(the old naming convention was constricting so i flexed the gray thing in my head that is stronger than any of my muscles except maybe my heart or my tongue depending on how you are measuring, and my skull cracked in two and the title template was written under my hair and now the words are just floating out)
seriously people, who needs drugs when you've got music? and that music doesn't even need to be drug-induced-experience-inspired? NOT ME. that's who. (and now you have the blog entry i carved out of a very trippy train of thought while listening to some crazy music last night. i think it is mostly coherent and empty of awesome synesthetic imagery)...
so tonight, i left french class, full of wise thoughts, namely the realization that my current french professor's teaching style reminds me of one of my high school teachers' teaching styles, and consequently i find myself actively having to fight the urge to turn into the mischievous nightmare i used to be in some of my classes. i have driven more than a few teachers absolutely crazy...
anyway, my destination was another magical exposition at the Porte de Versailles: an exposition of vignerons! a giant room full of ALL THE WINE. all the winemakers were there, over 1000, and my friend's host mom had a bunch of free tickets, so we went and had a little pre-dinner drink. I learned some fahncy wine words and tasted several actually tasty wines, including a fantastic (read: very drinkable) rosé. we got there towards the end, and unfortunately no one met another ice cream boy, but it was fun and now that i like wine, tasty.
life update: the parents leave tomorrow morning early, (well now it is tomorrow...tuesday morning) and i leave on the 11th. i think. SEATTLE: i will be there dec 12-jan 4ish. HOLLER AT ME!
also finals are next week -- what??
well without my musical ramblings, i feel like this is a sandwich with no guts, so, empty bread...oh well. i'm sure you have many other fun internet things to amuse yourself, so i'm not worried. if anyone is lacking in this department and likes cute things, queer things, music, or musings, i've got connections...
and now i am off to dream happy dreams...or else more apocalyptic dreams where tiny crabs take over the world (hello saturday night)...
CLARE
OH p.s. I JUST REALIZED WHAT WAS MISSING! the cornstarch.
on friday during our mad cooking frenzy, dad sent mom and i to the store with a grocery list including cornstarch. since we have not yet covered obscure food items in french 23 this quarter, he helpfully google translated it and gave us the french. OH THANK YOU. so when, after scouring the first franprix (that's right, there's MOAR), we enlisted the lady a la caisse to help us, she had no idea what "amidon de maiz" was and neither did any other french person in the store (she asked them all). Dear Dad, Google Translate is a Bad Idea. as someone who has not taken a language class since it was created, you may not be aware of this, but the french people you talk to will be. so we called the padre and he used wordreference.com (good decision dinosaur) and we learned (remember, we are here to learn) that en fait they just use the most common brand name, Maizena. at this point mom and i decided we could not set foot back in the first franprix for at least a few hours til there were different people working, so we walked like 5 blocks to the next one (they are everywhere; there are two within 3 blocks of my apartment) and when i asked for the Maizena, it was as though we spoke the same language, and i was in and out of the store in under 3 minutes. SUCCESS!
also, mommy ingeniously remarked that it "seemed to her" that if we took the diagonal road instead of one that went down straight and then made a right-angle turn, we would get to the same place and it would be faster, and guess what?? SHE WAS RIGHT.
mind == blown.
(i love you mommy!)
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
poste la vingtieme, dans laquelle we conclude our liveblog
11:15 pm: All our guests voted for our home-cooked pumpkin pie over the ridiculously expensive pumpkin pie from the Thanksgiving store (even if our crust did stick to the bottom of the pan).
11:45 pm: Mom: "Clarie! where's the blog?"
me: "ummm, on the internet?"
mommy: "No I know but is it in the bedroom?"
me: "well, it is if there is a computer in the bedroom..."
mommy: "oh good. I need to go defend myself, I'm just sure of it!"
12:30 am: I fall asleep while Mom sits on the next bed "rebutting" and laughing to herself at all her clever jokes.
11:00 am: WOW we slept in. Also I had nightmares and scared mom. Also we have a lot of dishes to do!
SUMMARY:
Success! We wined and dined (thanks to a bottle of wine from each of my frands and some delicious cheese from the host fam, and oh yeah, everything we made), and generally had a grand affair. Some of my favorite parts were mom's French phrases and the pie competition. I actually could not tell a difference between ours and the one we bought once they were covered in ice cream, although as my host mom said, "There is a very big difference between them. Yours is better!"
11:45 pm: Mom: "Clarie! where's the blog?"
me: "ummm, on the internet?"
mommy: "No I know but is it in the bedroom?"
me: "well, it is if there is a computer in the bedroom..."
mommy: "oh good. I need to go defend myself, I'm just sure of it!"
12:30 am: I fall asleep while Mom sits on the next bed "rebutting" and laughing to herself at all her clever jokes.
