From Merde Water to Shit l'Eau

My mom told me that I have to write a farewell post and I’ve never been that great at disobeying my mother so I find myself rather bound to her command.

But I feel kinda pukey saying “farewell” (I mean, gross mom. Next thing I know, you’re going to be asking me to rhyme. “France, you make my heart dance.”) So I’ll just aim for a regular post with a little bit of closure thrown in.

Saturday night, Leslie, Alex, Jean-Luc, Ross et Moi, we had our last official dessert/dancing/scotch night (the scotch actually being a new addition). I don’t have any witty observations regarding dance or dessert rhetoric but just want to say that it was a really nice last Saturday night being young and carefree in gay Paris (there’s a rhyme, right atcha, mommy dearest).

(Side note: I am watching “Sister Act” in French right now and am finding it extremely difficult to stay on task. Ohhhh Reginaaa…I love me some Whoopie. )

Ohh Regina, I am so isolated and so surrounded by wonderful friends. So stressed but so indifferent to anything besides the beauty of this city. So homesick but so reluctant to leave. So broke but….yeah, no. just broke (Leslie said “dollar” the other day and I was like, “Oh yeah, baby. Say it again. Let me hear that sweet, sweet word. Dollar. Hmmm”. I don’t plan on spending another euro for at least another….um, millennium when I can afford to come back ).

I am looking forward to having a job again. I am looking forward to affordable beer and clean air. I am looking forward to the washing machine in my basement because laundry day in a city is one of the most arduous tasks in the world (the world of a middle class college student). I am looking forward to having my OWN room in my OWN place where I can be aesthetically pleased and free to walk around in my underwear and eat dinner at odd hours. I am looking forward to Mexican food, any education system that isn’t French, and my family and friends (if they’ll take me back after my desertion). I am not looking forward to loud people, people who wear sweatpants in public, second-rate dessert/bread/cheese/architecture/art/bars, having to use a car.

I am really looking forward to being able to argue with service personnel. Here, they shoot me down the second I get past my previously rehearsed complaint. Not so in the U.S.A. Watch out Secretary of State lady, rude waiter guy, privileged line cutting princess. REGARDEZ-MOI. I speak your language.

If I had a name and it wasn’t Monica Herman, it would be Lucky McGratefulFace.
Because I had a really amazing time in Paris, because I learned wonderful things from two of the most intelligent men I have ever met, because I made better friends than I ever expected to make and because Muriel set out a breakfast tray for me every morning, which really made all the days start off generally well.

So, Allez-y. One more difficult week of school. Some sun-filled afternoons in Italy and Spain, a few farewell crepes in Paris and the tail end of 4th of July weekend in my own bed or something like I remember it.

Coco

I think if I ever met Coco Chanel (in the afterlife sense), I would pee on myself a little. I am doing this project on the history of haute couture in Paris and I think I am going to start having nightmares about Coco Chanel. She just sounds so intimidating. So "too cool for school"/me.

For one, she escaped from a convent to become a cabaret singer. For two, she didn't marry one of the richest men in Europe because "There have been several dukes of Westminster. There is only one Coco Chanel." And three, she dated a Nazi during WWII so that she could continue living in her favorite suite in the Ritz. Well, she dated him for other reasons too, mainly those that had to do with her Anti-Semitism.

Ahh, love.

In other words, SCARY lady. Scary genius lady who made lots of beautiful things and revolutionized fashion. Incredible really, scary nonetheless.

So when I say nightmare, I don't mean the suspenseful murderer kind.. I mean the kind where the head of your estranged father moves in circles telling you that you're never going to amount to anything. Except in this case, it would be Coco Chanel's head and she would be telling you that you're ugly and inquiring as to whether or not you are Jewish.

Moulin Boobs

Ok, so I use gmail and gmail does this creepy thing where it picks up key words from your emails and gives you a list of sponsored links next to your inbox... sooo...if your friend mentions "Hawaii", you will probably see a bunch of links to travel agencies with deals on trips to Hawaii.

My dad just emailed me his address. A very normal sounding address. The following link showed up next to the message:


Parrots
Earn Your Parrot's Love In Minutes You'll Never Be Bitten Again
www.BirdTricks.com



Aaannddd...that has absolutely nothing do with Paris so I better give you something else...

