Melamine & melancholy

Thinking about Paris and eventual repatriation, I've decided to put the decision process into a mega 'pro' and 'con' list. Like my friends' binary rating system for women: ("She's either a '1' or a '0', man") most large decisions are just the result of a series of 'Yea's and 'Nay's. Here goes:

Pro:



I found myself at 148 Rue de la Roquette (site of a former huge prison, La Grande Roquette) waiting for my government-appointed medical visit to get my residence permit.
Much like prison, this involves large women undressing you, shoving your bare breasts against the wall and screaming, "GONFLEZ!"... then they take an X-Ray. Unlike prison.

In the waiting room, I found myself next to a Chinese man. Long hair, steel-heeled ankle-high boots, reading a long book. On my right, two American girls were complaining about their upcoming French Lit exam, and how hard AUP is (oh, bite me, seriously). But I couldn't figure out what my Eastern neighbor to the left (heh) was doing in the country.

Then I saw that the title of his book was in English: "P.S. I Love You".

...Apparently, China will soon be beating France at everything, including the "Men crying about their emotions" market. (They will cry harder and longer, but their tears may contain carcinogens).

I finally get called in by the doctor who tells me I don't have tuberculosis !
She takes my blood pressure, and I mutter something about eating too much salt and is my blood pressure normal. She responds,

"Bof, they say, 'Don't eat salt, don't eat butter, don't eat sugar, and then wonder why everyone is anorexic.'

10 POINTS TO THE GOVERNMENT APPOINTED DOCTOR!
I almost gave her an "Amen sistah," but then figured she would yell at me about not being secular, and not give me my residence permit.

So, pro: France, French butter, that Doctor, and being allowed to work legally.

Con:

I was running an errand on a Sunday, and decided to take the long route along the river. Going down a set of narrow steps down to the quay, I cross a decently well-dressed woman. She passes me and says:

"Vous avez une odeur de cul!"
(You smell like ass)

I had to stop myself from bursting out into tears, and decided to run home and take a shower instead. Luckily I turned around to see that she was saying this to other hapless passers-by in the street. She either has a very keen sense of smell, is completely insane, or both.

Con: Parisians, People who smell like ass.

Let's see how long I can keep this pro/con list going.

UPDATE: Tanguons le bateau.

Just how loud could those ducks have been, you say?

How ridiculously, impossibly loud?

The little fat, feathered chieurs were at it again. Shot from my window:
(on my cell phone - but the audio speaks for itself)



I rest my case. But still love my boat.

"Oh. Mon. Dieu. Becky. Regarde son cul..."

The rumours are true. I had heard a lot of things about French gyms/the French gym-going population. So far belonging to a gym has not been a disappointment.

The anthropological study began in the changing room.
I'm not particularly shy, but the French have fewer cultural boundaries about staring, and apparently this rule still applies without clothes.

Like a boring remake of the opening scene of Carrie, I found myself in a sea of skinny white French women. They all have one distinguishing feature. Apologies in advance, but I don't know else to put this...They all have Really. Flat. Asses.
A North American friend had mentioned this, but I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own scornful eyes.
I spent 30 seconds enjoying a newly-found, round-bum superiority complex. But then, a Twilight Zone-esque realisation: In the land of flat-assed woman, she with the curves is the freak (or the pig under the operating mask, as it were).

Humbled, I limp over to the cardio machines, subtly trying to make my T shirt into a dress.

Now, the configuration of the cardio room must be inspired by an Eastern German psychological experiment. The ellipticals (dominated by women) are lined up so that you are head-to-head with a line of treadmills (dominated by soft-bellied men)

For 45 minutes or more, you can elliptical-run through the air, hurtling faster and faster toward a balding Frenchman. Not exactly as pleasant as watching TV, but it's definitely motivating. (Keep running, chubbykins, this could be you...)

I take my place in the trenches of the sweaty, never-ending war of the sexes.
Luckily, some of the treadmills face the dance room.
I slot on my headphones and watch the cardio boxing class. Those impossibly thin, un-bummed women are now screaming and punching the air, more or less in synch. It's just as hilarious as you could imagine.

Hitting a fast pace on the treadmill, beating the flubby cadre next to me, my gym ego gets a boost. Comparatively freakish ass, maybe. But look at me! I can Run and Run and Run.

But just then, my iPod takes a nosedive off the shelf, flying on the treadmill carpet into the wall.
In what may be the first sign of budding maternal instinct, I dive after my iPod, falling onto the treadmill, and crashing onto the floor.
Quietly squeaking with pain, I pick up my iPod, get back on the treadmill, and notice that noone has even flinched at the sight of the sweaty blonde flying into a wall.

Well, apparently that doesn't just happen in movies.
Please stop calling me Bridget Jones, though. Really.

Tanguons le bateau.

"Just think of Natalie Wood," my dad kept insisting.

