Awwww ... a puppy!

No news to report today. Didge has been under the weather, so I stayed home with him to make sure nothing new happened. In the meantime, here's a picture of a puppy!


Specifically, this is my brother's puppy, Dakota. She's hiding out in my parents' coffee table.

i go to bed in my tighty whities with no shirt on

I had originally planned to blog about my wrestling match with Didge today. During our morning walk, he found yet another discarded baguette on the street, and I was bound and determined not to let him eat it. (For the record, I won.)

Fortunately, something much more important came up in the meantime.

Background: For a while now, I have been looking for a hit counter so that I could see how many people are still visiting my blog. (The comments have dropped off, so I wondered if I was just writing to entertain myself.) Thanks to fellow blogger "Jodster," I found out about Site Meter, which is a free statistics-gathering service. I uploaded it to my site late last week, and have been enjoying the results thus far.

One of the bits of data that Site Meter collects is a list of web pages that have referred people to my site. Here's where it gets interesting. Someone in West Virginia found my page by going to the Yahoo! Search Engine and looking up the following:

i go to bed in my tighty whities with no shirt on

I have sooooo many comments to make on this ... and I bet you do, too! But since it's my blog, I get to start. You know where to leave your input. :)


First off, should I be relieved or concerned that my blog showed up as a search result for this string? OK, so it came up because someone used the phrase "tighty whities" when commenting on my October 4 posting. (That's the one where we were trying to figure out what the "no" sign at the top of the Arc de Triomphe meant.) I guess knowing the reason why I came up is somewhat reassuring.

Additionally, my blog was search result number 61, so I thankfully didn't come up first in line. Of course, this instantly makes me wonder: what DID come up first? So, after duplicating the search, here are the top five:

#1 -- Marc Ecko's 1UP Blog: The Infamous Captain Underpants"
#2 -- ItaliaWrapUp.html
#3 -- Prison Pete
#4 -- dreamstarsghandi's Xanga Site
#5 -- Where the Hell Was I?

In a nutshell: other people's blogs came up! Ha ha.

Wait, maybe I should be jealous because my blog didn't beat out the others? Nah, I'm OK with being #61. Anyone who voluntarily calls himself Captain Underpants (infamous or not) deserves to show up earlier.

Now, as for the guy in Blue Jay, West Virginia who thought up and performed the search (I'm assuming that the searcher was a guy, since girls wouldn't wear tighty whities, and I like to think that it's a confession) ... hey man, that's WAY more information than I needed.

If it's not a confession, then what on earth was Mr. West Va. looking for?? Apparently, he didn't have much luck finding what he wanted, considering that he went all the way to result #61 and still clicked into my blog. Curiously, he didn't stay for any amount of time, so I'm assuming he saw my blog, thought, "Nope, that's not it," and moved on.

Hmm, the more I think about it, the happier I am that my blog, nor I, wasn't "it" for him.

Another issue ... this person was searching for this at 9:30 am on a Tuesday morning (his time, not mine). Does this person work? If so, is he performing this Yahoo! search at work? What kind of dead-end job would you need to have to be searching the web at that hour in the morning for entertainment? And if he's not at work, shouldn't he be? Or shouldn't he be looking for a job if he's got this much free time? (Yea, yea, easy to say for an unemployed woman such as myself, but you don't see me surfing the web for likeminded people who sleep in similar ensembles.)

Hey, once I post this blog, will I come up higher in the search results? Let's find out....

--2 minutes later--

Now I'm number 65 on the search results page. I went DOWN? What the heck??

Seriously, comments are welcome (and encouraged) on this one.

Welcome, Asher!

My college roommate's new son. Congrats to the Harrmann family!

A "Cue the Deer" Moment

Occasionally, I see something in everyday life so amazingly picturesque that I can hardly believe it isn't a scene from a movie. They aren't major life events - say, a beautiful bride walking down the aisle - but rather just little things that happen at the perfect moment in the course of a normal day. Trying to describe these moments to other people is a waste of time, since you have to be in that exact place at that exact time for everything to align just right. I often refer to these as "cue the deer" moments, after a line in the 1988 Chevy Chase movie called Funny Farm.

If you haven't seen this movie, don't. It's not worth paying the rental fee to watch. (IMDb.com viewers rated it 5.5 out of 10, which is probably a bit generous.) I've seen it about 100 thousand times on TV, and as such, have the movie memorized. Unfortunately, this means that I often make references to lines from the movie, which no one else understands. Since I don't recommend actually paying to see the movie, I'll just explain the reference so that you know it if I make it again down the road.

Don't worry: if you decide to ignore my advice and add Funny Farm to your Netflix queue, I won't spoil the ending in my description. The plot is: a married couple decides to move from the city to the country, and finds that it's not as picture perfect as they expected it to be. Yep, that's the whole plot. Not very creative, huh?

The line I'm referring to comes late in the movie, when the no-longer-happy couple is trying to sell their house. The potential home buyers, a young husband and wife, have just arrived and looking around excitedly at the woods, the pond, the cute farmhouse, and so forth. The scene cuts to Chevy Chase's character, who uses a walkie-talkie to say, "Cue the deer." Now, you cut to two guys who release a young doe from a cage. Shortly thereafter, the potential buyers see Bambi cross their path as the music builds to a cheesy crescendo and flourishes with a cymbal crash. Voila! You have your "cue the deer" moment. It seems totally natural and perfect to the buyers, but we all know it's scripted. (Side note: at this point in the movie, it's almost Christmas in Vermont. Why on earth would you see a *young* deer running wild in the dead of winter? Not exactly the smartest home buyers, are they?)

As you might imagine, there have been TONS of "cue the deer" moments for me here in France. For example, there was the afternoon when I was walking Didge through Parc Montsourris, and a woman was playing a barrel organ while children played nearby. The combination of "French" music and happy children literally seemed to come straight out of a movie.

To my point: while I was picking up the apartment on Friday (post Thanksgiving dinner), I opened the window so that I could shake out a sheet. Guess what? It was snowing! I couldn't believe it. It was as if the director of my own personal movie had said, "OK, Thanksgiving is over. Cue Christmas!"

We ended up with a couple of inches by the middle of the day on Saturday, though it's all gone now. But, it completely put me in the Christmas spirit, which has never been achieved so quickly. So, nice job, invisible movie director!

See, I told you that explaining "cue the deer" moments is a waste of time. You're probably thinking, "Great, Amy, it snowed. Good for you. Does this really require a blog posting of its own?" All I can say is: hey, you read this far.

Speaking of Christmas, I'll take pictures of the Parisian decorations in the next week or so, since a lot of businesses are still setting things up. (The jewelry store downstairs did a particularly nice job, I must say.)

In the meantime, you'll have to settle for the picture that I took today outside of Gare Montparnasse. These morbidly obese pigeons are sitting on top of a vent over the métro. Can you tell that it's venting warm air? I guess pigeons aren't quite as dumb as I thought they were. (Though I still maintain that they would get a lot more done if they didn't insist on bobbing their heads with every single step that they take.)

A Thanksgiving Miracle ... Almost

Wow, 12 hours ago, I was listening to Adam Sandler's "The Thanksgiving Song" on my iPod while bathing a turkey in my kitchen sink. I guess the old saying is true: time flies when you're wrestling with poultry. (Or, something like that, anyway.)

At any rate, here it is:


Yes, Virginia, turkeys can be cooked in France, even in the face of great adversity. I am beginning to wonder, however, why my mom taught me how to "fold" a turkey because I have yet to put that knowledge to good use. For the third year in a row, the turkey was too big for the pan, so I had to just stuff it in with limbs splaying out all over the place and hope for the best. It's probably just as well anyway, since neither the wings or the drumsticks wanted to stay in place. (Yes, I literally wrestled the carcass for a couple of minutes before giving up.) In the end, I'm mainly relieved that the bird didn't flap its feathered wings and fly away!

For the record, I did end up using my pliers to de-plume our dinner. It was a rather surreal experience, reminiscent of plucking eyebrows. I felt like I was the turkey's stylist. "Now, Mademoiselle Turkey, do you want me to reshape, too, or just clean up your wings a bit? And shall we do your upper lip today? Oh wait, I see that you don't have a head anymore. Never mind."

Once the turkey was cooked, I had another problem: Didge. The carnivore in him came alive from the moment that turkey came out of the oven, but as many of you know, the poor guy is allergic to meat. So, he pouted and fussed all afternoon in a vain attempt to get a taste. You can see one of his many frantic attempts to hijack the turkey and eat it whole on my video website. (The web link is in the sidebar on the right, under Extras.)

