Only in France

"No, don't get me wrong - fish is great, and healthy, too!" insists an uncle of some sort midway through the main course of one of our many must-see-as-much-of-the-French-family-as-possible-while-we-are-here dinners. "But you have to try some of the specialties while you're here, too."

It is unfortunate. My brother and I have done well this time, arriving at the restaurant a bit early to allow ourselves time to peruse and decipher the menu beforehand in order to smoothly order our (admittedly somewhat conservative) velouté de carotte followed by grilled fish, thus avoiding having to ask our mother awkward questions. (For example: 'what's tartare, again?' 'raw meat' 'oh... right.') Somehow, though, we are still getting the 'you silly Americans, with your egregiously limited palate' lecture. Sigh.

"You've had moules (mussels), haven't you?"

Luckily, we have (before we were old enough to really know what was going on).

"And huitres (oysters)?"

I do not share the fact that I was sick for a week after the one and only time I tried an oyster (it was probably just unfortunately-timed, but I still like to blame the oyster).

"How about snails?"

Neither of us have ever tried snails. We protest that they just look so slimey and not particularly edible.

"But if you've tried oysters, snails are completely innocuous by comparison!" he informs us. "And if you think they look slimey when they're alive, you should see them when they're being prepared!"

An informative two or three minutes ensues, during which we learn that before you eat them, you have to make them "baver" (literal translation: drool) by packing them in salt. This gets all of the unwanted... um... stuff... out of them. He and my mother (who apparently witnessed this phenomenon during a stay in Bourgogne, which, they tell us, is where the best snails are) discuss the grossness of "drooling" snails at length. This does not increase the likelihood of me trying them in the near future.

"It's kind of like when Mémé Elise used to kill the rabbits!" reminisces the uncle.

"Oh, yeah! The rabbits in that little hutch in her garden... poor things..." you can tell my mother is trying to inject a little sympathy into the situation purely for our benefit. It does not really work, so she changes the subject: "You know what was really nasty, though? The chickens. Remember how she used chase them around and then grab them and break their necks and tear all the feathers out in the kitchen? And there'd be chicken feathers flying around the house for the rest of the day?"

"She made Yvonne such a nice little coat with those when she was a baby, remember?"

Charming. (Also beginning to sound slightly Little House on the Prairie). They are starting to get quite maudlin about this grandmother, who, admittedly, was quite a character. (Her other exploits include wielding a pitchfork during epic battles with her rooster.)

"Oh!" something brilliant has apparently occurred to the uncle, "but you know what's really good?" he pauses for effect. "Frog legs!"

Indeed.

"No, seriously, you should try them - they sell them in 1 kilo bags at the grocery store. With the other frozen foods."

I refrain from laughing with difficulty. Some other relative launches on a complex explanation of how to best cook them (all I remember is that it involves a lot of butter... naturally). Someone else is commenting in a serious tone that frog legs do not taste at all like beef. (Okay...)

I personally am still stuck on the idea of a 1 kilo bag of frog legs. What would the packaging look like? Innocent little froggies peering out at you? Little frog legs already roasted on a spit? Or sautéed or whatever? Or perhaps the bags are transparent? What do frog legs even look like? Is the skin still on them?

Clearly what I need to do is to head over to Picard (the supermarket that specializes in frozen foods) and check this situation out.

In the meantime, I suppress another giggle. Only in France.

Moving to Italy: What to pack

I wrote this while I was in Paris and bored with a sinus infection and thought I would just try my hand at that informational type of writing. You know - the useful kind. I don't think I am very good at it. But for some reason I'm going to subject this blog to it anyway...


So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.

Oh, self. You are so silly.

The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.

This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.

Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.

1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.

Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.

Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.

2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.

3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:

- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)

In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.

Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.

4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.

5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.

6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)

Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.

(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)

So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.

