Où est la bibliotheque?

 So, I slept through most if not all (pretty much all) of Tuesday, so in an effort to stop spotlighting my ever increasing laziness I decided to head to the school's library across the street from the Luxembourg gardens. I hung around for about four hours and so as not to bore you with the play-by-play and just to allow you to see the beauty of this small intimate space that I have decided will be my home away from home (it's open every weekday from 8 am till 11 pm) I've uploaded some pictures that I hope you enjoy.  You can't see it, but just so you know, out the window there is a perfect image of the Eiffel Tower beyond the rows of French rooftops and miniature chimney spouts that I didn't even notice until I was about to leave.  I'll have to snap a picture of it next time, but oh well.  For your viewing pleasure (jealousy)!

Paris, je t'aime

I heard a lot of English today.  I was overhearing conversations and understanding them, I was seeing my own confusion played out in others, I was even momentarily considering having a conversation that didn't consist of long awkward silences where I try to understand what is going on - though I decided to sit and read instead.
Today was the day of my practical exam to see where I ranked in my understanding of French, and therefore what class I would be most appropriately placed in.  Like a good student before any big test that will determine the course of their entire semester, I stayed up all night watching the latest season of Chuck. There's something about the relationship between the two main characters that, regardless of all the plot holes and contrived conflict, keeps me coming back for more.  It's almost as if overcoming the often poor writing of the show is a quiet personal conflict for the viewers that they themselves must overcome if they ever want to see how Chuck and Sarah's relationship will play out.  I think I'm justifying here, but I'm okay with that because I made it sound good.
After about 13 episodes of prime time NBC comedy it was time to turn off my alarm, put on yesterday's clothes, and go buy some pastries - then immediately return with said pastries, down a glass of milk, and finish out the season finale.  Once that was over and two pain au chocolates were nesting softly in my belly I decided it was time to give in to the beating drum that was the inside of my scull and take a nap.  A couple hours later I got up, took a shower, got dressed (new clothes), and headed out.
It's beautiful here.  Had I not been passed out with an iron curtain over my windows I may have noticed earlier that it was over 50 degrees with sunny blue skies.  I was headed to a place called the student house where all my phonetics classes are supposed to be held once those classes start mid-month.  The building was rather interesting, a renovated structure with exposed wood beams and lots of large glass windows that added depth and layers to the space.  When I got there (a half hour early) I noticed that a line had already formed with students all holding little white cards identical to the one I'd been given to show that they were here for the test.  Instead of waiting around I noticed a post office near by and so I headed over and asked about stamps.  I didn't have enough cash to buy any stamps for the US, but I picked up a euro stamp so I could send my documents off to the immigrations office here, which I was supposed to do within a week of my arrival.  Well, tomorrow would be a week so I figured it was time.  Luckily for me the post office also had a copy machine that only cost 10 cents and so I made a copy of my passport pages, which I needed to send off to immigrations as well.  Success.  Sort of.  Why didn't I think to buy envelopes?  Hmm....  Guess it just slipped my mind.  I'll have to do that tomorrow.  Either way I got stamps and that's half the battle, right?  Anyone?  Okay.
Got back in line, sat down, stared around at the hipster generation around me not knowing their nationality for sure, because it seems as though everyone in this country was deported from Wicker Park for being too much of a hipster and somehow all landed here, as if in Paris there existed a magnet for tight jeans, torn leggings, excessive scarves, and tilted fedoras; these people all mixed in with women and men dressed to the fringes and strutting around like they don't realize that spit, piss, and cigarette littered sidewalk isn't a runway flanked by eager cameras and impossibly bored cliches of the fashion scene.  No.  Indeed, it's just a sidewalk.  And by the way, you're embarrassing the rest of us, so knock it off.
Sorry about that - needed to get it off my chest.  Everywhere I go, its the same fashion trends, only here it seems like everyone is trying harder.