11:00 am: WOW we slept in. Also I had nightmares and scared mom. Also we have a lot of dishes to do!
SUMMARY:
Success! We wined and dined (thanks to a bottle of wine from each of my frands and some delicious cheese from the host fam, and oh yeah, everything we made), and generally had a grand affair. Some of my favorite parts were mom's French phrases and the pie competition. I actually could not tell a difference between ours and the one we bought once they were covered in ice cream, although as my host mom said, "There is a very big difference between them. Yours is better!"
Friday, November 25, 2011
poste la dix-neuvieme, dans laquelle we do THANKSGIVING!
For this special event, we will be liveblogging throughout the day, a combined effort from Toodles, mah mommeh and me.
So, to give un peu de background infoz, my parents arrived in Paris Wednesday afternoon, and after a delicious dinner of Indian food on Thanksgiving proper, we are now in the process of creating an American Thanksgiving feast in this awesome (but completely empty of all relevant foodstuffs) Parisian apartment they are staying in, for my host family and a few Stanford friends.
10:30 am: Madre et padre wake up late, freak out that we don't have enough time, and go shopping. (I was in class) Mommeh here: Make that wake up at 10:30, realize that we have overslept by two hours and now only have 1 hour to do all our shopping because we are supposed to meet Clare at 12:30 across town to go to lunch with some friends We race to he market where we hunt for things like cinnamon which is not called cinnamon but cannelle...so no store personnel knows what Paul is talking about and we have to search the entire spice section until Paul finds a picture of a cinnamon stick on the front of the jar. We race back to the apartment, unload the groceries, then race to the metro and rush to meet Clare. Whew! We meet up with her as planned only to learn that our lunch with friends has been cancelled. Next trip we are bringing a cell phone that works in Paris.
12:30 pm: We meet up near the Thanksgiving store (it is literaly called Thanksgiving) and get some key ingredients they don't sell at Franprix, including a can of pumpkin guts, and an actual pie in case Mom and I are as bad at baking in French as Dad expects. So, thusly armed, we make our way back to the apartment with a couple other critical stops: ice cream for Mom, YOP and cookies for me, and a sandwich for Dad.
2:15 pm: Having decided we are taking too long to eat lunch, Mom comes in with the pie crust wrapper asking confusing questions to make us think she knows what she is doing, but when asked if she read the (French) directions, she comes up with a million ways to avoid saying no without actually saying yes either. Dad to the rescue, while I started the blog. I'm off to make sure the oven didn't explode when they turned it on to preheat. [Excusez-moi...for the record, my questions were not confusing. Clare and Paul were just not following my quick thinking and talking. I blame it in on the fact that Paul is still jet lagged and Clare has has been speaking French for the past several months and can't follow my sophisticated brilliant English.] (for the record, the brilliant English speaker just had to ask me how to spell "brilliant" to form that insulting and evidently false statement) For more record--the Stanford student has spells literally interestingly, ne c'est pas? pff. (1) you were rushing me, and (2) both your French and your English are questionable in that sentence. BTW, I hope all readers take note that I was the only person not dilly dallying eating my lunch but was instead out in the kitchen starting the pumpkin pie...the first real work in the kitchen today in preparation for this feast. Just saying.
2:25 pm: me: "Mom, can I show you how to do the blog?"
mommy (in her focused voice): "I can't right now honey, I'm at a CRITICAL JUNCTURE in my pie!" [And a fine looking pie it is, if I do say so myself...so far anyway.]
2:35 pm: mommy (gleefully): "Honey, I'm being a chef!!"
2:40: Paul: Your mother has pie on the wall! [Note: great cooks have to be creative and free form in the kitchen. So says the master pie maker]
2:45 pm Indigo girls playing as our Thanksgiving background music.
3:00 Panic moment--4 hours till people arrive. Clare and I are off to buy some missing ingredients for the gravy, wine and something else that I have already fogotten. (This was a bit optimistic, we have not left yet 15 minutes later) (3:22): They've yet to leave--Annie is headed to the shower....well, yes, looking presentable for company is just as important as cornstatch for gravy, wouldn't you agree?
3:07 pm: Mommy has started talking like a blog. I remarked upon the fact that she has been sitting at the computer for a while (as the cooking gets going) and she shrieked (excusez-moi encore: I do not shriek--ever!), "Would you write that down so I can rebut that, please?!" And after saying we need to have a sense of urgency, she added "which is one my favorite phrases". Well let me tell you: as her comparatively slow-moving family members, we are already VERY aware that it's her favorite phrase! It's only a favorite phrase because of my slow-moving family!
