Today

Today I saw two ladies at a cafe. One of the ladies had a fat pug dog in her lap. She was holding him so he looked like a child sitting straight up. He had an obvious little boner, and the ladies were laughing at him. He looked embarrassed. The lady who wasn't holding him reached out and poked his penis with her fingernail. He tried to bite her hand. I wish he would've gotten her.

Today in the news, there was a story about a 14 year old boy who drowned in the River Seine last night. He was having an argument with his friends about a video game. They had it and wouldn't give it back to him. They told him the only way he could get it back was if he jumped into the river. The boy couldn't swim. He refused to do it, until one of his friends promised that if the boy started struggling in the water, he would jump in and help. So, the boy jumped in. They found his body this morning on the banks. His friends saw him go under, but none of them were brave enough to go in after him. One of them ran for help, and the rest of them stood there and watched him drown. I wonder how that boy who promised he would jump in after him feels today. There is a story by Albert Camus about a man who is crossing a bridge and sees a woman about to jump off. He could stop her, but he doesn't. He finds out later that she drowned. The fact that he could've saved her that night and didn't haunts him for the rest of his life. When he's an older man, he goes back to the same spot and he says, "Oh, young woman, if only you could jump in the river again, so I might save us both." I wonder if this boy will turn into that old man.  I think so.

Today I learned that plastic surgery began in World War 1. A lot of people picture WW1 as soldiers running from trench to trench stabbing each other with bayonets, but the reality was that most of the fighting was done with artillery. When the artillery would hit the men, it would literally tear their bodies to pieces. In the hospitals, the doctors had to learn how to build faces again from the lumps of burned flesh and bone. So many soldiers lost their eyes that the German government started a radio program just for them. That was why radio dramas were invented, so blind men could see again. 

Paris In The Rain

Midnight walk around Paris right after it rained. Beautiful.

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
- Hemingway

Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome is feminine. So is Odessa. London is a teenager, an urchin, and this hasn’t changed since the time of Dickens. Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman.

- John Berger

You can't escape the past in Paris, and yet what's so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn't seem to burden.
-Allen Ginsberg 

Today On the Subway

Today on the subway, I saw 4 different people picking their noses. I have no idea if they were French or not, because they weren't talking, they were picking. So I'm not even going to go there. However, it seems that at least French subways have their own brand of crazy. I'm sure any subway system in a major city, especially New York, has its share of insane people. But here in Paris, their insanity is almost an art form.

I saw a Hasidic Jew pick his nose and eat it. I'm not sure that's kosher.  I saw a kindly looking old grandpa pick his nose and flick it onto the seat in front of him...where someone else was sitting.

I saw a child, probably about 6 or 7, pick his nose, then take out whatever he found, examine it, smile, and then put it on the soles of his shoes. I saw a woman dressed in a business suit/skirt, with an expensive looking briefcase, pick her nose after looking around to see that nobody was watching, and put it into a white cloth, which then went into her pocket.

I saw two teenagers with braces making out and the dude feeling her boobs. I saw what looked like a man masturbating underneath a newspaper. His eyes were shut and he was going "uhhh". Maybe he was having a seizure and I'm just a total asshole.

A day or two ago, I was in a public park sitting on a bench watching the little kids play and reading a book. I saw a mother pick her child up, take her to the corner of the park, which was still right out in the open, pull her shorts down, hold her up by her chubby little arms like a baby chimpanzee and let her pee. Right there, in public. Aren't there diapers for that sort of thing? Does this woman really carry her child around with no diapers or underwear and just let her piss and shit in any corner she wants to?

Paris smells like pee in a lot of places, so really, I wouldn't be surprised.

Yesterday, I saw an ad for Orangina (which I'm pretty sure is pronounced orange-eena, but makes you want to say it like "vagina") which featured a zebra who had basically been turned into a prostitute. The French seem to consider this a winning marketing strategy, and I have to say, at least it gets your attention.

When I was in the Luxembourg gardens I saw a poster for a children's show with marionettes. I don't know of many things that are more disturbing than marionettes. Like dancing corpses. And for children? I bet parents had a hell of a time dragging their kids to that. But for all I know, French kids are little freaks and love shit like that. It would certainly seem that the French are at least into creepy clown-like shows, judging by all the signs I see like this everywhere: 

Ahhh, you nutty French people, c'est la vie. 