Alas, the "Thanksgiving miracle" of properly cooked turkey didn't quite live up to expectations. No, it wasn't quite like the turkey carving scene from Christmas Vacation -- in this case, the breast meat was perfectly done, and there was plenty of it. Unfortunately (and oddly), the wings and drumsticks were still partially pink, so we didn't have any dark meat. So much for the convection oven's proud claims of "more even cooking" than conventional ovens! I'll be perfectly happy to go back to "convention" next year! In the meantime, if anyone from tonight's party comes down with the bird flu, you can blame the oven. I followed the instructions!

Rest assured that, in the end, we pigged out tonight. Nearly everyone went home moaning about how painfully full their stomachs were, so I consider this Thanksgiving a complete success.

Now, if I can just figure out how to explain to Didge that he can't sleep on my pillow tonight, I'll be all set. (Colin took this picture right before he went to bed. Didge hasn't moved since.)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving

Uh oh.

My turkey still has feathers in it.

I'm not kidding.

Here is a photo as evidence, with a red circle indicating a sample of the foul plumage.

All right, so it's not quite Little House on the Prairie, but I still wasn't 100 percent thrilled to discover a new use for the pair of pliers I bought yesterday.

By now, you're probably wondering whether or not I have ever cooked a real Thanksgiving dinner. Rest assured that I have -- twice, in fact. This is one of the reasons that Colin and I offered to host Thanksgiving at our apartment (i.e. I have experience that the other Michiganders probably don't have.) Of course, I'm used to the turkey coming frozen, pre-packaged with a pop-up timer and a rope truss. I'm also used to having my own roasting pan, a full-sized conventional oven, a big cutting board, and a good, sharp knive.

Now, on the night before Thanksgiving, I find myself faced with the following:

1. A convection oven
2. A cheap 13 x 9 aluminum pan instead of a roaster
3. No pop-up timer (though I managed without one last year)
4. No rope truss (though I thankfully have a lot of alumimum foil)
5. A dull knive
6. A cutting board that would barely hold a cornish game hen

Oh, and let's not forget:

A 13-pound (6 kilo) raw turkey in a cardboard box.

Faced with adversity, I did what any self- respecting adult would do.

I called my mommy.

Dad answered the phone, at which point we began to realize that there was a 3- to 4-second delay in our connection. So, as you read the following recreated (and only slightly abbreviated) dialogue, you must insert an uncomfortable dramatic pause between each line.

"Dad?"

"Hello?"

"Dad?"

"Hello?"

"Dad, it's Amy."

"Hello? Oh, OK, we were talking at the same time, I think."

"Dad ... Dad, my turkey still has feathers in it."

"OK, let me get your mother." [Father knows best!]

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm calling for moral support."

"Ok......"

"My turkey still has feathers in it."

"BWA-HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!"


You can see how much sympathy I got out of her. After several minutes of thoughtful, caring, motherly speculation on how to manage my predicament, she had only one piece of advice:

"Amy?"

"Yea, Mom?"

"Take pictures."

To be continued....

Napoleon Complexes

I coaxed Colin away from his research long enough to visit a dead emperor this afternoon. Yes, at long last, I toured Les Invalides, which includes the final resting place of Napoleon himself. If nothing else, I'll say this for the guy: he sure knows how to go out in style! Of course, Colin and I couldn't help but note the irony of a crypt that measures 15 feet high [and 4 meters long, 2 meters wide] for a guy who was only about 5'6". (OK, so Wikipedia says that this wasn't short by French standards of his time, but I still say that it's pretty scrawny to warrant such a large box.) As it turns out, he's actually inside 5 separate caskets in there. I thought that seemed a bit excessive, but I guess I can't really talk until I conquer most of Europe. Heck, I'd settle for having Didge obey me the first time I give him a command.

Anyway, as I mentioned before, the late emperor has some amazing digs for his final resting place. He's under the gold dome of the church once used for war veterans (Les Invalides was a rest home of sorts for vets, which included a church among its amenities). The dome itself is spectacular. The exterior has 12 kilograms (26.4 pounds) of gold on it, and the interior is painted with extravagent murals that mix the divine (i.e. Jesus and the Virgin Mary) with the self-proclaimed divine (King Louis XIV). I'm pleased with the picture that I got of the interior of the dome, even though you can't really see details in the paintings. What was really surprising was the altar -- covered in dust! Since that picture didn't turn out, you'll have to take my word that there are four huge spiral pillars flanking the altar to this church that were literally loaded with dust. (You almost couldn't tell that the pillars were green in some spots.) You'd think that there would be enough money in the budget to get a ladder and a Swiffer, if nothing else.

We also toured the WWII museum, which was interesting albeit in desperate need of maintenance. (Lights kept going out and a lot of things appeared to be missing or broken.) Anyway, they had some cool artifacts, including a motorcycle that paratroopers used (it packed up into a portable container for the jump!) Crazy stuff. Unfortunately, we forgot to go looking for Napoleon's horse and dog, both of which are purported to be stuffed and mounted somewhere in the museum. Oh well, that sounded creepy anyway.

I once asked Colin if we could get Didge stuffed and mounted once he died, but we couldn't agree on which of his goofy poses to immortalize. Of course, I also once regretted not naming Didge "Napoleon" because I'm convinced that he has the complex of said dictator (he's quite a shorty, but thinks he rules all). Sorry, Didge, but you're not getting a 15-foot casket or a gold dome.

On our way back on the métro, Colin congratulated me for earning true Parisian status when another passenger gave me a dirty look. For the record, that guy deserved what I did to earn the look! When we were getting on the train, he shoved in front of me (between me and Colin) and cut me off so that he could board first. Then, as if that weren't enough, he stopped right in front of the closest available seat and blocked the entire aisle so that I couldn't get any further on to the train. (He wanted to make sure he got a seat -- never mind that there were plenty available if he just kept moving.) Sigh. I guess chivalry is dead after all.

OH -- even if you go all "women's lib" on me and say that the man isn't required to allow the woman to go first or to offer her the seat, all I can say is that it would have been an equally rude gesture to shove in front of a man in the same situation.

Since Colin was on the opposite side of Monsieur Rude, I pushed past in a not-so-gentle manner, electing to bump M. Rude's elbow instead of jamming a baby carriage into the stomach of a mother already on board. I heard him say, "Madame!" at me, but Colin had to tell me about the dirty look. As far as I'm concerned, he deserved having his precious little elbow bumped, and I'd do it again if I could! So there!

POSTSCRIPT

This blog entry is dedicated to the undisputed World's Ugliest Dog, Sam, who passed away last Friday. (I swear, this is a real dog, not something from a Stephen King movie.) For more details, here is a link from CNN.com (or click on the title of this blog posting). You can also check out his mom's blog for more pictures, if morbid curiosity gets the best of you. Rest in peace, ugly one!

Dog attacks its own leg

No news today, but here's a funny video I came across on YouTube (click on the title of this post if the following link doesn't work):

http://www.youtube.com/?v=BvmiMn9Nh5s

The only drawback is that it has a piped-in laugh track a la America's Funniest Home Videos. At least there isn't any stupid commentary by Bob Saget!

Fun with English

The first picture I offer this evening comes from the back of a box of instant chicken noodle soup. This particular brand is basically the bastard child of Campbell's soup and Ramen noodles. It consists of three teeny tiny packages of powder, which, when mixed with a thimble of hot water, produce a shot glass amount of soup. OK, maybe it makes a little bit more than that, but not much.

What caught my eye, however, was the "happy" ending to the instructions. I doubt I'll need to translate, but step one is to open and pour the contents of the packet into a cup; step two is to add 175 ml of hot water; and step three is to stir. After that, you simply smile and say "Hmmm!"

Hmmm?? Why not "Mmmm!"? Just one crunch -- er, I mean, bite -- will tell you why. (Hint: if you ever wondered why Kellogg's doesn't make a chicken soup breakfast cereal, just give this a try.)

My other picture for the day comes from just down the street from us, on the rue Sarrette. This store specializes in very large sizes, as explained in the small print under Big and Nice.

Hold on a sec. What does nice mean? Does it mean that the clothing is both large and pleasant? Does it mean that the store owner is a friendly giant who sells clothing to NBA players and the obese? Or does it mean that only large and kind people are allowed to shop here?

In the case of the last question, what is the criteria for this? Do you merely have to be polite and jovial upon entrance into the store? Or do you have to document your niceness to be allowed to shop here? And how nice is nice enough? I envision a conversation something like this:

"Bonjour, monsieur! I see that you are a man of considerable size. Can you provide documentation of your niceness?"

"Well, I gave some money to that homeless guy out there..."

"Hmmmm. I guess that's a start. What else do you have?"

"Ummm ... I picked up after my dog after he did his business this morning."

"Yes, but that is the law. You are expected to do that."

"Doesn't the fact that no one else in the entire country does make me a nice person?"