3:17pm Paul here. I am not used to having so many sous-chefs; I hope that too many cooks don't spoil the broth! RUDE. Clare's occasional experience as head cook at Columbae is showing! Cranberries are cooking. Dressing is partially made. Clare is cutting broccolli before heading to the market for gravy ingredients. Nothing here is quite the same. The oven control has numbers as opposed to degrees. Everything is measured in metric and often by weight rather than volume. The ideas of cups and ounces and teaspoons are foreign to the French, naturellement! It makes things challenging, but fun nonetheless. D'accord--back to work.....
5:23pm Cranberry sauce done, dressing ready to go in, sweet potatoes ready to go in, tian partially assembled, broccoli cut up. Clare and Annie are off trying to buy wine.... Still to go--mashed potatoes, gravy, and final push. ca. 2 hours til showtime!
6:26 pm: word from the host fam: they are en route! bathroom decluttering, tablesetting, wine opening! EXCITING! Mom thinks our pie is "going to win." :) Wait till you see the pictures! Clare, you are going to post a picture, right? yes mommy, we have to do something with the pictures from that photo shoot of you and your chef d'oeuvre.
6:49 pm: I think the food will be ok, although we just realized there is no potato masher...Mom wants to make everyone take a turn mashing with a fork when they arrive, because as she put it "if I got there and they gave me a task I would be much more comfortable." (um. I don't know what to say to that.) and now she is practicing "French." At least she starts off with "Je ne parle pas francais".. For the record,.I did learn to say "Merci pour tous ce que vous avez fait pour Clare" and managed to say it (painfully slowly) to Clare's host mother and sister when they arrive. But I forgot to preface it with the "Je ne parle pas francais" --not a problem since that was immediately obvious as soon as I started talking.
6:53 pm: It's almost GO TIME!
7:00 pm: this is redundant but IT'S 7PM!!!!! remind me not to be a social organizer in my old age. I would certainly have a heart attack. whee!
HAPPY THANKSGIVING +1 everyone!
We love you all!
Check back later for more commentary/details from once cooking got intense! And summary of how the dinner went! Mom is very worried she won't get to finish "rebutting". And Dad has "one quick comment to make on there, lovebug." SO, a toute a l'heure!
(7:03 pm: photo shoot of mommy and her beauuuuutiful pie)
LOVE from Paris,
Annie, Paul, and Clarebear
So, to give un peu de background infoz, my parents arrived in Paris Wednesday afternoon, and after a delicious dinner of Indian food on Thanksgiving proper, we are now in the process of creating an American Thanksgiving feast in this awesome (but completely empty of all relevant foodstuffs) Parisian apartment they are staying in, for my host family and a few Stanford friends.
10:30 am: Madre et padre wake up late, freak out that we don't have enough time, and go shopping. (I was in class) Mommeh here: Make that wake up at 10:30, realize that we have overslept by two hours and now only have 1 hour to do all our shopping because we are supposed to meet Clare at 12:30 across town to go to lunch with some friends We race to he market where we hunt for things like cinnamon which is not called cinnamon but cannelle...so no store personnel knows what Paul is talking about and we have to search the entire spice section until Paul finds a picture of a cinnamon stick on the front of the jar. We race back to the apartment, unload the groceries, then race to the metro and rush to meet Clare. Whew! We meet up with her as planned only to learn that our lunch with friends has been cancelled. Next trip we are bringing a cell phone that works in Paris.
12:30 pm: We meet up near the Thanksgiving store (it is literaly called Thanksgiving) and get some key ingredients they don't sell at Franprix, including a can of pumpkin guts, and an actual pie in case Mom and I are as bad at baking in French as Dad expects. So, thusly armed, we make our way back to the apartment with a couple other critical stops: ice cream for Mom, YOP and cookies for me, and a sandwich for Dad.
2:15 pm: Having decided we are taking too long to eat lunch, Mom comes in with the pie crust wrapper asking confusing questions to make us think she knows what she is doing, but when asked if she read the (French) directions, she comes up with a million ways to avoid saying no without actually saying yes either. Dad to the rescue, while I started the blog. I'm off to make sure the oven didn't explode when they turned it on to preheat. [Excusez-moi...for the record, my questions were not confusing. Clare and Paul were just not following my quick thinking and talking. I blame it in on the fact that Paul is still jet lagged and Clare has has been speaking French for the past several months and can't follow my sophisticated brilliant English.] (for the record, the brilliant English speaker just had to ask me how to spell "brilliant" to form that insulting and evidently false statement) For more record--the Stanford student has spells literally interestingly, ne c'est pas? pff. (1) you were rushing me, and (2) both your French and your English are questionable in that sentence. BTW, I hope all readers take note that I was the only person not dilly dallying eating my lunch but was instead out in the kitchen starting the pumpkin pie...the first real work in the kitchen today in preparation for this feast. Just saying.
2:25 pm: me: "Mom, can I show you how to do the blog?"
mommy (in her focused voice): "I can't right now honey, I'm at a CRITICAL JUNCTURE in my pie!" [And a fine looking pie it is, if I do say so myself...so far anyway.]
