Sad Panda at Starbucks

I am at Starbucks. I am upset with myself. I don't want to be at Starbucks. I want to be at a café that a. has its own personality b. has a legitimate cozy feel, not a fake cozy feel c. isn't a multi-gazillion dollar business.

But Starbucks is the only café with wifi within 3.5 miles of my parents' house. And I have work to do. So I am at Starbucks.

There was one thing I used to like at Starbucks. They used to write your order and name directly on your cup. This reminds me of a story a professor's sister told my Advanced Writing class in college. Her name is Regina. Confused Starbucks baristas mis-wrote, then mis-read her name. I'm not going to be able to tell the story as well as she did. It's her story. You'll have to ask her to tell it to you sometime.

But no more writing on cups. Now they print out a label and slap it on your cup. It's so much less personal.

Sorry this post is so gloomy. I feel so gloomy being here. Please don't tell anyone I am here. It can just be our little secret. I will hurry to get my work done, and then I will stealthily slip out. It will be like I never came to Starbucks in the first place.

Let's Buy Some Food

The true "Yup. I am definitely in America now" moment came during one of the most monotonous pinnacles of everyday life: the grocery market. Or, as we say in these parts "the store," or simply "Jewel." First off, mom and I roll into Jewel in our running clothes, ready to do a week's worth of shopping. I like that in America, you can where whatever the flip you want to buy your groceries. In France, this doesn't fly. You need to wear real clothes.

Okay, so we're in our running clothes. We enter Jewel. Jewel is huge. It would be safe to say five times the size of my regular grocery store in Paris. And since it is so huge you can buy MORE FOOD!!! I am excited about the hugeness of it all. I can buy anything and everything. I feel like I have the world at my fingertips. That is, until I decide I want some peaches.

The peaches are huge. Like way, way too huge. I don't remember peaches being this huge. The tomatoes are also huge. And so are the bananas. Every piece of produce is overwhelmingly huge. I don't like huge anymore. I can't eat a peach or tomato or banana that huge. Why aren't they normal sized? Wait, what is normal sized? Mom says she can get better peaches at the farmer's market. Peaches this huge? Yep, they are the same size. Dang.

Okay let's move on from the peaches. That's a dead topic.

Next I see a whole slew of 100 calorie pack snack packs. Come on America. I knew you had these, but I forgot. You do not need to pay Nabisco extra $$ to put 100 calories worth of mini Chips Ahoy in a little bag. Just don't be a dum dum and don't eat so many cookies.

And a bit farther down that aisle, I see about 600 new varieties of Oreos. Double Delight Chocolate Mint'N Creme? Gross, who is going to buy that? There is some nasty peanut butter creme variety as well. Even I, proud devourer of gallons of PB, would not buy that. Everyone knows the best kind of Oreo is the original kind. Why bother with anything else? Cuz we're in America, that's why.

I am not going to ramble on too much more about all this, just one more thing. The manager of the store bags our groceries. We chat through the whole bagging process, and it feels so strange. I can bag my own groceries just fine. But it would be very odd if I lent a hand. We just don't bag our own groceries here. Because we're in America.

Breakup Letter To My Bike

Dear Bike,

You probably noticed sometime last week I was acting strangely. You might have found it a bit odd when I took a screwdriver to your handlebars to remove the bell. Maybe you saw the girl who came last week and fiddled with your gears a bit. You probably tried to shrug it all off as just a phase.

It’s not. You have no idea how much it pains me to have to tell you this. You and I are finished. She bought you. I’m sorry.

You deserve honesty, so here it goes. I have a bike back home. I won’t hurt you further with details. But it is a bike I love very, very much. I sold you because I am going back to it.

Maybe you already figured there was someone else waiting for me. I never really brought it up, because we were having so much fun. Mentioning it would have just ruined our relationship. And really, the other bike never concerned you and me. Just because I’m going back to it doesn’t mean the moments we spent together in Paris weren’t meaningful.

