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!