2:35 pm: mommy (gleefully): "Honey, I'm being a chef!!"
2:40: Paul: Your mother has pie on the wall! [Note: great cooks have to be creative and free form in the kitchen. So says the master pie maker]
2:45 pm Indigo girls playing as our Thanksgiving background music.
3:00 Panic moment--4 hours till people arrive. Clare and I are off to buy some missing ingredients for the gravy, wine and something else that I have already fogotten. (This was a bit optimistic, we have not left yet 15 minutes later) (3:22): They've yet to leave--Annie is headed to the shower....well, yes, looking presentable for company is just as important as cornstatch for gravy, wouldn't you agree?
3:07 pm: Mommy has started talking like a blog. I remarked upon the fact that she has been sitting at the computer for a while (as the cooking gets going) and she shrieked (excusez-moi encore: I do not shriek--ever!), "Would you write that down so I can rebut that, please?!" And after saying we need to have a sense of urgency, she added "which is one my favorite phrases". Well let me tell you: as her comparatively slow-moving family members, we are already VERY aware that it's her favorite phrase! It's only a favorite phrase because of my slow-moving family!
3:17pm Paul here. I am not used to having so many sous-chefs; I hope that too many cooks don't spoil the broth! RUDE. Clare's occasional experience as head cook at Columbae is showing! Cranberries are cooking. Dressing is partially made. Clare is cutting broccolli before heading to the market for gravy ingredients. Nothing here is quite the same. The oven control has numbers as opposed to degrees. Everything is measured in metric and often by weight rather than volume. The ideas of cups and ounces and teaspoons are foreign to the French, naturellement! It makes things challenging, but fun nonetheless. D'accord--back to work.....
5:23pm Cranberry sauce done, dressing ready to go in, sweet potatoes ready to go in, tian partially assembled, broccoli cut up. Clare and Annie are off trying to buy wine.... Still to go--mashed potatoes, gravy, and final push. ca. 2 hours til showtime!
6:26 pm: word from the host fam: they are en route! bathroom decluttering, tablesetting, wine opening! EXCITING! Mom thinks our pie is "going to win." :) Wait till you see the pictures! Clare, you are going to post a picture, right? yes mommy, we have to do something with the pictures from that photo shoot of you and your chef d'oeuvre.
6:49 pm: I think the food will be ok, although we just realized there is no potato masher...Mom wants to make everyone take a turn mashing with a fork when they arrive, because as she put it "if I got there and they gave me a task I would be much more comfortable." (um. I don't know what to say to that.) and now she is practicing "French." At least she starts off with "Je ne parle pas francais".. For the record,.I did learn to say "Merci pour tous ce que vous avez fait pour Clare" and managed to say it (painfully slowly) to Clare's host mother and sister when they arrive. But I forgot to preface it with the "Je ne parle pas francais" --not a problem since that was immediately obvious as soon as I started talking.
6:53 pm: It's almost GO TIME!
7:00 pm: this is redundant but IT'S 7PM!!!!! remind me not to be a social organizer in my old age. I would certainly have a heart attack. whee!
HAPPY THANKSGIVING +1 everyone!
We love you all!
Check back later for more commentary/details from once cooking got intense! And summary of how the dinner went! Mom is very worried she won't get to finish "rebutting". And Dad has "one quick comment to make on there, lovebug." SO, a toute a l'heure!
(7:03 pm: photo shoot of mommy and her beauuuuutiful pie)
LOVE from Paris,
Annie, Paul, and Clarebear
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
poste la dix-huitième, dans laquelle our children stop being devils long enough to eat candy and make us laugh
Every Tuesday my friend Andrea and I go teach English to a bunch of extremely hyper, mischievous French children. They are 10, and the past couple weeks they have been little devils. But today a miracle occurred, and we had their undivided attention for an unprecedented length of time. We played bingo with fruit/vegetable/food words, and apparently watching your teachers draw is more fun than recess, because they all huddled around us and watched us finish making the cards in the yard before class. I was told my coloring was beautiful (did you hear that, Andrea??).
Anyway, it was a very successful class overall, and they were behaving really well even before we gave them candy to use in the game, after which we could do no wrong. As we walked downstairs after class, the girls told me that profs who give out candy are very rare and "trop cool" and that we are "très géniale." I hope this means they have forgotten how grumpy we all were after the unhappy anarchy of last week, and that they will continue to behave for another two sessions. Also! They kept calling us "Madame" which I think is a good sign of respecting our authority. So fingers crossed! I learned a bunch of choice phrases for disciplining, including "Tu tais ou tu sorts." so I am prepared, just in case.
A conversation as recorded by Andrea between Rayan, our smart little ladies' man, and Clara, who is well-behaved but secretly sassy:
Rayan: Tu as une 'sheet'?