Grammar

If I get into medical school, the first thing I am going to do when I get there is march into the admissions office and ask to see the person who writes the content for their website. Then I will inform him or her that every single time they write "please respond in X characters or less" it makes something in my tummy get all twisty. I mean, presumably the person who writes the supplemental applications is educated, no? Perhaps he or she is even an MD. Or a PhD. So why is it that they don't know about grammar? This is not a difficult concept, people: less is for things that can't be counted (e.g. sugar, coffee, sand) and for things that can be counted (e.g. chairs, bananas, grains of sugar, cups of coffee, not to mention words and characters) you use FEWER.

Rant provoked by the fact that I caved in and filled out the Newark application today. I bet you I will get in there and only there. If this happens, I may defect from the land of useful careers and go off to study linguistics and become an ivory tower type person who teaches a ridiculously boring and abstruse (yeah, see, check out my mad ivory tower vocabulary skills) class every second Tuesday and spends the rest of her time poring over medieval manuscripts in search of wayward diacritical marks.

Okay, admittedly, I don't 100% remember what diacritical marks are. They are either accents or some sort of punctuation. Hm... now I am curious. Perhaps I really was better suited to ivory tower life. You can even do fun experiments with little kids... which sounds a lot more sinister than it actually was...

Anyway. Yesterday I walked from here in the Kremlin-Bicetre all the way up Rue Monge and then past Beaubourg to the Marais and then to Place de la Republique, back down Rue Lafayette and back home via the opera, the Tuileries, the Pont des Arts and St. Michel. I really hope that was a lot of miles because now my legs are sore, and it would be sad indeed if my legs got sore after, like, 3 miles or something.

Now I am off to go pose for my grandmother, who feels the need to resurrect her drawing skills and use them on me, doubtless while telling me about all the children who have had something calamitous befall them in the past twenty-four hours. Pity that I did not inherit any of the artistic skills. Then I could be a tortured starving artist in a garret in Montmartre or the Latin Quarter or something and that would be funny.

P.S. Yeah, I looked it up. Diacritical marks are accents, also known as ancillary glyphs. Hee. Also, it is apparently 5-6 kilometers from here to that part of Paris. Hm. Even counting the walk back... still kind of wimpy. Sigh.

That one time with the mattress

In honor of spending time with beloved family members... the story of the time I helped my grandmother buy a mattress. Like most traumatic experiences, it is a little bit seared into my memory.

"It's very important for your health, you know - how moelleux (soft) the mattress is. If it's too soft, you will sink in and your backbone will not be properly aligned while you sleep, but if it's too firm, you will get sore. For example, my back gets sore. And my pelvis. Especially since I had your mother!" my grandmother wraps up her lecture on mattress firmness with a fun fact as we step out of the elevator onto the home furnishings floor.

I nod and sigh (I've already been with her all morning and I'm nearing the end of my patience) and let my eyes drift slowly out of focus as she flips her cane upside down and uses the handle to prod the nearest mattress.

"Too soft!" she proclaims loudly. A pregnant woman nearby makes the mistake of looking up.

"Yes, too soft," repeats my grandmother authoritatively, "especially for you, Miss. Now, when you have your baby, do you plan to let it sleep in the bed with you? Because, you know, children can suffocate very easily. Can you imagine? Especially when you're very tired, you could easily just roll over and... if the mattress is too soft... I tell my granddaughter this all the time - she has two small children, you know - but she doesn't listen. I just hope... little Pierre..." she trails off mournfully, although it should be noted that little Pierre is, to the best of my knowledge, still in perfectly good health. The young woman pulls out a cell phone and turns away. I don't blame her.

However, I happen to know my grandmother's stance on pregnant women and cell phones, so I attempt to distract her by asking her opinion of another mattress (too firm). In vain. She snags the nearest sales assistant, a guy who doesn't look much older than me. I bring my eyes into focus just long enough to size him up. He looks far too nice. He's no match for her.