Bike, I cannot image Paris without you. We saw everything in the city together. We got lost together. We found our way home together. We received a stern warning together when the police caught us riding the wrong way down a one-way street. When you were sick, I was so worried. I took you to the bike doctor not caring how much it would cost. Sometimes I thought someone had stolen you from me. Realizing that made my tummy really hurt. But it was just always me being silly and forgetting where I parked you. You know I can be silly. Thanks for putting up with me during those times — like when I broke too hard on wet pavement, and we both fell. Thanks for not letting me get hurt.

Things weren’t always easy for us. The upward incline on Rue de Belleville always tested us. But we always made it to the top together. And afterwards, after a few — or many — beers or glasses of wine, it was always so much fun to cruise downhill together to home. During those 60 seconds, with the Eiffel Tower in the distance and then the cobblestones that went BUMP BUMP BUMP, I was always the happiest I have ever been in my life.

There are so many other memories like that. Without you, bike, Paris would not be Paris. I can't even remember what Paris was like before you. You were the key to my happiness and to cheap transportation and to exercise.

Maybe someday I will come back to Paris and get a new bike. But no bike will ever be the same. I hope you will never forget me, because I will never forget you.

Love and Kisses,
Betsy

Allô?

Today I had a ginourmous Eureaka moment. I can have telephone conversations in French. NO WAY.

Phone conversing in another langauge is hard. You can't see the other person, thus can't see his or her facial expressions or gestures. Oftentimes, my ears decide to be hard of hearing or I just mix up words*, so this complicates things futher for me.

I experienced a horrible horrible telephone catastrophe back in March. I was ordering a pizza. The pizzeria dude wanted me to order two pizzas, but I only wanted one. Later I discovered it was a 2-for-1 deal, but I didn't understand that at the time. After the awkward convo ended, I wasn't exactly sure how many pizzas I had just ordered. On my way to pick it/them up, I sniffled a little bit and shed a few tears. I was really embarrassed and upset, because I had been studying French forever and had all this trouble ordering a frickin pizza.

But I guess there's been a veeeerrry gradual improvement in the success of my telephone conversations. My 75% comprehension became 80%. And 80% became 85%. And so on.

And today, when I was talking to someone about getting my newish purse replaced because it developed a mysterious hole, I started to actually whine a bit. But it's not my fault! I whined. I swear the hole just came out of nowhere. NO it's not from a lighter, I don't even smoke! I didn't get my way. They won't give me a new purse. I was grumpy when I hung up. But a second later, I realized that this was progress. Before I couldn't order a pizza on the phone. Now I can grump someone out on the phone. Go me.

* I recently was very confused when my roommate and her boyfriend were telling me about this delicious chocolate mousse that comes in a glass jar (un pot en verre). I understood it was delicious chocolate mousse that comes in a green jar (un pot vert). Just trust me, my brain hurt really hard after this conversion. I make mistakes like this all the time.

Flea Market Comeback

My last non-Parisian adventure was to be a trip to Lille for one of Europe's largest flea markets. It didn't work out due to driver's license complications of my friend's cousin's boyfriend (I told you it was complicated). So I decided to dedicate my Sunday to do a bit of flea marketing here in Paris on my own. I've been once to Le Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen, but we were filming a movie. So I didn't really look for stuff to buy.

So I leave my apartment this morning, ready for my adventure, and surprise surprise, there is a flea market right outside my front door. It's more like a neighborhood-wide garage sale. Here I accumulate:

- a multi-plug thinger. One exploded in the kitchen about a month ago, and we have been making do by juggling plugs and cords around. That works out okay except when I accidentally unplug the fridge and stove (while I am trying to use the stove), as I did last night.
- a retroish looking pair of sunglasses that are probably from H&M.
- a French-English picture dictionary. I especially like this purchase, because I bought it from a little girl. I don't even mind that it is in yucky British English, because now the little girl has €1.50 more to buy a pony or whatever.
- A neato scarf. I am planning on chopping off a ton of my hair on my return to the states, and I plan on accessorizing with scarves.