Clara: Oui. Tu es une 'sheet.'
Rayan: ...
Clara: Tu sais ce qu'est une 'sheet'?
Rayan: Oui je sais! C'est une merde. Je suis pas une merde!
Andrea: Qui t'apprende ce mot??
Clara: Les films...
Andrea to me: We should note that they learned the word shit prior to taking our class. Just saying.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVE, Y'ALL!
- Madame Clare
Rayan: Tu as une 'sheet'?
Clara: Oui. Tu es une 'sheet.'
Rayan: ...
Clara: Tu sais ce qu'est une 'sheet'?
Rayan: Oui je sais! C'est une merde. Je suis pas une merde!
Andrea: Qui t'apprende ce mot??
Clara: Les films...
Andrea to me: We should note that they learned the word shit prior to taking our class. Just saying.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVE, Y'ALL!
- Madame Clare
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Poste la dix-septieme, dans laquelle my day is an uphill battle, or, if I were a disney princess, I am doomed to be Snow White :(
So, I think it is time for the renaissance of brevity in this blerg. Which is why I am blergging at exactly 11:41am, before most of the day has happened. And what a day. The first words I heard from the mouth of a real live human being, other than myself or my good friends getting it on in West Hollywood, were "Tu es americaine?" OK, seriously? All I had said to her was "Bonjour!" Honestly, why even try after that?
This was such a depressing start to the morning that I got back into bed and watched another episode of The L Word.
Other super nice things people have said to me in the last 24 hours:
Kristhian: "There's white stuff on your face"
Me: "Where? Did I get it?"
Kristhian: "Oh wait, it's skin."
Me: -_-
Andrea: "Take a bite of my apple"
Me: "I'm allergic! Are you trying to kill me??"
Andrea: "Yes. You're like Snow White!"
Me: "Except I wouldn't wake up after you kiss me..."
Andrea: "What if I kiss you with an EpiPen?"
Me: -_-
And the awesomely intelligent thing I told my host family at dinner last night:
Mere d'acceuil: (in French) "Do you have enough blankets? Are you warm enough in your room at night?"
Me: "Oui, j'ai bien echauffee!" (I have no idea how to spell whatever word it sounded like I said, but I was going for something analogous to "nice and warm", and I think it maybe sounded like that.)
unfortunately, whatever I said can be translated as "yes, I'm nice and CONSTIPATED."
-_-
Clare
This was such a depressing start to the morning that I got back into bed and watched another episode of The L Word.
Other super nice things people have said to me in the last 24 hours:
Kristhian: "There's white stuff on your face"
Me: "Where? Did I get it?"
Kristhian: "Oh wait, it's skin."
Me: -_-
Andrea: "Take a bite of my apple"
Me: "I'm allergic! Are you trying to kill me??"
Andrea: "Yes. You're like Snow White!"
Me: "Except I wouldn't wake up after you kiss me..."
Andrea: "What if I kiss you with an EpiPen?"
Me: -_-
And the awesomely intelligent thing I told my host family at dinner last night:
Mere d'acceuil: (in French) "Do you have enough blankets? Are you warm enough in your room at night?"
Me: "Oui, j'ai bien echauffee!" (I have no idea how to spell whatever word it sounded like I said, but I was going for something analogous to "nice and warm", and I think it maybe sounded like that.)
unfortunately, whatever I said can be translated as "yes, I'm nice and CONSTIPATED."
-_-
Clare
Monday, November 14, 2011
poste la seizième, dans laquelle I get ice cream and the anti-rejection! or, yes i am still in middle school, WHAT OF IT?
Hellooooo,
So this one time I studied abroad and hung out in Paris for 3 months and got actual class credit for awesome things. Like staring at naked people while playing with charcoal and ink, speaking English with a bunch of hilarious French kids, and going to a chocolate festival. yes, that's right, a CHOCOLATE FESTIVAL. Featuring a fashion show of CHOCOLATE COUTURE. And it was delicious!
I got to make my own truffle, eat a shitton of free chocolate samples (it was like VegFest, but 100% chocolate). Anyway, after several hours of munching on cacao nibs and olive oil-infused chocolate with the occasional macaron au caramel beurre salé, I decided it was time for some Real Food. So naturally, I decided to get (vanilla!) ice cream (my food options were limited, but let's be real I would always choose ice cream).
My friends and I did not move at the same pace throughout this extravaganza (my spirit animal might be a sneaky tortoise who can't pass up a single sample and ingeniously outfitted her shell with an ice cream machine), so I strolled up to get my frozen and delicious treat by myself. As soon as I made eye contact with the young Frenchman behind the counter, we both grinned (I may have blushed!) and looked bashfully away. Now, my French is not perfect even at the best of times, and when my lips are busy smiling and my voice just wants to come out as laughter, things get even worse. I communicated what I wanted, une boule de la glace au vanille, and he avoided my eyes as he scooped, fighting a losing battle with his face and thus beaming unprofessionally. As he added a final touch, a whole (not sliced into sample sized morceaux) chocolate truffle, his manager, a matronly woman in her 50s, appeared, observed the bejeweled cone, and gave me a significantly raised eyebrow that clearly stated, "you are getting special treatment here, missy."