Yes, mon père was referring to the movie star who drowned by falling off a boat, out of her mind on drugs and booze. Thanks, Dad. Luckily, I'm fairly sure my dad was referring to the "boat" danger, rather than anything else.

Less than a week ago, I moved onto a boat. A house boat. It is single-handedly the greatest thing I have ever experienced. No, I am not exaggerating.

Yet, while it's chock full of charm, but it does pose certain marine-related problems.

For starters, in French.

They never covered how to say, "Unfortunately, the porthole in my shower doesn't close entirely," in French class. (Malheureusement, l'hublot dans la douche ne se ferme pas entièrement)
or
"When barges pass by too quickly, my entire apartment rocks back and forth rather violently"
(Quand les grandes péniches passent, tout mon appartement tangue assez violemment)

But, I'm learning.

And the neighbors are great, but I'm still getting to know them:

First night, 21:00: Hear a duck quacking, swimming just outside my window. Quietly die from cuteness.

21:01: From the other end of the Seine, hear another duck respond. There is hope for romance, I think...two little feathery things, searching for each other blindly in the night. The image makes me giddy.

21:03: Call-and-respond carries on. Still cute, but surely ducks have a better sense of orientation than this? Don't the spend all of their time on water? Why haven't they found each other yet?

21:05: DIE. DIE YOU STUPID DUCKS. Start screaming at ducks. Annoyingly, ducks have a slightly weaker understanding of quiet than my Tamil neighbors. (But only just).

Ducks aside, something tells me this is going to be great.

Come visit!

The most war-nderful time of the year

Gift-giving can be tricky.

Inevitably, you will probably give or receive someone something awkward,"You don't like my 50 year old single malt..what's that you say? oh...AA?"

Instead of turning to a pauncy New York Times gift guide, let me stop you right there. Walking through my neighborhood the other day, I found a present that could cover all your gift-giving needs. For that special person in your life...

...



The deceased Tamil Tiger leader Velupillai Prabhakaran bejeweled oyster!

Just look at his soulful eyes just wishing you a happy holiday.
A happy holiday and an independent Tamil state.
The rhinestones around the frame really bring out that enchanting, mischevious (read: terrorist) glint in his eyes.

And who doesn't love oysters? I was just looking at my desk the other day, and thinking what I really needed was an ornamental gold oyster. But, how many ornamental gold oysters also double as shrines to deceased rebel group leaders? This is really a one of a kind, folks.

For the person in your life that has everything. Even a Yassir Arafat emerald-incrusted spoon rest.

Merry Christmas.

Jason Bourne's nagging mother.

I knew today was going to be a good day when I saw someone reading a book about psychopaths.

Riding to work on line 2, a woman was reading a photocopied book chapter entitled, "Comment punir un psychopathe" (How to punish a psychopath). Let's pause for a second to think about the fact that she had actually taken the effort to photocopy just this chapter of the book.

What could the book possibly have been called, "How to prepare for the eventuality of being trapped in a Stephan King movie?" How to freak out everyone around you in a public transport system?"

Some misplaced overly-curious urge wondered what would happen if I acted psychopathic in a very, very short period of time, but then I quickly realised that:

1) A highly-trained psychopath expert such as my neighobor would see through such faux psychopathy
2) I wouldn't want to test her newly-acquired psychopath-punishing skills. I couldn't get a good look at the book.
It may have involved crippling choke holds or, worse, very clever emotional blackmail:"What would your mother say!"

Arriving at work, I settled down to what was undoubtedly some very serious business.
Then an anonymous number flashes up. The ensuing conversation has made me rethink the systematic dilution of all risk-avoidance instincts that we call "friendship".

"Hey."

"I'm in Berlin."

"What!"

"I need you to wire me money".

"OK. How much?"

Why?! Why was this my first response? It's times like this when my generally-hidden but incredibly frightening mean side should kick in.
Said good friend, who will go by the letter "C", is one of those really overly careful types. Who considers scolding overly-trusting generally unconcerned people (like myself) to be a sport. I had never thought of 63 terrifying ways in which riding a metro could be dangerous until I met my friend C.

And what do I do when said friend travels without a bank card or his sacred, beloved iPhone?
I do not re-scold. That said, re-scolding is like re-gifting; all the fun is gone when someone calls you out on being that jerk that spreads around the misery.

I'm still sort of bitter about this borderline-motherly "oh my poor lamb" reflex. What an opportunity for mockery lost!
Well, luckily this is what blogs are for.

Here's lookin' at you, kid:



Epilogue:
It occured to me.

While a friend is someone to whom you would wire money, no questions asked - a good friend is someone who receives an accompanying telegram, saying:
"Don't think I'll ever let you forget this"

win'ah pansies! toofoafivah!

Prostitutes aside, people do often seem to resemble what they sell:

Princessy girls open over-priced clothing stores, and call them "boutiques."

Pierced, former courriers seem to always run bike shops.

But in a special place in East London, men like this..




..sell pansies:



How I missed you, Columbia Road!