French Pizza = Yes

I'd like to put it out there that France has a serious leg up on Italy when it comes to the eating-pizza experience. Here's why: huile pimentee. Olive oil with hot red peppers, rosemary, thyme, and garlic steeping in it. Aka, spicy ecstasy in yum form.

I know what you're thinking- pizza is oily enough, can I please not add more slick to that which all ready stains my napkin orange? I too thought this. Until I experienced the multiple orgasms that come after dousing a pizza in this stuff till its basically drowned and gone to heaven. Pizza in France is now one of my most favorite pass times.

..And today was a rather wonderful day! Here's why: I am now the proud (but also pretty nervous) owner of A: a French bank account, and B: a French apartment. That's right! They keys shall be placed in my hands tomorrow morning! If all goes well, that is. (Time has been showing us that it tends not to, but positive thinking is in fashion these days.)

Secondly it was an incredibly warm and beautiful spring day, and evidently, love is in the air because not one, not two, but three Frenchmen conjured some reason or another to stop me in the streets. The first two ditched upon discovery of the language barrier but the third graced me with the serious and sensual phrase: "J'adore votre accent.." Welp. The day suddenly earned 10/10 for happiness points.

On a completely unrelated note, last night I had a dream about M's that ended in getting pummeld by the backhand of his angry wife. Ok universe! Enough with the subconscious karma stp! It did leave me wondering what disasters (and delicious non disasters) were avoided by moving to France, though.

No Thank You Croque Madame

A French grilled cheese: aka, a croque madame. The lesson learned here is that I am never, EVER, going to eat this again. Especially, ESPECIALLY, only two hours before dance class. This thing is heavier than eating a stick of butter and has more fat in it that you can shake a stick at. Creamy French cheese and ham all melted together with an egg on top.

Still no news on the appartement, and I'm about ready to go wild animal on the agency. Paris on Monday, now to go throw up!

Pigeon Party

So I've been rather silent lately, hoping that some epic advent should befall me and I'd have the substance for a literary thrill ride. Alas. er, helas.

What I have done, however, is peacefully and pleasantly enjoy the sunshine these last few days wondering about the warming city. I'm very excited for French spring. (Yes, I'm completely sure it's different from American, Turkish, or Asiatic Spring.) Yesterday I even had the thrill of watching French Pigeons bathe in a French fountain. Aint that just a hoot n a half. See video.

Actually, I am a little overly enthralled by animals, and I happily watched these cuties for a good 20 min while I got my sun dose for the day. You gotta love how it's three cleanly young ladies bathing together and then some jerk male shows up and starts doing spins and dancing and crashes the whole girls' afternoon out. Typical.

News on the apartment: though I waited breathlessly all throughout the day to receive word from the agency that it is indeed within my grasp, no call came. UUUGGGHHUUUHH. Yes, as I have told B many times, I WILL faire le suicide if I must rest any longer in this baking cloud of stench that is B's realm.

Oh! But either way, at least I do get a vacation. I've booked my train tickets up to Paris for next week. I'm staying for three days in the city to get some silly (and relentlessly harassing, I might add) paperwork sorted out at the embassy. I'm staying with a French friend of a French friend from the islands. Hurray! Step two is to arrange some handsome young fellows to take me out and about while I'm there. To those of you who are scoffing: Yes, I think this is perfectly within my online dating power.

I also met some girlies in town yesterday, at long last; one from England and the other two from the states. Mayhaps fate has seen it fit to offer me a cafe' companion at last. One can hope!

The French Twenty Third

It's my birthday! ..And a lonely one. I've thus far spent the day cooped up in B's gross apartment feeling sorry for myself and avoiding his unpleasant face at all costs.

The good news! Maybe. I'm moving out of here at long last! I have found a studio. No larger than a walk in closet, mind you, but free of rotting shrimp shells and boasting some charming workability. See for yourself:

Oh! And, amusingly, guess what I see out that window?? Could you believe it, it's B's windows across the street! Yup. All the searching and I find my studio right across the street.

So back to the birthday. I spent most of it moping  so finally I convinced B to "take me out" for dinner. At the restaurant, all he did was stare vacantly into the distance while he twirled his hair. He is a compulsive hair twirler by the way. It drives me crazy. And if he cant get his hands on his hair, he does it with the hair on his neck. Always lovely while sitting in a restaurant. It's a little disconcerting, actually. It's just a little more obsessive than natural human habits. It absolutely can not be stopped.

I had a a great plate of salmon, but was unpleasantly surprised afterwards to learn from B that I was paying. Great. So now my eyes are tired from a day of intense feeling sorry for myself. ..But adventure is on the way! I can feel it!

The Last Egg

So Hawaii's not too much worse for the wear. My home town's a little flooded, a few people have their houses floating in Kealakekua bay, there were some sea creature casualties, but all are fine and aloha spirit stubbornly remains.

boat house.

Ali'i drive.

I chickened out and cancelled my train ticket to Paris because I was having trouble finding a place to stay. I'm authentically terrified of how my sensitive and irrational self will handle a birthday friendless and moneyless, so I let images of me weeping solitarily in a Parisian hotel room the night of the 16th scare me into cancelling the trip. For now.

I'm also sorely aware that staying here with that wretched stinking creature who lies on the couch ALL DAY and watches tv, (rising every 30 min to don his coat and smoke in the stairwell) is no good for me either. It's so depressing. How does a person like that live with themselves? Why does a person like that even have a name?? In my fury he shall be an "it" for this and potentially the next few posts.

In other negative news I'm turning 23. No longer with the sexy dangerous ring of 22. How I love the number 22. As I'm explaining/complaining to a Greek friend over facebook chat this very moment:

"Aging is much easier on men. You guys are fertile all your lives; aka: women find you sexy all your lives. Women loose it along with the last egg, condemned to a life of non-sexyness."

yes I waste time on worries comme ca.

And last but not least, I transferred some money to K tonight. I talked to him over the phone and he had given his "last dollar to a guy on the street." He drawled on about wanting to die and kill all who worked at insurance companies and banks.

It reminds me of Obi-Wan when he had to fight Anakin and sever his heart strings for his young apprentice because he had gone to the dark side. Obi-Wan still loved Anakin, but he had to accept the the fun loving person he cared about was gone.

I haven't seen the side of K that's the spiritual creative and cuddly man I fell in love with when I was 18 in a year.

"The boy you trained.. gone he is! Consumed by the dark side, young Skywalker has become!"