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.