Mare's Crazy Adventures and other silly things

French Kiss

The arrival of other UIUC students to Paris has certianly put a new spin on life in Paris. For one, I have people who can grieve with me as the French language slowly slips from within my grasp. Secondly, it is now okay to walk along the Seine carrying a camera because , in a group, being 'touristy' does not really seem all that bad. Thirdly, along with the students, came the start of Orientation week.

Orientation started yesterday, although for me, it was 10 days ago. It commenced with an hour's lecture on the metro, safety and other such issues , all of which I did not really listen to because I had already 'been there, done that'. The director of the study abroad program, Edward Costello, who is also our semi-tour guide, is an amusing man to watch when he speaks. He is like a squirrel that is on speed but is also hilarious. When it came to issues of safety he warned us not to go to some places because people did drugs there and at night you might get 'pushed' and that one must not be ethical when someone tried to 'passer avec vous' through the turnstiles of the metro or you might get knuckled.

After the tedious lecture we (director, students and moi) went on a boat tour on the River Seine. As we were walking I noticed just how loud American girls can be. They laugh loudly, talk loudly, in essence, exist loudly. I can understand how most Europeans will be put off by that, although I may describe the same when it comes to Germans. Or, at least, German tourists in Paris. In our group there was one particularly obnoxious student (male) who, I suppose, was trying to hit on another one of the students by saying such lovely things very loudly like, "Do you know that "sein" means 'breast' in French? haha!*snort* I wonder if that is why the called this river "the Seine" (Do notice that the two words are spelt differently and therefore, pronounced, differently and so do not mean the same thing.)
The boat tour, however, was lovely and not corny at all but got over with quickly. I was terribly sleepy because the steady speed and splashing water lulled me and taking photos of buildings is never a really exciting task.

Anyway, while I was on the boat, I talked to a couple of the girls. Lisa, was particularly interested in the fact that I had gone out two nights ago. Since I had planned to go for drinks with Nicholas in the evening, I asked her to come, along with Katie, and asked Nicholas to call some of his friends.

In the evening, all went well. There were 5 guys to 3 girls and Lisa (from the Phi Mu sorority) was apparently smitten by Sebastian, although I believe she would have been smitten by just anyone who is French.

Today, I met up with the two girls who told me that they had a fabulous time. During my coversation with them as well as some others, I realized that the number 1 thing that most of these girls would like to have, during their stay in Paris, is a fling with a French guy. That is mostly what the girls talk about, "French men are so slim! They are so cultured! Oh, they speak so cute!" I can't blame them, mostFrench men are awfully handsome, gentle and, above all, have manners. To them, away from the redneckery of Champaign and the fraternity brotherhood of disgusting men, French men are a species that they have never touched before; something so new and mysterious, like a new brand of candy. It just amuses me that to explore the French culture , to them, means to have a real French kiss. Not that there is anything wrong with that, although, with the 'chops-licking & predatory' way Lisa was eyeing him, Sebastian have better watch out!

And so it begins...

A hangover is never recommended when you have to take care of children. The head thumps with each breath you take; especially when three year olds yell or squeal with delight. I am guessing that I had way too much to drink last night.

In Paris with nothing to do, my former T.A., John, suggested that I go on www.craiglist.com to meet other people. Since no-one I know of from UIUC had arrived as yet I decided to take a risk and find some guys and gals to hang with.

Craiglist is a fun site to meet different people. Apparently, it is really big in California but I had never heard of it when I was in the Mid-West. I figured I would meet some weirdos but I hoped that the gods did not hate me too much to allow me some normal people too. As luck with have it, I met Nicholas.

Nicholas is a 25 year old french guy who had studied at UC Berkeley. He is 'tres mignonne'; really adorable! We met up near my place and he took me up to the Sacre Coeur where I nearly had an asthma attack climbing up those goddamn stairs. Of course, we could have taken the 'funicular de Montmarte' but that would have been too easy.

