Change of Address, ATTACK

I think changing apartments is generally 457% more complicated in France than in the United States. For example: step 1, call the internet company and ask them to cancel our service. They're speaking too fast in too much French and insisting I tell them "why," so I hang up in fear and have TMI call back. We need to know our landline phone number; somehow our name and address aren't good enough to locate our account. We scramble around to find it on our old paperwork. Once the cancellation is finally agreed upon, we get to pay them a 45 euros cancellation fee. I was prepared to tell them to allait te faire foutre, but TMI insisted that was normal practice in these parts. Then, the internet doesn't actually stop until they mail you a shipping label, you find a box, and stuff all of your hardware (router, modem, etc.) into the box, and then WALK to the other side of town to one of their authorized drop off stations. woo! Setting up a new account in the new apartment was a similar process but in reverse- it also required a 10 day activation period. 

The electricity was arguably worse. After I had retured the apartment keys to the agency, it was discovered that to cut the electricity  I needed a number on an electric counter somewhere in the apartment. I walked to the agency, got the keys, got the number and walked back. Called the service provider. I needed TWO numbers. I HULK SMASHHED the phone and then walked BACK to the agency and repeated that last steps. 

The complications, mishaps, and cancellation fees were attacking from all sides. Now that it seems to be over, I'm sort of hiding out in the apartment and peering fearfully around the curtains, waiting for some other institution I forgot to deal with to AMBUSH. 

Capacity for Placid Romance

There has indeed been a long hiatus. And I aint sayin' the drought is over, but all the same there is plenty to be said.

First, the bad news: Life is domestic and I'm fidel in a committed relationship.

..Coincidentally that also sums up the good news.

I'm back in France and, after two months apart while I pined in the Hawaiian islands, my French significant other and I have resettled into a normal sized apartment. (-At last casting away our tiny studio.) It is both very French and typically eccentric. Marble fireplace, high ceilings,  wrought iron watch-ma-callit on the terrace, window over the tub that looks into the kitchen, etc.

The first of December will be our 1 year and 6 month anniversary. We seem to be very in love and yet drama still befalls me. Night before last, we sat in a bar having drinks with a feared red head who, I know on good authority,  pursued and made out with my mate mere months before we met. She doesn't know that I know, but dang, I know. And I also know what it's like to be in her situation. It's sort of a sexy, dangerous situation and I don't like it. So let's get even more irrational: She's like, 4'11'', weird shaped, and way smarter than I am. I'm some times a model but mostly a retard. So I got drunk and ate French fries and convinced myself that she was hotter and more spectacular in every way so that when we got home later in the night I locked myself in the bathroom and cried over my piteous self doubt. Damn! I was reading yesterday about eremites and penitents who would go into the desert for 40 years to have a change of heart. If those guys started hating themselves or suffering self doubt, it was demonic possession. No question about it.

My apartment is nice but my capacity for placid romance is next to nothing. 

Micro Gardening

No job, car, friends or lover on a Sunday in France is a boss level in keeping occupied. Everything is closed, TMI is gone to the South for a three week internship, the cafe is closed, and my tiny pool of friends is dispersed, hungover, or distracted with a new girlfriend.

So! What can a girl in a tiny studio apartment do?

1) I'm fish sitting a blue fighting fish named Johnny. I spent an alarming portion of my day putting different cups and bowls in his tank to watch him pick fights with / explore.

2) Cleaning. Vacuuming, taking out the recycling, beating the rug, etc.

3) And finally, the most fulfilling: micro gardening. Little succulents are a great choice for a city apartment life as they don't need a great deal of.. well, anything. You can lock em up in your bathroom, leave them in the sun, forget to water them ,ect, and they hold up pretty well. Plus, they're awfully cute little guys and very space efficient.

A few days ago I bought some and, inspired by the jars I was discovering while taking out the recycling, repotted them and decorated the more dreary corners of my apartment.

Just remember to stick a piece of burlap or a layer of stones in the bottom to help with filtration so they don't get to saturated. 

The Good, the Bad, and the Disgusting

(and you guys thought I was exaggerating)

I knocked on B's door for 15 minutes today trying to pick up my laundry. I was trying to wake him out of his usual comatose, so 15 minutes wasn't bad, but it was a HORRID experience because there was a pile of rotting shrimp in front of his door. The air was putrid and I was trying to hide my nose in my sleeve while I knocked. When he finally answered I was so enraged and disgusted I yelled and swore at him that he had "fucking psychological problems" and his shrimp were disgusting etc, then ran up stairs to gather my laundry while I cried. He went out side and smoked, his feelings obviously hurt.

uuuugghhuughh. I know, I shouldn't be so hard on the guy... ? Right? Everyday I go over there and ask him if he wants to go out and if he reeeaaally wants to stay on the couch all day every day, but he's seemingly hell bent on wasting his life.

And now, finally, THE GOOD NEWS! Handsome Frenchi from Paris is spending a small fortune of 80 Euros to catch a train to visit me this weekend in Dijon. Hurray! I'll be very very happy for his sane company, (as far as I know anyway) and much needed handsome male physical contact. (Which we're pretending like were not committed to, but my apartment is the size of a walk in closet, so I'd say our intentions are pretty obvious.)