"No, it merely makes you a law-abiding citizen. And a bit of a goody-goody, if I might say so. What else do you have?"

"OK, OK, I have a letter from my mother that indicates my niceness in her presence."

"Let's see. [looks over letter] I'm sorry, monsieur, but there is no official stamp on this paper to indicate that your mother actually meant it. Do you have anything else?"

"No, that's all I have."

"Then I'm sorry, monsieur, but I cannot sell you my garments of unusual size. Please come back after you have saved a drowning child or resisted honking your horn while driving in Paris."

I suppose that if this scenario rings true, then the owner of Big and Nice should really invest in the "red light/green light" doorbell system that the banks use. I sure as heck wouldn't want to be the one who has to turn away a big and not nice person without some kind of bullet-proof glass between the two of us!

La fête de Beaujolais Nouveau

As a child of the midwestern United States, I've definitely been to my share of fall festivals. My hometown of Mexico, MO, for example, hosts the annual Soybean Festival each fall, complete with a parade, a craft show, and various games involving soybeans. Laugh if you want, but these seemingly goofy events are what give small towns their true character. Besides, where else can you get free candy tossed at you from the top of a combine?

Paris has its own festival, though as you might expect, it's a bit more high-brow than soybeans. Instead, it celebrates the first day that the new cases of Beaujolais Nouveau wine are available. This lovely red wine has a uniquely speedy fermentation process, so the grape-to-bottle process is a mere matter of weeks. By French law, however, it is illegal to release the new batch before the third Thursday of November. As we discovered this past Thursday, the mandated release day is a cause for true celebration across the city. (If you want to read more about la fête itself, click on the title of this blog posting to open a webpage with more details.)

With Dave and Rebecca in town, Colin and I wanted to find a good French restaurant anyway -- the wine celebration was just an unplanned bonus. We selected a place in the 7th, close to their hotel near the Eiffel Tower, called Le Chevert. It serves cuisine from Franche-Comté, a region in eastern France in the Jura mountains.

Le Chevert is a teeny little restaurant that your average tourist wouldn't pick out as a unique place to go. Au contraire, mes amies -- this place is a treasure! We instantly took a liking to the place as our waiter seated us and apprehensively asked if we spoke French. (Of course we do: we have Colin!) With a look of relief, he explained the special of the evening to Colin, throwing in what little English he knew with a sheepish grin. He was delightfully pleasant and kind, and we felt right at home.

Things only improved from there, as we watched the restaurant fill to the brim with "regulars" who all exchanged bisses (kisses on the cheeks) with the staff. That's when I noticed why the waiter was in such a good mood: he was doing shots of beaujolais nouveau! The wine definitely made for a festive atmosphere, and I felt like we were actually at party at someone's home. To top off the celebratory mood, the background music was all polka. (Franche-Comté is, after all, on the Swiss border!) At one point, we nearly had Rebecca dancing with the waiter, though I think it would have taken a few more glasses of wine to convince her that this was a good idea...

Colin, Dave, and I ordered the special, which was a five-course dinner with charcuterie (an appetizer of thinly sliced meat), salad, a main dish, cheese, and dessert. OH! And of course, a bottle of beaujolais nouveau! I am quite pleased to say that it lived up to its hype. It complemented every course of our meal, from the sausage and potatos to the camembert cheese, exceedingly well. The last course was tarte aux pommes (apple pie). What more can I say? YUM!!

The only drawback to the place was that it lacked a non-smoking section. After two and a half hours, my eyes were on fire. Colin asked for the bill, and the waiter said, "Already?" seeming genuinely sad to see us go. We were sad to go, too, but given that it was nearly 11 pm on a "school night," we knew we needed to leave.

Rebecca, Dave, and I went outside while Colin stopped at the restroom. On his way out, the waiter called after him, "Monsieur, monsieur!" and asked where we were from. When Colin told him, a woman seated nearby made a noise and pointed to the waiter as if to say, "HA! I told you so!" As it turned out, the entire restaurant was making bets on where we were from!

OK, so we stuck out like sore thumbs. I still took the bet as a compliment -- at least they didn't all seem to think that we were a bunch of loud, obnoxious Americans!

Meet Amy, your Parisian tour guide

We enjoyed our first guests this week! Dave and Rebecca stayed with us on Wednesday evening before checking in to their hotel. (Rebecca is a fellow musicologist in Colin's program.) I have had an absolute ball showing them around and giving French culture tips! I was also amazed at how well I knew the city when we climbed up the Arch de Triomphe on Wednesday afternoon. I could point out all kinds of landmarks and answer most of Rebecca and Dave's questions! Simply amazing. I got a cute picture of them, as seen to the left. It's only too bad that it was a super-cloudy, cold afternoon.

Fortunately, the weather has been more cooperative since their arrival. It's pretty cold, but sunny and clear. Rebecca and Colin have been in the libraries for the past two days, which left Dave and I to do some exploration on our own. On Thursday, we climbed the tower at Notre Dame, which was nice for me because I was able to go to the very top this time. Plus, it was great to know exactly where to go. There were a bunch of Americans walking all around the spot where you're supposed to form a line, but they didn't understand what to do. So, Dave and I just walked up to the entrance like pros. (As soon as we walked up, there were several "oh's!" and a line quickly formed behind us.) Climbing the stairs was MUCH easier for me this time, which totally rocked. I still had to stop and rest, but mainly because I'm still recovering from a chest cold.

As luck would have it, we went into the main part of Notre Dame during a mass, so we got to hear the organ play. Since it provided interesting background music, I shot and added two videos of Notre Dame to my video website (the link is under Extras in the right-hand sidebar).

Another first for me was our visit to the Musée d'Orsay that afternoon. You can see a shot of the main floor to the right. It's SO beautiful! (And yes, it was a train station at one time. Doesn't it looks like the main hallway of one?)

Despite the fact that I know absolutely, positively nothing about art, I did learn a few things about my personal taste.

1. I really like impressionism, especially Claude Monet. However, I only like it in person because I like to see the layers and textures on the canvas. No photo or print can do his work justice - you just have to see it in person.

2. As it turns out, I do NOT like pointillism as I once thought I did. I do, however, like Georges Seurat very much. The other artists used bigger, sloppier dots than Seurat, which I think is cheating.

3. Auguste Rodin has every right to be one of the most famous sculptors in the world. I have seen a lot of sculpture since I arrived, and none of them hold a candle to what I've seen of Rodin's work. He is, quite simply, amazing. I can't wait to go to the Rodin museum.

Despite what you might expect from item #3, the picture to the left is not a work of Rodin's. It was done in 1880 by a guy named Jean Dampt. My English translation of the title is "St. John the Baptist as a child." The face is what really struck me enough to take a photo: it is such a pure, life-like rendition of a child's face. Plus, when you know who it is supposed to be, the boy takes on a bit of a glow. Maybe that's just my interpretation, but hey, isn't that what you're supposed to do when you're in an art museum?

Colin, Rebecca, and Dave toured the Palais Garnier today. I had planned to go, but as the saying goes, the mind was willing, but the flesh was weak. I'm still fighting the remnants of my chest cold, so two days of normal activity had wiped me out. Apparently, it's an amazing place and well worth the tour, so I'll have to go back myself some time. (Joe and Kate, if you're interested, we can go when you're here!)

Colin says that puppy caught my cold because he's hacking up a lung right now. Somehow, I doubt that we're lucky enough for him to be sick (i.e. he would want to sleep all the time, and thus be low-maintenance). Regardless, he was good company last night when I was trying to get warm, as you can see to the right!

In preparation for Thanksgiving, I ordered our turkey from an American grocery in the 7th. Wow, is it EXPENSIVE. On the bright side, this grocer also sells brownie mix, cake mix, frosting, and Dr. Pepper. (Yes, there are a few things that France hasn't caught on to yet.) Actually, now that I think about it, the entire store was packed solid with junk food (Doritos and the like). I guess you can tell where the priorities of American expats lie!!

And, last but not least, I had my first madeleine this evening.

I also had my second and third madeleine shortly thereafter. Mmmm, butter.

Madeleines are little cakes with a sweet taste. They have a bump in the middle of them that makes me think of an egg yolk in shape. All I can say is that the calories I burned off climbing stairs for the past two days are all back now.

In fact, I think I'll go have my fourth madeleine, now that I'm thinking about them again. Look, I've got to have something to wash down the nasty cough medicine that I'm about to imbibe!

Calling in sick

This is the first time I've called in sick to a blog! The sore throat turned into a lovely little cold that basically makes me a total pain to be around. All I want to do is sleep all day, which means I'm wide awake at night. Somehow, I doubt that Slaughter had me in mind when they penned the brilliant words "up all night, sleep all day." (That's the crappy metal band that wrote that song, right??) Anyway, my postings probably won't be daily this week, since no one wants to read the sordid details about my Kleenex usage habits.