After some careful listening I discovered that most of the people in line were either from England or the US, and everyone looked rather concerned.  A look I myself was probably sporting, that complimented by deep serial-killer circles under my eyes from all the late night TV.  But if I did look concerned it was only because my face has been frozen in that position since I landed and not because I was the least bit nervous.  I mean, how hard could it be?  I don't give myself a lot of credit, but I can read and understand French okay - I can read it decent at least, and if it's a test to measure our ability then there will be at least some questions that will be no brainers to help weed out the completely hopeless.  Wrong.
It was hell.  Silly, over the top, incoherent hell.
There wasn't one thing on that test that I answered with confidence.  I mean when I left, and I left early on, I never felt more sure about anything in my life.  I bombed that test.  I had a laughing fit in the hallway it was so unbelievable.  People were staring at me, and I didn't care, because to be honest it was funny.  I'd like to give you some examples, but I can't remember anything about the test, and even if I did write something down for you I wouldn't have a who-flung-poo clue about what I was saying.  It was brutal and hilarious.  I even had trouble filling out the front page info sheet.  At least I lasted longer than some.  One girl after being handed the test wrote her name on the front, flipped through the pages, and then walked right back up to the teacher declaring "I don't speak any French".  How much do you want to bet that she's in my class?  Ah, well.  At least we got that out of the way, and oddly enough I left feeling more at ease than I have in days.  It was almost as if sucking on that test was just what I needed to sit back and say "C'est la vie".
I took a stroll through the Luxembourg gardens afterwards and watched the sun set over Paris, the Eiffel Tower slowly darkening into a pitch silhouette against a sky full of oranges and reds with flecks of purple. It really was fantastic.  Paris is an expansive palace, constantly working to out-do itself in extravagance, a palace inhabited by the people (because they cut off everyone else's head), and bustling with more life and speed than almost any other city I've been in.
I picked up some provisions from the grocery store when I got back.  Last night I made myself some salmon with lemon and rice and green olives, polished off an entire bottle of wine (I'm not sure how, honest), ate an entire box of cereal, drank a half liter of milk, and entire bag of chips.  Yes, wow.  I guess Chuck brings out my mean appetite.  Either way, tonight I picked up two bottles of triple-brewed beer (already polished off one, a Delirium Tremens (great stuff)), ate two pork chops, two servings of rice, a little salt a little pepper, I bought another box of cereal (they but dark chocolate shavings in their special K!), another half liter of milk, some butter, some bread (I figured I could fill up on this and save myself some trips to the store), a huge wedge of brie for only 1, that's right, 1 euro, and that's it.  Why does brie cost so much in the US?  It's like six bucks for less than what I got tonight.  And I don't want to hear anything about products being shipped over, we don't make brie, sort of business, because they have so many American products for equal or competitive prices that I no longer believe that whole "shipped in from Europe so it'll cost you an extra six dollars crap".  They seem to be getting shiploads of Marlboros and are only paying 5 euro a pack for them - which I think is closely equivalent to US prices if you consider all the tax there is on tobacco products now-a-days.  So, yeah!  I want cheap brie! (For those of you wondering why brie, it's because I had no idea what all the other nine hundred cheeses taking up the entire center section of their shopping center were and come on - one euro brie!)
I'm not sure what I'll do tonight - if I should go to bed early or see if I can train my body to survive off of only 3 hours of sleep a day.  It's a toss up.
Forgot to mention that the other day I went to the Musee de l'Orangerie (breathtaking and impressive) and have been frequenting Pere Lachaise (because it's possibly the most beautiful places I've ever been to and it's in my backyard).  I bought a book at the gift shop at the Orangerie, which I don't normally do, but I liked the artist who I'd seen before and his book was 50% off, so why not.  I need, yes need, to go to the Orsay ASAP and the Pompidou, but the Musee d'Orsay first.  I think I'll probably never leave.  They'll find me years later curled up in a janitor's closet reciting lines from Rimbaud and terminally constipated from too much brie.  I'm not sure if I'm going to be hitting up the Louvre this trip or not.  I've walked on the grounds surrounding it several times now, but I feel like it's more expensive than anything and I've already seen it.  Who knows, maybe I'll run into some nice (cute) classmates and they'll want to go.  We'll see.

Okay, so here's the thing, real quick, I've now watched every episode of Fringe, Chuck, Community, Fairly Legal, Royal Pains, Psych, and 30 Rock.  Is there anything I'm missing?  Are these my shows?  Does anyone know what kind of TV I watch?  If so please let me know, because Anna and Emily opened up a whole new world with this fastpasstv thing and it's made me a sleepier man, a better man, and my gut is leaning towards the whole teach-myself-to-survive-off-of-no-sleep thing.  Just a question, throwing it out there.  Hope all is well state side.

Salut!

L'examen

Today - the examination.