Then I go to the real flea market, which is a bit of a disappointment because here you can either buy only giant pieces of furniture or cool small things that are way too expensive. I was interested in a pair of opera glasses until I realized they were €150. Still, I manage to find:

- some pens. Those ones that have little windows with a little picture that floats up and down. I am OBSESSED with these pens and try to find one every time I visit a new place. When I saw a whole bunch at the flea market, I am pretty sure I started muttering excitedly to myself in French. I got three, and was very careful not to break my rule of only buying a pen if I have been to the place.
- a wine bottle opener. Nothing fancy, just one retired from some French restaurant. But I have been trying to learn how to open a bottle of wine without breaking the cork for months and months. I think I finally have the hang of it, so bought my own to celebrate.
- 10 really old Paris postcards.

In the end, not that much stuff, nothing particularly interesting and not that much money spent. But I either really wanted or needed or liked each thing, so I am content. Maybe I will go open a bottle of wine, or tie my hair in a scarf, or read a dictionary now.

Four Weeks To Go

Well folks, race day is coming up fast. I can't believe that I will be at the starting line for yet another marathon only four weeks from today. And on American soil nonetheless. Yikes.

How is training going? I will share this bit I entered in our training calendar post an 8-mile run on August 26: "hobble hobble hobble. Not as bad as yesterday, but felt hobbley." Here's one Kelly wrote recently: "Why do we do this to ourselves? Remind me."

August was really, really hard. We've ramped up our mileage a ton. I've pretty much gotten used to the non-stop throbbing of a calf or a hamstring or a knee or all of the above. A coworker the other day asked me why I was limping, and I was like what? huh? I'm not limping? Well, do your legs hurt? she asked me. I had to think about it. Yes, well I guess they do. They always do. I don't even notice it anymore, because I'm considering it normal.

Now I feel like I'm trying to make people pity me, but I'm not. The only one forcing me to run 40 miles a week is me. I do it because I know, or hope at least, that I'm doing enough to be 100% prepared for the upcoming race. Kelly and I both know that what really counts are the 18 hobbley and tired weeks we put in before toeing the starting line. The miles are long, and it hurts, and I spend a lot of time feeling sorry for my legs and trying to make them feel better with ice packs. I guess I just keep telling myself the harder it is now, the easier the actual race will be. That could be totally false.

Well. At least I'm in the best shape I've been in a few years (I guess since I trained for my last marathon) and can still drink as much beer/wine and eat as many croissants as I please. And I can beat almost anyone I know in a foot race — as long as it is a long distance one. Also, my toes are pretty good looking. And by good looking I mean they are gross, do not look at them.

French vs. American Dudes

Anyone who talks to me for more than five seconds will learn I don’t like French dudes. I like to generalize them all as creeps.

I could go on and on about this, but instead I will present to you two completely isolated case studies. Your task, my dear blog reader, is to figure out which guy is French and which is American.

1. My bike and I are idling at a red light by République. A guy wearing a bright green tee and nametag – which means he collects money for some charity/scam – frantically starts signaling to me. He has noticed that I have a flat tire, and I need to get out of the street asap. I become calmly frantic and get outta there fast to the safety of the sidewalk, where I start to inspect my bike. Actually, he tells me, you don’t have a flat tire. I just said that to get your attention. Then he proceeds to spin his spiel on the charity/scam he works for by trying to be very very flirtatious.

I am not buying any of it, because he has already proved himself to be a LIAR. I don’t like liars, particularly when it concerns my safety and my bike. Furthermore, he commits an error even more grave than assuming I am a student, which is one of my hugest pet peeves. Instead, he assumes I have quit school. Yes. Naturally. I am young and not enrolled in a university, so that must mean I am a quitter. I am magnificently unimpressed by this guy’s game. I escape back to the street with my bike, whose tires are just as un-flat as they were prior to this waste of 5 minutes of my life, whose name may or may not have been Guillaume.

2. I am taking pictures of an artsy alley in Belleville. A guy approaches me and asks me what model of camera I have. I have a Nikon D80. Oh, I have a D60, he says. This is a good move. He has found a way to talk to me by approaching a common interest of ours. He asks my name, I ask his. We chat for a few minutes. Did you hear about the party tonight? He asks. No, what party? Well, he says, there are going to be a ton of people at this bar in Buttes Chamont. It was a lot of fun last night, and I’m going back tonight. I happen to know exactly what bar he is talking about, because it is one of my favorites. More bonus points, because we enjoy the same bars.