In case you're wondering, I did try to fix my cold-induced sleeping problem. Under the "brilliant" assumption that all problems can be cured with medication, I popped an over-the-counter sleeping pill two nights ago. I thought (naively) that it would help reset my internal clock. Ha. Instead, my body rewarded this stupidity by making me nauseous and dizzy. Rather than blissfully sleeping through the night, I spent it praying to the porcelain god. (No offerings made, I'm pleased to report.) So, I swore off Simply Sleep all together and decided to simply go with whatever happens. Hey, I was only up until 3 am last night! That's progress, right? *Sigh.*

From now on, I'm sticking with my original mantra: "Ah, alcohol: the cause and solution to all of life's problems." Thank you, Homer Simpson, for reminding me that wine would have worked better, and been a heck of a lot more enjoyable. :)

At least SOMEONE is getting some sleep

The sore throat lingers on today, but I'm pleased to say that I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping tonight. Last night was terrible - I finally went to bed at 7 am. No joke.

Of course, you can always count on Didge to pinch-hit when he's needed. Colin woke up in the middle of the night to discover that someone else had decided to take advantage of the vacant side of the bed. He managed to snap a picture with the night setting on our digital camera, as seen to the left. Fortunately, Colin didn't mistake Mr. Doo for me. I suspect that he would have received a much wetter smooch than he bargained for.

There was one positive outcome to my insomnia last night: I found a free website for sharing videos. I linked my new video page under the "Extras" section on the right side of this page. There are only two videos up right now, and they are a bit dull -- but hey, who am I to deprive you of the joys of my cinematography? I'm thinking about substituting the sound in the video of Didge with "Flight of the Bumblebee" for comic effect.

It's 5 am -- do you know where your marching band is?

Thanks to a sore throat that just won't quit, I find myself wide awake at 5:15 am. Surfing for entertainment, I stumbled across the Marching Mizzou Alumni Band web page. Of all things, I found a picture of myself from the "good old days" of college! Big surprise. The photo to the left includes all of the people from my hometown of Mexico, Missouri, who went on to march for the University of Missouri-Columbia. There we are, young and carefree, next to an aircraft carrier in San Diego, California. I'm in the back row, second from the left. At first, I didn't even think I was in the picture - I look so different! (Plus, I think that's the only time I ever voluntarily wore a ball cap.)

You know, I truly had a blast in Marching Mizzou. I was ready to leave when my four years of "service" were done, but I treasure that time in my life. Looking back, I'm sure I never expected to be nostalgic about practicing the waltz step in 100 degree heat with 90 percent humidity on an asphalt "field" ... but there are few things that will bond you to 300 other people better than sweating it out together. I still laugh to think about how we absolutely INSISTED on wearing full uniforms for the first game of the season, even when it was so blistering hot that rational people would be wearing tank tops, shorts, and a lot of sunblock. I think that hot Missouri sun must have fried our brains.

Of course, I met Colin in Marching Mizzou, so I suppose you could say that there were "additional incentives" to being a part of the band bunch. (Beer olympics and dirty limericks aside, of course.) We didn't start dating until my last year in band, though, so I have plenty of non-Colin-related memories of Rally Nights, drumline cheers about OJ's mom, and blatantly phallic drill charts.

So, here's to a middle-of-the-night nostaglia session ... dance a little bit, drink a little bit, follow the band ...

ABBA as a window into the soul

I downloaded ABBA: Gold – Greatest Hits from iTunes this week. Make fun of me if you want, but I am a true, dyed-in-the-wool ABBA fan. Much like Crystal Gayle, Neil Diamond, and Johnny Cash, ABBA became a part of my repertoire because I borrowed my parents’ cassette tapes a lot as a child. Don’t believe me? Just ask the DJ to play Dancing Queen at a wedding reception, and you’ll be treated to the most gawd-awful karaoke rendition of this song that you can imagine. And, thanks to the “miracle” of modern sound technology, Madonna has recently revived a sample of Gimme, Gimme, Gimme! (A Man After Midnight) to inspire a new generation of would-be ABBA fans. I tell you, if my life had a soundtrack, there would be a lot of ABBA classics sprinkled throughout the years. As an example from this week, one of their greatest hits would serve as the theme song for something disappointing that I just learned about myself.

Money, money, money,
Must be funny,
In the rich man’s world.

Money, money, money,
Always sunny,
In the rich man’s world.

Ah, all the things I could do,
If I had a little money,
It’s a rich man’s world.

I hadn’t set out looking for a moment of personal introspection on Wednesday – I was merely looking for jewelry. More specifically, I needed a necklace to go with the dress that I bought for our trips to the opera. Initially, I was giddy at the idea of having free reign to go jewelry shopping, and immediately visited all of my “usual” haunts in the 14^th. No luck. Undaunted, I started researching my options. I pulled out two guidebooks that came with our apartment: Paris Pas Cher (roughly “Inexpensive Paris”) and Paris on $90 a Day. Between the two, I compiled a lengthy list of “affordable” jewelry stores that I could scout out. In particular, one of the guidebooks had recommended a chain called Bijoux Burma for locating good costume jewelry. Since this chain had five locations in Paris proper alone, I thought I had it made.

My first clue probably should have been the company that Bijoux Burma keeps. When I found the right street for the first address on my list, I was treated to glamorous views of Cartier and Tiffany and Co. Ever the optimist, I thought that Bijoux Burma might just be a quirky, hip store that could hold its own amongst the endless array of luxury stores nearby. WRONG. Let’s just say that if Bijoux Burma sells “costume jewelry,” I can’t even begin to imagine how to define fine jewelry.

At any rate, I had a lovely time salivating over the gorgeous pieces in the shop windows all along the Rue de la Paix. In fact, the longer I was there, the crazier I got. I found myself rationalizing a purchase! “How often do you get to live in Paris?” I thought. “It’s a great investment – everyone should have one fabulous diamond necklace that they can wear for years.” Or, better yet, “I have a little bit of extra money in my checking account in the states that I could use…”

That’s when it hit me: if I were rich, I would be a selfish, spoiled person! This was a truly disappointing realization. For years, I have always said that I would make a great rich person because I would continue to live normally and just give the majority of the money to charities. For example, when I volunteered at the Humane Society of Huron Valley, I would always tell myself that I would build them a new shelter if I had the money. Or, when Hurricane Katrina hit, I would have found a way to get all of those people out of the Superdome right away – or at the very least, dropped tons of water and supplies for them to ease the suffering.

Now I realize that, if I had a lot of money, I’d actually spend it on myself. I would own expensive jewelry. I would have a ton of clothes. I would have a new car (a Toyota Prius, or some similar hybrid car). I would have a house. I would fly my friends over to visit me here in Paris. I would travel all over the world and see all of the exotic places that I dream of visiting.

This is a thoroughly disappointing thing to learn. I would much rather think of myself as a selfless philanthropist. (Heck, who wouldn’t?) But while I would truly delight in donating a new building to a penniless charity, I don’t think I would have enough money left over after my personal spending spree to do it. What a bummer – I’m not a candidate for sainthood after all. (Of course, I’m also not Catholic, so that might impede the whole beatification process a bit, too.)

By the way, I found the perfect necklace to go with my dress. It’s only 100 euros. I keep it in a store down the street from me and visit it every day. Sigh. “Ah, all the things I could do [for myself, that is] if I had a little money…”

I peed on the Eiffel Tower

Let's go to the scoreboard to see how well Amy is doing with her "to-do list" of siteseeing.

• Go to the top of the Sacré Coeur dome. Check.
• Go to the Hôtel des Invalides to see Napolean's grave and the Army museum. Nope.
• Go to the Centre Georges Pompidou. I'm supposed to be there right now...

OK, so I'm not quite keeping up with my schedule. I think, however, that I made up for that last night with a nighttime trip to the Eiffel Tower. My original plan was to climb the stairs up the first two levels, and then take the elevator to the top. Yet, while I wasn't exactly looking forward to the workout, I was mainly unmotivated to go the tower because I had already seen several great views of Paris from above. The views from Notre Dame, the Arch de Triomphe, and Sacré Coeur were all fantastic. Did I really want to pay to see the same thing from yet another angle?

This issue resolved itself while Colin and I were eating dinner at "our" café last night. Rachel called in search of something to do because she wasn't able to get rush tickets for a concert she wanted to go to. The solution popped into my head almost immediately: the Eiffel Tower at night! We agreed to meet up at the foot of the tower after dinner.