You have to be 5'11" to dance at the Moulin Rouge.
Their best dancers make about 60,000 Euro/year.
My class got to go backstage and see the costumes.

I am going to Nantes this weekend. Do "nantes" miss me too much.

Ohhhh merde.

Bon week-end.

Meek Robe

I think Paris has become increasingly aware of the presence of a foreign body (my own) and is trying to purge it from its system. My proof is as follows….

1. I sneezed on the metro yesterday, hand over mouth, mouth closed, not using same hand to touch the metro pole afterwards…in other words, an exceptional example of hygiene etiquette in public places. Well, I might as well have defecated on the floor for the way this elderly man literally whipped his head around to display his indignant shock at my disgusting outburst. Whipped. I have never been whipped at before in Paris. I felt so suspect. He wants this sneezing American out of his city NOW.
2. Speaking of sneezing, I cannot stop. Ever. Wherever. I have become allergic to the entire city. I sneezed over 20 times in a twenty minute period today. It freaking hurt. I am trying not to breathe- a task which has thus far proved impossible. Paris is launching anti-American microbes into the air… I am convinced it is a conspiracy. The Parisians all laugh through their clear nasal passages while I flop around like a fish out of water, convulsing with SNEEZE.
3. Muriel says “microbe” quite often by the way, which sounds so cute in French. Meek robe. Apparently microbe can refer to many different things in the French language…the things to which I am allergic, bugs, what biologists study… it’s quite charming and consequently does not apply in any way to the list that I am composing. Strike it.
4. Another elderly lady was offended by my presence today. SHE smacked her purse into ME and then looked at me like I was the one launching the offense. She called me a name but I couldn’t make it out…Ross told me to just say what I thought I heard and he would figure out the French word…All I could think of was “Chode.”
5. Actually, one time this guy was really nice to me about my sneezing problem. I was sitting next to him on the metro being pitifully allergic..The first time I sneezed, he mumbled the French equivalent of "Bless you" in this scared voice like he was afraid that I would hit him for saying it. Instead, I said "Merci" and he got bold. He looked at me very gravely and said, "You have a cold?" (which I had to ask him to repeat 3 times because "Tu as une rhume?" always sounds like one word to me in French...) and I said, "Nooo..I have les allergies.." and he nodded, even more gravely, and said, "Ah , yes..well, in Africa we eat spicy chicken. That is what you must do." And I said, "Well, thank you. Spicy chicken. D'Accord."
And we parted ways. I to begin my quest for the spicy chicken, he to remain on the metro, seeking those in need of his sagedom. I felt remarkably cared for.


Ok, that list is really short and entirely inconclusive….it’s not even a real list. It doesn't have anything to prove, nor does it know what it wants to prove. Which is actually pretty appropriate to how I feel right now. I want to go HOME. I want to stay HERE. I want to go HOME. I want to stay HERE. I want a SANDWICH…

I still want a sandwich.

But I don’t know where I want to eat it.

Rock Stars and Kitsch

I hung out with a really famous band.

A band that is famous to probably everyone except for the people reading this blog (hi family) so you all are going to have to take my word for it- big, mega huge band.

Wilco is the name. The concert was Tuesday night at a venue a half block away from my house. Oh, it was so good. I didn’t think that we would get in because we are all doing a terrible job of sneaking in beer.

“Mademoiselle, why are your boobs shaped like bottles?”

That didn’t happen, merci God, and it turned out to be the best concert that I have seen. Afterwards, we (4 hot babes + Ross) were standing outside the building when one of the band members came out. We were feeling particularly bold, what with the help of the smuggled beer and all…

“Hey, thanks for the great show.” (Wilco is from Chicago so they speak Amerikan)
“You’re welcome. I want you to have my babies.”

Or

“You’re welcome. Do you guys want to have a drink with us at a bar down the street?”


Either way, the answer was yes. So us 21 yr. olds went to this great bar called "Kitsch" and hung out with a bunch of 30- 38 year olds who kept saying, “Man, we’re so old, why are we hanging out with you?” And we were like, because we’re 21 year old girls. Duh. We didn’t hang out with the lead singer, the only really important one, because he’s all post-rehab, married with two kids and stuff... but oh well, we’ll take the bass player and the keyboard technician.

