Promotion!

Hello all,

It seems I have been promoted; I am no longer a waitress (although still striving towards genius-hood) and therefor feel the need to abandon this forum. However, I will be giving it another college try, and you can check it out at my new blog:

Bottomless Salad

Weird, I know, but it was what I am always hoping the waitress will bring me.

Recipe n°20: Bittersweet Symphony, that's life

10 parts nostalgia
5 parts yearning
5 parts mal du pays
5 parts indecision
10 parts reality
a splash of eau de rose

Shake all ingredients in a tumbler, mixing thoroughly. Strain into a martini glass and sip slowly, savouring the bittersweet aftertaste of the nostalgia, letting the reality sink in slowly...


Two months later, I'm resurfacing.

In France for the summer, for the first time. It started earlier than it does in Boston, and it's light out until 10pm. There are palm trees in the street and I sleep with my (un-screened) windows wide open, letting the cool breeze (and the mosquitoes) tickle my feet.

After almost a year of fairly mundane daily life, interspersed with some amazing trips, restaurants, and visits, I found myself these last few months busier than I've been all year. Working for an abroad program is a unique job, as there are weeks when almost nothing happens and then at any time an issue can arise: a broken arm, a 1am phone call due to over-booked hotels, sudden tears brought on by the undermining stress of living in a foreign country. And while it's helped me learn to deal with these impromptu situations, the pressure of being constantly available is not so much to my liking, and I am doubting that "Study Abroad Program Director" will stay high on my list of desired job titles.

One thing I do not like about growing up: the constant paradox of wanting more responsibility, moving up in the world, but at the same time feeling a desire to go back to having no responsibility, and simply rely on others.

Why is it always that when you know you're leaving a place, and your days are numbered, that then and ONLY then do you start doing all the things you've been meaning to do for so long. By next Wednesday, I will have seen all my friends made this year to say goodbye, gone out dancing, made NEW friends, and basically have a brand new social life. Only to leave. I can't say I haven't taken advantage of France this year, I've seen and done a lot. But I've also watched many online episodes of Grey's Anatomy, which is time I'm sure could have been spent doing something more enriching, more cultural. The sadness of this activity is compounded by the fact that my housemate Katherine has gone, leaving me to make fun of Derek and Meredith all by my lonesome, i.e. TV is no longer a group activity. To be honest, I haven't watched a single GA without her, it wasn't worth it. I've started looking for more French movies and shows, of course NOW, now that I'm leaving.

And I've also decided that yes, of course I want to live in France! It's so much better here! The markets, the food! The tranquil lifestyle! The countryside! The language! It's so obvious!
Let's wait until my first cup of medium coffee at Espresso Royale or Gimme Coffee when I get home and see how I feel then.

In the meantime, seeking: attractive, funny Frenchman living in Boston who also owns a house in Dijon, and who wants to live between the US and France. Preferably rich enough to afford many first-class plane tickets. I'll be in Boston, starting over yet again, waiting for you.

Experimenting in Nostalgia #1

Here are some excerpts from my journal this year, a bit random but it may be interesting. Or maybe not.

[sunday 7 sept 08]

THE CANAAN CURSE STRIKES AGAIN (oh, poor people like me!). How? Why? What? I really think I'm asking for it somehow.
And then there's the nice things they do for you: drive you home, buy you ice cream...maybe it's b/c dates don't exist en France.
I'm glad Dad will be here this weekend (why? so I'll get a break from my new French friends? Ha) but...yeah. It's intense!
And is it possible to really be friends?
I HATE letting people down . . . I'm not ruling it out but I need time.
Sheesh.
This is all happening so FAST. And I really want to keep them as friends!
I need Zoe. Or Mom. Or Liz.
Dammit! I think it'll be OK though. Since "mon amitié t'es acquise."*
Please please be cool.
I hope my answer was good and not genre "I've dated people uglier than you"** -- not one of my finer moments. On peut toujours espérer. Bonne nuit

*"You have acquired my friendship."
**Yes, I did actually say this to someone. But I later found that they deserved it.

[saturday 22 nov 08]

(à la Boîte à Sardines, blindée)

It's been way too long. Bad girl. You're supposed to keep up on these things when you have the time & you're in a frickin' foreign country.
Pretty cool being alone in a bar on a Saturday night...surrounded by boys drinking fancy, sugar-rimmed, glow-stick-porting cocktails.
Off to Rym's crémaillère in about an hour. Until then I guess I'll do my thing here...at least I'm not drinking in the street w/ my dog.
I currently seem to be enjoying two groups of people: Rym's, et Didier's. The problem is not grave but Rym's = awfully young peeps & Didier's, well there's Didier . . . And then there's Caitlin, my new tarot-toting, redhead American wonder. I'm so glad I met her. And then there's her colocs : Dimitri, Manu, Clément et Romain.
How is it possible to know so many boys and not LIKE* any of them?
Plus my thoughts are often ailleurs, and this is something I need to régler. Esp. when Mikey sends me e-mails asking for "romantic french quotes"...and then there's ####**...and the non-existent ###**. It's hard not to hold a small candle when I know I'm going back...and this is going so fast...

But NON. Je suis ici, et ici je reste. J'attends mon prince charmant!

*Here I mean LIKE LIKE, just FYI.
**Names of American boys changed to protect the innocent.

[dreams]

15 dec : (text missing) . . . this is after I kissed him and he hesitated but then kissed me back, looked me square in the eyes and said, "You're never going to get any love from me."

19 jan : I dreamed I finally shaved my legs but I accidentally only did one.

25 jan : I dreamt that someone(?) was killing cats/spiders in my room by pinching their heads off with tissues. That I kept missing trains. That tons of people were taking showers and there was not hot water left.

