#1. Abby and I "went out," which consisted of us taking the metro random places in the city with open bottles of wine slash whiskey. Sat in the sex district of Pigalle being amused by people until a creepy guy came up to us and started talking. I mainly though he was just some dumb guy so I told him various fables about our lives etc, but Abby felt weird (probably because of his lazy eye, which made him look much creepier) so we got back onto the metro and went to Notre Dame to, yes, sit outside and drink. After a bit, we decided it was time to catch the metro home, which is where funny thing #2 comes in.
#2. They say that the metro gets to its final stop on weekends at about 2:15am. Thusly, one assumes that the last train will leave central Paris around 1:00-1:15. One thinks this is a just assumption, but realizes when one goes to catch one's train at 1:00am that "the last train est termine." So, one (and by one, you can now assume I mean me) sprints to the next metro stop to take her in the general direction of her house, only to be told that this train is also "ferme" (which, incidentally, not only means closed, but also locked). So, after about 10 minutes of freaking out, crying, etc., one resigns herself to do as any poor female student who misses the last metro must do: walk home.
SO, not that I expect you to have knowledge of Parisian geography, but let me just briefly explain that the distance from Chatelet-Les Halles (1eme) to my house in Montreuil (East Paris suburb) is less than half of the way across the city. However, do not let this fact lead you to believe that it took me any less than an hour and a half (two miles of city jogging-without-actually-jogging) to find my way back to Rue de Sergent Godefroy. Also, my "Paris-Par-Arrondisement" does not extend past Paris, so after I got out east of the 20eme, I basically had to follow where I thought the RER A line must run. That's basically what I had done the whole time though: through the huge traffic circles at Bastille and Nation and then on through Vincennes (various portes and chateaus of) and then past my only recognizable landmark, the Centre Georges Pompidou parking deck three blocks from my house.
Now, you might think that I was walking the whole way scared and pissed. Not true. Very funny people around at night and not a neighborhood that I went through was the least bit unlively with drunk French people (even more amusing than regular French people). Plus I had a bunch of cheap French whiskey and my new winter coat to keep me warm and occupied.
Upon arriving home after 3am my time, I was almost immediately Skyped by Cole, Ashley, Katie, and ANNIE!!!!! who has gotten so big! We chatted for about an hour, and seeing the three ladies for the first time since I left was unbelievably wonderful. I cried seeing Annie, like I usually do. They were drinking PBR, which I miss BADLY. I know, I'm even shocking myself.
#3. Passed out after reading more of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" which is PHENOMENALLY GOOD. Slept until 1, got up to make risotto finally, of which I will post photos. I was not expecting him to stand with me in the kitchen smoking cigarettes while I stirred my risotto for an hour and telling me stories. Turns out that the reason why this house is one big room downstairs and looks hand-done is because the entire house was molded and generally fucked up when they bought it, and my host dad redid the entire house by himself. He showed me a bunch of photos of the shitty house and him in some crazy wool coats, smoking cigarettes and doing some bricoler (the most useless French verb one could know, meaning "to do handiwork"). Anyway, it's pretty impressive. And he taught me various kitchen vocabulary, of which I remember none.
The risotto was delicious and Abby and I went out to do a project for class, got lost, had wine and cocktails at a happy hour cafe near the Arc de Triomph where everyone was speaking English. Happy hour is from 4-10ish at most places and means very very cheap drinks. Have 2, then after that, switch to 2 euro wine, take the metro home BEFORE 1am.
Luckily, I'm so exhausted from running through Paris is the cold that all I wanted to do was buy the cheapest things possible at the Monoprix for dinner and come home and curl up under my duck-feather comforter and watch 'Ratatouille,' which never fails to warm my heart and exhilarate my stomach.
Speaking of, being poor and running around all of the time is making it hard for me to keep my pants up. I've probably lost five pounds since being here. Not that I have any basis for comparison since #1 I don't know how much I weigh since it's stupid and #2 pounds doesn't mean shit since everything is in metric.
A bientot!
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