"Unfortunately" the stairs weren't open last night, so I had to take the elevators. Oh darn! We paid our 10 or so euros for the trip to the top, and shortly thereafter were riding a series of elevators inside the icon of Paris. I am quite pleased to say that the view did not disappoint, though most of the pictures did. I have a night setting on my camera, but since it holds the lens open longer, it's a real challenge to avoid moving the slightest bit and getting a blurry picture. A few turned out quite well, I think, including this one of Rachel to the left of the view of the river Seine. Again, it doesn't do the view justice, but at least we have a token reminder of what it was like!

It was pretty cold up at the top (we were arguing about whether we were seeing snow or mist in the spotlights' rays), but not bitterly so. I was definitely glad to have a coat, a pair of gloves, a scarf, and a Colin to keep me warm!

As for the subject of this blog, it is indeed true: I peed on the Eiffel Tower last night. Seriously! There is a little bathroom on the second level that doesn't charge an entrance fee like every other tourist site in and around Paris. The best part? This bathroom also disproves the theory of "you get what you pay for" because the toilets have seats, there is plenty of toilet paper, and the sinks even give you warm water to wash your hands!

I think my favorite part of the evening (other than the opportunity to use bathroom humor in a joke) was when the tower "sparkled" the hour. Apparently, at the top of every hour, the tower turns on all of these little white strobe lights that flash in random order, giving the tower a "sparkling" effect. Of course, the picture doesn't even remotely do it justice, but you can kind-of see the white lights on the sides. I'll have to go back some time and take a little video of it. The kleptomaniac in me came alive at that moment (I love sparkly things), though even if I had thought of a way to steal the Eiffel Tower, I'm fairly certain that the 20 or so guards armed with semi-automatic rifles would have had something to say about it. So, sorry everyone, you'll just have to come to Paris to see for yourself.

The Butt Warmer

Winter is coming. Man, I hate being cold.

Let me say that again for emphasis: I hate being cold!

Call me crazy -- heck, you can call me Al as long as I can call you Betty -- but I don't buy into the philosophy that cold weather is superior to warm weather because "you can always put on more layers of clothing if you're cold." First off, you're going to hit critical mass at some point, after which you will not be able to move your joints, just like the poor kid in the snowsuit in A Christmas Story. Second, the moment you step into a building, you have to peel a bunch of those layers off, only to put them on again shortly thereafter when you leave. This is far too much work for me. In fact, the mere thought of putting on a winter coat right now is exhausting.

I personally find being cold to be a painful experience, so I try to avoid it at all costs. So, you can imagine my sense of dread when I first learned that the building we live in was built in the 1890's. In other words, this place is drafty. Really drafty. And Amy's going to be cold. Really cold. And when Amy's cold, she's not happy.

And when Amy ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Already, I am struggling with the cool evenings. The first night that we decided to turn the heat on, we got it way too high. Normal people wouldn't have a problem with this: they would simply sleep without the covers, or get up and turn the heater down. I am not a normal person. Despite every rational bone in my body, I am still convinced that the monsters in the closet can't get me as long as I'm under the covers, so I can't possibly throw the covers off and sleep without them. As for getting out of bed to turn off the heat - are you kidding? Me, voluntarily get out of bed when it's dark outside? I guess you could say that I got the health benefits of a sauna right in my own home that night.

Of course, the worst place to be cold is the bathroom. In true French style, our bathroom is actually two rooms: we have a toilet on one side of the apartment, and a shower and sink on the other side. Fortunately, the toilet seat hasn't quite iced over yet, so I'm doing OK on that end. (No pun intended.) Coming out of the shower, however, is another matter.

Enter the butt warmer.

This is my new nickname for the heater in our shower room. This little slice of heaven, pictured at left, isn't much to look at. You can see my toothbrush on top for scale -- the butt warmer is wedged in quite tightly between the sink and the door jamb. But wow, does this sucker pack a punch! Just flip the switch from "stop" to "marche" and voila! Heat magically comes pouring out of those wonderful little vents. And, as the nickname suggests, it's right at butt height for me. My touchie stays quite toasty while I race to get myself dried off and change into my pajamas.

So, in the style of the Bud Light "Real Men of Genius" beer commercials ...

[Real Men of Genius]
Today we salute you, Mr. Tiny Bathroom Heater Maker
[Mr. Tiny Bathroom Heater Maker]
Only you could know just how cold my posterior would get in a 19th century building
[Don't make 'em like they used to]
You dared to make a powerful, yet efficient machine that can heat a shower room in under 10 seconds
[A room of only 1 square meter]
Without you, we couldn't shower without penalty during those cold, winter months
[Gonna shower all night long now]
So stand and be recognized, Mr. Tiny Bathroom Heater Maker
[Mr. Tiny Bathroom Heater Maker]
Amy 7252, Paris, France

Sure, I fit in! Just don't ask me to speak.

Here was my original agenda for today, as spelled out in yesterday's blog post:

"Go inside [Sacré-Coeur] and climb the stairs to the top of the dome ... After I meet my conversation partner, I'm off to shop in some inexpensive jewelry stores to see if I can find a necklace to go with my opera dress."

I'm pleased to report that I did everything I planned, though not exactly in the order I expected. Overnight, the riots had managed to seep deep enough into Colin's and my collective unconsciousness that we both woke up with every little noise, convinced that the angry mob was outside our window. (At least I think that’s why we couldn’t sleep. Either that, or we really need to cut back on our caffeine consumption.) At any rate, we both woke up bleary eyed and unrested around 10:30. To give ourselves a break, we had a leisurely breakfast, showered (separately, of course – there’s barely room for one person in there, much less two!), caught up on the news, and headed out into the world around 12:30 pm. With only 30 minutes to spare, there was no way I was going to make it to Sacré Coeur and back before meeting my new conversation partner, Isabelle.

I am pleased to say that Isabelle is fantastic! I don’t know why, but I was a little worried that I would end up with a little old lady. I’m not sure how old Isabelle is, but she’s far from little old lady status, thankfully. We agreed to switch back and forth – 30 minutes in English and 30 minutes in French – for two hours. The first 30 minutes was all French, and within the first 10 minutes of this, I was certain of two things:

1. Isabelle is a great conversation partner because she's good at correcting pronunciation, grammar, etc.

2. I SUCK AT FRENCH.

No, seriously. There is no other way to express item number two. I just freeze up when it comes to speaking French! I am a disgrace to my wonderful teachers at Michigan. I’m not afraid to talk, but I literally cannot think of a single thing to say! Poor Isabelle ended up asking me questions, which I answered in rather poor form. I cobbled together a couple of stories, but for the most part, it’s a wonder she didn’t just get up and leave in disgust.

Her English, as you can probably guess, is awesome. She’s really self-conscious of her French accent, and wants nothing more than to lose it all together when she speaks English. This is a tough thing for me to help her accomplish, but I’ll do my best! She has had conversation partners before, so she was really well prepared (which made me feel like a real schmuck). I promised her that I would brush up a bit and plan some things to talk about before we meet again. (Assuming there is a next meeting!)

Alas, I did learn one unfortunate fact from her. Pschitt is not pronounced as we originally thought. It’s actually pronounced like the sound a bottled carbonated beverage makes when you twist off the cap. (Kind of like pssst, but with a sch sound instead of just a hissing s.) I told Isabelle what it looked like to us Americans, and she was quite surprised to hear the correlation between the two words. (Yes, she knew what s—t meant without me explaining.) After more or less humiliating myself with Isabelle, we parted company amicably and I headed on to Sacré Coeur.

I quickly realized on the métro that I should have used the facilities at the café. I had to go. BAD. As soon as I reached my stop, I dashed up the stairs in search of the nearest 50-centimes refuge. On my way there, a man having a rushed conversation on a cell phone stopped me and asked very quickly, “Est-ce que vous avez un stylo?” (“Do you have a pen?”) I was so proud that I knew exactly what he said that I replied, “Oui!” and gleefully handed over my pen. As he started to write something down on his arm, it occurred to me that this might not have been the best thing for me to do. But, since it was too late to tell him that I didn’t have a pen, I decided to wait patiently until he handed it back to me.

Moments later, he thanked me and told me I was kind, and I squeaked out “de rien” (not a problem). He quickly caught on that I was not a native French speaker, but asked me (in French) if I spoke French. I said that I did a little bit, and he asked me where I was from. I’m sure he wasn’t as innocent as he looked, he seemed genuinely shocked to find out that A) he had asked an American for a pen, and B) said American understood French. He switched into English and asked if he could wait for me so that we could talk more once I came out of the bathroom! (Gulp.) Fortunately, he gave me an out: he asked if I had to be anywhere, and I literally said, “No, I have to meet … someone … somewhere.” Seriously, I could not have lied more obviously! Fortunately, he got the hint and said, “No problem, it was nice to meet you anyway,” and left me alone. So, maybe he was totally innocent, who knows? I’m not missing any valuables, so no one successfully pick-pocketed me while we were chatting. So, maybe on some level, I fit in a little bit better than the average tourist. Here’s hoping anyway.