In a sweets- and Frenchboy-induced euphoria, I went off to find my crowd of non-tortoises and figure out how to get my new friend's number. I finally convinced my friend Andrea that what she most needed to make her happiness complete at that moment was ice cream, so we came up with a sort of game plan, and after spying on the booth until the manager disappeared as well as the other customers, we approached the target.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT:
As a side note, I felt then and feel now as I am writing this, that this is basically what a lot of middle school (and high school, especially if you go to a school where real boys don't exist) is like. Having feelings and watching your crush (or your friend's crush) from afar and whispering about how nervous you are and how cute they are and plotting grand schemes to make them fall in love with you and maybe or maybe not actually carrying them out. Or maybe that was just me. Or more specifically some of my compatriots to whom the term "boy-crazy" has occasionally been applied.
ANYWAY, we went back, she got ice cream, he and I couldn't look at each other or our faces would have split in half, and every time he turned around or bent to scoop more ice cream, she whispered intelligent things I could say to keep the conversation going. (THANK YOU Andrea!) Very intelligent things, like asking his favorite flavor of ice cream, which was actually perfect because it was mine too, coconut. So he gave me a business card with the addresses of all the store's locations around Paris that sell coconut ice cream. And we left.
So, armed with the business card, we marched away, when suddenly I decided to carpe that diem and marched back to speak to him directly. He was bemused to see me again, and I said something along the lines of (I was nervous and French was hard that day, so it was pretty rough), "I am going to go eat that ice cream, do you want to eat it with me?" And he (1) SMILED (duh), (2) said "well if you come to the store then I don't know why not" (!!!!) and (3) CIRCLED THE ONE HE WORKED AT SO I COULD FIND HIM THERE. Not quite a telephone number, but overall a success. Definitely more successful than the first time I was direct about asking someone out, which resulted in a no and some bad decision dinosaurs, although that time I did have their telephone number.
And no, I have not gone to the store to eat coconut ice cream with him, for a host of reasons, actually. (1) It's far, and not actually in Paris proper, so transportation is less convenient (aka I'm lazy). (2) In retrospect and after consulting with other people who were not wearing rose-colored glasses, he may be a bit too young. (snatch!) (3) I am busy, with things I can't even stop doing long enough to blerg about, let ALONE chase dreamy French boys through the ice cream shops of Paris!
...and here I am, in all my post-no-rejection glory:
So this one time I studied abroad and hung out in Paris for 3 months and got actual class credit for awesome things. Like staring at naked people while playing with charcoal and ink, speaking English with a bunch of hilarious French kids, and going to a chocolate festival. yes, that's right, a CHOCOLATE FESTIVAL. Featuring a fashion show of CHOCOLATE COUTURE. And it was delicious!
I got to make my own truffle, eat a shitton of free chocolate samples (it was like VegFest, but 100% chocolate). Anyway, after several hours of munching on cacao nibs and olive oil-infused chocolate with the occasional macaron au caramel beurre salé, I decided it was time for some Real Food. So naturally, I decided to get (vanilla!) ice cream (my food options were limited, but let's be real I would always choose ice cream).
My friends and I did not move at the same pace throughout this extravaganza (my spirit animal might be a sneaky tortoise who can't pass up a single sample and ingeniously outfitted her shell with an ice cream machine), so I strolled up to get my frozen and delicious treat by myself. As soon as I made eye contact with the young Frenchman behind the counter, we both grinned (I may have blushed!) and looked bashfully away. Now, my French is not perfect even at the best of times, and when my lips are busy smiling and my voice just wants to come out as laughter, things get even worse. I communicated what I wanted, une boule de la glace au vanille, and he avoided my eyes as he scooped, fighting a losing battle with his face and thus beaming unprofessionally. As he added a final touch, a whole (not sliced into sample sized morceaux) chocolate truffle, his manager, a matronly woman in her 50s, appeared, observed the bejeweled cone, and gave me a significantly raised eyebrow that clearly stated, "you are getting special treatment here, missy."