Feeling a little uneasy, and in need of a relaxing way to wind down the evening after that three hour, two word bender I had last night I decided to watch some TV.  Netflix doesn't work, hulu doesn't work, so (coming to a solution) I decided to see what iTunes had in store.  Luckily for me after a quick search I found just the kind of thing I was looking for - and it was free.  The pilot episode of Fairly Legal.  Sigh.  Oh, USA Network, how your shows are all the same and yet so easy to indulge upon.  What would I do with all my free time without you?  Read?  Ha!  As if.  Thoughts on the show: Who wears outfits like that to work?  The only place a skirt like that is even fairly legal is on a street corner.  Now, I know that's not fair, and women have all the right in the world to dress as they want, and I'm not saying she didn't look good, but that's hardly a suitable outfit for the workplace.  The male equivalent of that skirt would be a man showing up to work in nothing more than biker shorts and a fishnet tank top (who's not a bike messenger or a stay at home pervert).  Plus, for all the running around she seems to do you'd think she would invest in some more realistic footwear.  But I digress.  I found the show absolutely pleasing and more than a little enjoyable.  Mom, you should start watching this show, and Anna and Emily so should you if you already haven't (Anna).  Strong, smart woman with a heart of gold, dresses to kill (or should I say suffocate her own thighs) and an ex-husband that is easy on the eyes.  Plus, there's personal drama and a sassy assistant named Leo who Anna will love (his hair and his sass).
After that, still thinking about this test, I did some research online to try and figure out what it was going to be like.  I found several placement tests and tried them out myself.  I did so so on the Oxford one (that is to say I got it half right) and there was one by some other English school that I scored lower intermediate on, which felt about right if not a little generous.  I mean how far can you get only just barely understanding one tense?
Went to bed and slept in till 10, thinking I didn't have to be at the Sorbonne till 11:45 (according to my little green ticket I got yesterday).  My first (almost full) nights rest.

By the way, that whole thing I said about the French having managed to stop people from hoping turnstiles (hard plastic justice and all that) was apparently a load of crap as I learned today.  As I was going through the turnstiles a man next to me kindly demonstrated that if you just climb up on top of the whole turnstile you can get over the gate on the other side fairly easily.  The more you know....

Got off at the Luxembourg stop.  My school is right by the parthenon, so I picked up a sandwich from a street vender (ham and cheese (or should I say best ham and cheese I've ever had)) and sat in a park nearby for a bit to eat, checking out the parthenon from where I sat.  A quick check of my watch told me it was already 11:30, and I figured it couldn't hurt to show up a little early, so I went in to the Sorbonne.  Bit of luck.
As I strolled in with a cool aloof air that is reserved only for people who have no idea what is going on I did not realize that I had completely imagined that whole 11:45 business and in fact I was supposed to arrive between 11 and 11:30 (aloof indeed), and had just made the cut-off.
I walked up to a man, handed him my ticket, and he handed me a card to fill out my information on asking if I was something something something or nouveau.  I knew nouveau meant new so I said "nouveau", but I'm still not sure what I was blindly admitting to or even if I said the right thing.  My guess was he was asking me if I was a new student or a returning student, which is why I said new.  But who knows.  He pointed to a set of chairs that were all but filled up (one seat left) and I sat down.  I filled out my card (name, place of birth, etc) and waited.
The thing is I wasn't sure what I was waiting for.  I knew the test wasn't in that building, and as far as I knew I had already paid for and was enrolled in classes, not real, physical classes mind you but hypothetical ones.  Still, like I said, I was confused.  I waited for thirty minutes as the line slowly moved forward.  Every once in a while someone would come out and usher in a couple of people at a time and I was getting ever closer to the front.  I noticed that every one spoke either French or Spanish fluently or as their native language, which was giving me the impression that I may have entered into the most advanced French class in the world or I was in the wrong line.  This isn't exactly true.  There was one other person near the front of the line that I overheard speaking American English, but all she did was mutter the F word to herself the entire time, and when it got to be her turn to go in she tried to pawn her turn off to the French girl next to her.  This was oddly comforting.  Until that point I had felt a knot growing in my stomach that can only be explained as fear (I remember thinking "The last time I felt this nervous was before going into court"), but after seeing some one who seemed worse off than me I calmed down.  Calmed down enough in fact that once I progressed around the corner I noticed a sign that read something like this (in English):

If you have already payed your fees in full you can proceed directly to room E1.

I looked around and there was E1, a nearly empty room except for a couple of genial looking secretary types sitting behind desks and sipping espresso.  I looked around a corner and flagged down the man who had been directing the line forward and asked him about the sign.  I explained that I had already paid all my fees, and so (with doubt written all over his face) he took me to room E1.
What did I find out?  No test.  Nope, gotta come back Monday.  All of that and no dice.  I did however get my picture taken by the nice lady behind the desk and she gave me my student ID (trés cool) and gave me a bunch of papers all in French that I have decided to set about translating tonight.  She didn't speak English super well so we spoke (as seems to be the proceeder now-a-days) in a little bit of both languages.
After that I headed north up to Notre Dame and followed some steps down to the Seine.  The weather wasn't too bad so I sat down and took out The Savage Detectives and read for about forty, fifty minutes, or however long it takes for your butt to go numb with cold.  Got up, found my way back to Chȃtelet and took the métro home.

The sun goes down in two hours and Père Lachaise will close.  I haven't been in yet, so I think I'll take the opportunity to do so now.  Seems like a good idea, go visit some dead people and whatnot.  I mean they are in my backyard.

