The Fill Of Paris.

“I feel like I have had my fill of Paris.”

This was a statement made by my friend who had been visiting for two weeks. He lives in Berlin now, but is an American. Going on my sixth month in Paris, I feel the same way, but also that I am in a sort of prison. That might sound like I need to change my outlook, but before we get too into judging me, let’s examine. Every time I go anywhere here, I am faced with clogged streets and aimless gawkers, who my friend refers to as “the walking wounded”. They oscillate between confused anxiety to surprised recognition of landmarks that are everywhere in this city. It seems reasonable to stop their family in the middle of an already small sidewalk to snap a photo, because... hey, they’re on vacation. Most tourists seem uncomfortable and surprised that this experience doesn’t complete them as much as they thought it would. That could be projection, but it reminds me of when I first got here. I was like “wow, I am in Paris,” and I was soon like “oh, this kind of sucks a lot.” Moving to a new place takes about a year to adjust, regardless where you are, but I could tell after a couple months that I didn’t want to be here anymore than the time I had bought my ticket for. Turns out I had bit off more than I could chew with the idea of being here 11 months and changed my ticket to leave at six months. I wish I could leave now.

All of Paris is on vacation, because somehow the entire country has August off for vacation. A lot of store fronts are closed and the only people here seem to be Italian, which is fine, except it reminds me that I never visited Italy and I wanted to. I don’t know, it’s not that bad, but it isn’t that great, either. I am looking at a very privileged issue right now and I know that. So, I make the best of my time here. Mainly, I do this by listening to podcasts and music while I daydream about living with my boyfriend in the States. So much for presence.

I work for a bit of a crazy family here and I feel a lot tension around my last days in Paris. I hope that they don’t stiff me money, and not because they’re evil, but they are as mentally organized as a washing machine operating a full load. Some of the suggestions they have made border on free labor, like “hey, wanna work three days for us and we wont pay you, but you’ll be with us on the coast- it’ll be so much fun”. I have close friends with children I consider nieces, who would never ask something like that of me. The other thing is, I feel really tense telling them “I wouldn’t feel comfortable working and not getting paid.” Like, it’s not okay to point out the obvious in this house of broken mirrors and promises. I am just counting down the days, trusting that everything will be alright. However, it couldn’t come fast enough.

My birthday is coming fast... I will be thirty years old. I will get on a train and travel down to the family’s 9 bedroom beach house, negotiating a fair wage, which wont seem fair to them, because they would never pay their Philippine nanny who’s been with them 5 years anything close to that. The mom actually told me that, so I guess I did learn something here, not really French, but white guilt sunk in pretty damn well. I miss the socially conscious families in America that I worked for, who appreciate me, compensated me and communicated well. It was clean, honest work and they would never pay me more than their other Mexican nanny, however it was more than enough to survive on and live comfortably.

I wont miss seeing constant fashion shoots either. There is a parade of beautiful people in this city- in the world, more than there has been in history. I know I am going to sound fat when I say this, but most of them are boring and vapid. NO, ALL OF THEM. The women with their long legs and smooth skin... lacquered nails, self-control, poise. Well, they’ll never be stand up comedians. The men with their coiffed hair, collared shirts and sense of entitlement... well, they’ll never date this stand up comedian. Not that I am much of one right now anyway... I am like a walk around comedian, with no jokes and no stage. I also have no couture or place to stretch in my closet of a room, but I do have a boyfriend 5,200 miles away who I can’t wait to bicker with in grocery stores over the price of organics and sleep on the floor with after we’ve made up. He makes me laugh and that is a lot more than I can say for Paris. However, it’s been something here... I learned a little French and a lot of white guilt. C’est la vie- oui? oui.

Give Me A "Paris" Of Socks And I Will Walk Home

It’s about that point on my calendar that marks the date for me to submit to publishers. I made the date several months ago when I was writing everyday and inspired by all the differences around me. I don’t have a manuscript and I question whether or not I have talent. Maybe that read morose, but I am smirking, because I assume I do have talent... and I will go forward expressing what I consider “talent” to a still unreceptive world until the day I get the call: you did it, Abbey, everyone in the world loves you! They don’t expect anything from you except to be yourself, like you’ve been doing (maybe, by this time) (who am I?). At this point, I will have accepted myself, most likely, and learned how to love myself all while allowing other people to express themselves.