New Stuff

This blog isn't going to be all about Paris...but also sometimes about the stuff I'm doing while I'm here. Writing exercises, poems, stories, etc. If you don't like it, GTFO.

Milk and Cookie Massacre

This is a writing exercise we had to do in class today, and my group thought mine was funny, so I had to read it out loud in front of the whole class. I was like ahh fuck, but everyone laughed during it, so it turned out ok.  Here it is:


I have an uneasy relationship with milk.

Scarred more than once by the spoiled by-products of a cow, suspicion is usually my first reaction to any sort of dairy.  I believe this all began with an incident from my childhood. The Milk and Cookie Massacre of second grade.

Milk and Cookie Break came halfway through the morning; early enough that our appetites wouldn't be spoiled for whatever slop-of-the-day on plastic trays we'd be having later, but not so late that blood sugar levels dropped into tantrum range. 

I believe Milk and Cookie Break was a social contract designed to keep us obedient. Pay attention a little longer, children, and we'll have Milk and Cookie time in just a bit. If I see you pull her hair again, little Johnny, you won't be getting your Milk and Cookie time today. 

Faced with the loss of Milk and Cookie Break, even hell spawn like Michael DeLaRosa were forced into retreat.

The milks were in perfect white cartons, lined up like little soldiers on the rolling cart that came to every classroom one by one. We all waited impatiently for our turn to select either white or chocolate milk, and then set to work dunking and devouring our cookies.

Feeling particularly adventurous, I chose chocolate milk with my chocolate chip cookie. Why the hell not, what's another 200 calories when you're 7 years old? Back then, I didn't even have thighs, just another set of monkey arms hanging from my hips.

Right away, it became obvious that something was terribly wrong.

As per usual, I had opened my little carton and poured my first big gulp right down the hatch. But instead of normal milk, I felt the strangest sensation of slimy, curd-like chunks sliding around my mouth.

Instinctively, I spit them out into my hand.

Fascinated and repulsed by this turn of events, I examined the chunks for a moment before becoming aware of the most awful taste I had every experienced. Imagine the sweetest, most rotten, most disgusting taste you can, and now add a little texture.

Gagging, I saw the chunks in my hand were brownish-green, and was instantly transported back to the time we fed our cat too many hot dogs, and he shit all over the house.  It was almost exactly the same hue and consistency.

All around me, children were crying, spitting, and yelling. My milk was not the only one that had gone bad. The milk had been spoiled for at least a week, and most of it had solidified into a jelly-like mass of pure nastiness.

Whichever lunch lady was in charge of the milk cart that day had truly fucked up.

I remember a boy sitting next to me saying, "Why? Why?" That, and the taste, that even hours later, I just couldn't get out of my mouth.

This incident gave me more insight into life than a second grader has any right to. 

First, expectation can be a powerful tool to motivate and control, especially children and stupid adults. Make your dog do a trick, and then give him a treat. Repeat the process enough, and the expectation of a reward becomes so standard, that you could throw him a lit firecracker and he'd try to swallow it.  Same with kids.

This leads me to my second point, which is that when life is planning to take a shit in your mouth, you'll never see it coming. Life owes us nothing, and there is no reason to expect anything different. Why would God make second graders choke on curdled milk?

Because he's an asshole, and he can.

Third, sometimes the things we want the most end up being as spoiled and rotten as we thought they'd be wonderful. Like how I chased after the hottest guy ever and when I got him, realized he was a total asshole and awful in bed. Side note, the only thing a girl should ever chase is a shot. Of whiskey. Because who needs to chase vodka? It's delicious.

And finally, check the fucking expiration date on everything or you deserve what you get.  

next to my hotel

Hot For Teacher

I just found out one of the writers teaching my class is Rolf Potts. He's basically a phenomenal travel writer, who also happens to be kind of hot. See for yourself. I'm excited. http://www.rolfpotts.com/

"He's been drugged and robbed in Istanbul, checked out brothels in Cambodia where prostitutes are identified by numbers, and shopped for donkeys in the Libyan Desert. Rolf Potts usually has an interesting answer to the mundane question, 'So, what did you do today?'"
—San Francisco Examiner

"It's [a] turn-on-a-dime ability to mix gonzo adventure with nuanced rumination — often in the same story — that make Potts stand out in the world of travel writing. He seems like the ideal drinking companion, full of verve, incredible tales and unexpected insights."
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune

"Jack Kerouac for the Internet Age" 
—USA Today

Things French People Do Give a Shit About

1. French people give a shit about dogs. There are dogs everywhere!! It's the best thing I could have hoped for. Some of them have little dresses on, some of them are naked, but all of them are wonderful. There are dog accessory shops all over the place. Charlie is going to have an entirely new wardrobe by the time I get home.