At the top I had a spectacular view of the city of Paris. It truly is beautiful. If I had not been panting and dying for air , the scene would have taken my breath away.

Onwards we went where Nicholas and I met up with his childhood friend, Bruno. Bruno is equally adorable, albeit with a more 'scholarly' air. We chilled out at his small apartment, drank beer and wine and smoked. Not marijuana, though (Tant pis!) . My first cigarettes after so long. It felt so good!

Funnily enough, we hit up an Australian Bar, in Paris, with another friend of the guys', Gille. He is very pleasant too but not my type, although, I know some of my friends would think he is hot. After having a tequila shot (YES!) and a beer, we headed off to some club. I do not know where I was because we did a lot of walking but it is supposedly near the Pantheon. That club rocks! It certainly did have an "American" feel to it with the UCLA, Minnesota Vikings and other miscellaneous U.S. university markings on its walls. Although the initial disco music did not get me off, the later latin, R&B and hip hop really did. Nicholas is the only one of his friends who can actually dance and it was a lot of fun. I realized the French certainly love making their drinks strong because I had a Long Island like none other. By the end of the night, I was pretty loopy.

Since the metro closes at around 1:00 AM, the four of us took a cab back to Montmarte. It was probably the worst car ride I had ever had. Every few seconds we would stop and I wanted to throw up so badly. Nicholas kept asking me if I was OK and I guess I looked like I was in pretty bad shape. I kept bitng my lip just so that I could focus on something else besides lurching.

Fortunately, the guys were nice enough to stop the cab sooner than expected so that we could walk instead. The fresh air made me feel so much better and I felt lively again. I distinctly remember it was 4AM at that point because I kept telling Nicholas, "Oh shit! I hope I can wake up at 8:30 to babysit". Nicholas thought that was quite hilarious and probably that I would not make it. So, he walked me home and went to crash at Bruno's place. He lives too far away from the city to make it back on foot.

Miraculously, I arrived at my room without waking up my neighbors and went to bed.

However, throughout the course of the night I would wake up and puke. It was a really fun night out but, sadly, until now, I cannot hold my liquour. Some things will never change.

Ewww.... Mmmmm.....

I went to watch a movie last night called, "Me, You and Everyone we know" written and directed by Miranda July. I highly recommend it to everyone. It is a bit bizarre but has a gentle underlying tone to it. As much as I tried to read the french subtitles so as to improve my french, I could not do so since the lady who sat in front of me had really big bushy hair. I had to rely on my ability to comprehend English. *sigh*. It is quite funny too.

Before the movie, Jeremy and I, had gone to have dinner. Jeremy is a new friend who is French, an animation producer and is a lot older than I am but who is also nice enough to show me around and likes to talk to me in English. I have no qualms about that since my french is too horrible to have a proper conversation with anyone unless I am asking for bread (I am very good at that!). Jeremy took me to a sweet little restaurant, near Jaures, which is locally owned. We met the proprieter who was a very gentle and bald man. I had 'Poisson Dange avec poivres vert". At least, I think it was that. It could have been something else because Jeremy ordered for me and I was a bit lost trying to figure out what kind of fish it is since I only know of three types; the hammour, trout and cod fish. I do not think the fish I had was any of those three. The accompanying wine, Sauvignon Blanc, was really good too. I had two glasses and wanted some more but we would have been late to the movie and I would have probably gotten very loopy. (Note to myself; must really read up on wine and know what to drink and how much of it!)

But the exciting dish that night was not the fish. It was the escargots! I finally tried snails. I have been waiting for ages to try snails and although, at first, the dish looked a bit odd and I just kept staring at it and poking the snails with my fork, I finally put one in my mouth when Jeremy said; "Just don't think about it!" Well, I must say, if one does not think about what one is putting into one's mouth, snails are pretty tasty! Having tried worms before in China, snails are really not very different in texture and just as good, if not better. However, I had a hard time swallowing the first one. It made funny noises in my mouth and I was a little creeped out about it. Upon reflection, escargots look like blackened snot.