Sorry, to leave you with all of this suspense.  I know how you're all dying to know how I do on this test. Well, I guess you'll just have to wait.  Until then, start taking bets - Advanced is a long-shot it's 1-100, but I wouldn't put money on it, Intermediate Advanced is a little better 1-50 (if it's a standardized test then there's the option of a fluke), Intermediate 1-20, Beginner 1-5, and Absolute Beginner 1-2.  I know some of you are thinking hey that kid's an Absolute Beginner I'm going to make some sweet cash, but don't count me out of being just a plain ol' Beginner.  Remember I did score a Lower Intermediate on that online test.  For those dreamers out there you better not even play, cause let's be real.  It's going to be one of those two.  We should all just be pushing for mediocre embarrassment as opposed to absolute.

(Oh, and if are you looking to cash in your winnings should your answer be right, just send an invoice out to Columbia College of Chicago, because they have all my money)



Bonne Journée

L'arrivant

I've decided that the reason I keep making all of these posts is because I'm unable to express myself to anyone here just yet.  I can see that this is going to be a struggle.  Hopefully though, after a while these posts will become few and far between and that's when you'll know that I'm finally settled in.  Or I've died.  But let's not focus on that.
I just returned from a café where I sat conjugating verbs for about three hours.  Before that I had taken a nap as that whole "lack of sleep thing" got me seeing double.  Somewhere in my learning of the english language I managed to completely glaze over every tense except for the three major ones - present past and future - and somewhere in my learning of french I managed to completely ignore the fact that there are fifteen possible tenses for any one verb.  Hence the three hours.  In that time I managed to conjugate two (yes two) verbs, avoir et être.  I figured these were the most important (to have and to be).  I should note that I did this with the help of a book that is dauntingly titled 2,000 French verbs.  So, with a little bit of math and a whole lot of apprehension I figured out it will take me about 125 days (that's non-stop conjugation) to get through the whole book.  Now, that figure isn't exactly accurate, because the reason it took me so long was because I had to constantly check the front of the book for the definitions of each tense and mood.  I mean constantly.  Every time I got to a new conjugation I was flipping back to the front to see what the hell I was conjugating.  That may seem extreme, but with definitions like this one: Le plus-que-parfait (pluperfect/past perfect) The past tense used to describe an event that occurred prior to another past event without an implication of immediate relationship between two events.  Also used to make a simple statement about past action -- it is easy to see why.
As I remember things, grammar was never my strong suit and now it is coming back to haunt me.  That and I was a terrible (am a terrible) speller.  I sometimes even have trouble spelling disaster, which is a little ironic at the moment.
Regardless of all of this I think I'll be okay.  I don't think I will be returning to the US a brilliant French speaker, but I will be returning as a brand new me.  But what does that really mean?  I think the terms "new me" or "new you" are overused without anyone having arrived at an exact definition of such a statement.  To say a "new me" doesn't necessarily imply that it is a "better" me, though I think the word "new" carries that kind of connotation.  A new car is better than an old one, a new house, a new girlfriend (in some cases).  We assume that if it is new it is improved, but that is not always the case, so let me attempt to clarify what I mean when I say "new me".
Very little has changed about me as would be expected (I've only been here three days, we're not talking miracles).  Currently the only thing I can say for sure is that I have a renewed appreciation for the English language, or should I say my limited mastery of it.  For whatever reason I seemed to take for granted the simple ability to communicate with those around me in an effective way.  When I say "new me" what I think I am really trying to say is that I will have gained perspective.  I think I'm already well on my way to doing that.  More than that I will finally be able to say with confidence that I am independent (regardless of what my mother's tax statements say).  I suppose it is odd for me to be coming to these conclusions now that I'm here.  These are the kinds of things that people peg as reasons for travel, why we go places.  Gain perspective, earn independence, etc etc.  But as usual I jumped feet first into a concept I only half understood.  Saying "I'm going to Paris to gain perspective" means very little until you're there and the world looks completely different.  Suddenly you're lost, equipped with what faculties you poses, and a vocabulary of a newborn child and things don't "begin" to look different, things don't "start" looking different.  No.  They just are.  Everything has changed.  Past tense.  If there was a transition it was imperceptible, I simply awoke in a new world and what I consider success has become such things as "I found a power adaptor!" "I found my way home!" "I conjugated two verbs!".  In this sense I mean to say that gaining perspective is not what it implies - we think of perspective as viewing a larger picture, the whole picture if possible - but instead the perspective that is gained is microscopic.  The world shrinks to a point just in front of the face, to what is tangible and what is immediately possible.
I often have been criticized for thinking too big, creating some grand image of perfection and then holding that fantasy above my own head until it shadows me - until I become the shadow of my own ambitions.  When everything is easy then everything seems possible, and when those possibilities do not bear fruit so easily then it seems as though the world has failed - or that you have failed - or that (perhaps worst of all) your perception of yourself has failed.
When I observed that "this was going to be a struggle" I did not mean that learning French would be a struggle (though I know it will be), but instead the struggle would be allowing myself to struggle.  Allowing myself to make mistakes, be foolish, fail.  If I take away anything from this trip it will be this, the brand new me: success is difficult, success is small, and sometimes it is enough just to be able to say "I am here".  And that is all.