2. French people give a shit about shoes. For example, I was told in no uncertain terms that no French person would take me seriously if I were wearing flip-flops. Maybe all the flipping and flopping offends their noble French sensibilities. On Paris streets, you never see anything but heels or expensive looking sandals on women, and polished business shoes, or cool looking skater shoes on dudes. I've also seen some vintage high-tops on both genders, which are all the rage, according to a magazine I read in the airport.  Being the sort of jackass that wears flip-flops, I wouldn't have known. 

3. French people give a shit about what you're wearing in general. Specifically women. Apparently, it's less important if your clothes are somewhat out of style, or don't match, because that can be considered trendy in the right crowds, but may the French gods of fashion strike you dead if you wear clothes that are ill-fitting. If you're fat and you wear a tight shirt, expect death stares from women of all ages. If you're skinny and you wear something obviously too large for you, expect pitying glances from girls who then shake their heads and sigh, as if they are thinking, "Poor girl, if only she could dress well. Her life could actually mean something." The men don't seem to care what you're wearing as long as they can see your boobs or you don't have an entirely hideous face. Men are more forgiving in this respect all over the world, I would guess.

4. French people give a shit about music. Almost everyone I pass on the street has headphones on. There is music coming from every other window in the Latin Quarter, and posters for bands on every street corner. During lunch time, I passed a bar with dim lights and live jazz, even though it was the middle of the day. I guess some French people can't even wait until evening to lose themselves with a drink and some smooth tunes.

5. French people give a shit about coffee. They are constantly drinking it. At every cafe or restaurant, no matter what time of day or night, you can expect to see coffee on every single table. I have to say; this is something I give a shit about also, because the coffee here is just so fucking good. I'm going to have to get used to the caffeine buzz. I suspect most French people have so much caffeine and nicotine in their bloodstream it must be like walking around with a vibrator jammed inside their brains. And they like it.



6. French people give a shit about flowers. There are gardens around every corner, and flower boxes in most windows. My favorite are the giant hot pink roses. 

Things French People Don't Give a Shit About

This post is probably going to be updated pretty frequently, because so far, it seems there are a lot of things French people don't give a shit about.

1. French people don't give a shit about people sleeping past 6 a.m. They wake up fucking early.  I don't know why the fuck they get up at 6 a.m. because it seems to me like they just bang around their hotel rooms and yell at each other, or go sit in a cafe and drink coffee for 3 hours, which seems like things that could be postponed. Maybe they get up so early so they can have the sufficient amount of time per day to yell at each other and sip cafe au lait. I have no fucking idea.

2.  French people don't give a shit if you're in a hurry. They are never hurrying. In fact, I bet there is not even a French word for "hurry".  Maybe they are just really excellent at time management and are never in a rush because they've just coordinated everything perfectly. But I suspect it's because they really just don't give a shit if they're late.

3.  French people don't give a shit if you're lost. I was wandering around with a map all day trying to find stuff and not one single person even paused to act like they wanted to help. I wasn't lost, just navigating, but if I was still in the US and someone saw I had a map out, you can bet about ten people would've stopped and asked if they could help.

4. French people don't give a shit if you speak French or not. Whether you do or you don't, they will continue to speak in French, even after you've made it clear you don't understand. I'm not saying everyone should speak English, I'm just saying if I didn't even ask you for anything and you come up and start babbling in French to me and I say "I'm sorry, I don't speak French" in both French and English, maybe you should stop speaking French to me.  French people don't give a shit if you understand them. I think they just like to hear themselves talk.

5. French people don't give a shit about dog shit. Seriously, they let their dogs shit anywhere. In the middle of the sidewalk, dog shit. In the middle of an outdoor cafe, dog shit.  In the doorway of a hotel entrance, dog shit. In the US, if your dog shits in public, you better at least pretend like you're going to pick it up or I promise at least a few people will scold you. French people don't give a shit if another French person doesn't pick up dog shit. They just step around it. This is a skill I have yet to master, as I stepped in dog shit twice yesterday, never suspecting it may be laying right in the middle of the sidewalk. I have yet to see a French person step in any. It's like they have a 6th sense for dog shit. Maybe that's why they don't care; they know they're not going to step in it anyway, so why should they give a shit where dogs shit?

