In Paris

I have so far walked into the boulangerie on three separate occasions thinking 'crap, I still don't know how to say baguette in Italian' before realizing that it is not relevant, given that I am not in Italy anymore and they don't have baguettes there anyway.

I also went to the supermarket and got all excited because they had Santa Lucia mozzarella. I never even bought that in Reggio, so that particular emotion made no sense.

Then I practically jumped out of my skin (from shock) when I walked past this guy and he answered his cell phone in French. I mean, I'd just been speaking French with the boulangere two seconds before that, but apparently that whole conversation didn't register.

Oh, except for the part where she called me 'madame', which is unfortunate, especially given that I'm even wearing my chubby, full of Italian food face that should, in theory, make me look like a child. Funny how it's so exciting when they start calling you 'vous' instead of 'tu' when you're about fourteen years old, but the switch from 'mademoiselle' to 'madame' is just a whole other story. Perhaps it's actually a very subtle way for them to establish their superiority over my sorry American self: we can make you feel like crap and be impeccably polite, all in the same sentence!

Clearly I'm in a sparkly shiny mood over here in frog-land. It's all very disorienting, though. I haven't quite switched languages in my head yet, and I don't want to because I'm afraid the Italian will go away and never come back. Here there are no zanzare but there are huge flies. And no one is speaking Italian. I thought about going to sit near Notre Dame and waiting for some Italian tourists to walk by, but then that would be rather pathetic. Oh, and speaking of sitting outside, someone should inform Paris that August is meant to be part of the summertime. What's up with this seventy degrees nonsense?

In other news, all of my arm muscles are sore, as well as some in my back. (Who even knew there were muscles in the crook of your elbow? Hm. My medical career is off to a great start.) This means that my suitcases are really heavy or I am really weak. I'm inclined to think the latter. Also, I don't think all the business with the dragging of the suitcases to the train station agreed with my left hand a whole lot, because now it is all puffy and sad. This is alternately funny (because of the puffiness) and unfortunate (because it kind of hurts). Oh, well. Who needs those tendons (or whatever), anyway, right? (Again with the medical knowledge.) All the same, next time I think I will try to remember to look up the phone number for taxis before I disconnect the electricity.