Le soleil se lève aussi

I awoke this morning, or should I say I never slept, to the dark.  I tossed and turned for several hours, my body unable to adjust to its new location seven hours away from normality, before giving up and pouring myself a glass of water and opening up The Savage Detectives by Bolaño.  I read through the whole first book, about a hundred and forty pages before one of the two alarms I set for myself went off to let me know it was 6 am.  Tin fingers rang against my window and I looked out to see that rain had begun to fall, glazing the cobbled street.  I climbed back into bed thinking I would wait until sunrise, but after another hour of reading passed there was still no sign of light.  Little did I know that what I was waiting for would not arrive until after 8 o'clock, so, determined to move, I got up got dressed in yesterday's clothes, which were lying somewhat folded next to the bed and zipped up my jacket.  I was determined to do two things: commander un café et trouver du pain au chocolat.
The air was sweet and nearly silent.  It seemed as though either I had mistaken the time or the world was sleeping in.  Either way, I was awake and began to walk south along the Boulvard de Menilmontant, south then north again along the west shore of the street, turning about once I reached Rue de Montreuil for no reason.  I was killing time waiting for the café near my apartment to open, which I had marked as the spot for my morning coffee.  The city was still asleep, a drip.  The sky was black and though the sun was set to rise in a half hour it showed no signs of lacking.
With wing a building slid motionless some inches to the right - a flight of pigeons unsettled.
A trick of the eyes.  It seemed for a moment as though an apartment behind some birds was shifting in their flight, the lines of the stones blurring through wing beats suggested as much.  Perhaps my eyes were tired.  As I said, I had not slept.
Still I wobbled on, passing a boulangerie smelling so richly of freshly baked dough that I nearly fainted in the street, but it was early yet and I yearned for coffee.  Something strong and black to steam in a ceramic cup.  Arriving back at my apartment I noticed that the café Le Soleil Levant had opened, and with a moments hesitation I walked inside.  The owner was quietly sitting at a table peeling potatoes for the afternoon's plat du jour but smiled when she saw me.  Bonjour.  Bonjour.  Je voudrais un café s'il vous plait.  Merci.  The place was completely empty and I settled in at a table with a view.  The sun was just beginning to rise over gray skies and the streets were starting to fill.  Coffee was served, a small shot of espresso and a cube of sucre to wash it down.  I sat for over an hour and wrote in my journal as people filtered in and out, ordering beer and coffee, chatting away with the owner.  After some time I stood and walked up to the counter, Combien?  Un cinquante.  D'accord, merci.  Bonne journée!  Salut.

I left and wandered down back down Boulvard de Menilmontant in search of that bakery I had smelled earlier, and within a moment I found it.  I walked in with confidence, Bonjour!  A woman appeared form around the corner and I pointed to a pile of delicious looking pasteries. Deux pain au chocolat s'il vous plait.  Trois?  Non, deux.  Deux, d'accord.  She told me the price and I pulled out some change, and after a moments hesitation (I honestly didn't hear what she said) she took my hand and helped me count out the total.  3,50.  She asked me where I was from and I said Etats Unis.  She smiled and said something I didn't understand.  I asked if she spoke English and she said no, Spanish.  She asked me if I knew any Spanish (even a little?) and I had to laugh.  Not a word.  Another customer came in and we said our goodbyes and I was off, back to my apartment with gold in my hand, pure gold.
I wasn't counting exactly, but if there had been an official with a stopwatch next to me I may have set a new world record for fastest time eating two pastry items.  Absolute bliss.  No wonder people live here.
I swiped up the crumbs from the table and cleaned up a bit.  The next thing on my list was to go to the Sorbonne and after that find myself a power adaptor.  I checked the map to see where I was going and packed all the proper documents I would need to register for classes.  After that I was off.
I took the Ligne 2 to Nation then transfered to the RER A train headed toward Chatelet.  There I transfered over to the RER B and got off at the Luxembourg stop.  I had gotten lost before in the Latin Quartier so this time I was prepared.  The night before (in between reading and failing to sleep) I had downloaded a map of Paris that didn't require wifi and was mapping out my route to the Sorbonne office.  Once I was back above ground I quickly looked around and got my bearings.  In no time I had walked to the building I was supposed to be at and entered.  There were students everywhere and a man at the door jabbering away in French pointing in all directions.  I tried my best to use context clues, but there were just too many possibilities.  I surrendered and asked the man at the door for instructions on what to do.  He asked if it was my first time there and I said it was.  He handed me a card (Number 23) and pointed down the hall giving me directions in French that somehow I understood.

