Jeudi?! But I Thought It Was Thursd...Oh.

Living in Paris now, for about one business week, I still feel like I am in some life language simulation program where I can time out and ask questions in English. Never is that more apparent than when I ask a French person to translate the difference between, for example, “sit” (s’asseoir) and “buy” (acheter). The ‘r’ is silent at the end of a word in French, so I find myself saying “may I sit on you face?” when I mean to ask “where is the metro?” language is funny.

I am sitting at a cafe, buying breakfast, which is a chocolate croissant, baguette with jam (cherry lemon), fresh squeezed orange juice and espresso. I don’t know how sustainable this is, but really- I am just embracing life here... if I begin feeling terrible, I will resume starving looking for a protein salad without meat (fish okay) OR I will resume eating meat. I really don’t care. There is no tofu here, at least not that I’ve seen.

I am so lonely that I am begging a tiny dog in this cafe to come visit me... it thought about it, but decides not to (probably because of my French). In better news, I did accidentally spend close to €8 on strawberries last night. As I was forking over the money I commented “expensive” (but in French) and the shop owner went into a lively account of their region, how they are the best you can buy (or sit) and I just commented “d’accord”. “D’ accord” is French for “okay” and that I love saying that and “où est le toillette?” (ooh ay la twah-let)

After a lot more breads, ham, espresso and near tear experiences.... not only have I decided I should rein it in, but all this happened too... please continue reading.

I had another French lesson tonight and my teacher suggested I hang back and retake the course... I am being held back- just like in kindergarten- except, I got WAY more action in kindergarten (little slut). I see a plethora of attractive men- I mean REALLY good looking and my hair is too short and I am sad, so only waiters hit on me. I went up to one restaurant, after class and the waiter told me I have beautiful eyes and that I should try the veal. I said “une petite moo? c’est des enfant?!” I left- he didn’t know me at all- and he was also unattractive... if he was like the guys on the Metro I would have eaten that baby cow raw and from behind. C’est la vie.

I tried making a joke in class tonight where the teacher was going around asking people what they buy in a supermarket (in French, of course) and everyone was talking about food. I was last and I answered “chaussures bon marché”, which means “cheap shoes”. No one got it and I felt like a real stand up comedian. I eventually said “des pommes” which means “apples”... good for me, I got held back because the French like Jerry Lewis and...

Pretty Much Eggs, Paris and Fat Kids Here

This is the third day of my arrival in Paris, but really just my second, because my first “day” was “night” and too terrifying to warrant staying another day at all. I am sitting outside a restaurant in Montmartre, sipping espresso, waiting for my eggs and salad. Parisians serve this, mainly, to accommodate Americans visiting. I have decided that from now on, I will eat traditionally with a chocolate croissant. When in Rome, discard your silly beliefs about gluten and whatever you do- don’t speak- they will know. Hopefully I wont get fat.

They brought out my eggs and it was terrifying, they only cooked one side- I hate runny eggs. How ever, these were somehow perfect. How is this possible? Is it the egg or is it just another thing that gives Parisians warrant for being so pretentious. Le sigh. Speaking of eggs, I’m ovulating, or was until I started bleeding over sheets that the hotel put down for this cat in heat- or any other excuse for a grown woman to be bleeding through to sheets in a hotel in Paris. I know this is a disgusting and sordid topic, but I assure you it is only being breeched to illustrate my time here. I don’t think women in Paris actually bleed, it’s a wonder they breed, but they must because I see children all the time. I haven’t seen any pregnant women, I wonder if they even show. I am trying to think of what to tell the desk tonight when I ask for new sheets. Either the cat in heat thing or I was drinking tomato juice in the middle of my bed when... Voila!

I washed the stain out- I am not a complete monster, but now they will think I am a bed-wetter- c’est la vie.

Can you imagine what will happen when I actually travel to Rome? I will probably be mugged, but I will say things like “when in Rome, give up your wallet.” It will make little sense, other than I am in Rome.

More on Paris, though, must be present... I began language classes last night. Language class is a great place to feel more competent than other people when you’re in a foreign country, but the teacher will inevitably notice you calling out a lot- volunteering yourself for ridicule and he will constructively do just this after class. I wasn’t expecting a pat on the back from a Parisian, but... well I can’t say I felt anything but hopeless. I wonder what he tells the other dummies- especially the gal from Texas. You can’t say “give up now,” so you say “d’accord,” which is French for “okay.” I think my belief that I can speak this language is like when fat kids believe they will grow up and be a famous movie star. I don’t tell anybody because they will laugh at my expense or try to convince me otherwise. Of course, children haven’t learned this mode of self-preservation, so they grow up and go to university.

First Impressionist

Well Bonjour gang, or as they say in French “rein”, which is French for "nothing" and I am getting that a lot. I am sitting in a cafe in Champs-Élysées and have found the biggest surprise, so far, to be the number of people who barely understand or speak English here. What is this? A third world country? I thought Europe was well traveled because of their EuroRail system... haven’t they taken holiday in London? Perhaps they are like me (doubt it entirely) and are terrified of traveling 26 miles under the English Channel. It only takes 10 minutes because you are traveling at the speed of dimmed light- what could go wrong?!