My next encounter with “well-intentioned” English speakers came shortly thereafter. If you’ve been to Paris, you’ve probably encountered the super-aggressive beggars near Sacré Coeur, the Louvre, or other big tourist sites at least once. Their scam is simple: a man gets in the face of an unsuspecting tourist and ties a cheap bracelet around his or her wrist. Then, they coerce the victim into paying for the bracelet that is now permanently attached. I find it to be incredibly rude and inappropriate, but I guess you can’t blame them too much for sticking with something that works.

Being the savvy woman about town, I was fully prepared to run into these guys today. So, as I got close, I just stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and kept my head down as if I were going to head-butt my way through. As expected, a man got right into my personal dance space and tried to get my attention. I just said, “No, merci” and kept walking. After about five or six “no merci’s” I had successfully run the gauntlet and the evil bracelet pusher left me alone. Strangely enough, it was kind-of empowering to know exactly how to get through the trap without getting caught. Girl power!

Once I had climbed the entire hill, I made a beeline for the stairs to the dome. At that point, it was just shy of 4 pm, and I was afraid that they would close for the day before I got in. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case, and 5 euros later, I was on my way up the spiral staircase.

There are simply no words to describe the view! Except for the city pollution, it was a beautifully clear afternoon with hardly a cloud in the sky. I would gladly make that climb again in a heartbeat – it was 5 euros very well spent indeed. Some Irish tourists were up at the top at the same time as me, so I was able to have one of them take my picture as proof of the climb. Since I STILL can’t post pictures to Blogger.com (what’s up, guys??), I’ve added shots to http://caroust.photosite.com. C’était fantastique!

Once you get back down to the bottom of the dome’s tower, you have access to several little chapels and relics. I took a fairly quick spin through this because it was getting late and I really didn’t want to be in the 18^th arrondissement after the sun went down!

On my way back down the hill, I passed a man “playing” a violin for spare change. I put “playing” in quotes because he was the WORST musician I have ever heard playing for money in Paris. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing when he squawked out “O Sole Mio!” in the most pathetic, duck-choking-esque series of notes that could possibly be played on a violin. I think people were just giving him money in the hope that it would make him stop.

Of course, I had to run into the bracelet-pushers on the way down as well. I was one firm, “NO MERCI” away from using the only French curse word I know, but the guy got the message just in time. Darn. After all, what fun is it to know how to curse in another language if you never have an occasion to use it? Right? Oh dear, here comes my mom and a bar of soap. Gotta run!

I woke up in Paris

Colin asked me how I slept last night, since he didn't do so well. My response? "Well, I've never been in a coma officially, but..." In fact, I slept so hard and long that I was barely aware of Colin's departure for the library today.

Around 11:30 am (no joke), I began to regain consciousness. Didge had long since given up all hope of going outside, and as such had plastered himself to my side before falling into a mini-coma of his own. We were a rather pathetic sight, I am quite certain! By the time I got up, prepared and ate lunch, showered and dressed, it was about 1:15 pm and I had officially frittered away a half-day. I wish I could say that today was the exception to the rule, but I've enjoyed quite a few days of sheer laziness over the last couple of weeks. There has been many a late morning spent reading in bed, laying on the couch watching movies, or trying in vain to understand the French cartoons.

But, enough is enough. Do I live in Paris or not? Well then, it's time to start acting like it! After a long afternoon walk with Didge and a quick trip to the supermarket, I sat down with the book "1000 Places to See Before you Die" and looked up the suggestions for Paris. I was certain that I had done nearly all of the items on the list. Boy, was I wrong! I am shamefully deficient on the top ten list of "must sees." So, in an effort to rectify this gross oversight, I created an itinerary for myself this week.

Tuesday: Go up to Sacré-Coeur (which I have done), but go inside and climb the stairs to the top of the dome (which I have not done). In fact, I'm not totally sure that I have ever been inside Sacré-Coeur, an odd omission that I will correct first thing tomorrow. After I meet my conversation partner, I'm off to shop in some inexpensive jewelry stores to see if I can find a necklace to go with my opera dress.

Wednesday: The Louvre, part one. I'll probably hit the highlights first, since it's been nearly 15 years since I have been inside. More importantly, I'll get a feel for what parts of the museum are important to me, so that I can plan future excursions. (Goodness knows I'll never see every last work of art in the Louvre!)

Thursday: Off to the Hôtel des Invalides, including the Musée d'Armes (I think that's what it's called, but I could be wrong) and Napolean's grave. I nearly headed up to do this today, but fortunately discovered before I left my apartment that this site is closed on the first Monday of every month. (Guess what today is?) After that tour, I'll go all the way up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I'll take the stairs for the first two levels, then the elevator for the third since it's the only option. As I recall, I saw the first two levels when I was here in 1990, but not the third because my parents were out of money by the time we paid for the first two elevators. The stairs are cheaper, and better for my health anyway. (My body hurts just thinking about it!)

Friday: Off to explore the Centre Georges Pompidou, which is the contemporary art museum. Colin asked me to save this trip for Friday, since the libraries will be closed for Armistice Day. Apparently, there is an exhibit there that he wants to see, so I obliged the request. (I informed him this evening that I was tired of waiting for him to do the siteseeing things that I wanted to do, so I'm just going without him!) That night, we'll be dining with Annie and her husband, since we haven't had a chance to catch up with them in about a month. Apparently, Annie's apartment choice is turning out to be not-so-hot, but I don't know the details yet.

Saturday: Musée de Cluny, which is a medival museum and home to some former Roman baths. I don't know much about this place yet, but I'll do some reading before I go.

Sunday: Musée D'Orsay, which I have been dying to go to for quite a while now. It's generally the #2 museum mentioned as a Paris must-see, behind the Louvre, of course.

On Monday, we will have our first visitors! Rebecca and Dave are coming from U of M (Rebecca is a colleague of Colin's). Unfortunately, they're going to have to get a van or a taxi to get here because the train between Charles de Gaulle and the city goes through an area that has seen riots recently. It's a mildly risky trip under normal circumstances anyway, since pickpockets love to frequent that line.

Speaking of the riots, someone died last night as a direct result of the violence - a photojournalist met a very gruesome end when some rioters beat him to death to get his camera. Colin is watching the TV news right now, and all of the images are either fires or burned-out shells of cars. There was violence in the 4th last night, which is a bit surprising. I guess it just spilled over from the 3rd, but I don't really know. I'm surprised that the riots have continued as long as they have -- it seems like the government should have declared a curfew in the arrondissements affected by now, and arrested anyone who went out on the streets at night. I know the riot police are out every night, but it's hard to understand what they are doing beyond helping the fire fighters stay safe.

News Briefs

I don't have any epic tales to tell about this weekend, so here are some short updates on what we've been doing!

• I found empty spray bottles for sale! The one I bought is far larger than I needed, but at this point, beggars can’t be choosers. Finally, I can iron with a spray bottle ... too bad I just finished ironing a big batch of laundry on Friday.
  

• Didge’s “cast” came off today, immediately after which he began incessantly licking his long-lost foot. Fortunately, there has been no new bleeding, so we shouldn't be back to see the Aussie vet for a while. Keep your fingers crossed!
  

• We have high-speed internet access again! (Woo hoo!) But we can’t use it. (D’oh.) Our confirmation came in the mail, but as it turns out, the modem we have from Wanadoo isn’t compatible with our new provider’s software. Club Internet is sending us a new modem, which should show up in the mail tomorrow. Hopefully, the high-speed connection will resolve my photo uploading woes with Blogger.
  

• Rioting continues in and around Paris, or so we keep reading. There were riots last night in the third, which surprised me since that arrondissement is in the heart of the city. Colin says that it is an immigrant neighborhood, so I suppose the unrest there is not quite as unexpected as I thought. We could hear the helicopters flying overhead for the past few nights as they head toward the riots to shine spotlights on the violence. Other than that, you still wouldn’t know anything was wrong unless you keep up with the news. Colin is fascinated with the coverage, so he keeps me up to date every morning. Even though we are perfectly safe as long as we don't go "adventure seeking," we both hope it ends soon. Fortunately, there haven’t been any deaths yet.

• I found a small space heater in our apartment, comparable to the one I had at work at U of M. I am blissfully happy to have it blowing on my feet right now.

• Stateside, my brother is FINALLY getting a puppy! Dakota should be safely at home with Scott as I type.

Last night, Colin, Rachel and I went to the church at Alésia for a free performance of Fauré’s Requiem. I haven’t been to a “concert” in quite a while, so it was a bit of a treat. Plus, I got to wear my stiletto-heeled boots AND a new scarf, so I felt très French indeed. The inside of the church is quite lovely, which we didn’t expect. It was built in the 1800’s, so it’s not “old” by Parisian standards. Still, we really liked the interior. I love how the ceilings are painted: they are much more colorful than most of the cathedrals we have been in so far. In fact, I liked this interior better than Notre Dame! It's far less dreary and cavernous.