And last but not least I'm adding a lovely oval shaped standing mirror and loft bed to my mini abode, which I shall stop at nothing to make a feng shui haven. Photos soon :)

Plants and Paris

Yes, I am in Paris, and naurally the day spent alone in the enormous "city of love" fighting my way to the embassy has yielded a lesson: Paris without a significant other = sad. Perhaps it was just the thunder rolling its way over the Eiffel Tower, or maybe it was the hungry and lonely baby bird I found abandoned in the park who desperately pecked at my hand, but most likely, most likely, it was the incessant amount of hand holding and bench side snuggling that was going down seemingly everywhere I looked. Le sigh. I'm missing K intensely. Like woah, in fact.

And of course it was all a little frightening. I'm a young small animal from an island paradise; enormous cities and their means of public transportation are creatures unknown and unkind to those who probably spent past lives burrowing and nesting near mountain streams or whatever.

I did however accomplish what I came here to do: get these silly power of attorney papers signed at the embassy. And tomorrow I may be meeting up with an adequately handsome member of the opposite sex, so things could be on the upswing before I hop back on the train tomorrow night and retreat to Dijon. I will of course keep you all in the know :)

In other not so exciting news the night before last was my first in my new apartment.. and look at the adorable plants I bought to keep me company at my breakfast table!

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.

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!

Rabbit Fur Shoes

So no post yesterday; I'll admit my chipper and resiliently optimistic outlook failed me and I had a minor B-like break down. I spent the day in bed and cried like a teenager. B had had shrimp several nights before which meant that there was a mountain of heads, legs n' tails piled by the door- and mixed with some old garbage and rotting meat I couldn't even even go near the area to escape. B spent the day in front of the tv, in itself infuriating, and, with no friends, no job, seemingly no direction and the smell of old shrimp creeping up the stairs, I lost it.

The sporadic moments I spent out of the bed and not so teary-eyed I passed desperately looking for something to get involved in. I looked at schools in Paris and sent emails to distant family members and French guys and girls via dating websites. Though I may be feeling better today, one thing is clear; I've got to get out of here.

Fortunately today had a rosier opening. I woke up to an email from appartager.com, a French website for searching for roommates. Four young people in a beautiful old house a few minutes out of centre ville had expressed a mild interest in my illiterate self to be their fifth. What an uplifting thought! A social life! A place away from shrimp carcasses! I sent them an email and am now waiting for the best.

In other news today B was suddenly overcome with a desire to paint his apartment. He uncharacteristically launched himself into the world and returned with a gallon of white paint. No complaint here, the orange of his living room had long burned my retinas. I spent the better part of the day helping him paint, and he paid me back with a veggie pizza in the soir. It's a big improvement I think; anything to make this place less shrimpy I'm gonna be in favor of.

a good roommate to the bitter end.

And a final interesting tid bit: while I sang French Disney songs for B, we some how got on the topic of Cinderella. Turns out, the "glass slipper" is actually a bad translation from an original French story. Don't quote me on this now, but apparently Cinderella originally left a rabbit fur slipper at the ball :)

I Dream of Showers

Today I decided to take the apartment with the big French windows. Then decided not to. Then decided to do it again and had B call the agency. We can't go in with the paperwork till Tuesday though, so I'm still going feverishly between decisions. Not that you can really call them that. Seriously what would you do? I can't stay here! B and all that surrounds him smells bad! And his apartment is painful to every one of the the senses, especially the eyes. You can't take a shower here, you have to sit in a slimy tub and put yourself under the faucet, turning the water off while you try to wash your hair or a body part before you freeze to death because there's only [equal to or less than] 10 min of hot water.

But! I am a girl without a car, a salvation army, craigslist, or language facilities. Moving into an unfurnished apartment will be no picnic. But by God at least there's a sparkling clean shower. It's a really cute place, with high victorian style windows and a little porch over a cute French street. It's old but also bares a few marks of modernity; aka a functional kitchen and shower.

The French and Second Hand

France is certainly not a fan of second hand stores, Salvation Armys, and Good Wills, let me tell you. One of my greatest concerns about getting an apartment here is how the heck I’m gonna furnish the dang thing. I once thought, in those blissful days of ignorance some weeks ago, my biggest problem was fighting spiral staircases and narrow French streets sans a vehicle. Now I know that I face a greater terror. B has never heard of a second hand store. (I throw a minor fit in public)

“What do you do with your stuff when you don’t want it anymore?!”

“We iz throwing it away!”

“What do you do when you want to furnish a new apartment?!”

“We iz going to zee Ikea!”

I protest that this can’t be true. I explain in every French word I know how life can not exist without thrift stores; especially for college kids moving in and out of apartments. B merely shrugs and apologises.

“But buying new furniture is only for rich people! And not environmentally irresponsible!” I try. In English I shout that “I’m going to commit suicide all over the place.” B can’t understand and is by now accustomed to my drama, so he lights a cigarette.

In other news, B is more and more reluctant to let me move out. I'm surprised by this, especially since I’m refusing him physical intimacy, but he really wants me to stay here with him. I understand that he's prone to depression and living alone sucks for all normal people- and each night I dance for him and every day I tug him out the door for walks to make sure he gets sunshine and activity. Who wouldn't want me around? I’m a cozy personable person. But well, while he insisted that I stay with him, we were on a bus and he had just finished a cig. His breath was soooooooo painful. There was frankly no way I could hold a conversation with him and an apartment on the other side of town was looking pretty good.