He finishes the conversation by telling me it would be great to see me there later. Then he goes his merry little way, and I go mine. He doesn’t insist on taking my phone number, but still expressed interest in getting to know me better. I have an open invitation to accept the offer or not. If I was looking to meet guys, I would have. Especially because he did not immediately lead me to believe he was a LIAR.

So, who’s who? And what fine example of his culture tastefully and properly knew how to hit on a girl?*

*I feel as though I must add a disclaimer explaining I understand all French or American males are not equal to their respective case studies. I know that. That’s not the point of this exercise.

Easy Peasy

I want to keep my bank account open after I leave, but my branch is really far away, where I first lived when I arrived. I decided it would be more practical to have my account based in Paris proper. So I mentally and physically prepared myself for the process of transferring my account from one branch to another.

Mentally: I figured I would have to go to the bank an average of three times before successfully completing the branch transfer. This is because in France, you must try something an average of three times to ever accomplish it.

Physically: I stuffed a folder full of useless papers the French seem to require for even the most of insignificant of transactions. To prove I had the right to transfer my account to this branch, documents in my folder included, but were no limited to, a letter from my landlord to confirm I in fact live at my current address, an electric bill to confirm that he is in fact the landlord, a copy of his passport to confirm that the landlord is in fact a real person, my check book, a random assortment of important looking papers from the bank with my name and account number plastered all over them, some government documents to verify my address even further, my passport, etc.

All this, and I am not even inside the bank yet.

But by this part of the story, I am. I deal with a poo-pooey woman at reception who says well I really should have made an appointment for something like this, didn’t I know? She guesses she will see if her colleague can see me. Whatever lady. The bank opened 30 seconds ago, and I know I am the only non-employee in it.

So now I am in an office with her colleague, with my bulging folder of useless documents. I am mentally ready for her to tell me I don’t have the right ones.

Instead she doesn’t even look at them. She takes my account number, flips through my passport, prints off a single document. As I sign it she says the transfer will take a few days, and that’s it. Goodbye, and have a nice day.

And I’m like what? What? WHAT?! Never in my year in France has anything ever been this simple. I cannot get over how NORMAL this transaction was. I still can’t. I have wasted entire days, probably even months trying to do stuff like this in France. And here it took 5 minutes. I did not know that was even possible in this country.

Cat Attack

My concierge has two cats. This one is named Fifi (I think. We’ll pretend he’s a Fifi for the sake of this post):

Fifi is fat and never does anything but occasionally throw up in the courtyard. He sits and stares and stares. He is the laziest cat I have ever met. He will sit in the same place for hours. I could roll my bike over him, and he still wouldn’t budge. I wouldn’t do that though, because I am a nice person and don’t hurt cats.

I can’t even guess the other cat’s name, and I do not have a picture of he/she/it. Even if I did have a picture of this cat, I would not give it the satisfaction of posting it on my blog. I am mad at it.

This is the scardiest cat I have ever met. I will cross the courtyard, and it will dash away as fast as its little cat legs can carry it. It is terrified of people. It is also apparently extremely terrified of innocent American girls who leave their apartments very early to go running.

This is what happened. I left my apartment very early to go running. I was not entirely awake.

There I am groggily exiting the building, and suddenly there is a mass of black fur on my legs. Then it dashes away as fast as its little cat legs can carry it. I am awake now, because a cat just appeared out of thin air and freaking pounced on me with no prior warning. My legs hurt kinda. I look down. There is damage. Cat has managed to drag its claws across my thighs in three separate spots, and things are starting to get puffy and bloody. As I realize this, I shout F*#% CAT! But no one hears, because no one is up this early.

Then I go running and think about how someone should have taught this cat not to do what it did, because nice cats don’t hurt people. Several days later I see the cat again. It is sitting on a green garbage bin. It does not dash away. It stares at me, and I stare back. Staring contest, me vs. cat.

I lose.

This cat is physically and mentally more powerful than me. I don’t like this cat. Fifi's okay though.

Musée de l'Orangerie

Here's a mini tour of the Musée de l'Orangerie. I went to the other day during my lunch break. I hate when people ramble on about museums in blog posts and preach to you why you should care, so I won't here. I'll just share some pictures. If you want to learn more about the museum, check out the website.