This afternoon, Colin and I took a walk outlined in one of the guidebooks that came with our apartment. We walked around Le Marais, which used to be swampland but is now a rather posh little neighborhood. I posted a couple of pictures of our tour on my photosite in the Paris scrapbook, if you're curious.

The walk started at the Bastille, which is definitely something that I have been wanting to see for historical reasons. There is a beautiful pillar there to commemorate the French revolutions of 1830 and 1848 (not the French Revolution, the other two), since the prison itself is torn down. In its place, there is an opera house that we are going to see an opera in. If you look at the pictures on my photosite, you can see the opera house behind the picture of the pillar. (It's the building with lots of glass squares on it.)

We also toured Victor Hugo’s apartment, which is huge and quite ornate. Since I didn’t go through the obligatory “Les Mis” obsession phase that so many people of my generation did, I probably wasn’t as enthralled with the tour as other people are. (I was busy obsessing over Phantom of the Opera at that critical time in my high school career). The courtyard that Hugo's apartment is in – a former home of kings and queens – is very picturesque with the pinkish buildings framing a little park with four running fountains and two large sandboxes. I somehow felt like we had "discovered" something unique when we went into this little nook of Paris. The weather was nice today, too, so Colin and I warmed a park bench and watched the kids play in the sandboxes for a little bit.

We also walked through the Jewish Quarter, which I found to be quite pleasant despite the throngs of pedestrians. The delis smelled fantastic (I was really hungry at this point), and the whole place had a very cozy, homey feeling to it. After the Jewish Quarter, our walk went into a gay neighborhood, but I didn’t really notice anything remarkable or memorable about the area except that it was a bit of a cultural contrast to the Jewish Quarter. I thought it had somewhat of an Ann Arbor-esque feeling to it, except that the neighborhood is obviously older than A2.

At dinner, we kept rolling our eyes at the silly requests that a nearby American couple was making. OK, we were in Pizza Hut, so I guess I don’t have any room to be smug. (Hey, everyone gets greasy pizza cravings every now and then!) At least we didn't ask for a glass of ice or a straw. [Colin: Actually, Pizza Hut pizza is way different here than in the States. It's much less greasy and I like the dough and cheeses better. Plus, all the olive oil really gives their pizza a nice flavor.]

The weather is starting to turn cooler, so I suspect that I will start touring museums in the upcoming weeks. I have yet to venture into the depths of the Louvre, and of course, the Musée d’Orsay is a must-see that I haven’t done yet. On Tuesday, I’m meeting a woman to practice French and English conversation – I answered her ad in a FUSAC magazine because I really need to force myself to use French more regularly. I hope she’s cool. Coincidentally, she has the same first name as a girl that I regularly sat next to in French 231 (Isabelle), so hopefully, that’s a good omen!

Paris Riots

Just a quick note to reassure everyone that Colin, Didge and I did NOT cause the riots in Paris!

On a more serious note, we really haven't noticed anything different in our "neck of the woods" so to speak. Colin says that he thinks the number of emergency vehicles heading through Port d'Orleans has increased, though I'm not sure that's really the case. He tends to be a little more observant about things like that.

We got an advisory e-mail from the American Embassy today that basically warned us not to go to the neighborhoods affected and to leave any place where demonstrations seem to be picking up steam. So basically ... business as usual for us! We don't have a reason to go to the neighborhoods involved, so there shouldn't be any problems.

If you want background on the cause of the riots, here is a CNN article (you can click on the title of this blog posting to go to it):

http://www.cnn.com/2005/WORLD/europe/11/04/france.riots/index.html

Hope everyone has a lovely weekend!

Pschitt

Colin and I have been keeping an eye out in the grocery stores for a particular brand of soda called Pschitt. (Yes, it's pronounced just like you think it is, like the four-letter curse word in English.) Like Orangina, Pschitt is produced by the French. It purportedly tastes similar to Sprite or 7-Up. Of course, you can imagine the fun we've been having with puns on this brand name ("Wow, this Pschitt is great!" or "I'm drinking Pschitt" come to mind quickly.) We read about Pschitt in a France guidebook, and have been perplexed as to why we have had trouble finding it.

Little did I know that there was, in fact, a very specific reason that the beverage had been eluding us: divine intervention. God was waiting to send it to me as a warning sign when the time came. Alas, I didn't realize this until it was too late, but I appreciate His effort nonetheless! So, with a sigh of resignation, here is my tale of woe for today...

As I mentioned yesterday, I successfully made an appointment over the phone for Didge at a vet's office in a neighboring arrondissement. So, around 2 pm, we confidently headed to the metro and made it to our appointed location in the 6th with 30 minutes to spare. With so much time to kill, I decided to sit at the café on the corner of Rue du Cherche Midi and Rue de l'Abbé Grégoire and have a limonade at an outdoor table.

I've wanted to try limonade for a while -- it's not "lemonade" as the English cognate word would suggest, but rather a fizzy lemon drink. So, when the waiter came up, I asked if they served limonade, which they did. When the waiter returned, I got a bottle of Pschitt!! You can only imagine my delight! Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera to document the inaugural glass of Pschitt, but hey, I didn't expect to need it at the vet's office!

I am pleased to report that it indeed was good Pschitt.

The longer I sat at that café, however, the more I started to feel weird about the impending appointment with the vet. I kept looking at that bottle of Pschitt and associating its crass English connotation with the vet's office, which was within plain sight of the table where I was sitting. At the time, I thought I was being paranoid, and that my mental creation of a "Pschitty" vet was just the overprotective mom instinct taking control of an idle mind.

Ignoring the bad-omen beverage, we went to meet the vet, Dr. Christian Rodriguez, at our appointed time. His office was off a lovely little courtyard tucked back behind a large wooden door, which was reassuring. We opened his office door and a little bell announced our arrival. Dr. Rodriguez was waiting for us, a middle-aged white haired man with glasses. (In appearance, he reminded me quite a bit of Frank Casa at U of M, but I like Frank a heck of a lot better than this guy!) Dr. Rodriguez asked me a couple of questions and looked over Didge's most recent vet records to familiarize himself with his patient's health background. Then, I confirmed that I was only in for a toenail trimming, as Didge is very uncooperative and snarly with this procedure. (Colin and I gave up cutting them about 2 years ago when it became a 30-minute wrestling match that usually ended in a draw.)

As usual, Didge bristled and bared his teeth when the vet started to clip his front nails, so he quickly decided to tie Didge's mouth shut with a makeshift muzzle. I went along with this -- despite my displeasure at how tight he tied the strings -- because I know that Didge will bite if you cut his nails too close. (His quicks are very close to the end of his nails, so he's quite fussy.) The vet hacked into Didge's nails, and in a matter of moments had cut them all. IN HALF.

As you might guess, Didge started to bleed because the vet cut so close. And while it's not unusual for Didge to bleed a little bit when he gets his nails trimmed, it is highly unusual for him to create pools of blood on the floor. The vet just kept getting paper towels and wiping it up, but Didge very quickly got blood on his hind end and tail. (Plus, the vet didn't have any styptic powder to stop the bleeding, which I thought was REALLY weird.) Eventually, he just wrapped Didge's foot up in a bandage and sent us on our way.

Within minutes of leaving the office, Didge's bandage was soaked through and I had a real mess on my hands. I decided that I could just resolve the problem by going to a pharmacy and buying styptic powder on my own. Goodness knows I wasn't going back to the same guy that hurt my baby in the first place!

After coming up empty-handed at three pharmacies in a row, I stopped in a vet's office and used what little French I had to explain the problem. (Didge was back at the apartment, since I wasn't sure the pharmacies would allow him to come in with me.) As luck would have it, the vet was Australian, and came over to speak English with me once I had conveyed to his tech that Didge had been bleeding for at least 30 minutes. He told me that I should bring Didge in if the bleeding didn't stop, so I headed back to the apartment to get him.

On the way back, I found a pharmacy with styptic powder. This only solved the problem until Didge licked it off, so I left a quick note for Colin and headed back toward the Aussie vet's office. Fortunately, I caught Colin in the stairwell, and we went there together.

There is a happy ending to the story, fortunately: the Aussie vet was really helpful and kind, and he patiently attended to Didge until he got the bleeding under control. In fact, Didge had the undivided attention of the vet and both vet techs. This vet, Bruce Peacock (cute name for a vet, huh?), comfirmed that the bleeding was a direct result of the toenails being cut "way too short" and that he would need some time to heal. After two bandages (Didge soaked the first one) and a shot of painkiller, we were on our way back home with Mr. Doo. (In case you're wondering, Didge literally grinned through the entire ordeal, as if it was no big deal that he had been butchered.)

