I met the Little Mermaid!

Tueasay, 3 Apr 2007

It's been so long that I can't remember what I've done. So I'm not writing an email this week aka two weeks.

A bientot,
Hannah

P.S. Ah yes, well lets start in the present and go backwards, kinda like that movie Momento except I'm not going to try to be as intellectually convoluted.

My good friend Briana is in town visiting. She goes to Brandeis and is currently studying on the moon. She tells me it's out of this world and that it looks a lot like Sienna, Italy. We're having fun. Today we frolicked down down down under the streets of Paris, down beneath
the stuffy tunnels of the subway, down beneath the mucky passages of sewers, down to the dun dun dun... Catacombs! There were very many a pretty feline - from Siamese to Tabby - down there getting their hair done with specially designed kitty-combs. Who would have
thunk such an 'entreprise' existed, and what an odd place to for it to exist! In reality though, which is hardly as fun as imagination, the Catacombs are old limestone quarries where millions upon millions of bones were transferred in the 1800s from old centrally-located Parisian cemeteries. These poor folk who once rested in peace were ousted from their graves, I believe, for purposes of building the subways. Now they have become
famous in the own right, their bleach-colored skulls featured in millions of tourist pictures all over the world. Let that remind us that fame does not generally equal a peaceful life.

Being the life-loving people we are, yesterday we went to the Cemetery Montparnasse. See how upbeat and non-morbid we are? We had a nice time walking around in the balmy, 70-degree weather. All of the sudden a corpse hopped out of the grave and started chasing us around. We had a near escape when the abominable snowman showed up and distracted the corpse. I had short conservation with a woman tending to a grave and she made an interesting comment. She was tending to a tomb swimming beneath a mass of flowers. We spoke a bit. Evidently the tomb is that of her niece and her niece's husband. She said she goes there every day to water the flowers and that she enjoys coming to the cemetery, finds it a calming place. Calming? This is were the point of reflection comes in. She philosophized to me: "The cemetery is the only place were everyone comes together to one area no matter their level was in life - young, old, rich, poor. Every here is equal."

P.P.S. Pee Pee-S! HAHAHA. Be a three-year-old child and laugh at that please. Two weekends ago, I went on a group trip to Provence. We saw ruins of Roman theaters in Arles long-windedly described by Giles our tour guide. During free time a few friends and I stumbled across the hospital were VanGogh lived during his "unstable period." There, the sun hit the white and yellow walls, light bouncing off in a blinding array of color onto
the courtyard gardens which spewed with colorful rows of carefully tended flowers. Next was to an old Roman aqueduct. The evening we stayed in an Abbey. They monks gave us brown robes with baggy sleeves and hoods and we all took an oath of silence and spent the night illuminating biblical texts. We ate dinner at long tables and at the end of the meal, Giles with the spirit of a sailor far away from the rusty razor threatening to shave his belly, ordered more wine and spent an hour teaching us old French drinking songs. "If I die then bury me in the wine cellar with my feet against the wall and my head under the tap." Or... "Drink with me to the lives of lovers and to the health of the King of France and shit to the King of England who declared war on us!?" The next day we spent the morning to Antartica. Did you know that bordered France? CRAZY! From there we went to Baux-de-Provence, a medieval fortress built precariously atop a cliff. It was neato but the wind was howling like a crazed wolf and damned if it wasn't chilly as the devil's rear. The afternoon was passed touring the Palace of Popes in Avignon. Meh, another medieval building. Talk about being jaded. It did have some cool painting, however, mural-i-zing the walls. Evidently all rooms, or most were painted as such, but time has worn away the traces in the majority of cases. Bad-da-bing.

P.P.P.S. I will take a moment to expound upon pigeons. They are all over Paris, just like amorous couples, but less emotional. Like amorous couples, the are very begrudging when you bother their personal bubble. They sure take their dandy old time getting out of the way as you walk. Sometimes I'm tempted to try and kick them. Not because it pisses me off, but because I just wonder if I could succeed in hitting them. The move so slow I really think I could give them a good knock. Lucky for them, I'm too nice to do that, but it doesn't stop me from wondering: in the battle of Hannah vs. pigeon, who would win?

P.P.P.P.S. Sometimes you have random experiences on the street. 1. Two weeks ago, a man followed me out of the subway car and informed me in French that he liked my outfit or something or other, but that I must pay attention walking the streets in such a get up because, I guess, he thought it provocative. It wasn't. He asked me where I was from and upon finding out the answer continued it heavily accented English.
Man: "You know, itzzz verhy preeettie but you must pay attention lahter."
Me: "I won?t be out later."
Man: "Can I take a peek-ture of you?"
Me: "Uh, why?" ?
Man "For me."
Me: "Uh, nooo."
Man: "Okay, well maybe weee we-il meet again some time."

Yeah, sure buddy.

Or 2. Walking with Briana down the street, a man comes up to me as I'm taking to Bri and says in French, "But that's not true!" I didn't know what was going on, so I played along. "Oh yes, but it is!" He repeated it wasn't and laughed and did the French kiss on both cheeks with me and subsequently went away.

P³P²S. Friday night, my friend, French friend no less, invited me and whoever I wanted to bring to dinner at his house. He cooked a main dish and dessert and served us all a nice meal. I told him he'll have a happy wife some day. Then he hired a circus clown to come entertain us, and the clown taught us the polka... Maybe that's true. Maybe not. You decide. I've been successfully pairing off American girls with aforementioned guy Vincent and his friends. So far so good. Didn't you know that the song "Matchmaker" from Fiddler on the Roof was written about me? True story. Sure I wasn?t born yet, but there IS a thing called prevenation. Prevenation. Haha.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I leave for Italy on Sunday. I'm looking forward to traveling but not looking forward going as I don't want to spend the time away from Paris (I love this city), but more so anticipatory because, in my mind, spring break is the beginning of the end and well... well... I just don?t want to think about that. Dreading 'THE END' more than having to change metro lines at Chatelet....

Anyhow,
Toot-a-loo,
Hannah