Hannah has gone ball-istic and other exciting adventures

Tue, 20 Mar 2007

Hello admirers, fans, hopelessly devoted readers. Please, please hold your applause until the end.

So we have got some catching up to do, haven't we? Grab a theoretical coffee and join me for the latest edition of Ever-ebuillent escapades in Europe.

We'll begin with some small talk.

Accents. Generally, accents are fairly easily identifiable. At least so goes for accents of large countries, American, French, German, English, what have you. Granted, if hand me a person from Bhutan not only will my arms get very tired from holding them, but I also might not be able to identify their native dialect. But all that is beside the point. Evidently, I don't have an American accent. Today someone asked me if I was Polish, two weeks ago I got a "Are you Slavic?" and two months ago, it was Russian.

I've seen some interesting graffiti lately. My personal favorite, an anti-commercialistic: "Make love not stores."

Thinking of going to Italy? Keep the following in mind: Going during Easter is NOT a good idea. If you can find a better reason to jack up prices in Catholic-prominent Italy, you're not Italian. I'm not Italian either, unless there's something we don't know. Also, during this season, one must keep an eye out for those perfume things they swing around in mass. I hear there's 27 injuries per Easter season due to wounds inflicted from the parfumerie on a chain. They had to make a law against vigorous, overzealous swinging of perfume, as the heavy part at the end kept flying off and hitting unsuspecting tourists who were innocently visiting the famous churches of Italy. Haha. (yes, I made that up).

En tout cas, I'm now accepting all gracious recommendations for what to do and where to
stay in yonder olive-oil drenched territory for the cities of Venise (a hosteling fiasco), Florence, and Rome. Yes, I will eat lots of gelatto for you.

Okay, I'll quit the dallying and cut to the chase. I know all you want to hear about is the ball. I bought it last week. It's made from soft plastic and has a big blue star on front. It's specially designed for competition kickball, but also functions well for foursquare.... Oh, apologies, wrong ball...

What would be the best adjective to describe it? great? golden? glowing? posh? hyper-mega top (as often said by my French prof here)? In case you've forgotten which ball, for shame, for shame (but I still give you my unconditional love), c'etait le Bal de Polytechnique a
l'Opera Garnier. If monuments were pastries, the Opera Garnier would be a wedding cake. Not just any wedding cake though, it would probably be Liberace's except with much more class.

Thomas picked me up from chez moi at 19 heures (7 PM) and we walked the 5 minutes from my place to the opera house. There we met up with his friends (all the guys looking snappier than Frank Sinatra in their black and gold uniforms), and took in the second half of the evening's ballet, performed under the swirling colors of the Chagall-frescoed ceiling. The performance was a sort of mix of classical ballet and Circe de Soliel. There was, included, a very interpretive and acrobatic love-scene turned orgy set against a blindly white screen. Whoever chose the evening's ballet knows the crowd they were catering to, a largely group of 20-some and virile young-uns.

After the ballet we took a leave of absence to dinner at a nearby bistro. The dinner took longer than a snail running a mile-long race (snails run?); we made it out after a mere 3 hours. At least the food was very good and fresh in that typical French way. Even McDonalds plays on that fresh food aspect here; all their publicity boasts of their freshly prepared food chock full of grown-in-France vegetables. Oh MacDo, how delicious art thou.

Arriving back at the Opera house, we checked 'coats' and got ready to dance the night away like Lola the showgirl but without such vulgarity.
Worth mentioning: at the coat check, lining the tops of the racks like a range of little black mountains were all the men's Napoleon hats.
When was the last time you check your Napoleon hat at the vestiare? Note closed. Moving on. As if the Opera house is not glorious enough in and of itself, the whole enclosure was decorated with sprays of flowers, bouquets sprouting up from the corners and trellises lining the banisters. Walking up the stairs, the sweet smell of spring tickled your nose. There were 3 live bands situated in various rooms and locations throughout the Opera, playing jazz, waltz/classical, and pop-rock/dance music. On the very bottom level, colored spotlights meshed together with the frantic blink of strobes in the dark of the unlighted basement floor to create a 'discotheque.' I can't decide if Charles Garnier, (the architect) poor fellow, was rolling over in his grave lamenting or bogeying around atop is grave, top hat in hand, saying "groovy, smashing!" in a Austin Powers-type voice.

We danced like fools, drank Champagne, and photographed like the camera was a new invention. Thomas and I tried to waltz and nearly succeeded. As I thought to myself "How did I end up here?", my feet kept me more than grounded (as they usually do), protesting louder than French metro workers when the Mayor decrees that the transport system will hence forth roll all night long. My feet were protesting about my shoes that is; heels are never the best form of footwear, but they do look hot. At about 3:30 AM we decided that it was time to call it a night, or rather 'nickel chrome' evening and 'super soiree.'

As always, pictures are online for your viewing pleasure. There you may find me all glam-glam like Paris Hilton, but with, as I hope you agree, much better taste.

I hope your cup of theoretical coffee is good and drunk-dry cause that's all we've got for this evening. Of course there's more everyday details, but cava cava.


A tres bientot,
Hannah