"Young man!" she begins emphatically. "Now, I know it's none of my business (no kidding), but, perhaps, being a member of the staff, it would be more appropriate for you to tell her..."

He raises his eyebrows, clearly perplexed.

"Well, someone should explain to that young woman that it's not a good idea to use a cell phone while she's pregnant - the radiation, you know: it could damage the fetus. I saw a program on tv..."

I cut her off, suggesting that perhaps the young man doesn't need to know what she saw on tv, given that his job is just to sell mattresses.

"Nonsense!" she interrupts, thumping her cane emphatically on the floor. "My granddaughter here thinks a lot of what I say is ridiculous, but she's too young! She doesn't know. I've been through the war, you know. And anyway," she turns to me, "the young man does need to know about this program. It was a very good program, very informative. For example, monsieur here should really not keep his cell phone in his pocket: the radiation is much too close to his... well, you know... let's just say it's better for his fertility if he doesn't keep his cell phone in his pocket. I hope I'm not being too indiscreet..." she smiles conspiratorially at the young man.

"No, no, of course not," he murmurs as he starts to back away, his cheeks bright pink. I try not to laugh as he mumbles something about his colleague being more qualified...

Moments later, a no-nonsense, infallibly polite Parisienne has seated us in front of her desk and seems prepared to field any and all questions and comments about mattresses, cell phones, pregnancy, and whatever else might come up. I figure she will be unlikely to need my help and crack open the paperback I've been carrying around for just such an occasion. The woman pauses in her list of mattress-varieties to give me a reproachful Look: you crude foreigner. How can you even think of reading when you're having such a nice outing with your charming grandmother. Young people these days!

Yes, well. Filial piety is all well and good in theory, but she hasn't even been speaking to my grandmother for five minutes yet.

I look up about twenty pages later. "... because of my pelvis, you see. Children, you know. You know that before I had my daughter, my pelvis was in perfectly good shape and I was studying fine arts. I did sculpture, and painting, and ink drawings, you know. But then my husband got me pregnant and he wouldn't let me continue school, and now when it rains, my bones..."

I smile to myself and go back to my book.

Another few pages later, I am wrenched back out of my book by a sharp jab to the ribs.

"Because my granddaughter here refuses to have a hip x-ray done, right?" I nod automatically and glance up at the saleslady as my grandmother cackles merrily. The saleslady's eyes are looking a bit glazed, and her mouth is hanging slightly open as she continues to nod occasionally.

"Have you had an x-ray done, Madame?" asks my grandmother solicitously, peering under the desk at the poor woman's legs. "Also you should get a blood test to get your sugar checked. Now, I'm lucky, because even though I have a lot of cholesterol, it's mostly good cholesterol. My son, on the other hand, has very high blood sugar. Practically diabetic. So we told him to eat less sugar, but lately he looks positively scrawny... I think his wife is probably starving him. I never really trusted that woman anyway..."

The saleslady doesn't react except to nod vaguely, so my grandmother thumps her cane for emphasis. I repress a snort of laughter and go back to the book.

The next time I look up, another good twenty pages later, my grandmother is spiritedly recounting the story of the time during the war when she biked from Paris to Lyonne alone with only a sack of oranges which she planned to either eat or use to clout any bothersome Germans. Perhaps it's time to intervene. Anyway, the saleslady is staring at me imploringly. Sure, I want to say, *now* you want my help.

But I am getting hungry and eventually the store will be closing, so I hustle my grandmother through several mattress-related choices. We only spend about five minutes on each issue, so that's good, anyway. For example: white or cream? I don't really see how it can possibly matter, given that mattresses are generally covered with sheets and things, but whatever. I am past caring.

My grandmother is still advising the woman not to give personal information or, indeed, any significant kind of information over the phone, because you never know who could be listening, as we get back on the elevator. I breath a sigh of relief. But no. We are not done. "I just need to stop in the Fnac (a bookstore like Borders or the Feltrinelli) and..." I tune her out, trying to locate my sanity and drag it out of wherever it is hiding.