I think a parents job is to build you an identity that will serve you in this world, because I doubt who we truly are, on a soul level, has any place in the material world in which we live. I am not saying there cannot be shots of light through the colors of dysfunction (does it sound racist when I liken dysfunction to color?), like shadows playing out shapes of truth in an illusory world. I am saying that because if I hear another guru tell me to be vulnerable and try to guide me there, then ask for money for another level of my own self-knowledge... well, I started that sentence off like I had a plan, but really I don’t. I plan on trying not to judge other peoples’ truths. Whether it be that the aforementioned guru IS transparent in his divinity and his presence alone will raise you to knew heights of consciousness or that auditing is an effective form of self-knowledge (Scientology), I wont say what’s right or not. I don’t know anything about what works for other people. People are trying to have some structure to peace, to feel good and it is ironic that we talk about shedding layers like there is an internal destination to live from, when those layers are the structure we seek externally. In our attempts to tear them down, we’ve manifested them in the form of religion, occults and gurus. We are given moments of insight, where we sit in our true nature and feel peace, it is there, but there is not one way to find it. I don’t think very many people are claiming there is “one way” anymore, but I haven’t been to the South yet, either. So, to not judge another’s truth; to not follow another’s truth. That is my own personal revelation after seeking in the frame work of other people’s houses for a room of my own. Maybe Paris brought me to this point, maybe I would have found it in Yakima Washington, either way I was going to gain weight.

Now, I am in Paris. I thought I would come here and feel connected, like I finally found a place to belong. I would fall in love with a reasonable man and would be adored for me. I would get to a place in my body that felt waif-like and acceptable. I knew it would take effort, but it was worth the work. In reading about culture shock and talking to people who have lived abroad, there is a six-month mark where you are just ready to give up... everything is at it’s worst or whatever. I am there, but not with the same futility. I realize that I am at point of going “where do I want to live?”. It isn’t about not adjusting to a new place, it’s about accepting where I am in life and surrounding myself with opportunity. I do stand up and I like space. I like room on my side walk because I walk with purpose and I like plenty of days in a week to try new material/ re-work old material. This is not going to change. I am in love with a friend and old boyfriend who has asked me to live with him and even though we’ll be sleeping on the floor and I will be distracted by his life style choices, there is no one else on this Earth that I know to be better for me at this time. I could be alone with myself, but I have been doing that for so long, I think it might be a fun experience. Although, it could wind up being it’s own form of Paris... I will still learn something. So, I am returning to America to live in Portland, Oregon for awhile. I never thought I would be saying this and I don’t say it with contrition, I say it with hope and acceptance. I will have some time with people that I love and care about and I will always be free to follow my heart. I will miss the price of cherries in Paris and trusting the meat I eat anywhere. However, when I get back to the states, I will probably stop eating meat, anyway. Paris is beautiful and old, but so am I (I am a thousand years old) and I am going to take my Paris back home. It is going to cost me in changing my flight, but can you put a price on it? I am so excited to come back.

Twilight And Political Rapists

I am working on getting rid of a cold that I have had longer than I usually keep a cold. I have been sleeping a fair amount and haven’t been indulging in excessive sugar. However, I can’t seem to give up coffee for a day. I have decided that if my cold doesn’t show signs of improvement by tomorrow, I will just drink tea for the amount of time I need to get back to pristine health.

By giving up coffee I am missing out on opportunities in conversation, like the one I just had. I regularly patron the cafe a block away from my apartment called Latin St Germain. It is at the skirts of the Latin Quarter on Boulevard Saint Germain. A no nonsense name like that and it’s convenient distance from me is what has me coming here almost everyday. I am such a regular that I am on a first name basis with the comparatively conservative waitstaff. Comparatively, of course, to America, where being a regular in a cafe is more likely to get you an STD, than first-name recognition. Fareed, one of my two regular waiters here, feels so comfortable with me, he asked me where I’m from today, but in French of course, I responded in perfect French: “WHAT?!”
When I figured out what his question was, I smiled and said “Etats-Unis,” which is French for “United States”. This led into the subject of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is a politician favored to be the next president of France, but currently being held with out bail, in New York for the attempted rape of a housekeeper. My waiter began talking with me about it (it was obviously on his mind) and quickly stopped when I said “yes, I know it’s a large spectacle!” but in broken French. He must have known the futility of my simple mind, or he had a job to do and discussing rape with one of the establishment’s regular patrons wasn’t “prudent”. It’s only disappointing, because my limited French vocabulary was sure to lead to some fun hand gestures.

