Oh la vache c'est novembre!

Date: Wed, 1 Nov 2006

Here I am again. Maybe I should say "boo" in honor of last night being Halloween.

Halloween – it doesn't much exist in France. My host mom explained to me that they tried to introduce the holiday oooooh 5, 10 years ago, and it caught on like a fire. A fire without oxygen that is.

Today being Toussaint (All Saint's Day), there were no classes and the library was closed, and well, daaamn I could not do work even if I wanted to. Actually, I did want to get work done. Excuse me while I polish my bottle-cap glasses and adjust my pocket protector. Ah, much better.

You see, I'm leaving for Amsterdam tomorrow and returning Monday night and it will be, therefore, quite difficult to get to the library this weekend. Ohhh life. I'm going to visit Ariel up in the land of, ummmm, bikes and canals and Rembrandt. I'm quite looking forward to seeing her and seeing another new place.

So, today! Today I met up with Jeanne-Faustine, a girl who I met au hasard at the Louvre. We, being the art lovers we are, went to the Musee de Picasso and passed a lovely spot o’ time (not tea) looking at some of the works that inspired artists for generations to come. I really like some his stuff (pastels, inks, prints) but other things, the things Mr. Pablo is most famous for… well, I don't necessarily find aesthetically pleasing. I appreciate their innovation and creativity, but COLOR! COLOR PLEASE! Can he paint with all the colors of the wind like Pocahontas? Maybe he could once upon a time, but by his later work, Picasso seems to have decided to colors of the dirt instead of the wind.

On my walk home from le musée, I passed (and, naturally, stopped in) a funky little vintage store crammed with clothing like wannabe sardines in a tin. (I must admit, I've never actually seen sardines in a tin, so I don’t know if they’re crammed. I’m just going off the common stereotype here.) Anyhow, if you ever need a 50 Euro real fur coat in good condition, I now know where to send you.

I want to take a minute to appreciate the French style of gym clothes. First off, the salle du gym is always replete with spandex, like an 80’s Jane Fonda workout video. More interestingly, however, it appears as though there is contest to see which man can wear the tiniest, tightest shorts. My personal favorite is a certain gentleman who wears a one piece spandex shorts-tanktop get-up with the outfit’s front zipper zipped down to his naval. He is the antithesis to your baggy American gym-wear. I imagine at home, he struts around like a proud rooster cawing, “I ahm zhe best dressed mahn at zhe ghym!”

Moving out without a transition: Do you ever wonder what happens to all the pastries at the end of the day? I sure do. I walk daily by the countless patisserie vitrines filled with a carnival of sweets and think "What happens to you, you the pastries, at the end of the day? Where do you go?" Do, gasp, do you think the shop owners throw them out!? A horrifying thought. That’d be more scandalous than Watergate on speed.

I went to see my cousin David's band play Saturday night. (I have few relatives here for those who didn't know). I didn't tell him I was going and he was, I do believe, quite shocked to see me. Shocked, but very pleased. The music was fun - made me want to dance like Richard Simmons. (I can’t say I’ve seen him dance, but I bet it would be crazy!) Mid-concert, a rather-drunk lookin man walked empty-handed to the corner of the room where stood ye olde jukebox. He disappeared momentarily as he stooped into the corner behind the jukebox, and returned with a glass of wine and half a pineapple. The bartender came and took his pineapple away. Then the lead guitarist/singer took of his pants. Seriously.

I've been having a few requests for my address. So, for those of you who would like it
and though of you who wouldn't, my address is...

Hannah Rothstein
chez Mme. B….
11 R….
75002 Paris
FRANCE

Make sure you don't forget the chez part. My host mom is chouette enough to let me get mail here, but if that part is forgotten, the mail will forever live in the postal orphanage. I hear they take good care of the letters there - warm beds, yummy soup, TV hour on the weekends – but I wouldn't want my mail to have to wallow in such a lonely destiny.

From the land where wine is like water and nutella is the equivalent of peanut butter
(peanut butter doesn't really exist here and I've yet to find a French person who likes it), I
bid you bon soir.

Hannah