I entered room 3F and walked up to a man seated at a table.  I asked if he spoke English and he replied "a little", and so it began.  For the next few minutes we chatted back and forth, him in broken English, me in very broken French, and in the end I was told to come back tomorrow and to present this card to the front desk and they would make me take a test that I would have to pass.  Pass.  His word, not mine. At the time, and now looking back, I really hope he meant "take".  To say "pass" suggests that I have to do well, and considering the subject matter is the French language and I only this morning managed to order my first food items without blunder I figured I wasn't really ready to do any "passing".  Just skating by would do me fine.  Or flunking as long as it meant I would be put in some rudimentary course and not kicked out on the street and ridiculed as being the stupidest American they had seen yet.  I suppose we shall find out tomorrow.  My mind says everything will be fine, but my gut says hide under a bridge and don't ever come out.
With that thought tucked away I stepped back out onto the street and looked around.  What to do?  That took all of ten minutes and yielded nothing.  My only other goal for the day was to find a power adaptor, and I had a guess as to where one might be.
Because I was feeling bold, or silly (things like that walk a tight line) I decided to walk back to my apartment, stopping by Nation along the way where there was supposed to be a Darty (a kind of superstore for electronics).  I had not yet walked anywhere except to get on the Metro and then maybe a few blocks away from a station, so I figured it was time to learn the city the best way I know how.  By walking randomly that-a-way.  Okay, it wasn't so random.  I had that map I downloaded and I had a rough idea of my desired direction of travel, so I was off.  If anyone is curious (and I know you all are) you should go on to google maps and take a look at my little journey.  Paris is bigger than I expected and that walk was farther than I wanted it to be.  Go, on, don't be shy.  Walk with me.
Enter in as a starting point: 16 bis rue de l’Estrapade - 75005 Paris
Ending: 8 rue du Repos - 75020 Paris
If google tries to take you some fancy short-cutty way don't forget that you need to cut through Nation, it's that big round-a-bout where Voltaire meets with Faubourg Saint-Antoine, Diderot, and several others.
A couple things I learned.  Paris is big and it makes you sleepy if you have to walk across it and haven't eaten much and didn't sleep the night before and are named John.  Actually, that was all I learned.  Oh, but the power adaptor!  Found one.  Granted the only three prong adaptor I could find was a multi-adaptor that was good for every country on the globe and cost me 30 euro.  Why did I buy it?  Because I was desperate and I was holding the thing in my hands, and the last time I turned on my computer it begged me for power and you know I can't resist a good begging.  Just ask any bum in Chicago who has gotten food or change from me over the past couple of years.
All in all, this has been my most successful day yet.  My computer lives once again, I'm super tired so I know I'm going to sleep tonight, I got told to come back tomorrow at the Sorbonne (always a pleasure), and I had a near perfect French morning.  In fact if I knew a little more French I would honestly consider never moving back after a morning like that (sorry mom - good news though, I don't know any more French).  Well, I think it's time I polish off that bottle of wine I bought and start looking for dinner options.  I've been operating on two meals a day so far, so let's see if I can turn it around.