6. French people don't give a shit about cancer. Their cancer, your cancer, their dog's cancer, it doesn't matter. French people smoke almost every minute of the day, in any situation, in any location. They don't give a shit if you're sitting next to them on a park bench; they will blow it right in your direction. I've seen French people holding babies, chain smoking right next to their little faces, and I can almost see their tiny pink lungs turning black from all the secondhand nastiness.

7. French people don't give a shit if you don't want to get hit on. By this, I mean, French men will hit on you, right after you spend 8 hours on a plane, haven't showered for 12, look like total balls and are half asleep. They will hit on you as you walk by as fast as you can, head down, eyes averted, clearly attempting not to be hit on. They will hit on you regardless of your behavior, your appearance, your attitude. French dudes do not give a shit if you want to get hit on or not, they are going to hit on you like they're Chris Brown and you just threw their car keys out of the window on the way to the awards show. If you don't get this reference, watch more TMZ. 

8. French people DO NOT give a shit about lines. If you're in line somewhere in Paris, expect to get budged, pushed out of the way, or just stepped all over. It doesn't matter who was there first, it only matters who is the most aggressive. I know this because I went shopping today. At first, I thought people were just confused about where the line ended. Then I realized, they really just don't give a shit. Survival of the fittest, mon amie. 

Oui, Oui

Customs

Paris, France
Wednesday, June 28

On the plane, there was so much turbulence the lady next to me, who should've bought two seats to contain her bulk, but instead pilled into mine, dug her nails into my arm at one point and said, "Oh, God." This did not help calm my nerves, and so I resorted to popping even more valium than was probably necessary. I also ordered 4 vodka tonics, which are no longer complementary after the first one, and in my opinion, definitely overpriced. Interesting note, planes take credit cards on board. I'd like to thank you, both Delta Airlines, and Visa, for getting me drunk. 

The combination of probably about 15 mg of valium and 4 shots of vodka over the period of 7 hours, plus a few sleeping pills here and there was enough to keep me relatively calm, but became more of a problem than a solution once I tried to get off the plane. I was right next to business class, so there were really pushy business men in suits all around me, all acting like their balls were on fire and the only way to put them out was to be first off the plane. I got knocked around on my unsteady feet until my fat lady seat companion scolded and shamed the nearest businessmen into letting us out before them, and helping us with the overhead compartments. 

Once off the plane of death, I made my way through a drunken, narcotic filled haze to the luggage and then to customs. Waiting in line, I noticed the customs guy was pretty hot. He didn't seem to even care about what he was doing, just taking a quick glance at people and stamping their passports like he couldn't give a shit. When I got in front of him, I was sweating a little, like, ok, not only am I kind of drunk, on drugs, and probably not very coherent, but this guy is pretty attractive, and that makes me nervous on its own. Also, for some reason, whenever I pass through customs, I start to feel like a terrorist sneaking into the country, or a jewel smuggler or something. I don't know what it is exactly, but something about facing someone who has the authority to let me into a country, keep me out, detain me, throw me in jail, or strip search me makes me start feeling like I did something criminal already and they're going to catch me.  

The hot customs guy takes my passport, which is already humiliating because my picture is probably the worst picture I've ever taken in my life, studies it for what seems like an hour and says, "Well, Mademoiselle Jennifer, how long do you plan to stay in my country?" I'm trying not to stutter, thinking, he totally knows I'm high, and I manage to stammer out "about a month." He stares directly into my eyes and says, "Oh, a whole month, Jennifer, what is it that you will be doing here?" I nervously start explaining that I'm doing a writing program, like a student, but not really a student, because then I'd need a student visa, and I don't have a student visa, and he cuts me off and says, "Show me your papers, Mademoiselle Jennifer." When people say my name repeatedly, I tend to get irritated, but in this case, it was a really weird mix of scared and slightly turned on. Isn't that pervy? 