Next to America, France is down right medieval with respect for heads of state. I mean they show more reverence towards their politicians and their privacy. Politicians here can pretty much rape freely with little consequence, other than from their own conscience, which already seems a bit defective with all that rape it manages to allow. I heard a woman, here, upset that we put him in handcuffs, like a “criminal”. I should also reiterate that it was a woman who was upset that we snagged a fleeing dignitary who thought it proper to just have his way with the help- our help. I bet they also think “she was just a housekeeper,” but I don’t know. I may be too American/ too woman/ too “the help” to objectively report on something that offends me so much. However, what if he didn’t flee, do you think that they would have fallen in love, like Maid In Manhattan?

I like the idea for a movie that is like Twilight, but instead of Vampires they are all crazed rapists; Immortal rapists, and over the past century, they have disciplined themselves to show women respect by only raping animals. One day, a new girl comes to the Birmingham High School and sits down, right next to Johan Bullen: reformed-immortal-serial-rapist. Her appeal is the strongest he's ever encountered, making his dick so hard it tears through the desk. He has to flee the school and find an animal- any animal! An unlucky mutt lay dying along the road after being hit by a car. The dog is taking in it’s last breaths, thinking about the little girl he loved and is leaving behind when Johan runs up on it’s lifeless body. As Johan tries to expel the urge to rape that beautifully defiant, teenager he left in class, he fucks the remaining existence out of the dog. “Damn,” he says to himself, knowing there wasn’t enough fight to satiate his thirst. He ejaculates anyway and begins a new search with a flaccid, but promising penis. Later, he and the girl fall in love and he is always telling her how difficult it is not to rape the shit out of her and she gets butterflies.
I think this is a relatable script with a large demographic because who can't remember being a tormented 14 year old with an enormous crush on a boy at school? Okay, this is about me now, I had this crush. He even asked me to be his girlfriend once, but I never answered because my fear literally choked the agreement from binding us forever. I was slightly grunge, but mostly melodramatic, lamenting Cobain’s death and piercing myself outside of school. One day my crush and I were walking to school from the bus stop and I asked him if he would do me a favor and kill me. He told me “yes, but I would rape you first.” TIME STOOD STILL and I was in love with him for 2 years after that, until a “friend” of mine started sleeping with him when I went into residential treatment for "behavioral difficulty". She told me he had blackheads behind his ears, which completely expunged my affection for him. Still, I look back on the potential rape that would have changed my life and I wonder how hard an emaciated 14 year old could have fought the boy of her fancy... not too hard. Still, it was the sweetest thing a boy ever said to me until my last boyfriend looked at my stomach after sex and said “you actually have some abs under there.” My heart knows what it wants.

As I nurse myself back to health, thinking on my past, America’s past and France’s present, I contemplate a screen-play, about beastiality, that might finally restore respect for the film industry and put America and France back to the same amiability as the good ol’ slave days.

Cat Piss And Other Drinks

I got a late start on writing today, but told myself that despite my resistance to do what I needed to do to create a sense of accomplishment, I would write... something. I would also run and I did, but I cried a little afterward, not sure why, but managed to pass it off as allergies in case any observer caught it and didn’t care anyway. What if some nice French lady came up and asked me “what’s wrong?” and I couldn’t understand, so I just start blubbering through every French greeting I know in replace of answering her question. What if, indeed, she would simply stop caring because I sound so stupid when I talk.

I met two Americans yesterday and I think we’ll be friends, although I am pretty sure the only reason they live here is for an excuse to drink openly in the morning with out public ridicule. They were very enthusiastic that I would also take to drinking a lot, also... did I already say “also”? I felt like telling them if my ex couldn’t make me an alcoholic, Paris definitely wont. However, I am drinking whiskey while the sun is still out and waiting to meet friends for absinthe. I am drinking alone because I need to write in public, but it’s too late for coffee. The server asked me if I was going to be having my usual, but I screamed “NO”. What a maniac- it’s 6:30pm, why would I be drinking coffee?! To stay up and tend to my meth lab? Lady this is Paris, give me a whisky because I miss America. I am drinking Johnnie Walker Red, maybe 2 ounces and at 8 euros a serving, I’m thinking that maybe I can get someone to buy it for me... just make eyes that suggest a blow job to this Frenchman who has been watching me since I came out of my Mother. Fucking perv, her dilated vagina being the only thing standing between him and date rape. That is figurative, of course, I always wear an imaginary mom’s vagina force field around me when I am still in love with my ex, the alcoholic I shouldn’t have romantic feelings towards. It does a really good job deflecting men’s advances, but a terrible job turning down alcohol.