Just a note on this last one. It's a miniature representation of a room in Paul Guillaume's home. I don't know why I have always been a sucker for these bity rooms (favorites are here and here). Maybe because I liked dollhouses when I was little.

Dear Neighbor,

As I write you this, your cell phone or landline phone or fax machine or WHATEVER is still ringing. Just as it has been for the past two weeks or more. Without. Stopping. Ever.

You must be on vacation. I really hope so, because that means you will eventually come back and turn it off. Seriously, neighbor, why in heaven's name would you leave for such an extended period of time and not unplug whatever this thing is that obnoxiously rings 24 hours a day? Why why why would you want a nice, respectful neighbor like me to suffer so much?

The ringing is so constant that sometimes I don't realize it's there. But other times, like when I am trying to sleep, I do notice. It is very unpleasant. Also, as I am sure you already well know, it is very hot here on the top floor of the apartment building. Perhaps the unbearable heat caused you to take a vacation. But I am not on vacation, and instead I open my window. Given the short distance between our apartments, that makes the ringing sound even louder.

I hope you are having a nice time and are enjoying your vacation. I am not enjoying your vacation. Please come back asap. Turn it off. Please.

Month of Bikes

The month of July went by super duper quickly. A bizarro very bike-filled month kept me busy. Some bike-related incidents of July 2009 below.

1. Matt. This is Matt, picture taken by himself:

Matt is a friend from home who quit his job and came to Europe with a bike. He is riding all over the place for six months. He stopped in Paris for about a week and slept on our itty bitty kitchen floor. Matt brought much joy to our lives. He washed dishes, took out the garbage and recycling, vacuumed, and kept the cat we were watching company. We had some picnics, drank some beers, and rode some bikes. It was great fun. One time he got locked out slept on the roof. Don't ask me how. My roommate and Matt on said roof:

2. Anti Metro. After my teaching contract was up at the end of June and I didn't need to take public transportation an hour to work anymore, I didn't renew my metro pass.

The metro is dirty and it smells and there's a whole lot of waiting involved in between transfers. It's an efficient system, but I was just over it. I decided I would ride my bike everywhere. I can't believe how much time I previously spent staring into space while riding the metro. Now I stare at glorious French architecture (although I don't pay attention to it) and get good exercise at the same time. I get to see so much more of the city. Going no metro is probably one of the best things I've done in Paris.

3. Tour de France. So everyone already knows that I followed the Tour a bit. My good friend John, some of his family, and I drove around France and Switzerland to watch the race, then caught the finish when it came down the Champs-Elysées in Paris. I hadn't seen John for a long, long time. It was an eventful reunion. We played some of our old favorite games and invented new ones.

This is us on the Tour with a stolen sign:

While in Paris for the race finish, we also spent several hours on the Eiffel tower doing socially unacceptable things, such as purposefully holding up lines and having races that, if you played aggressively enough, involved pushing strangers out of the way. Here is the most normal picture taken on that adventure:

Overall a good month. A bit stressful, but I survived. All thanks to bikes.

The Fake Halfway Mark

Kelly and I just passed the halfway point in marathon training - nine weeks down and nine more to go. But we haven’t reached the tough part yet. By the end of this month, our mileage will double that of what we ran at the beginning. For me, this means devouring gobs more bananas and peanut butter (please send more soon mom!), my clothes becoming a bit more ill-fitting, dragging myself out of bed even more unreasonably early for before-work runs, and being awoken in the middle of the night by even more of those painful, piercing, it-hurts-just-thinking-about-them muscle cramps in my calves.

Even though I train for each marathon pretty much the same way – which is essentially conditioning myself for this very long race by breaking down my body and then building it back up – every time it feels different. Kelly and I always ran together when we were training for St. Louis in 2007. Now that we’re on separate continents, that’s not so possible. I am grateful though that we can keep tabs on each other thanks to tecknology, aka a shared Google calendar we use to update our progress.