It was a very beautiful night as Jeremy and I walked along the Seine. I asked him if it is as dirty as the Thames. He replied that he does not think so but that no one really wants to swim in it either. Because I am a sadistic psycho, or it could have been the wine, I conjured up images of dead body floating about in the river. I thought it quite funny and Jeremy must have been weirded out as I snickered at myself. Poor dude.

Metro- Mariam!

Buy a ticket. Feed it to the machine. Take it out. Go through the doors. Voila! You are at the metro.

The metro is France's underground (for the English) or subway (for the Americans). It is fairly easy to use and follows the same rules as other underground trains of other parts of the world. Why it took me 4 days to actually get the guts to use it is beyond me. Coming from Hong Kong, where everybody literally lives in the underground, I should be confidant of my ability to simply purchase a ticket and ride the vehicle. However, since I am such a wuss, especially because I hate going anywhere by myself, I avoided the metro for as long as I could.

Finally, I had to force myself to go on the train. I had to meet with a director of the University's Paris program and there was no other way of getting there unless I wanted to spend almost 40 euros on a cab ride, which I do not have or I would go to restaurant and actually eat something besides bread.

So, I went online and researched the Metro as much as I could. Then I asked the cleaning lady, Anna, for advice on taking the Metro. Anna is a Romanian woman who has lived in Paris for 10 years. She feels for me because she did not know a single word of French when she came to Paris but she learnt. She is very kind to me and speaks slowly and patiently so that I understand what she says. Although, the frustrating thing is that she tends to yell when she talks to me and I wish she would realize that I am slow at understanding French and not actually deaf.

Anyway, Stephanie also helped me out and since I was all geared up for the Metro, I went forth. As I sat in the train, I, again, slapped my forehead mentally (I have been doing a lot of that lately). Riding the metro is ridiculously simple; even if you do not speak the language, everything is pretty clear-cut. The trick is to not exit. As long as you stay within the 'couloirs' (corridors) of the station you can go anywhere you want and you can get as lost as you want without being penalized for it. I had a great time trying to find my way around. Even though I had to make a 'correspondance' with the RER (train that goes to the suburbs) and had a hell of a time locating the platform at Gare du Nord (a big metro/RER/bus station) it was not all that bad.

With my horrible direction skills and failure to comprehend maps, I figure if I give myself an hour's time ahead of the planned schedule I can make it anywhere, by the Metro, on time.

Dunce

Being in a new country is hard enough, speaking in a different language is even harder but to be scammed, in a different language, in a new country, may probably be the hardest experience of all.

With the parents gone and the children at school, I alone was sole inhabitant of 6 rue Caulaincourt, apt # 5. I was not supposed to be there, I was supposed to be out exploring the wonderful quartier of Montmartre but oh no, I just had to waste my time choosing what to wear. Therefore, I was there to open the door when the bell rang.
A fat jolly man stood outside and blasted off in French. I kept thinking “what the hell?” and should have slammed the door. Should have, but I chose not to because I thought, “hey, here’s a perfect opportunity to practice my French!” So, I listened and talked to him. From what I had gathered he was there to clean the chimney. He went off about things exploding and fires that I thought he must be the maintenance man and the parents had forgotten to tell me about it (it happens in Dubai all the time). I let him in and he cleaned it and then proceeded to ask me for 70 euros. 70 euros! I was shocked. I thought he had said 10 euros whereupon I would have given him 10 of mine and asked to be reimbursed. A thought had crossed my mind that perhaps this man was not from the building so I thought if I lost 10 euros it would not be too bad and just a mistake on my part. But 70! I did not have that much on me and I was starting to doubt this man who wanted so much money for just thrusting his sweeper into the hole. So I got rid of him, told him to come back tomorrow and talk to the parents; all in perfect French might I add.