We step out of the elevator in the basement and she grabs the sleeve of the nearest available salesperson. Jean-Pierre, his tag reads. Poor Jean-Pierre.

"I saw this great program on tv the other day," my grandmother begins. Great. "On channel five," she clarifies, "about African music."

The sales guy nods expectantly.

"Did you see it?" she asks conversationally.

"Um..." he says, and finally: "well, I don't watch tv much..."

"Ah, beh, vous avez tort," she informs him, "channel five does a lot of great programs. I saw one about Thailand the other day that-"

"The CD," I remind her, through gritted teeth.

"Yes, I'd like to buy the CD of the singer I saw on tv. I don't remember his name, exactly, but I drew a sketch of him..." she roots through her purse and finally pulls out a used envelope on the back of which, effectivement, she has sketched a rather vague portrait of what is evidently a singer. Another sales guy has joined the first and they look at the envelope together.

"Ah, oui, beh, vous dessinez bien, dites-donc, Madame," comments one (you draw really well). Bad move, buddy. Insert entire monologue on les Beaux Arts (prestigious fine arts school) and how she met her husband there, and wrapping up with my mother and the pelvis. Both sales guys look back and forth from me to her in disbelief. I am just about to wander off and throw myself under a bus when she shoves the envelope into my hands, to facilitate illustrative gesturing. I turn it over.

"Is this the guy's name?" I ask, pointing to a scribbled, African-looking name in the corner.

"Ah, mais oui! Voila! My granddaughter's very smart, you know!" crows my grandmother, "but you can't have her, because she lives far away. In America. Except for a while she lived in Italy, but..." Now I really want to throw myself under a bus. Nonetheless, the two guys flash me grateful smiles and turn around to investigate on the computer, in the shelves... anywhere that lets them laugh out of our sight.

"Okay, and which album will you be wanting? He has nine," announces one upon returning. My grandmother looks at him as if he were daft. I absently take a sip from my bottle of Vittel. This should be funny.

"Well, the one I saw on tv, of course."

I try to choke discreetly. My grandmother thwacks me enthusiastically on the back with a shopping bag, and I narrowly miss falling over the clerks' desk. Sadly, I am still conscious. However, the slightly older clerk returns and apparently decides to take the situation in hand.

"When did you see the program?"

"On February 5th. I remember because it was the day before I called my niece to tell her about-"

"Well then it was probably this album," he says confidently, thrusting one (probably at random) at her.

"Oh? How do you know?"

"Because of the internet," I interrupt. I give the guy a Look. Bringing up the internet is a risky move, because on one hand, she doesn't understand it at all, so you can use it to explain all kinds of things, but on the other hand, she still firmly believes that it sucks young children in and causes them to be kidnapped, murdered and dumped in creeks, and that it is thus Evil. In any case, the guy appears to have caught on.

"Oui, voila, c'est ca (yes, right, that's it). I researched it on the internet." My grandmother is more or less pacified, and this guy and I are clearly a great team. I should probably marry him.

She spends the entirety of the way home harranguing me about the evils of the internet and all of the stories she's seen on the news about children getting murdered/kidnapped/raped/stabbed/abandoned by their parents/eaten by dogs/impaled on wrought-iron fences "comme le fils de Romy Schneider" (I wish I were making it up, but I'm pretty sure she actually remembers every single unfortunate incident involving children, all the way back to Romy Schneider's son, who, apparently, died as a result of an injury obtained while climbing over a fence.) Meanwhile, I spend the bus-ride home thinking that someone should write a book about her. (My grandmother, I mean. Probably someone has already written a book about Romy Schneider.)

PS. It should be noted that I do love my grandmother. And I know she's great. But sometimes you have to laugh in order to stave off the urge to slit your wrists with a ballpoint pen in the department store bathroom.