I don’t really have unbearable romantic feelings towards my ex, I just like acting like an emotional cripple when I drink because I think it keeps me from falling into a relationship while my inhibitions are down. “How do you say ‘defense mechanism’ in French, Pierre? Here, tell my e-mail, I gotta go!” I like that I am painting myself as this elusive woman, when I am really just terrified and lonely (and actually painting pretty neurotic photos, besides). If I weren’t so transitory I would have 6 cats by now. They would be my babies because the ammonia in cat piss actually causes birth defects in real babies, and my substitute children can't go outside because a car or raccoon could kill them! I would have at least three litter boxes in my small apartment, so I should just stick with KITTIES, just so I don’t have RETARDS (take a lesson- poor people)! I will only get female cats and I will tell them that they are just like my mother when they ask for foot rubs.

Tonight, I am supposed to go to an absinthe bar, which I have never done... at least I don’t remember doing this, there are a lot of things I did that I don’t remember when I used exstacy with strippers in my early twenties. Today, I am a grown woman, although 20 year old me assumed I would be famous, married and perfect by now, but I stopped listening to 20 year old me any day now. Hopefully absinthe helps drown her out, but if eating doesn’t do it, I doubt casual sex will. Wait, what are YOU talking about?

Oh, Paris... right. I live here now and that means I go out with anybody who will talk to me and do whatever anybody is doing so that I can socialize and meet a soul mate- hopefully he has a cat and a large penis, but I’m okay with no pets too.

I did it, guys, I wrote... I focused and wrote this piece, a memoir of absolutely nothing important. I think this is the theme of my little, book project, which will make it insanely easy to finish by January. Just ask my ex, I rarely talk about anything terribly important, but I am great to have sex with. MEEEEOOOOOW!

The Only Fabrication Should Be The Fashion

It’s been close to lonely here in Paris. I have made a few friends, but nobody I see day in and day out like on Sex and the City. I have decided it is time to take matters into my own hands and put out a personals ad. I tried walking around and meeting people, but for the most part, no one looks me in the eye or tries to take my earbuds out of my head to say “hello”. Rude fucking French. It’s not like I am the Retard from There’s Something About Mary, although I have zipped my own penis into a baseball. Sarah Silverman was in that movie and now she doesn’t talk to me, where’s my galactic empire, Steven Spielberg?! I am free associating right now and the ideas are just pouring out of me... kinda like this morning when I farted and it smelled like diarrhea, because it was! Luckily I was at work, so nobody noticed. I just said “this coffee tastes weird!”

My neighbor farts so loud I can hear it through the walls when I wear ear plugs to bed- it woke me up out of drifting off to sleep last night. I heard him rushing down the hallway, opening the door and closing it, then erupting like he was so glad he was home where nobody could hear him. I yelled “I will kill you for that!” then I set my alarm for every two hours so I could scream “you’re a dead man, farty-pants.” Anyway, he must drink Illy espresso too, because I did the same thing at work this morning. Nobody said anything, maybe because I am a nanny and the 3 month old can’t talk, but the Mom was in the next room. I heard her jump, like I startled her, so I just told her “the baby destroyed itself all over the walls and this coffee tastes weird... I will clean up the baby. You better make a new one because I need this job!” She came running in and just as I suspected, she was so relieved her baby was alive, I demanded a raise. She asked me why I was squatting with my butt in the baby's face and I said "farting, stop coddling him!"

Coffee is exactly what my friends and I will drink every day at the same place, as soon as I find them, but I am sure I will because I am writing the following ad to hang up in bathrooms at expensive restaurants all over Paris.

Bonjour!