However, when I picked the children up from school I mentioned the incident to Salome, the eight year old who thought the man was nice enough to clean the chimney and asked why I hadn’t paid the 70 he asked . 8 year olds, *sigh*. Unfortunately, she told her mother about it before I could and it turns out that the man was a scam; a possible ‘cambrioler’. His phone number did not work, he was not listed. Everything he had told me was a lie (which included that he got the code to the building from the restaurant downstairs; one of the reasons why I had thought he was legit). He was not supposed to be there. I was not supposed to open the door. There was not supposed to be any thrusting of any sort by anyone in any part, of the house. Right then I wanted the ground to open up and eat me alive. I wanted to jump out the window because I cannot believe how stupid I can be. Every parent, no matter in what part of the world, always tells his/her children to not open the door for strangers and I broke that rule. To some, I might be the rebellious sort, but this does not qualify. This is just plain stupid.

Thankfully, the parents did not yell at me too much. They just warned me and became a lot stricter with me. They cannot be blamed for that. I really ‘trompe’d big time. At least I did something right and that was not to let the man out of my sight. Maybe I am not that dumb after all, but I do believe my hair is starting to become blonde.

Get Lost

Here I am in Paris. Due to the hijacking of my flight by a bunch of obnoxious kids who decided to scream and cry their way to France I arrived tired and frustrated. As I admired my bloodshot eyes in the tiny W.C. strewn with paper towels and weird smelling things on the floor, I wondered if the children believed that the plane would arrive there sooner by using this tactic. Let me reassure all the children in the world that it does not work and they should just sit there and sleep like all the other grown ups. God knows why these children have to be so annoying. The airlines already provide movies and games and toys for them. What else do they want; Disneyland? I think I scared the couple sitting next to me when I ‘tsk tsk’ed and looked like I was about to murder the screeching banshees.

The flight was a mediocre experience – minus the children- because it was an Emirates Airlines flight. The stewardesses were, as expected, lazy cows who only pretended to touch the overhead baggage bin when you needed help or else looked away praying to Jesus that you would not catch their eye. Simply put, they tried hard to make one’s flight as unpleasant as possible without lifting a finger. As the stewardess threw my bread at me I wished that I had taken Air France or Singapore Airlines but alas, although expensive, it was a cheaper flight than the latter two. I made a mental note that in the future I should have such a great job that I will not ever experience food spewed at me again.

As I stepped out of Baggage Claim Stephanie received me. I had been worried that we would miss each other because she had not sent her picture and I had not asked for one. Luckily, she recognized me from the photo I had attached earlier through email. I usually think I look very different from pictures but I guess that is not true and I look just as bad. So, with an acne ridden dehydrated face and stinking body, Stephanie and I left Charles de Gaulle Airport and went into the heart of Paris to...

...Moulin Rouge.

I live next to the world’s most sex-filled streets. Could I be happier? I do not think so. The next day, in my three hour search to buy a SIM card, I got lost in a prostitute zone. I do not think I have ever heard anyone else say they had involuntarily got lost among prostitutes. Pictures, out in the open, of women naked and spread-eagled is somewhat new to me. Tits and dicks everywhere poking you in the eye; Peepshows, Live shows, Private shows welcoming you into dark theatres. I could not help grinning but some pictures and displays were so odd that my face involuntarily twisted in horror (I know because other people started to look at me strangely). It is sex heaven, although one might be inclined to say it is more like hell if you are thinking about it from a religious point of view. Pictures of women and mannequins, leather strapped, chained and contorted reminded me of Botticelli's illustrations of Dante's Inferno. Many funny characters line the street of Pigalle and tourists from every nation (Arabs included) elbow their way to take the best photo of the Moulin Rouge. I am definitely in a good place, with sex knocking at my door; somewhere my parents would definitely disapprove.

The family with whom I live are not sadomasichistic but are, actually, very sweet. I am not starving as I had previously expected I would be since Stephanie insists on feeding me, although I have been eating considerably less. So starts the weight-loss. Hurrah! Also, as anticipated, almost everyone puffs their way to work or play; rain or shine. The urge to buy a pack haunts me but thankfully, the government has imposed such high taxes on tobacco that I really have not any money to spend on things like that so I just end up cursing myself for not buying two cartons of Malboro Reds from Dubai’s Duty Free which would have cost me $20 and lasted me about 3 weeks or more.