In a sweets- and Frenchboy-induced euphoria, I went off to find my crowd of non-tortoises and figure out how to get my new friend's number. I finally convinced my friend Andrea that what she most needed to make her happiness complete at that moment was ice cream, so we came up with a sort of game plan, and after spying on the booth until the manager disappeared as well as the other customers, we approached the target.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT:
As a side note, I felt then and feel now as I am writing this, that this is basically what a lot of middle school (and high school, especially if you go to a school where real boys don't exist) is like. Having feelings and watching your crush (or your friend's crush) from afar and whispering about how nervous you are and how cute they are and plotting grand schemes to make them fall in love with you and maybe or maybe not actually carrying them out. Or maybe that was just me. Or more specifically some of my compatriots to whom the term "boy-crazy" has occasionally been applied.
ANYWAY, we went back, she got ice cream, he and I couldn't look at each other or our faces would have split in half, and every time he turned around or bent to scoop more ice cream, she whispered intelligent things I could say to keep the conversation going. (THANK YOU Andrea!) Very intelligent things, like asking his favorite flavor of ice cream, which was actually perfect because it was mine too, coconut. So he gave me a business card with the addresses of all the store's locations around Paris that sell coconut ice cream. And we left.
So, armed with the business card, we marched away, when suddenly I decided to carpe that diem and marched back to speak to him directly. He was bemused to see me again, and I said something along the lines of (I was nervous and French was hard that day, so it was pretty rough), "I am going to go eat that ice cream, do you want to eat it with me?" And he (1) SMILED (duh), (2) said "well if you come to the store then I don't know why not" (!!!!) and (3) CIRCLED THE ONE HE WORKED AT SO I COULD FIND HIM THERE. Not quite a telephone number, but overall a success. Definitely more successful than the first time I was direct about asking someone out, which resulted in a no and some bad decision dinosaurs, although that time I did have their telephone number.
And no, I have not gone to the store to eat coconut ice cream with him, for a host of reasons, actually. (1) It's far, and not actually in Paris proper, so transportation is less convenient (aka I'm lazy). (2) In retrospect and after consulting with other people who were not wearing rose-colored glasses, he may be a bit too young. (snatch!) (3) I am busy, with things I can't even stop doing long enough to blerg about, let ALONE chase dreamy French boys through the ice cream shops of Paris!
...and here I am, in all my post-no-rejection glory:
...exciting, no? As a comment on this photo on facebook reads, "look at me. no wonder he said yes. :P"
I mean, we've already been over my narcissistic tendencies, so I might as well let it all out now, right?
love,
CLARE the ice cream tortoise who goes for it, apparently!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
poste la quinzième: a day in the life, dans laquelle I sort of talk about Halloween but mostly talk about nothing. except myself. just sayin'.
Note: jeez this was an incredibly trivial post, but it felt so important at the time. I wrote this on Halloween.
Preface:
I have (clearly) been an apathetic blogger lately. I am tempted to apologize, but then I would be guilty of the hubris* of thinking that this blog matters to anyone, (this assumption on my part is perhaps implied by the fact that I am blogging in the first place, because otherwise I could just use my gurrrnal), and since I really just want to drag everyone I love into the procrastinatorial vortex that is the internet, it would also be a lie. And since I have already admitted my vanity and hubris, let's just continue in that vein by going step by step through my day today.
Good morning, hot vater?:
First of all, I will spare you the details of the highly "relevant" and "interesting" dreams I was having when I woke up, so you should begin this paragraph feeling hopeful that I will be omitting all subsequent inconsequential details as well: this is not the case (cue image of soft feathery hopes being dashed against barnacley shore).
I woke up in a very good mood. This was high point number one of the day, because lately I have been waking up feeling somewhere in the range of neutral, glad-I-didn't-die-in-my-sleep-but-wish-I-didn't-have-to-get-up-yet, to exhausted-by-the-idea-of-looking-at-my-phone-long-enough-to-figure-out-how-to-snooze-it.
I spent the morning pretending to do yoga (unsuccessful because I am sore from climbing*), gurrnaling, and playing with my hair in the mirror while debating such pressing issues as whether or not to cut it at the next (at least 6 weeks distant) opportunity and whether or not to taint this new growth with fuchsia (another extremely pressing decision that will have to be made by sometime mid-winter quarter). Also, eating. I made a chevre and tomato sandwich for breakfast (how Columbaen) that was 18 inches long, and that was only half the baguette (how French)!
(and now we switch into the voice of me a week later finishing this up):
Since it was Halloween, I naturally needed a costume, but since it was Paris I also needed to be stealth*. Parisians do not wear their hearts on their sleeves. I looked in the mirror and realized I was halfway costumed already--wearing a Columbae shirt and looking both very American and very hippie (ie, probably exactly how you picture me in your fondest memories). So, I decided to claim my roots and just dress up as American. (Please don't judge me for this, my insides already have permanent damage from the self-inflicted cringing.) Anyway, I was feeling very good and Clare-y in my most commonly worn outfit (not this quarter but in life these past 3 years)*: my favorite tie-dye Cbae shirt, black jeans (I would have worn gray but the city life had not been kind to them and they were dirty), purple sneakerz, my wonderful effective raincoat instead of the f-ing umbrella, my beloved backpack, and giant emo free store headphones.