Okay, enough of that French crap- where my New Yorkers at?! I need three, attractive women to be friends with me. One blonde, one brunette and an unnaturally bright red-head. You should have a lot of disposable income and treat me like a fashion receptacle for high end shoes and hand bags. You should also buy drinks, meals and airfare. Let’s travel together. I am a writer and I tell jokes! This means that I am Carrie, so don’t even try to be quirky like me... obviously there is only room for one of us at a table. I am at the point of the show where I am broken up from Big after some other break ups, but we are totally friends. The thing is, I don’t think Big and I will ever get married in this version of our show because he likes skinny girls and I like bread. So, you can set me up with Aiden and this time I will marry him, so that after we have three children we can meet in Abu Dhabi and him kissing me will be totally okay, although I will still call Big and tell him- he should have tried harder. Samantha, keep your clothes on, okay?It’s different this time, this is Abu Dhabi and I am not a good enough friend to tolerate everything about you. This is real life, not an HBO series. You should all be available every day to hang out over a snack. You can be French, but make sure your hair color meets the requirements. Also, no speaking French to us, or on the phone in front of us until I am fluent... even then, dumb it down, it’s not all about you and your linguistics. Get over yourself! Call me when you’re ready to be a good friend.


Regards,
Abbey (like “Carrie”, but with “Abbey” instead)

That’s it, I better go because I suspect the requests are going to come rolling in and I may even have to quit my job for a week or so while I interview. I, of course, will have to bill them after they are hired. I stopped a few people at the Quai and asked if they had other friends here, but they ran- five year olds are so bizarre. It’s not like I only play with kids, but they are the only ones short enough to look me in the eye. I’m not looking up for any adult, that’s how you get water squirted in your eye from those fake pocket flowers. If cartoons taught me anything, it was how to survive, but I am not a cartoon and a stream of water that big would simply drown me. Thank you for surviving this piece of writing, which was the locutionary version of a whoopie cushion.

Cheek Kisses Are Not A Promise Ring

I woke up this morning and made way to my computer, which makes mornings much more rewarding now that I live in Paris. The time difference has it so that when I sleep, the majority of my Facebook friends are awake, avoiding whatever they should be doing in their lives 9 hours behind me. They are on Facebook and communicating to... moi. I wake up with enough notifications accrued to make me feel like I have a purpose, so I make some coffee and hunker in for a full 40 minutes of work.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:

"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”

I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.

I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.

My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.

It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.

I'm Not A 'Racist', I'm American

Now, I don’t want to come off as bragging, but since I moved to Paris, I have killed at least 43 ants- sometimes three at a time! They are not just in my place, I think they’re everywhere in the Spring, like the urine smell. I can’t exactly figure it out because there is nothing to eat in my apartment, but maybe it has something to do with the baguettes. Those are everywhere too, so it is possible that we’re secreting bread through the pores in our feet. Crazier things have happened- like Obama- no one saw that coming! I’m not a racist because I voted for Obama. However, I have noticed that African Americans from France and Britain talk just as loud as in the US.

I am so glad I got that off my chest, it’s like a weight has been lifted. My honkey American friend said I probably couldn’t write about it, but I was like “cracker- watch me!” he was like “now, don’t be calling me no cracker,” and I was like “whatever, round eye!”

I am watching Sex And The City Season 6 for the 3rd or 4th time, because I’m in Paris and she goes to Paris at the end of the Season. She just started dating a Russian, who’s name I can say, but can’t spell. He doesn’t get a lot of her jokes, but he makes her breakfast and seems to be ready to commit. I accidentally found myself on a date that I thought was a language exchange. He was an enthusiastic French man and I knew we might have a barrier of understanding when he asked me if I like women because I shrugged away from being guided across the street. I told him that I wasn’t a lesbian because I didn’t like the texture. He asked “what is ‘texture’?” I proceeded to inform him that I was only interested in language exchange, not romance and he said “I feel like you are attacking me!” He said it in such a way that made me think that I might have been. I tried to apologize, explaining that my ex had “low self-esteem” and my dad “wasn’t there.” Then I ran off to Brighton, England to do some heavy duty counseling because I realize that there has to be some significant healing before I can even make eye contact with an interested French man. They romance like African Americans: intense(ly). Also, it couldn’t hurt to heal the misconceptions I have held of both my parents, so my relationship with myself and everyone I meet is based in truth and not the illusion of some falseho... hey! Where’s that ant going with my bread?!