On my first day out, in my excursion to get a SIM card, it rained like cats and dogs. It was cold and I had not worn a jacket. Cursing myself, again, I walked through the rain while I muttered under my breath. I suppose people did think I was nuts, but that does not matter, lots of people mutter under their breath here. I am not sure if it is because they are all suffering from withdrawal symptoms or are just as unhappy as I am in this cold weather. It certainly is different from Dubai. I did get hit on by a sweeper. It was funny because he did it in French and at first I did not understand why he was talking to me ( I kept thinking , "Did I litter?") He was cute, though. I notice a lot of people are pleasant and when they flirt it is not horrid at all. Quite unlike those damn 70 year olds in Dubai who are so obviously disgusting when they coo, “How are you?”, that they might as well ask “Suck me?” Fuckers.

It took me two hours to find a “Tabac”. That is where one gets telecartes which are credit phone cards. I had asked 3 people for directions and when I got to the “Tabac” the lady says that she does not sell SIM cards. Apparently, telecartes are not the same as SIM cards. Typical stupid me. I should have realized that something was up when I was told that one can purchase a SIM card from a tobacco shop.
After asking another bunch of people I got to an ORANGE outlet and got my SIM card. Yay! I was so happy because I did not speak in English even once (except when I got to the telecom outlet and said “yes” to one of the attendants). A word of advice, never ask directions from old men. They are grumpy and rude and make you want to beseech them to tell you how you had made their lives miserable. Stupid old men. They are the same everywhere.

After that escapade I decided to go home the same way I had traveled to the ORANGE outlet. Then surprise, surprise, I got lost. I have no idea how one can get lost going back the ‘same’ way one used to get somewhere. In any case, by getting lost I found a Laundromat, a Chinese shop, an Indian shop and many, many sex shops. Incidentally, I live next to a shawarma shop. While I spent three months in Dubai and never had the opportunity to eat a shawarma, no matter how much I wanted to, now, half way across the world, I live next to a shawarma restaurant (which is also an Indian restaurant called Samsara; I laugh because it reminds me of my religious studies 104 class at UIUC) where I can have those sandwiches day and night if I so wished. Talk about irony.

Thankfully, I found my way home. Apparently, I had missed my building. Having realized that, I mentally slapped my forehead. Most buildings look alike in this part of Paris ( I haven't seen the other parts yet); small and cramped. However, I am glad that I found all those wonderful nooks and crannies. I now know where the supermarket is, where the pharmacies and bookstores are situated, other groceries, bakeries and the best place to buy a good dildo. So, my advice to present and future travelers; although arriving at one's destination in the least amount of time is often ideal, don't do it. Get lost, it's a helluva lot more fun.

Explosions and a new friend

I have been freaking out lately. My airplane, EK 73 , is leaving Dubai for Paris in ten and half hours. There is still a lot of time left and if I were a normal competent person I would be quite calm and probably sipping on a latte while laughing like those evil characters in manga cartoons, hand raised to my lips, palm facing outwards (O-hohoho!) .

But I am not a normal competent person. Far from it, I am actually a disorganized, paranoid ditz. I must have taken after Mom, except for the ditziness, that quality belongs to only me. *sigh*

To quell myself of this uneasiness I decided to go shopping. This activity could well put psychologists out of business and that is why they, the shrinks, have labeled it a 'problem'. Pish-Posh! Shopoholism? I believe you not!

Unfortunately, I had to go to the worst place on this planet; City Centre. It is a mall so crowded and so horribly constructed; with narrow passage ways, alien plants blocking your path, insane sales people who look like the zombies straight out of "Land of the Dead" while they attack you to buy something or else they would suck your blood and eat your kidneys; that you wished you could split everyone's heads open with a bazooka. It really is like a Resident Evil (Nemesis) game. Scary.