We got Didge home safe and sound around 6 pm, and spent a few minutes washing the blood off of his side, tail and belly. He's curled up at the foot of the bed now with a blue bandage on his back left foot, passed out in normal fashion. Occassionally, I hear a belly ache from him as he changes positions, but that's par for the course with our boy.

There are two lessons to be learned from today:

Lesson #1: Dogs are better than people. If someone had gagged me and cut my toes off, I would have been ANGRY! Didge, however, gave the bad vet kisses the second the muzzle was off, even though he was still bleeding and probably in a lot of pain. Can you imagine how different our world would be if people had the same outlook on life as Didge? I thank my lucky stars every day to have such an amazing being in my life.

Lesson #2: When life hands you Pschitt, take it seriously.

Photosite

New pictures will be posted on our photosite shortly. You can either click on the title of this blog, or point your browser to:

http://caroust.photosite.com

Once we have a high-speed internet connection, I'll try to keep that updated more regularly and get more pictures up.

Top Ten Things I Miss From the US

Alas, I am still unable to upload photos. Hopefully, the good folks at Blogger.com have read my e-mail and are figuring out the problem as I type. Stay tuned!

This blog is for Clayton "the Phunk-master," who asks: "So, just for curiosity . .what do you miss from the United States (besides family and that stuff). Or do you miss anything?"

I've been pondering this question for a couple of days. Someone should make a note to ask me this question again I'm much closer to moving back to the US -- I bet my answers will change a lot once the prospect of "going home" is impending. So, I'll date my top ten list for future comparisons and analysis.

November 2 Top Ten Things Amy Misses from the US
(other than family and friends)

#10 -- Unlimited Computer Access

This isn't a really big one, but it is frustrating that I can't get on the internet or type something in Word whenever I have the whim. Colin takes the computer to "work" every day, so unless I want to pay for a French keyboard at an internet cafe, I have to be patient and wait my turn in the evening. (Colin can attest to how patient I am with this ... not very!) In the US, I could always hop in my car and go to my office at U of M in a pinch.

#9 -- Target (and to some extent, Meijer)

One of my worries about moving to France was that I was going to spend my entire day running between stores to get everything I need. This fear has unfortunately come true! You can only get certain groceries and a few dry goods at the supermarkets. For everything else, you have to make a special trip to a special store: bread at the boulangerie, vegetables and fruits at the market or an epicerie, "supplies" like lightbulbs or kitchen utensils at a bazar ... seriously, I feel like all I ever do is run all over town, buying single items in 200 different stores. With Target, you could find everything in one place at one time, and the store was so huge that you weren't constantly bumping into another person.

On a related, yet much happier note: I finally found bleach spray today! Woo hoo! Still need Lysol, but hey, I'll take what I can get at this point.

#8 -- The Weather Channel

Mike Seidel, what horrible weather event are you covering these days? Colin and I briefly thought about getting t-shirts made that said, "Save Mike Seidel!" because he is always the unlucky reporter that the Weather Channel sends out to cover the horrible weather situations. Impending blizzard in Buffalo? Send Seidel. Hurricane Katrina? Send Seidel to New Orleans. Wait, the storm is turning east? Send Seidel to the west part of coast of Mississippi. Seriously, this guy must have insulted the station manager's mother or something.

Wait, where was I? Oh yes, missing the Weather Channel. I mainly miss having it on while I'm getting ready in the morning. I love Local on the 8's, which provides the simple luxury of confirming your wardrobe choice before you go out for the day.

#7 -- The barbeque grill

I don't really miss the actual grill -- I really miss "Colin Burgers"! Seriously, no one can BBQ a hunk of ground chuck quite like my husband. I guess going along with this, I have to miss KC Masterpiece barbeque sauce. Mmmmm, burgers.

#6 -- Leash-free dog parks

Really, I'd take any place that Didge can run without feeling guilty for stepping on a blade of grass. While it is true that dogs are kings and queens here, it is not true that they can go anywhere with you. I would love to lay in the middle of a sunny field at Parc Montsourris with Didge.

Not that Ann Arbor is great about leash-free parks ... you have to go down to Saline to find a leash-free area, and that's the place that Didge got attacked earlier this year. (Another dog gave him a puncture wound in the neck. Don't worry, he's all healed up now!)

#5 -- My electric blanket

Today was a classic fall day: cool with lots of rain. Not cold, but the kind of weather that just seems to seep into your bones and stay there all day. You know, the exact type of weather that begs for a pre-heated bed at bedtime!

#4 -- A bathtub

This is a biggee. I miss hot baths! It's so relaxing to lay back in a deep pool of warm water after you've been running all over the place or you're really chilled. Plus, I don't feel like I'm "working" to get clean like I do in a shower. Showering feels rushed, like I don't have time to sit down. And, while I am proud to say that I am on a winning streak with shaving my legs (scoreboard check = Amy: 4, Razor: 5), I'd much prefer to defuzz without the shower curtain sticking to my @$$.

#3 -- A full hour without hearing an emergency siren

Our last apartment was near a fire station and the interstate, so we heard emergency vehicles quite a lot. But seriously, I can't believe that there are as many emergencies as there seem to be in our little corner of Paris! I am honestly starting to believe that the police are using their sirens either because A) they don't want to sit in traffic, or B) they all want to gawk at the one accident that actually happened nearby.

Option A is likely because you often only hear the sirens go for 10 seconds (just long enough for the cop to get around a particular car). Option B is also likely, though, based on something I saw a few weeks ago. There was actually an emergency - a woman had a nasty head wound from a car accident, and an EMT was helping her when I walked by. However, there were no fewer than five separate emergency vehicles surrounding the woman at the time, and as near as I could tell, she was the only person involved in the accident. All of the emergency vehicles had completely clogged the busy intersection, and there were police and firemen standing all around looking at her but clearly unable to do anything to assist in the process. (Your tax dollars at work?)

This same sort of situation happened once when I called 911 at U of M for a girl who had gotten sick and didn't have enough strength to get up off the floor. In no time at all, there were ELEVEN responders crowded into the women's restroom to "help." The heck of it is, I think they just ended up giving her a ride home instead of rushing her to the ER.

#2 -- Businesses that are always open

Let me preface this "complaint" by saying that I think the French have the right idea on business hours. I don't know why Americans had to stick with the Puritan work ethic that drives us into the ground physically and mentally with work. It makes so much more sense to open around 9 am or so, close for lunch, and then open again in the afternoon. If I ever own a business, my employees will get lunch and a nap if they have to work all day!

Despite my approval of France's 35-hour work week, I find myself a bit fed up. This is probably because the vet and the pet store are never open! Not only do they have limited hours, but they aren't open when their signs say they will be open! I was so ticked off after my third failed trip today that I called another vet in a different arrondissement and made an appointment for tomorrow. If my arrondissement doesn't want to serve me, I don't want to give them my business!

After I hung up, I realized that I had just successfully scheduled an appointment over the phone in 100% French without major problems! Whoa! Puppy and I did the happy dance at this realization (though to be fair, he had no idea why we were dancing). I guess I should thank the inefficiency of the French service industry for forcing me to use my language skills in a new way ... but at the moment, I'd rather have a dog with short toenails and clean teeth!

#1 -- Smiling (or being friendly to strangers in general)

In France, you aren't supposed to smile unless you have a reason. If you smile for no apparent reason, people think that you are either shifty or a bonafide idiot. Among the taboos in this category that I struggle with:

• I'm not supposed to smile at my neighbors when I greet them (but I AM supposed to say "Bonjour" or I'll be rude).
  
• I'm not supposed to smile at cashiers or ask "how are you?" (but again, I have to say "bonjour" to them or I'll be rude).
  
• If I accidentally make eye contact with someone, I have to look away as fast as I can (especially if the person is male because he'll perceive it as flirting). The one time I screwed this up happened to be with a homeless person, who chased me down the street begging for money. For once in my life, being about to say, "Je ne parle pas francais" in a bad American accent paid off. All he could do was yell "cigarette!!" at me as I walked away, innocently pretending not to understand.
  

The Moral of Today's Story...

I don't really miss much! In fact, except for the language, I don't even feel like I live outside the US. Paris really feels like a big US city in many ways, even though I'm much more likely to see a really famous historical landmark around every turn here. I honestly thought I would be horribly homesick by now, but truth be told, I'm really happy here. I could even see myself living in France for longer than a year -- as long as I became fluent in the language. This city never ceases to amaze me, and yet I really feel like it's my home, too.

[Insert single wee tear dripping from my eye while Bette Midler's "From a Distance" plays, then fade to black]