I do miss Kelly’s companionship, but training for this marathon while in Europe has its perks, too. When I was on my Tour de France trip, one morning I ran the race route 14 miles through these tiny Swiss villages and fields. The Swiss mountains kept me company. The air felt cleaner than any other air I’ve ever remembered breathing, but I probably just thought that because the nature around me was so green and so big and so full.

I probably won’t get another such run, because I don’t think I’ll be going back to Switzerland before the race. So I’ll just keep trucking away here in Paris. Fortunately, the whole city is disappearing to take their vacation outside of the city, so I’m looking forward to calm and empty streets this August. Me and my TAL podcasts are going to dominate the Paris streets - watch out.

This is what my shoes look like now, for anyone who is interested. I don't know who would be, but I am posting it anyway. They looked like this before.

104

My first visit to Le Centquatre:

cent = 100 quatre = 4. It's the address. From 1873-1998, it housed the Municipal Funeral Service. The restored building is now hosts artists in residency. The goal is to improve interaction between the public and contemporary art.

I took about a million pictures of this photo booth. It rocked.

Check out the dude on the far left. He was sooooo bored and tooooo cool to show his moves. He sat like that the whole time.


Break dance it out.

My Favorite Little Girl in France

To get to my apartment, I walk through a courtyard. Oftentimes there is a little girl out and about. I am assuming she is granddaughter of the concierge, whose apartment looks out onto the courtyard.

The little girl is four years ago and looks exactly like Capucine. I don't know her name. I don't know her birthday either. I asked her, but she couldn't remember and said she had to ask her dad.

One time I came home, and she was hanging out the window eating a lollipop.

"Hello!" she said. She is not at all shy.

"Hello!" I said. We chatted about this and that.

"You just bought some bread," she then noticed.

"Yes I did," I said. "Would you like some?"

"I would," she said. So I ripped her off a piece of baguette. Then she jumped off her perch to get something inside. She came back with another lollipop and gave it to me. I secretly think I got the better end of the trade.

Today I came back from a run, and she was watering the flowers in the courtyard.

"Hello!" she said.

"Hello!" I said. "What are you doing?"

"Giving the flowers water," she said.

"Which ones did you already give water to?" I asked.

"Hmm…" she couldn't remember. But she was sure she had already watered the yellow ones. Then the concierge came out and nagged her about not getting her shirt dirty or her shoes wet, and that was the end of our conversation.

I'm sure I'll see her again soon. I hope so, because she's my favorite.

Tips From a Travel Writer

Tonight I saw Rolf Potts read at Shakespeare and Co. He is a travel writer. I will admit that I have never read anything of his.* But I like writing, and I like traveling, and I like people who write about traveling, so I went.

I was able to chat with him one-on-one before the event started. I had time for one question, so I asked "what are the most common mistakes young wannabee travel writers make?" His answers:

Blindly submitting your stuff to magazine and websites. "You need to know how to read to know how to write," he said. Basically you need to know what's out there and know what's already been done. You need to know the difference between good travel pieces and bad travel pieces to know what to do and what not to do. And to know all that, you have to read as much of it as you can.

Thinking you can live off of travel writing. Someone invented this total misconception that travel writers make a ton of cash. They don't. "You can travel more widely as an electrician or an IT guy or a stripper," Potts told me. Basically he told me, hey you're only 23. Travel now. Take good notes. Experience life. You can write about it later. He didn't get a passport until he was 25. He didn't publish his first piece until he was 28 (which was on slate.com, you rock dude!). Now it's his career, but it took time.

Don't write about Paris. There's nothing to write about Paris. Anyone can go to Paris or Budapest or Rome and write "It's beautiful." No one is going to publish that. It doesn't offer any new information. So become an expert on something. Join a rowing team in Paris and write about that aspect of the city. If you grew up on an organic farm, write about organic markets in Paris. Don't just slap yet another layer of wallpaper to what's already out there. Finding a niche is a way to write something new.

He also suggested teaching English as a vehicle to get you overseas. Hey I did that! Does that mean I am going to become a famous travel writer? Heh, prob not. Rolf Potts, thanks for your advice. I was interested to hear what you had to say about travel writing clichés, but then the owner of the bookstore interrupted our covo. Fortunately, I read this article, so I think I already have some good tips.