As I fought evil people in my way with my weapons (elbows and "fuck you" stares) I headed to Plug-In's hoping that some magical person would help me get what I need and tell me the way out of this nightmare. This aid came in the form of Zelo ( His real name! I kid you not!). With his fast moves and quick jabs at his co-workers , he showed me what I needed. An adapter. I was so thankful that I bought a toaster and two traveling irons as well. All of which he was more than happy to skip through the dark alleyways to show me the objects of my desire. I shook his hand and gave him the gift of light (my teeth are really big when I smile. I am in competition with Hilary Duff. Eat me, bitch Duff!). To my dismay, the toaster is not a traveling toaster and so will replace my parents' broken one which has been in that state for a bloody year (They pick the bread out with chopsticks. So innovative!)

After my purchases with the golden card (Visa Power, Go Get it!) I ran as fast as I could, running zombies over with my trolley and made my way to the TAXI station where I jumped to the next level;

REEF MALL

At reef mall things were a lot quieter. I was not sure what was lurking behind the pillars and shops. Suddenly, *gasp*!, children were everywhere and they used their most potent WMD; chilling ear-splitting sceams! GAAAH!! Quick as lightning I used my "you stupid fucking kid, shut up or I will throtle you" stare. It worked against some of the children but others were far too powerful. With my health depleting I ran to a store called "lifestyle" (because apparently, peoples' lifestyles are in such bad conditions that they need to go out and buy better ones). There someone was waiting for me. Kiki. The white cat with the cheshire grin. She was so high on reefers (this is Reef Mall, afterall) that she said, "Dude... you gotta take me to France, man. It will be so rad. We can go and make a trip to Amsterdam and I will show you how to smoke some dank shit". Those promises were way too tempting. I tried to leave but something was holding me back. That grin. It was so mesmorizing. My hand was out of my control. I grabbed her and paid for her (She is after all, a 'lifestyle, it doesn't come cheap').

Currently, she is sitting next to me high as a mother fucker. She has the chink eyes going (eyes become smaller and smaller the higher you get) and her face is so red that there are two distinct blotches on her white skin. Damn! This girl must have been smoking fattys her whole life. I can only aspire to have her 'lifestyle'. Right now, I am lucky just to have her as my traveling companion.



Ever seen a cat on weed?

And you are....?

I have a slight suspicion that the parents of the French family with whom I will reside for the next few months are not married. If they are, they do not share a last name. I am not even sure what their last name(s) is/are. The lady of the house is Stephanie, followed up her husband/partner Joel and two lovey and adorable little girls; Salome (8 1/2 years old) and Apolline who insists she is 3 1/2 and not only 3 as her sister had said.

The reasons which have lead me to be confused about the whole issue of the family name are that the mother, who has been corresponding with me, has never written her last name. She always signs it as "Stephanie" but her emails are listed as from "Knafo". At first, I did not think about it but when I had asked her for the Parisian address that I should use to inform people, parents, etc. she notes it down as: c/o Buisson-Knafo and the address follows. Now, if her last name is Knafo, then who is Buisson? Keep in mind, I have no qualms about people co-habitating and having children as well (on the contrary, I am against marriage and love the idea of a living contract law in France) I would just like to know what their last name (s) is/are without seeming rude if I outright ask. It really is just a curiosity.