Au revoir

8 rue du repos

And now as I settle in to my desk, my apartment at a reliable, refrigerator-cold temperature, I type as quickly as humanly possible to update you on the past two days in the city of Paris before my battery dies and I go up that preverbal creek for perhaps the four or fifth time in my short stay here without a paddle (or a three prong adaptor).
My flight over from Copenhagen was forgettable, literally so, as after I finished reading what I could of the Herald Tribune I finally fell asleep and awoke to the muffled announcement of our soon to be textbook landing at Charles de Gaulle.  I easily found my way through the airport using my mastery of the French language (sortie -->) and gathered up my bag in no time (mine was the one with the bright orange "HEAVY" sticker on it).  After that I blazed through to the other side of customs and realized that no one had stamped my passport.  I wouldn't have been concerned only except that I was kind of hoping that after how many months of work somebody official would have noticed that I had acquired a visa, but, no, that wasn't the case. Actually, my real fear was that I was supposed to show a copy of my "stamped" passport to the immigrations office within a week of my arrival and I really wasn't looking to start of my journey with some bureaucratic oopsy.  As I devised a plan to get some one - anyone - to stamp my passport I switched over the last of my loose USDs over to euros at the currency exchange counter.  Then I meandered my way to the informations desk to inquire about my little stamp issue.  After some discussion in a speed of French that I had never realized was possible the three little ladies behind the counter assured me that the stamp I received entering in Copenhagen would be enough to prove I had arrived and that I should shuffle along.  Okay, fine.
I headed off towards the signs labeled "M et RER" and took a shuttle to the Metro station.  There I went up to the first counter I saw and purchased a carte d'orange, handing over one of my many dashing passport photos.  Total? 70E.  Dear god.  That's fine, that's perfectly fine - it's transportation, and I knew Paris would be expensive.  With this card I can get around all of central Paris with unlimited access for a whole month and then renew the same card later for cheaper.  D'accord.
A couple of quick observations.  One: If the French can help it they will always sit in the direction of travel.  Maybe not a huge observation, but something that I did notice immediately as almost all the opposite facing seats were unoccupied.  Two: The Parisians have discovered how to stop people from hopping turnstiles.  On the other side of the turnstile is a gate-like door that will not release unless the turnstile moves, so should you not pay and decide to hop, it would be a sad ending for you as your face met the hard plastic reality of French justice.  Though I should point out here that I "noticed" this, not "experienced" this.   Just in case Emily was confused when reading.
Getting to my place was easy enough, I rocked at figuring out the Metro (thanks mainly to an app I downloaded before I left), but once I got out onto the street I - how shall I say this - got lost.  Who designed this city?!  A half-blind parkinson's patient scribbling away at a piece of paper that had been placed carelessly on a potters table?  That is the picture that I'm getting.  But I digress.  The point is I asked some Parisians where rue du repos was and they had no idea, but they took a guess and they weren't far off.
When I got there I stood outside not knowing quite what to do next.  This was as far as my directions went and I was there at 6:45 on the dot (like I was told) with my overweight bag and bewildered gaze looking up and down the street for a woman that was supposed to meet me there.  After about four minutes the door opens and two teenage girls poke their head out.  I looked at them, they looked at me, a small black boy appeared from the bottom of the doorway sucking on a piece of crumpled paper, then finally one of them asks me something I do not understand.  What?  Blah, blah, blah, apartement?  Oui, apartement.  They smile and open the door, and I come into the entryway.  They ask me something else and I smile and say Je ne parle pas francaise.  This gets a smile from all three of them.  Parlez-vous anglais?  Non.  They shake their heads.  Good.  As we get up to another door one of the girls stops and puts her hands to her mouth and turns to the other.  The only word I can make out is "key".  Both girls look at me, I look at them, the little boy chews on the piece of paper, the hallway light turns off.  Now what?  The girl goes up to the com board and starts pressing buttons, but no one answers.  Me?  Oh, I just stand there smiling away, because why not?  Of course we're locked out.  Inside the apartment the keys are sitting all forlorn and left-out.  And out here?  Well, we're standing, feeling much the same way.
One of the girls goes and switches the light back on and then they begin talking, devising some way to get us back in.  One girl goes to a back door leading out into the central courtyard, the other keeps turning to me shyly saying "desole", and me I keep trying to remember how to properly say "It's fine" - if I say "c'est bon" will that mean it's good?  Because frankly it's not good.  It's not fine either, but at least I would be reassuring somebody.  I start thinking about that hostel information that I had looked up while at the airport and figure that maybe I should start heading that way to get a room for the night when finally, like the voice of god (if god spoke French very quietly), a man came through the speaker (figuratively).  The girl in front of me jumped and she ran to the com board "Allo?"  After a minute of confused conversation that I had the bliss of not understanding a man came down the stairs and let us in.
My place was nice, cold, but nice and I figured the cold would go away once I turned the heater on.  Poor silly me.
Here's the thing: as one of the girls was going over everything in the apartment, me not understanding a word, that little boy finally throwing that piece of paper away, she mentioned something about the heater and pointed to a button on the side.  I said "Oui", like I had a clue, and that was it.  She gave me the keys (which by the way consist of three locks (separate keys) on the front door, a swipey thing for the front and inside door, and two big bolt keys for the massive grate that comes down over my front windows and door) and she was off.  Said she would be back on Sunday to check in - hopefully with her father who speaks English.  Later that night as I decided it was getting too cold for words I went over to that radiator thing and pressed the button.  After a minute or so went by I could feel it heating up, but not much.  Ten minutes go by - still about the same.  After a half hour I'm like "Okay, what the hell" , cause nothing's happened, in fact I think it might have even gotten colder.  No worries - I'll check the web.  I've got an ipod and a computer (though no three prong adaptor - another story that I don't have the battery life for, ironic) and luckily there is internet (though the password to it is longer than the paper it was written on). But after hours of searching I couldn't find anything that explained how to make it work, though I did discover that there was supposed to be some kind of remote device to set the temperature.  That made sense, but I couldn't find one.  I started opening drawers and sure enough - a thermostat.  But it won't turn on?  I look at the manual, which comes in two convenient languages, French and Spanish.  Good.  A language I barely understand accompanied by one that I've never understood.  What I gathered from the pictures was that it needed batteries, so I whipped out my trusty multi-tool and went to work.  I even found batteries in the drawer next to it.  What did I find when I got the back open?  They were the wrong size batteries.  Okay...  So where can I get batteries?  By this time it was too late for most stores to be open so I decided to let the whole thing rest till morning.  I crawled into bed (fully dressed - scarf and all), set an alarm, and lay there like a stunned rabbit for a few hours before I realized there was nothing to it.  I wasn't tired.  I had bought some choice items from the grocery store hours earlier (chips, petite au chocolat bread things, a bottle of their cheapest wine - why not, and some microwavable mac-n-cheese - why? because I had a microwave and this was the only thing they had and no I didn't feel like cooking at that particular point in time) and so I turned on my light and went about nibbling on the remains and watching some Walking Dead on my iPod.  No netflix in this part of the world.  Sad, but I'm sure in the end healthy.  I did this for about 30 minutes or so and then turned off the light and tried everything I could to sleep.  My alarm was destined to go off at 6:45 and I wanted sleep.  And I got some.  When I finally did wake up, though, my clock said 2:00.  Okay, I guess I didn't get that much sleep.  But a quick peak at my window revealed daylight peaking in.  Two PM??  Damn.  How did this happen?  I'm going to need a new internal clock and a new external alarm.
With the dawn (I use this term lightly) came my renewed search for batteries.  I figured I'd blown my chance of having a really productive day so at least I could get my radiator working.
The short version is this (my battery screams for rest): I had looked up this electronic superstore the night before so that I could possibly find an adaptor for my computer - I was hoping that there I would also get batteries.  Lucky for me the store was in the Latin Quarter, right where my school is supposed to be so I figured I could kill two birds, learn the neighborhood and solve my electricity problems.  New problem: no store.  It wasn't where it said it was, which was in a place that was harder to find than the square root of pi without a calculator (bare in mind here I still hadn't picked up a map and my ipod's tireless searches for password-free wifi were fruitless).  The only thing I did manage to find was a grocery store which sold batteries (I tried the one by my place when I woke up - no dice), oh, and the river.  Which was nice.  Granted it was viewed through the lens of a very weary, confused, and awkward fish out of water who was tired of zigzagging through the poor city planning of Parisian backstreets.
Okay, seriously wrapping this up, and I'm sorry about writing about batteries - I swear other things have happened, but this has been my only goal for the past day and my mind is about as capable of multiplicity as my tongue - I didn't find an adaptor, found batteries, had a coffee though I really wanted food, but the guy didn't understand me or they weren't serving food or something (no one else was eating), but I had a coffee none-the-less, and turned on my thermostat, didn't do crap, no surprise, I can't work the one at home and it's in English, bought a sandwich, finally ate, still cold, unpacked, scanned through Rick Steves' travel phrases, cursed quietly, loudly, triple-locked my door (because I can!), drank a half bottle of wine (not bad for 2E), took a shower (it's just big enough to get cramped in), and now I'm done.  Phew.  Time to plan out tomorrow and figure out how to learn French ASAP.  Whoever said the French know a lot of English is lying or the French are lying to me about knowing English.  Either way somebody isn't telling the truth.  Nobody speaks it except at the tourist shop that I went into today to find a map and the first English I heard in awhile was "Sorry, we don't have maps".  Yes, I'm sorry, too. And a little shocked.  But my spirits are still somewhat high, and I'm sure I'll figure this out.  Don't want to leave this whole downward slope of a story on a bass note, so here's the kicker: I'm alive, I'm in Paris, and I'm going to check into the Sorbonne tomorrow.  Pretty cool (literally and figuratively).