It was just an extremely fun and expectation surpassing evening. Made even ten times better and more surreal due to the fact that it was all happening in Paris.

(I told Muriel about the concert and she was like, “Wilco…they are Jamaican, right? And I said, “Uhhh no…they are white folk rockers from Chicago.” And she said, “But one of them is Arab?” No. “Algerian?” No. “Pas de Noirs?” No Muriel! They are the whitest white boy band that ever whited! What do you want me to say!?)

Hit the Road, Jacques

I don’t have music or internet in my room so the TV has become my substitute for “background” entertainment when I get really sick of reading in silence. Since I can’t understand 90% of what is being said, it really is just like there are people in the room with me. They keep me from being lonely - flitting around, making pretty sounds and occasionally trying to sell me cellulite cream (which is convincing despite my French skills…because, after all, everyone understands the language of a smooth, cellulite-free thigh). And since I can’t really follow the dialogue, I don’t get engaged and can read novels and perform acrobatics with the greatest of ease.

Except when “Nouvelle Star” is on.

“Nouvelle Star” is France’s version of “American Idol,” which I will only be addressing now in the briefest of manners: Pain. Bad. Scary.

Oh God, forgive me, it’s so fascinating. First of all, they’re not very good. Which may not fascinate some people, but is genuinely intriguing to me. I thought it would be like math:

Millions of people – Millions of people who can’t sing = A few really good singers

But they keep getting rid of the good people. And I’m sitting there thinking… “wait a minute, the Diatonic scale translates in France, right? Wait a minute… it started here. You guys are from Europe! So is the idea of the musical key! So why aren’t you in one?!? Why aren’t you singing in one key!!!?”

And then I calm down because I am sure that the judges are going to take care of it for me. I wait for the impending slaughter.

Instead I hear, “Ta tonalité! C’est vraiment incroyable…Bravo. Tu es maître du chant.”

So I frantically go to the dictionary. Incroyable…I must have learned that incorrectly. It has to mean “horribly painful” or “an embarrassment to your family.” Maybe it’s opposite day in France.

But it never is.

To be fair, there are some good singers. Well, now there are only 4 left. And they’re alright…when they sing in French. One of them even gave me shivers once. But I was also cold so who knows.

But when they sing in English, it really is “incroyable” in the “embarrassment to your family” kind of way. The French accent is soooo sexy in spoken English.

NOT SO IN THE POP SONG.

“Eeeeet meee baby, one more time”

“Eeet the Road, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t want to eat the road. Nor does anyone want to eat Britney Spears one more time.

Nor do I want to admit that I have become this involved. But I have. And on that note, vote for Julien. He’s really cute.

La Maison de Sexe

Alright. I’m just going to put it out there. I was watching porn at midnight on Saturday. But I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not my FAULT mom and dad. I am a victim and this is my tale…

So it was Saturday night. Ross and I just finished playing checkers and reading the Bible after a healthy dinner of vegetables and milk. I was knitting and he was rescuing an infant from falling out of a window.

“Hey Ross. What would you say to watching some good old fashioned family programming?”

“Well gee, Monica, that sounds swell. I think we earned a little TV time.”

And there we were, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, thinking about Gandhi and writing down the toll free numbers that we would eventually call in order to donate money to starving children. We were looking for Seventh Heaven.

What we found was “Sex House.”

Keep in mind that it is only midnight and that this is not an obscure cable channel. I’m talking like, channel 13 here, people.

And alright, fine, we watched it. But it’s only because our parents never told us how babies are made and neither of us had ever seen boobies before.

Forget the sleazy tattoos and the water splashing sloppily out of the hot tub…

Even more disturbing than the picnic table scene (um splinters? Hello?)…

The porn was…

DUBBED.

I was intently watching this girl’s face (apparently a sign that I am not very good at watching porn) and a thought came into my pure and confused little mind.

“Her moans don’t seem to be quite matching up with her mouth movements. Wait..uh…wait a minute…her lips weren’t even moving just then but I clearly heard her say ‘Je jouis!’ Oh my God…this porn is…dubbed!”

Then I started crying. So did Ross. And then we called a priest who promised to exorcise us the next morning so everything’s cool and I think we both might still get into heaven.



Fo’ real though. Who dubs porn?

The French, that’s who. Can’t even make their own pornography… got to steal it from the Americans.

Sickos.