Putting that aside, I had gone shopping the other day and I bought a couple of presents to give this nice family. The caterpillars are diamond crystals and cost a pretty penny. The sales lady was such a moronic arrogant Egyptian bitch. She should be glad I did not want to ruin these cute figurines or I would have stuck them and the entire showcase shelves up her rotton asshole. I despise purchasing from people who are despicable but these caterpillars were too cute to pass up.
For Apolline and Salome, I literally spent two hours in one part of one shop to pick out these two items. I can be the most indecisive person on the planet. I really had no idea what 3 year olds and 8 year olds like. If I buy them dolls would they think I was insulting their intelligence? If I bought them colorful writing pads and cute organizers would they think it inappropriate since the kids are so young? Is it okay for the motifs and logos to be in English and wouldn't they understand? Do I buy them animal motifs to be cute or the Bratz kind to be cool? I was so desperate that I just wanted to ask the sales lady's opinion and let her pick but (luckily?) in being consistent with the behavior of all the sad stupid fucks in this country, help was no where in sight and I had to make up my mind on my own.
After careful consideration (and the fact that I needed to pee really badly and the store was about to close) I chose the two; the doll for Apolline because I figure she is still young enough to appreciate its warmth (it is almost as big as her face) and the backpack for Salome since it is cute enough to use when she goes out and big enough to carry some books to schoo. Apolline's mom probably carries everything for her (lucky kid!) .

Buying presents for children is probably the hardest task to do. With the (unfortunate) influence of Britney Spears, sex on T.V. and 'cool' clothes for kids I have no idea if children think the way I used to think or they really are, as magazine and internet articles say, as 'mature' and demanding in style as their adult counterparts. Mom later put my mind to rest when she assured me that my choices were perfectly fine and that, "I know a 20 year old girl who still loves Hello Kitty."

Provoking allergies; the magical power of daisies and mice.


I like giving people useful things. Sue me, but ornaments collect dust and break (or are used by celebrities to hurt the innocent; shout out to Russell Crowe and Naomi Campbell! Love your work! Let's do lunch! Call me, babe!)

Cuteness Kills


This doll is way too cute to be in existence. Lucky Apolline!

Caterpillar, caterpillar, how many legs do you have? How many shoes do you wear?


Crystal caterpillars for the parents of the family. Aren't they cute?

The Fat Smoker Runs

Another day waiting for the end of this hellish nightmare that I call home. My knees have started to hurt. It could be symptoms of arthritis or it may be because I do nothing all day except cook, clean and surf the internet; the last option requests that I sit for hours on end and results in a flat wide bottom and swollen joints. I am aware that I could go and work out but the 45*C heat and 100% humidity discourages me since I do not appreciate the smell of sun-baked sweat and in the land where people look like Violet Beauregarde after the blueberry gum fiasco, exercise is an alien activity and you (and your breasts) are stared upon by literally every one .

This leads me to an issue that has really got me breaking into a sweat (yay! No physical effort required!). What am I going to do in Paris if I want to work out? It seems highly improbable that the French love getting up and running miles and miles to pant and sweat, especially when they are not famous for their healthy lifestyle which includes smoking lots and lots and lots. I am worried that if I do decide and go for a jog one morning , the local baker, butcher, news stand guy, women, children, dogs, cats, birds, trees and every other thing in sight will shout out, "Regardez! L'Americaine* cours comme une elephant! Regardez ses fesses! haha!" (puff, puff, puff: vacuuming their cigarettes at full force with their blackened lungs and into their skinny bodies.)

(translation: Look! the American* runs like an elephant! Look at her ass! haha!")

However, while searching for a solution to this problem, I realize that I probably will not have to work out to be fit. Poverty will help me out to no end! I will be too poor to buy food to eat. Therefore, I shall starve, involuntarily of course, and shed pounds and pounds in weeks, if not days. Hurrah for being a struggling student in Paris when the Euro and VAT are so high people's assholes that they cannot afford to be moderately fat. No wonder all the French models are so thin. I bet cigarettes actually cost less than a meal and whereas a meal is a one-time thing, a pack of cigarettes can last you for an entire day if not a few full days. Yay! Phillip Morris! We can all die of cancer and not feel hungry to boot!

To tell you the truth, I am worried that I will start smoking again in Paris. Officially, I kicked the habit in January, and contrary to what I have told Mom and the students I had taught this summer, it was not because I decided it was time to become healthier but really because I was taking the Pill and one is not supposed to take the Pill and smoke (later, I found out it is only really dangerous if you are over 30. Damn it!). Unofficially, I do smoke on occasion when I go out at night to the bars. I do not really see any harm in that. Anyway, the point is I am almost certain I will take up smoking again, unless I am too broke but then again, I would probably whore myself for a drag. Curse you, nicotine!

