Paris: The city of love and love handles

23/09

Oh, I don’t even know where to start, I haven’t written anything in over a week. I’ve had a ton of school work (wait, I’m in school over here….?) And I didn’t want to take my precious precious laptop to Paris. On a side note, I know my constant use of profanity is not attractive nor does it make me seem intelligent. On the other hand, I do my best to use good grammar in speech, and if I so choose to pepper my vocabulary with more interesting words, then I don’t see the fucking problem. You tell me, dear reader, which sounds worse?

a) You and me should go to the store.

b) You and I should go to the store.

c) I can’t believe we have to go to the fucking store again, how the hell was I supposed to know I was going to finish that entire quiche in one sitting? Fuck my life.

The first option is that of the average careless student. It really irks me and I don’t think these people should be allowed to procreate. The second is used by the more intelligent person. Congratulations, I give you permission to breed. C is obviously me. I believe some people get the impression that I am an angry and depressed person because of my excessive cursing and facial expressions. First off, that sad face I have is my “I’m zoning out and I have no idea where I am” expression. You can’t control “the face”, it’s something you develop out of utter apathy.
Secondly, if there are no small children around I’m going to say whatever the fuck I want to. And you know what, those kids are going to learn those words anyway, and the sooner the better. One of the many things I am learning to love about British people is that every other word out of their mouths is “fuck.” I’m just trying to fit in, and have unconsciously been doing so for the past ten or so years.

Anywho, last Tuesday we decided to be real Britishfolk and go to a quaint local pub. Unfortunately it had quaint local prices and it’s an arm and a leg for their cheapest pint. We stayed for a while so I ended up getting two of their delicious strawberry beers. Some girl in our building who had just come from a work party nearly passed out in hers so I graciously drank whatever she didn’t want. That’s one of those “what would Jesus do?” situations I always hear about. We proceeded to Piccadilly to the Sports Bar to meet up with Penn because they had just gotten out of a play, and it was a really fun night. I remember getting into a fight with some kids from Wellesley, MA because they told me Sharon sucked. In a sober situation I probably would have agreed with them, but these preppy assholes need to know that I come from a town of pride. A town of Deborah Sampson (first American woman to fight in a war, or to openly admit cross dressing) a town that contains Lake Massapoag and all of it’s completely worthless lake staff, but most importantly a town full of overachieving Jews, Indians, and Chinese who can really play tennis. Other than that, our corrupt police-force, and a misplaced sense of self-importance, we’ve got nothing.

Wednesday was Jenna’s twenty-first birthday, and we turned our flat into a big pink bar. After chocolate brownies and too many damn pictures, we left for Piccadilly and met up with a club promoter who got us into the club “On Anon” for free. Per usual we created a scene and then ended up at our home away from home, McDonald’s. I think I’ve had more McDonald’s on this trip than in my entire life. It’s basically the only place that guarantees a free, clean bathroom and is the universal safe haven for all American students. While everyone was waiting for their glorious Mcnuggets of heaven, I noticed a large group of high school boys wearing three piece suits and tuxes. Being a fine example of American etiquette, I wandered over and loudly asked what the hell were they were coming from, prom? To my great astonishment and pleasure, they responded that they were indeed coming from prom. I proceeded to go into great detail about how much I love prom, and how jealous I am that they still got to go, and I demanded that they tell me all about it. Then all of our food was ready and I was told to stop hitting on fourteen year olds by my group so I regrettably had to leave without the whole prom low-down. The next day, I realized that they were talking about the BBC Proms, a summer long concert celebration located in the Royal Albert Music Hall the street over from our flat. It’s rather fancy, and you are expected to dress up for it. I felt like an idiot for about five minutes and then probably went to go eat some Nutella.

Thursday we went on a walking tour of Canary Wharf and got to see the Meridian line. The wharf and the area around it was gorgeous, but I didn’t really give a crap about standing in between two time zones. They did have a rather large hill next to the clock, so I took off my cardigan and rolled down it with Jordan. Wasn’t as fun as I hoped, got rather dirty and felt quite nauseous from the bumping and rolling. Luckily we ended the field trip with a trip to the Trafalger pub on the wharf, and I overpaid for a pint to nurse my wounds. Unfortunately I had to leave early because four of us had cheaped out and booked a bus to Paris. Yes, an eight hour night bus when Paris is two hours away by train. L’chaim.

We got to the demon bus in the nick of time and I popped a couple of sleeping pills because at this point they’re just candy to me. After about two hours of attempting to sleep, it was announced over the intercom (in French mind you) that a security officer was coming onto the bus to check our passports, yet again. After that debacle was over, the bus began to drive away and they began to mutter nonsense on the intercom again. I was kind of out of it, and all I could catch was “c’est tout” so I assumed it was over. However, we had to exit the bus in order for our bags to be searched and for more intense questioning. I’m just glad I left my copious amounts of blow back in the flat. The only good thing was while we were in line for questioning, I ended up chatting with some British kid with a horrible blonde dye job. Think Lance Bass while he was still in the closet. (Lance, I had a poster of you in my room throughout Junior High. You lied to America, but more importantly you lied to me.) He explained a bit about the whole traveling throughout the European Union and gave me some good bars to check out while in Paris. Turns out he’s taking a gap year and bar hopping throughout Europe before heading off to Cambridge University. Oh, to be eighteen again.

