes here, saw this in Charles de Gaulle airport. I also saw some jneakers and a jarf in the airport and several pairs of joots in a vintage store in Atlanta, as well as sporting a jhirt myself, in public, on purpose. But all of these pale in comparison to the holy grail (or Grehl, if you will) of demin, the juitcase. My life is complete.
Stay tuned this weekend / next week for Elizabeth en France, London edition!
Being at home taught me some important life lessons:
1. It is not ok to spend all weekend in bed reading Twilight (it's actually a deceptively entertaining series, for real, even though it is just horrible). The reason that it's not ok is because people will mock you. So I guess I should say it is not ok to ADMIT that you spent all weekend in bed reading Twilight. Oops.
2. When dealing with French authorities who conveniently do not have answering systems on their phones, your best bet is to send belligerent emails that increase both in frequency and rudeness until someone responds. I think the trick here as that until you make yourself so irritating that no American (or Australian or Brit) would ever want to deal with you, the French will ignore you. Only when you venture far beyond the boundaries of common courtesy and decency will the French finally, grudgingly do what you ask.
Since I've been back, I've been deeply jet-lagged and therefore relatively useless. I've seen Taryn once, when she came over to my house, and Nicola twice, only at school. Otherwise I have literally lain in the bed, not bothering to change out of my pajamas, and read Daughter of Fortune and played spider solitaire. Today, however, I had to sit in my host family's house all day because they have workers here remodeling the bathrooms. This foiled my highly ambitious plan of going for a run, but whatever. I sat in tile dust all day and, once again, played spider solitaire and read a book. The real kicker here is that one of the workers just walked into the one functional bathroom in the apartment which happens to be right next to the sofa on which I have parked my butt and peed... with the door wide open. I'm sorry, but I seem to be encountering a trend of French men peeing right in front of me. Is this some bizarre voyeuristic thing I'm missing out on? I feel that I might need to drown my horror in some pasta.
Last but definitely not least, erroneous denim sighting of the week: Juitcase!!!!! No jokes here, saw this in Charles de Gaulle airport. I also saw some jneakers and a jarf in the airport and several pairs of joots in a vintage store in Atlanta, as well as sporting a jhirt myself, in public, on purpose. But all of these pale in comparison to the holy grail (or Grehl, if you will) of demin, the juitcase. My life is complete.
Stay tuned this weekend / next week for Elizabeth en France, London edition!
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