*I am not American but people assume I am because of my accent and because I do not want to bother spending time educating on the weird mixture that is me.

Say what? Say who?

I should provide some information about myself before I go on this Parisien adventure to give you, the reader, a better idea of me as a person and the future experiences I will encounter. I have had lots of adventures before although I have not written them all down because I am normally quite lazy and believe that events should be lived and not read. Most of them have been sexcapades which make for great dinner conversation. My listeners always end up with some fantastic facial expressions that most people would think impossible to do. I pride myself on affecting people in new, creative ways.

While I am half Chinese and half Iranian, I have thrown away conservatism completely. No celibacy for me, thank you (although I cannot say that for the past three very, very dry months). To be liberal, an atheist and a nymphomaniac is very hard for an Asian girl whose Dad brings hell whenever the 9pm curfew is broken. The only solution is to travel! Get as far, far away as possible. Loving one's family has nothing to do with the amount of time one must spend with them; I believe family time should come in small infrequent doses with home cooked meals.
As much as I am sure everyone loves good sex stories I am not going to summarize my entire 20 years worth of sex. Those I keep for rainy days. But I can say that they have involved moving vehicles, public places and weird paraphenalia. I must sound very tempting now, haha. Have no fear, there will be lots more to come. (Boy, will this be embarassing if it proves wrong!)

Now for the boring stuff; I major in Comparative Literature and French, hence the trip to Paris. I can freak out and appear calm at the same time. I spent this summer teaching adults and children the wonders of the English language. It is quite a fulfilling and rewarding job except when 40 year old men propose to you and tell you that "e"you are someone I could love"&quote. Then, it becomes somewhat of a puke-factor.

Me, Myself and the Orange.


In my laundry/computer room. Notice the orange-hue light.

The Beginning...not.


In the beginning there was light. Orange hued light from the small laundry room that my mother converted into a 'computer room' just because there are too many rooms and she does not know what to do with them all.

It is not really a computer room. It is more of a storage area for every electronic good that does not work and which my mother dares not throw because she knows she will feel guilty about that later on. So here I am, sitting quite uncomfortably among all the junk, writing about the beginning; the beginning of my supposedly 'crazy adventures'.

Actually, this is not the beginning. This is more like the prelude; the space between nothing and the beginning. The question is, what happens before the beginning?

A lot of packing. Dust. Cats. Crazy parents and zits. I am going to Paris in 5 days. That is when the 'craziness' starts, I hope. Right now, I am preparing for it. Excited? I should say so.

According to mom, I am breaking out because I feel nervous about the trip. One year in Paris is pretty nerve-wrecking. In addition I am going to live, as an au-pair, with a French family so there the pressure mounts even higher. I guess I will have to forgo packing my dildo. *sigh* Then again, I am sure I will find enough of the french versions in Paris. haha. ahem... right... moving along...

According to me, the breakouts are due to my hormones going ballistic on me since I have stopped taking the Pill. Add to that, the 48*C weather and high humidity just about kills my skin. I also do not drink enough water. My cats, scratching my face, do not help and the fact that I am allergic to them just piles up the trauma on my skin.

The dust and the packing go hand in hand. For the past three months I have not touched my room which is another small storage room converted into a bedroom (my real bedroom, which is a way lot bigger, has been taken over by my cats) . Therefore, dust collected on all my stuff. Since I have to put all my dust laden crap into my very, very small suitcase I have stirred up a dust storm in my little prison. Again, my allergies come full force. This time, I think I should be blamed but hey, when the vacuum cleaner is from the 1980's and sucks like an asthmatic old fogey you would not feel like using it either.

As for the crazy parents, they are only insane because they are paranoid conspiracy theorists.