Upon arrival in Paris (around 5:00 am) we had some difficulty finding our hotel and of course I was no help because I don’t know my ass from my elbow. We passed out for a couple of hours and then walked to all of the big tourist attractions (Le Louvre, Le Jardin de tuileries, L’arc de Triomphe, Les Champs D’Elysee, Le Tour Eiffel) and I cursed the French for putting everything so far apart. It was cool to be able to see all of these things in person, but I think I’ve become a bit jaded with all of the landmarks in the past month. Plus I was still regaining feeling in my lower body from the bus ride. We went to a lovely but rather expensive dinner at some restaurant with the rest of the Drexel crew, and I got salad (because it had pork in it) and some chocolate mousse (because I’m giving up). The subway system was absolutely filthy, there was piss everywhere and it felt like we were back in West Philly. However, I failed to see the usual homeless man carrying a sawed off shotgun.

I had googled and found the bar the barely-legal kid had told me about, and I think I now know what heaven looks like. There were two avenues, just made up of first-rate bars. You walk in, get a drink, socialize, and then move onto the next one. Absolutely brilliant.

Describing the beauty of the drunk French men is nearly impossible, I’m not worthy to write of such things. They weren’t as witty as the Brits, but I felt like I was walking into a Hugo Boss ad when I stepped out into the street. And I have absolutely no problem with that.

The next day we took part in one of my favorite legal past times: shopping. We went to Le Champs Elysee’s even though we knew it was going to be a tourist trap and ridiculously expensive. Luckily, Europe is in the middle of their sale season so instead of paying quadruple for something we could get in the states, we’re probably only paying double. Wooohoo. For the fashion capitol of the world, I was sadly disappointed. I have seen a lot nicer and cheaper clothes in London, but then again we also have been living there for some time and know where to look. The two main staples every store seemed to have were maxi-dresses, and shirts with rather long arm holes. I would re stock the bomb shelter and kiss the sun good bye, it looks like hipster style is going to be around for a while longer. I ended up buying a huge gray shirt that you can belt and turn into a tunic or slutty dress. Knowing me, it’s going to be a dress about 98% of the time. It was 70% off and still 18 euros, but I can tell it’s good quality and the store it came from was rather posh. It reminded me of Berks (Thayer Street, Providence) before it realized it could charge Brown students whatever the fuck it wanted and took a nose dive in quality.

Brown has screwed me over so many times in my life it’s not even funny. When I was about seven I got sick on their premises for eating too many hot dogs at my parent’s reunion. Last summer I tripped on a sidewalk in front of one of their buildings and nearly fell. I was cold at their soccer game when I was visiting a friend during vacation. I’m not even going to mention the admissions interview, it was a shit show to say the least. Thank G-d I get to study in the humble hallowed halls of Drexel, and wear the symbol of the fucking dragon. I’m going to cry.

Anyway, after shopping I had my second crepe of the day and then went back to the hotel for a power nap. I woke up and wandered around the city by myself in search for “the real Paris” and in actuality a cheap bottle of wine. It was rather pretty, we stayed about ten minutes away from the Eiffel Tower in the quaint Hotel Chomel. There were cafes and boulangeries and epiceries and basically everything just waiting to turn into cellulite on every corner. I was in a rather good mood for most of the trip, I just kept repeating to myself “I’m in fucking Paris, I’m in fucking Paris” because I am quite the sophisticated lady.

I regrettably took French for six years, mostly because I wanted to be able to read the menu’s in fancy restaurants. In the shit hole they call public school, we were only allowed two language options, the other being Spanish. My brother chose the Spanish route because he wants to be able to converse with his gardeners when he’s older. I just think he’s anticipating hiring a young foreign pool boy who won’t know any better. Thank G-d the little bastard is illiterate and won’t read this, it doesn’t have breasts attached to it. My dear Father also promised to take me on one of his business trips to Brussels if I stuck it out through those cursed classes, but I’m still waiting on that. I’ll just have to add it to my list of disappointments and broken dreams, right underneath the pony he promised me.

I returned to the hotel room with my prized bottle of 2.80 euro wine (I also liked the packaging that appealed to the cheap consumer who also desired a touch of class. I can’t help it, I’m design) and realized I was the only one in the room and awake. Therefore, I did the best thing one can do in the City of Love, I got drunk off shit wine and read a Nora Roberts novel while laying in my hotel bed. Classy, I know.

When everyone returned, we got ready to go out and I googled some of the clubs my friend had emailed me with the really hot front desk guy. (We’re going to find each other again one day and elope and have really hairy children together, I’m sure of it.) Long story short we met up with other Drexelites but the club was too expensive so we went back to the magical row of bars, which I had really wanted to do in the first place. Some might say I need to be adventurous and try new things, but I can just argue that I know a good thing when I see it. Like the honey mustard bacon club sandwich at Friendly’s. I’m never going to order anything else off the menu, why would I risk disappointment? If you’ve stopped reading by now, I sincerely don’t blame you.

The next morning we had our usual hotel breakfast of café au lait, jus d’orange, a crossiant and piece of bread and per usual I finished everything the others didn’t eat. How I have yet to gain weight is beyond me, maybe it was some sort of side bonus for selling my soul freshman year to the Mario mascot. We went to Le Louvre (fo free!) and I saw all the main attractions and most of the museum, including the Mona Lisa. In my personal opinion, she’s smirking because it’s really a he in drag. We also went to the Notre Dame, and I was saddened to see the lack of animated Disney gargoyles. Inside the church were some of the crypts of cardinals, and again I feel like a place of death and reverence has taken on the air of a morbid Disneyworld. No I do not want to buy a baby Jesus Swarvoski crystal statue for 400 euros. Only if it sings when you open it like those damn Miley Cyrus birthday cards.

We took the metro to the Eiffel Tower, and everyone but me ended up going to the top. Me + heights = noones happy. Instead, I went to the Natural History museum to check out the Tarzan exhibit. I’ve had a crush on him ever since the Disney movie came out, and until he is outed like that bastard Lance I will continue to have one.

Paris can wait, I’m going to try and have a life or something. Or go put up a facebook album. Same difference.