* But I intend to start!

These Things I Like

- The Eggs. Most eggs are brown. Of course you can buy brown eggs in America. But they cost more than eggs should. The eggs I buy in Paris aren't refrigerated. I enjoy that everyone here isn't always freaking out about E. Coli and stuff. I guess we do that in America because we have to. There are definitely a lot more problems with regulation of foods in my home country. But my point is really about the eggs. I like the high quality of cheap eggs. Do not, however, get me started on the milk here. That is a whole different story.

- The Roundabouts. As an uncultured American, I was naturally terrified of them at the beginning. Now I find them really quite fun! The mazelike tendancies of roundabouts keep you on your toes. And on a bike, I have maximum power to weave in and out of traffic while my scooter, car, bus and truck friends must just idle there and wait for things to start moving again. Lastly, from a statistical point of view, they are actually much safer.

- My Accent Working For Me. So my French is okay enough that I don't always sound like a total idiot (well, um, maybe just sometimes). Yet it is still very apparent that I am one of those exotic foreigners. This works in my favor, mainly when I am asking for directions, which happens frequently. I find people are very nice to me when they are giving me directions. Once in awhile I even get discounted cups of coffee. Okay that only happened to me once. But I am open to it happening again.

- The Culture Of Eating. In my previous American jobs, my lunch break was typically however long it took me to eat: 30 minutes max. Basically there is no eating culture. You eat because you have to. And then you go right back to work. Or maybe you don't even stop working and eat your lunch at your desk. When I was teaching at French public schools, they shut everything down for two-hour lunch break. At my current grown-up job, everyone take an hour. It's not just about minutes per lunch break. It's about actually taking time to eat and enjoy your meal, make a little bit of an affair out of it, and enjoy some conversation with whomever your dining partners are. Yes, there's work to be done. But this little midday pause is equally as important.

Way Past First Impressions

"I decided I could live here," PK told me after her first day in Paris. "Even if I can't speak the language. It's just so beautiful."

"But don't you think you'd just get used to it? You wouldn't even notice the beauty anymore if you saw it every day," I said.

She said that could certainly not happen. That the city is just too pretty. Her certainty made me sad.

When I moved to Paris in the fall, I went to the Louvre. At first not for the museum, but just to walk around outside and check out the pyramid and the building's architecture. It wasn't my first visit. Still I was way impressed with its hugeness and magnificence. I think I even said "woah…" out loud. Hoping for the same sort of emotion, I decided to run to the Louvre the other day. But I was grumpy because it was bad run, and there were at least 1 million tourists milling about. I wanted to be impressed again by the Louvre. I wasn't. I stayed for 15 unimpressed seconds, turned around and ran home.

On that note, every morning I ride my bike to work down Rue de Rivoli. Along the way, I pass by the following kind-of-a-big-deal monuments and museums: Place de la Bastille, Hôtel de Ville, La Tour Saint-Jacques, Musée des Arts Decoratifs, Le Louvre (again), Les Tuileries, and Place de la Concorde. If I stretch my neck, I can see Notre Dame and the Grand Palais. But I don't. I hardly ever look twice. Am I a bad person?

I guess I just feel guilty for not being as into Paris as the visitors that stop by are. I don't know if French people or Parisian people feel the same way. Do they not really notice this stuff either?

To finish up this really incohesive random chain of thoughts, I would like to mention that I am constantly wowed by riding through roundabouts on my bike. That is something about Paris that never fails to impress me.

Tour de France Injury (Worth It)

My friend John and his family are obsessed with the Tour. For years, he’s been talking about following the race in person. This year, he and some of his family finally made it to France, rented a car, and made it happen. I went this weekend to tag along for a few days.

The cool thing about following the Tour de France* with John and co. is their absolute passion for the race. They know almost all the bikers and teams. They know all the logistics of the race. When I say follow the Tour de France, I don’t mean watch the race whoosh by and then go home. Follow means map out your route for the whole day so we can catch the bikers at as many possible points. And follow means taking the food drop very, very seriously.

The food drop occurs every day somewhere around the halfway point. The racers get fair warning when they bike through this, minus the dorky American standing in the middle.