God rejser!

This one will be quick.  Flight went well except my nose decided to continue running the entire time and I made a small fool of myself trying to open the salad dressing (peppercorn and ranch splattering the window).  I'm waiting now at the Copenhagen airport for my transfer flight over to Charles de Gaulle, but still haven't heard word back from my landlord as to whether or not he will be meeting me at my apartment later tonight.  I sent him an email yesterday letting him know that my flight had been switched, but no word yet.  I'm picturing satin sheets and an Eiffel Tower view might be in order - room service anyone?  I was always told lemon makes lemonade, so if some one is willing to wire me 300 euro we can make that sentiment a reality.  More realistically I might be crashing at a hostel tonight.  Need to figure that out quick.

By the way, why is this airport 98% shopping mall?  I would be half-tempted to splurge on some Burberry and tax-free cognac if I had any of that currency they claim to be using.  45 DKK for a latte?  I'm not sure if that's a deal or not.  I'm imagining not.  On the plus, everything is clean and updated (paid for in no small part by those lattes no doubt) and the employees are very accommodating and blonde.  I think I'd like to come back here.  I've got to imagine the exchange rate is at least a bit more favorable than the euro.  Maybe, I should save the satin sheets for a night in Denmark.

Okay, I promised quick, so here's quick.  Tootles.