In Paris: stuff that they've changed

They re-painted the front of the boulangerie (purple and black? really?).

The people who run the charcuterie are retiring after 23 years. 23 years! This means that, although I can't remember it, they have been open and feeding us for as long as I have been alive. What are we supposed to eat around here if they leave?

They did something to the locks in the building doors and now they make odd repetitive clicky sounds when I punch the code in. It makes me jump, every time.

They had the whole inside of the post office re-done. Now it is shiny and white and all ergonomic-looking. I say 'looking' because it actually does not seem to be any more efficient or any more comfortable than before. Instead of all that nonsense, they should have invested in air conditioning. Or even just a decent ventilation system.

The crepe guy that used to stand outside the shopping center in the Place d'Italie is *gone*. And some North African guy has taken his place and now apparently sells crepes and falafel. From the same stand. I have nothing against North Africans. Or falafel, for that matter, but it's a bit disconcerting all the same.

Also, they changed the supermarket in the basement of the shopping center from a Champion to a Carrefour and re-arranged the interior to make it, if possible, even more confusing than it used to be. Now, not only can you not find what you're looking for, but you also can't necessarily find the exit. Awkward.

Someone moved the sink in our kitchen. Presumably to make room for that weird stove. It is still disorienting, and also I'm still scared of the stove. I bumped into it yesterday and it beeped in a warning tone of voice (yeah, probably I just imagined the tone of voice) and made flashing red numbers.

On the bright side, my cousin has informed me that we young people can go to the cinema for 3.90 all summer. Now I must just find someone to drag there with me, and then I can be all caught up on contemporary culture.

Also, my hand is no longer puffy. Now it's just vaguely purple and sad. I figure as long as it doesn't turn black and fall off, it's probably fine.

Anyway. Perhaps if the sun comes out I will go read in the Tuileries. I had found a very nice bench there the last time I was here, although I don't really remember where it was, now. Whatever.

Things that I miss

People speaking Italian. (Still.) French is not bad to listen to either, but I'm dreading walking into immigration in Newark. That lady who stands in the middle and screeches 'immigrants to the left! citizens and permanent residents to the right!' makes me want to stab pencils into my eardrums.

The piazze, the via Emilia, via Calderini, and via Andreoli... and a bunch of others... even if the cobblestones were definitely trying to kill me.

The big blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano in the supermarket. I didn't actually buy any very often, but it was nice that it was there. Here there is only pre-grated grana padano. I checked.

Sitting on the steps of the duomo to work on applications. Doing them here in the kitchen is not quite the same. Especially because my mother seems to have put in this weird stove that cooks by induction (or something) since I was last here. I am scared that it will either blow up the apartment or emit radiation and rearrange my DNA. (And now we know why I almost failed physics.)

Reading in those weird orange chairs in front of the theater and watching little kids play in the fountain.

Caffe macchiato. Although seeing that in writing makes me remember that starbucks has something called that. I may possibly throw up if I hear someone order one. Perhaps I just won't go in starbucks when I get home.

The 'Reggio Emilia' sign in the train station. I really enjoy whatever font that is, with the bubbly-dotted 'i's.

Libreria all'Arco. Enough said.

Rucola. Particularly on my pizza.

Opening my shutters every morning to see the vescovado and people cycling past down below. And looking at San Prospero's campanile every night before closing them again.

On the bright side... finished applications yesterday. Oh, except Newark. But do I really want to go to Newark? No. I would likely get shot in Newark. Or so depressed that I would shoot myself. So... pretty much finished applications. Which is nice because I'm all kinds of bored with them. Medicine, you are kind of silly, you know that? You make it such a pain in the arse to get there that, having almost arrived, I kind of almost don't want it anymore... which could turn out to be a good thing, because I've already had one rejection. 17 more like that and the 'should I be a doctor' dilemma won't be a problem anymore...

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.