They will then start looking for their team cars so they can pick up a bag full of water, energy bars, gels, and vials of mystery sporty fluids. Here are all the cars lined up, ready to hand the bikers their lunch.

The racers grab their bags and start rummaging for the good stuff. They jam what they want in their pockets, then toss the rest by the side of the road.

Here is where the serious Tour de France followers come in. These are the people who want the throwaways. Those bags and water bottles are prime souvenirs. Especially ones from major teams, such as Astana (Lance’s team). If you want to get your hands on any of this stuff, you have to move fast and be aggressive. You have to choose your spot and crowd anyone out who tries to get into your space. You have to take your eyes off the race and keep them on the ground.

John and co. coached me on important tactics, and soon I was ready for the food drop. We staked out our spot and waited. When the bikers came by, I was ready.

I saw a water bottle drop about 10 feet away from me in front of a group of people. It was right at their feet, but I decided it was mine. I instantly ran for it and intended to soccer kick it away. Instead I, as John described it, second base slid into it. Maybe I fell only inches from the bike race going on. Maybe I ripped some chunks of skin off my foot, thus limped around for the rest of the day. Maybe it was a bit too much aggressiveness for a water bottle. But hey, I got it. Actually I got two, after I dangerously dashed across the street for another.

After we regrouped, we had two bags, three water bottles, and lots of icky looking sportsy food between the four of us. I went home with all the sportsy food to help me out with marathon training. And one hard-earned official team water bottle to remember my few days following the Tour de France!

* I would just like to mention that 95% of the French people I told about this trip scoffed, yes scoffed at the idea of following the Tour de France. “Have fun” they said with a giant eye roll and a tone of voice that meant ‘you certainly can not have fun doing that.' I don’t get how none of them could not get excited about the biggest most awesomenest bike race in the entire world taking place on their own home soil. Maybe I don’t talk to the right French people.

I Hate French Creeps

This is what happened to me today. I was running and this 14ish-year-old kid who was walking in the opposite direction reached out a touched my boob. It took my brain about 2 seconds to register what had happened, turn myself around 180°, and start chasing him down.

He heard me coming and looked over his shoulder to see a furious, 135-pound américaine in a bright yellow Mizzou tee sprinting towards him as fast as she possibly could. Would you have been scared? He was. He was terrified. He was smart to start running as fast as he could, too. I was ready to throw him to the ground, and he knew it.

I'm so sick of the disgusting men in this country. Until this kid, no one has gone so far as to touch me, but my personal space and general level of comfort gets violated all the time by gross French creeps. So the boob toucher is just some punk kid. But what about the security guard at Monoprix (that's kinda like a Target)? Do you think it's appropriate for him to say "Have you found some nice panties?" in a top-notch creep voice while I am browsing lingerie? Um let me think, no. Your job is to make sure people don't steal stuff, not infringe my personal underwear shopping space. I've got lots more absurd stories if anyone wants to hear them.

What pisses me off the most is that these men know I'm foreign. I have light-colored hair and skin, smile occasionally, and run a lot — qualities you will be hard-pressed to find in most French girls. They maybe assume I can't speak French or will be flattered by their creepiness or I don't even know what. But they're taking advantage of my foreignness.

I used to get really grossed out and flustered, my French would fail me, and the best I could do was make a disgusted face. But lately, either because my French is getting better or I just can't stand them anymore, I've started changing my tactic. This is why I started chasing the boob toucher with every ounce of energy I had left.

I wanted so badly to catch this kid and kick him real super hard with my strong marathon legs. That would have rocked. But I kinda knew from the beginning I wouldn't succeed. I already had already run six miles and was way tired. He had run zero miles and was terrified of me. After four blocks, he make a couple of sharp turns, and I lost him.

But even though I knew I probably wouldn't catch him, at least I didn't just let it slide. At least I got to see the horrified look on his face when he realized that I was coming for him. At least I made him run for it. And I hope I made him think twice.

So next time a French creep says something inappropriate, I'm not going to feel awkward and make a weird face. Maybe I won't try chase him down. Or hmm… if he's especially creepy, maybe I will. Watch out creeps.