I start dumping out all the papers I have; my acceptance letter to the school, the address of my apartment, all of this stuff, thinking this guy can totally see I'm fucked up right now, he's not going to let me in the country, my parents are going to kill me, I'm going to die an old lady with ten dogs, etc. He looks through all of my stuff, taking his time and says, "So, are you going to have a phone number for where you will be staying? I would like to know what it might be." I'm totally freaking out at this point, and I'm just like "I'm sorry, is there some kind of problem? I know people you could call who can verify who I am and what I'm doing." He starts laughing and he's like "No, no, you are a silly girl. I think you are very cute. There are no problems. I would just like to call on you while you are here." 

I was like oh, thank god, he's just hitting on me! I should've known because all French dudes hit on American girls, but I was so fucked up I totally didn't get it. Also, I had just spent like 7-8 hours on a plane, hadn't showered in 12, probably looked like I was on crack, and was not at my conversational best, so I never saw it coming. I had forgotten the number one rule about French guys; you don't have to be pretty, you don't even have to be cute, you just have to be a girl and they will hit on you. 

I told him I didn't have a number and I didn't know if I was going to have a phone and he was like, "Well, Mademoiselle Jennifer, now I know where you are studying, I will have to come around and look for you. You can go now." When I finally got away I seriously was like trembling from stress relief, embarrassment, and the thrill of being hit on by a hot French customs dude. He was right, I am a silly girl. But I bet I could've smuggled some shit into the country and he never even would've guessed. 

Number Two

Wisconsin

Tuesday, June 27

On the way to the Minneapolis airport we stopped at a gas station to use the bathroom. My dad was busy filling up the tank, so I went inside to pee. When I got into the bathroom, I noticed a young mother and her little boy positioned awkwardly inside one of the stalls with the door wide open.  The little boy was probably about 4 years old and pretty much as cute as baby otter. He was squealing and wiggling, clearly struggling against the attempts to seat him on the "potty." As the door shut behind me, he spotted me, looked up and waved. I waved back. Losing interest almost immediately, he grabbed his mother by her hair and yelled, "Mom! Mom! Why do girls wipe their butts when they go peeeee? You wiped your butt. I saw it!" The mother turned to me, embarrassed, and tried to smile, but it just made her look tired. She said, "Honey, we can talk about that later, but right now I need you to go potty."

I entered the stall next to them, the only other stall in the bathroom, and tried to pee without laughing. The conversation next door only got progressively funnier, and my pee would just not come. "Mom! Mom! Now I'm going number one! See the pee? Hahaha, I told a lie Mom! I'm really going number two!" The little boy cackled maniacally. I heard aggressive little grunts as he fought to release his number. "Shhhh," the mother whispered. "Bathroom noises are ok when we are at home in our own bathrooms, but when we are bathroom visitors, we must be on our best behavior. That means you must try to be quieter, sweetie." The little boy laughed. "But I pooped, Mom! I pooped, pooped, pooped." At this point, I was nearly in tears. "Now you wipe me and then I want to see what I did in there!" the little boy commanded.

Unable to pee, and knowing I would have to face the both of them any minute; I just flushed the toilet and left the bathroom. My dad had just walked in from filling the car up and asked me to wait for him while he went to the bathroom quickly himself. I stood outside and tried to act nonchalant as the little boy and his mother exited the women's bathroom. The little boy strutted like a king, quite obviously proud of himself, holding his mother's hand. He spotted me and waved again, and said, "She went pee too, Mom. Maybe she went number two! Do you think she did a poop too, Mom? Maybe she pooped!" I ducked my head trying to avoid his pointing finger, but it was way too late, as everyone in the tiny gas station was either smiling or laughing.

I walked outside and met my dad by the car, still needing to pee, but absolutely unwilling to enter the gas station again. Although I appreciate his enthusiasm, I was a little annoyed. Fuck number two, little boy, I didn't even get to do number one. 

First Things First

The Paris American Academy is registered by the Académie de Paris, as a private institution of higher learning under the 12 July 1875 jurisdiction. Centered less than a kilometer from Notre-Dame cathedral in the famous Latin quarter, the Academy draws upon Paris' cultural and artistic heritage in making the city its campus.

This is where I will be doing a writing program for the next month. Fancy, huh? My program is basically writing classes with published authors, workshops, readings, etc. http://pariswritingworkshop.com/

 It's located right in the Latin Quarter, which is basically the coolest part of Paris. It's in the 5th and 6th arrondissements (districts) on the left bank of the River Seine. It's really close to the Sorbonne, the Pantheon, and the Luxembourg Gardens. It's known for its "student life, lively atmosphere, and bistros".