"A quick peak inside a Parisian bar will give you a good indication of how love works in the City of Love. A traditional bar in Paris will be 75% guys. 22% foreign girls and a handful of French girls on the loose (usually just accompanying their boyfriends). In bars, Parisian men discover an unsuspected reality: foreign girls are different. They can dance. They drink. They have fun.
Hours spent thinking about past loves: about 2 (over a week this is incredible)
Hours spent thinking about future loves: Uh, a lot. Let’s say 3 to be modest
Lists made: 6 (pitches; people I know in Paris; people I kind of know in Paris; people who don’t know me at all in Paris (this list included Charlotte Gainsbourg and David Sedaris); things I need to do before I leave; clothes/accessories I want but will never afford)
1. Become completely fluent. Or at least, as advanced as I possibly can.
2. Create a feeling of home on my own.
3. Make new friends (and also get out of comfort zones by going to meetups, reaching out to others, not being passive).
4. Fall in love. If not with a French man (although this would greatly aid in goal #1), then with myself.
5. Ok fine, fall in love.
6. Have passionate arguments with lover in which he yells at me in French and I at him in English. (Sorry, it’s just a bizarre romantic fantasy. After the fight, we make up and go makeout all over Paris.)
7. Stay healthy (read: not eat croissant everyday and gain 15 lbs like last time.)
8. Finish my book.
9. Continue to enjoy my freelance life, and be the best I can be for The Frisky, and push myself to pitch my writing around.
10. Learn something completely new…a sport or craft maybe?
*And as a last aside…if all goes very well…figure out a way to stay.
Such brilliant talk! Lyra was intoxicated…What Mrs. Coulter was saying seemed to be accompanied by a scent of grownupness, something disturbing but enticing at the same time: it was the smell of glamour.
Lyra turned her back and closed her eyes. But what Pantalaimon said was true. She had been feeling confined and cramped by this polite life, however luxurious it was. She would have given anything for a day with Roger…The one thing that kept her polite and attentive to Mrs. Coulter was that tantalizing hope of going north.
It wasn’t so much her snappish tone as the words “in your own home” that made Lyra resist stubbornly.
"Lyra, do you understand me?" "Yes, Mrs. Coulter." "Then kiss me." She bent a little and offered her cheek. She noticed how smooth it was, and the slight perpelexing smell of Mrs. Coulter’s flesh: scented, but somehow metallic.
Since you are obviously intelligent and beautiful you’re HOT. You have my permission to eat crackers in my bed any time. I will even send you the ticket. Then again maybe not. There is something called the Mann Act(Congress does have a perverse sense of humor) concerning n the interstate transportation of women for “immoral” purposes.
And no your checks don’t shine like that in real life. That is reflection from the flash and means the Photographer wasn’t paying attention to angles.
”—Commenter, “theoldman” in response to this piece I wrote. Creepy and sweet at the same time! It warms my heart. And by “checks” I think (hope) he means “cheeks” (not the ones on my ass).
aux amis who gave such helpful answers to my apt post. i found someone - a high school friend who lives in paris - who was soooo kind enough to agree to go see the place for me. if it’s shit though…i’ve kind of fallen in love with option #3…but whyyy does it have to be the most expensive one? akdjfaofjweofja. on an unrelated note: i really hope brunch has caught on in france.
Last weekend, Cecile and I spent almost an entire Saturday in bed. As a result of spending so much time with my French BFF, I tend to go France-crazy, and make her talk French with me, or explain to me some complexities which I still fail to grasp like dialing numbers internationally, applying for a metropass, or setting up WiFi in Paris. So on Saturday, thanks to Cecile’s lovely streaming Netflix subscription, we ended up watching 5 movies, 3 of which were French (4, if you count Le Château with Paul Rudd, which might be my new favorite movie. It’s hilarious). In combination with browsing the French Films section and watching several of them, we came to realize that French movies fall into the following categories, almost exclusively:
1. Post WW2 stories of war heroes, or reconnecting, rebuilding. Fair enough.
2. Teachers, usually in the countryside, who are failed artists or geniuses, who expose the great talents of one or a body of students, and thus reclaim their glory.
3. Pools, which are often coupled with murder and questioning of sexuality.
4. Lesbians, threesomes, bisexuality, coming-of-age sexuality stories, which make up the bulk of the French films on Netflix. Sub-category: Strippers.
5. Cyrano de Bergerac, and other 17-18th century historical figures.
6. Gérard Depardieu. Self-explanatory.
(Note: Of course, this list applies mainly to contemporary films, and ignores the New Wave, Catherine Deneuve, and Brigitte Bardot. This is because these films are actually good)
So, knowing these themes, I have come up with the plot for France’s next blockbuster hit. It is as follows:
In 1946, Jean-Claude Dupont, a swimming teacher at a small school outside of Strasbourg has a secret: he is gay. Nightly, Napoléon appears to him a dream, telling him that he is a coward for hiding his sexuality, that coming out is nothing in compared to Napoléon’s conquests, and if at the 30 years of age, he could conquer and rule the French, then so too could Jean-Claude become master of his own world. The roles of Jean-Claude and Napoléon are played by Gérard Depardieu, naturally. But the overbearing town preacher, Père Moreau, is on an anti-homosexual tirade, constantly addressing its sins in his sermons. Yet, even under the watchful eye of the Catholic church, Jean-Claude struggles. As a swimming teacher for the boys of L’école de St. Clément, the young Jean-Claude struggles to look at his students without a rumbling in his loins. As a distraction, he concentrates his efforts on Audrey Tautou, the History teacher, who, in fact, has a dark sexual persona. She is a lesbian who moonlights as a stripper in the local speakeasy. One night, Jean-Claude follows Audrey Tautou to her strip job, and the two experience a connection, one that is brought about by a third party, an androgynous transsexual. All three fall in love and decide to shock the townspeople by declaring who they are. Le Père hears their cries in the town square, and comes out with a spear to kill them, stopping only before he jabs the heart of Jean-Claude, dropping his weapon, and commencing to cry, because he, too is gay. The threesome flees the town happily, off to Paris, where they rent a room in a huge apartment on the Canal St. Martin filled with International bohemians, that they love and come to call L’Auberge Espagnole.