I am such an idiot coming in here without knowing the language- and no amount of podcast lessons could have prepared me. There is nothing to learn from me, I am American. We pretty much got everything from France (ask lady liberty or any French person). The only contribution we have given expanding art's palette is rap and stand up comedy. I would detest America a little too. I am so sorry France, but you are responsible for burlesque, so I think you should just check your pretension vest at the door; We're even.

Although, the French rap video I saw was pretty amusing... “weekie weekie weekie,” the rapper said (like a turn table). What can you expect from a government employee? Oh yeah, France employs it’s citizens as artists. It’s very important here. Well, you know what France?! I don’t have to take this from you- we have plumbing and electricity- also Benjamin Franklin. Thank goodness he was involved in our make up, other wise we’d be third world already. If we were any closer, geographically, to Europe- we’d be Poland. I really hope my polish friend didn’t read that- she wont- for obvious reasons.

On a brighter note, I hear French men love American women... I have noticed that they're intrigued when I talk. They will tire very quickly after I learn how to say “why aren’t you saying anything?” (verbs are tricky).

LOOK HOW PRETTY I AM WHEN I AM SOME ONE ELSE!

Benjamin Frankly My Dear- I Don't Know A Damn.

Yesterday I did the London experience... so to speak... so to write. I am not entirely sure of all the places I went, but it was mostly happenstance, as I was only aiming for Buckingham Palace and the Benjamin Franklin house. I will tell you about the latter, later, over a latte- no? I don’t entirely blame you after that “so to write” comment posted earlier.

Recounting where I went is difficult because I don’t know the names of a lot of things- I visited Westminster Abbey, but it was closed to sight seeing, which was disappointing because I wanted to feel like royalty. Thank God there was a Starbucks nearby that created this same feeling with a muffin.

The Royal Wedding is happening April 29th and this is a huge deal- like massive. It’s big in the US, but here, well it’s got everyone driving on the wrong side of the road- HEY O!
In other news, I have one month to break up a wedding and become a princess- I better start exercising!

I saw The House Of Parliament, which was fun, except that I asked two women “where is the House Of Parliament?” While we were standing in front of it. I felt like a bit of a dum dum and they seemed slightly unforgiving, so I punched their faces. I am an American- don’t look at me like that! Do you know who I am?! You do now- because I spoke. American.

I saw the Big Ben and the Circle thing that I shouldn’t have capitalized because I know that’s not the name of it (London Eye)... but what’s done is done, I’m not going to delete all that writing I just did. I am like a self-obsessed literary pack rat.

I had a very nice conversation with a man from Dubai and it was good fun... until he offered to buy my dinner (I wasn’t thinking about it when I said yes). Then it was an unwanted date with questions about later and I desperately wished I would have bought my own fucking mushroom burger. When we left he offered to give me a ride and I told him no because my hostel was a block away- had to be insistent. He was pushy, but I think he just had a flashy car he wanted to show me. I would ask how he could afford such an expensive ride and he would tell me about human trafficking. Liam Neeson doesn’t do the Middle East. I made it home and told Barcelona about it. She was like “how do you get all these guys to buy you stuff?” because it isn’t the first time, but definitely the most sinister... I told her to suck dicks. I hope she does- hilarious! Burger Tramp.

The last thing I will tell you about is The Benjamin Franklin House. I stood in front of this historic house wondering what it looked like... then I realized they do walking tours, so I rang the bell and bought a ticket. I could see why the man was obsessed with electricity- the place needed track lighting like America needed her independence. They both got this, eventually.I see how in historical preservation, making money is as easy as stripping with a bum leg.

Best And Worst of Hostel Living

Today I stepped out into London as a tourist- aimlessly milling about, seeing where it takes me- a lot like a commercial for feminine hygiene. I found myself in Camden Town, there is a street called market stables, where old stables have been made into retail shops and throngs of the worst people go to smoke while they mill about. It felt like the Jersey Shore of Europe... I have never seen the show, but virgins haven’t had sex and they tend to know what it is.

I’m walking down the street, weak with hunger, when I pass a green cafe. It’s advertising all organic food, smoothies, salads and I am so relieved that I will be eating something nutritious. It’s packed with people, so imagine my surprise, when I go to join them only to be denied access by an extra from a Guy Ritchie film.
“Can’t come in here,” he snottily declared “why not?” I asked, looking at all the other people smiling with privilege. At this point, he must hear my accent and he softens a bit “we’re filming,” he explains while pointing at the spot light. He probably heard me speak and realized that I must have thought it was a book signing because in America- we have back lots to film, so we don’t have to ruin my FUCKING LIFE by occupying the only healthy option in a 3 mile radius. I ended up having a vegetarian chinese dish- ‘wif shicken’ (I found a couple stowaways).