I ended up not even needing the rain jacket because it was Stanford weather. I'm not sure what other supposedly blog-worthy stuff happened that day. I went to French class, hung out for a while, and then came back to a night of watching tv in bed. The L Word and I have made amends.
There were some French kids out making noise, I think trying to trick-or-treat...seemed unsuccessful. As I was walking home from the Metro, I was on a particularly dark block and looking at my feet (navigating the minefield of canine and human secretions), when I glanced up at someone approaching me in full witches' robes and hat, and I nearly contributed to the sidewalk sewage before remembering it was Halloween.
And then I ate chocolate pudding in bed and celebrated not going out.
THE END
-Clarebear
* I would like to thank Oedipus and my 9th grade English teacher Ms. Shaddy for teaching me this word.
* This is technically true, but the bigger issue is that, well, I am no longer the class champion in the Sit and Reach...standing up straight is practically a stretch these days.
* Not ninja stealth, more like meta-so-stealth-you-don't-even-realize-I'm-a-ninja stealth. Hypothetically speaking. If I were a ninja, I mean.
* I am blogging about an outfit. WHO AM I??
Preface:
I have (clearly) been an apathetic blogger lately. I am tempted to apologize, but then I would be guilty of the hubris* of thinking that this blog matters to anyone, (this assumption on my part is perhaps implied by the fact that I am blogging in the first place, because otherwise I could just use my gurrrnal), and since I really just want to drag everyone I love into the procrastinatorial vortex that is the internet, it would also be a lie. And since I have already admitted my vanity and hubris, let's just continue in that vein by going step by step through my day today.
Good morning, hot vater?:
First of all, I will spare you the details of the highly "relevant" and "interesting" dreams I was having when I woke up, so you should begin this paragraph feeling hopeful that I will be omitting all subsequent inconsequential details as well: this is not the case (cue image of soft feathery hopes being dashed against barnacley shore).
I woke up in a very good mood. This was high point number one of the day, because lately I have been waking up feeling somewhere in the range of neutral, glad-I-didn't-die-in-my-sleep-but-wish-I-didn't-have-to-get-up-yet, to exhausted-by-the-idea-of-looking-at-my-phone-long-enough-to-figure-out-how-to-snooze-it.
I spent the morning pretending to do yoga (unsuccessful because I am sore from climbing*), gurrnaling, and playing with my hair in the mirror while debating such pressing issues as whether or not to cut it at the next (at least 6 weeks distant) opportunity and whether or not to taint this new growth with fuchsia (another extremely pressing decision that will have to be made by sometime mid-winter quarter). Also, eating. I made a chevre and tomato sandwich for breakfast (how Columbaen) that was 18 inches long, and that was only half the baguette (how French)!
(and now we switch into the voice of me a week later finishing this up):
Since it was Halloween, I naturally needed a costume, but since it was Paris I also needed to be stealth*. Parisians do not wear their hearts on their sleeves. I looked in the mirror and realized I was halfway costumed already--wearing a Columbae shirt and looking both very American and very hippie (ie, probably exactly how you picture me in your fondest memories). So, I decided to claim my roots and just dress up as American. (Please don't judge me for this, my insides already have permanent damage from the self-inflicted cringing.) Anyway, I was feeling very good and Clare-y in my most commonly worn outfit (not this quarter but in life these past 3 years)*: my favorite tie-dye Cbae shirt, black jeans (I would have worn gray but the city life had not been kind to them and they were dirty), purple sneakerz, my wonderful effective raincoat instead of the f-ing umbrella, my beloved backpack, and giant emo free store headphones.
I ended up not even needing the rain jacket because it was Stanford weather. I'm not sure what other supposedly blog-worthy stuff happened that day. I went to French class, hung out for a while, and then came back to a night of watching tv in bed. The L Word and I have made amends.
There were some French kids out making noise, I think trying to trick-or-treat...seemed unsuccessful. As I was walking home from the Metro, I was on a particularly dark block and looking at my feet (navigating the minefield of canine and human secretions), when I glanced up at someone approaching me in full witches' robes and hat, and I nearly contributed to the sidewalk sewage before remembering it was Halloween.
And then I ate chocolate pudding in bed and celebrated not going out.
THE END
-Clarebear
* I would like to thank Oedipus and my 9th grade English teacher Ms. Shaddy for teaching me this word.
* This is technically true, but the bigger issue is that, well, I am no longer the class champion in the Sit and Reach...standing up straight is practically a stretch these days.
* Not ninja stealth, more like meta-so-stealth-you-don't-even-realize-I'm-a-ninja stealth. Hypothetically speaking. If I were a ninja, I mean.
* I am blogging about an outfit. WHO AM I??
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