I have had the worst gas since. I farted in the Tube station and it was so loud Bobbies pulled out their buttons and ran at me. Luckily, I had a cake with me, so I threw it and we all had a good laugh. No sound though, just old music... London is weird.

So, to Summarize the title of this post. The worst part is having an enormous poof trapped in my tum tum, that I cannot bring myself to expose Barcelona to. The best part was answering Paris when she asked me “what is douche bag?” In French a ‘douche’ is a shower. In America it’s “women are uncomfortable with them selves, so they use these to date these.”

Hostels: Palaces to Refugees

London Bridges might be falling down, but I still haven't made time to see it...

I have been in the UK for four glorious days now and initially, I was renting a room out of someone's house on a website I found (from a friend) called airbnb. It's cheaper than a hotel, but more than a hostel. I didn't want to stay in a hostel because I own nice boots and a Macbook, but hey- that doesn't make me Kate Middleton, so I am now in a hostel with two other women... PILLOW FIGHT!

Barcelona: what is wrong with pillow?

Paris: shhhh.

I came to stay in a hostel after a video chat with my dear friend, Vince. He is getting married this Summer and they are looking into honeymooning in Paris. I suggested the airbnb site and he was intrigued. After we mutually drained the battery on my Macbook exploring our individual options, he informed me that it was cool, but hostels are half the price. He's thinking they will honeymoon in a hostel.

If I have to honeymoon in a hostel, I did something terribly wrong- not that they did- they are social workers with student loans to pay off. A little slice of that 7 billion dollar buy out could have cemented their love. However, now they will stay together because divorce is too expensive... or love. Either way, the church wins!!

I just lost two friends (I'll get you for this, religion!) who needs stinking Americans when I have decided to be European- just like Madonna! No one needs the US- except the Mexicans... but not for long... GO BRAZIL!

I don't know geometry!!!

London: Directions Or Death Or Taxes Or Tea

Oh hello. I am back in Notting Hill because I found a coffee shop I like and I am a creature of habit. I have been here for three days and haven't even seen the sights yet. I should explain that... The way I like to be a tourist is to just live in the place for a year or so until it's charm wears off (like a relationship, I know). Then, when people visit me, I go do touristy things- like make disparaging remarks about third world countries while counting my monies.

A comic friend of mine was visiting London and I went to see him do a set. The crowd (a lush sea of different breeds of white people) was totally on board with him until he started making fun of third world countries. I could feel the collective assumption that Americans were exactly what my friend was mocking. At first they saw him joking and then he was Cheney in a cigar room rolling his eyes at compassion. They knew we were no good.

I was going to go up, but I was late... I was late because I stopped to ask for directions. "Abbey, what?!" Oh yeah- let me demonstrate:

Me: Do you know which way the Kings Cross Tube Station is?

Bloke: yeah love, you're going to want to turn around and walk up this street until you get to those traffic lights about 12 meters up, do you see them?

Me: yes.

Bloke: Okay then, you'll turn a corner there and walk a bit longer... are you thirsty? if you are there is a market on the left here and they stock the fridge with fresh water. After you leave the market, you might need the lou... you're going to have to wait until you get to the station- unless you want to dip into the spreadeagle pub- you could, it's a poof bar, but you're a lady, so they wont mind too much...

20 minutes later I am walking the 5 minute journey to the tube and missing my shot to tell everyone in London how much my Mom loved Princess Diana and pander to them by making fun of Bush- then some Louis CK jokes they probably haven't heard. I am going to be so FAMOUS, I will get to meet Louis CK someday. We'll probably talk about how lucky we are to fly in airplanes.

In other news, the cross walks have a very amiable fellow showing you the proper walk in London. In case you're blind a speaker projects a British male suggesting "pardon, you are free to walk now, unless you're comfortable, then please mind your will. However, if you do decide to cross, look left in case a bobby is approaching in an urgent fashion- no, I don't see that happen- uh oh, times up, oh well. next time."

London: The Big Difference

Let me just tell you a couple things about my first experiences here in the "Big Apple", London, of course.

Every man seems to be a gentleman. That is a blanket statement I can warm myself with, even if it is poorly researched and completely false. I met like 4 really nice blokes and their politeness seemed to be integrated, rather than opportunistic (SWEET PUSSY OVER HERE!).

The other thing, is even the homeless have British accents- so crazy is straight charming. I walked by a homeless fellow yelling obscenities at his dog and I thought "oh that dog must be from Bangladesh."

I took this picture on the Tube, Norhtern Line heading Northbound from Oval station (in case you want to do your own research):

This is the kind of coverage we are sheltered from in America and now my eyes are opened to American ways. I will affirm my patriotism by shooting helpers as soon as I get a gun.



I am in Notting Hill at a coffee shop on Portobello Road... this is the heart of Notting Hill, and subsequently, where the American movie Notting Hill was based. The movie starred Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts or, as they are called here: Pay Dirt and Cheeky Bum. Some of that was falsafied, but I am not a historian... if I were I would know a lot more about London.

I had another idea to write about something, but my mind went blank after uploading that Notting Hill photo. I hope it was worth it... more to come, so stop on by!