[friday 20 march 09]

(does embarrassed come from bare-assed?)

Tonight a perfect couple made me not want to get married. But the mari told me I was "jolie comme un cœur"

[saturday 2 may 09]

Wow, sorry I've been so boring lately?* I mean ! Why does my brain fart like that?
I should remember: drinking is twofold bad: 1st) calories in drinks and 2nd) eating sticks of butter w/ crackers at 2am and waking up to a pile of crumbs under your chair.
( . . . )
I just had an idea (not sure if it's a good one) to put parts of my journal on my blog. Hm.

Obviously not this page.
(arrow pointing to previous page.)

So Zoe's** coming to Grenoble and I'm beside myself. I wonder what she'll like and what she'll be like.
I can't see her at a party like tonight.

Hope I can sleep despite coffee.

*I wrote a bunch of entries about what I was eating in a vain attempt to lose a few pounds.
**My super-awesome, unbelievably cool sister who has been spending the last year in India and Uganda.

Well, I hope that wasn't a totally failed experiment. I haven't written much this year, but it was fun looking back on how my year here has evolved. At home I have about twenty journals, mostly from high school, and while writing in a journal is very different from writing a blog, the two do seem to overlap sometimes and I think it's nice to be able to share a little bit of so much writing...plus it was an easy way to think of an entry topic and I needed one! Ha.

Off to see if I can sleep despite the coffee...

Recipe no°19: Eau de Provence

3 oz. pastis (anise-flavored French liqueur)
a small flagon of water, preferably local

Find yourself a lovely, sunny terrace table and order up your pastis. Mix to your pleasure with water, and sip over ice. Savor the tongue-numbing flavors...




It's 8 o'clock on a Friday night (or 20 hours, as we call it over here) and I'm unwinding at home, having sent the 'rental units off to Lyon on the train but a few short hours ago. I promptly blew off steam by purchasing a few Esprit shirts (stop! buying! stuff! now!), and now am waiting for C. to come over, enjoy some wine, and re-hash our respective last weeks. But she's taking too long to get here, so let the re-hashing begin without her...

As my "glimpses" proved popular with several readers last week, let's continue in the same format.

Glimpse #1: I arrive in Aix-en-Provence, after a long wind-thrashed layover in Valence (yes, I chose to wait for a late train out on the quai). Not five minutes have passed when my translation skills are requested again, this time to haggle with a parking-lot attendant who overcharged T. & W., and I'm supposed to argue with this man even though the couple in question lost their ticket. Hm. Luckily that one's put off 'til later, and I find out that W. managed to change his 500 euro bill in a tiny bank! We zoom off to Cassis, and I endure/enjoy a harrowing boat ride to visit the calanques, which are quite beautiful. (I don't feel like explaining; Google it, people!) A word to the wise: a warning of "mer agitée" translates roughly to : "You might be hanging on for dear life and wondering why anyone in their right mind would bring a child on this death trap".

A deceivingly calm port.

Glimpse #2: I ask my mother to pick me up an apricot croissant for breakfast.

I like my apricots sunny side up.

Glimpse #3: We visit the market in Arles, where I hope to recreate the idyllic picnic I experience there a few months ago, in the jardin d'été. Unfortunately, it literally rained on my parade and we were forced to make do under one of the arches of les arènes, the amazingly well-preserved arena where bullfights are still held. Not today, folks. We spilled tapenade on the steps and swigged wine out of a bottle; we carved up tomme de savoie and hard pepper sausage and laid it on damp slices of fougasse, the local bread. Not quite the déjeuner sur l'herbe I had hoped for, in fact more of a face-stuffing sur le concrete, but it did the trick.

A market image I will cherish.

My first, sunnier trip to Arles, where I was able to photograph the local gladiators.
Luckily this was not a "mise-à-mort" spectacle.

Glimpse #4: We traveled to Les-Baux-de-Provence, a small medieval village which reminded me of Le Mont St. Michel. It was still raining, and we got the full medieval mud-slopping experience as the rain shower became torrential. I ended up having to take my shoes off and walk down the cobblestones in several inches of water, and despite our copious rain gear we were quite soaked. It was totally worth it. For a better view of Les Baux, in the daylight, see my friend Rachel's photo, who seems to be currently leading a parallel life.

Soaked but loving it. The bright colors were helpful in a crowd, I found.

Glimpse #5: The sun finally graces us with its presence, and we head down to the Camargue, to see the "world-famous" white horses (apparently you learn about them in Austrian elementary schools), along with black bulls and pink flamingoes. As we're reading about where to stop, we come across these passages in the guide book ("The Rough Guide to Provence & the Côte d'Azur"):

"There's really no ideal time to visit the Camargue. If you have the sort of skin that attracts mosquitoes, then the months from March to November could be unbearable...you'll need serious chemical weaponry. Biting flies are also prevalent and...the other problem is the wind, which in autumn and winter can be strong enough to knock you off your bike. Conversely, in summer the weather can be so hot and humid that the slightest movement is an effort."

Well, most mosquitoes consider me filet mignon, and I left my H-bomb at home. I roll up the windows, and make the move to put on a life vest and lock my door as well after reading this:

"For drivers and cyclists the main thing to be wary of is taking your car or bike along the dykes. Maps and road signs show which routes are closed to vehicles and which are accessible only at low tide, but they don't warn you about the surface you'll be driving along. The other problem is theft from cars. There are well-organized gangs of thieves with a particular penchant for foreign licence plates."

Whew! thank God we rented in Lyon.

I'll enjoy that world-famousness from the car, thank you very much.

Glimpse #5: We visit a brocante, or an antiques/way-overpriced junk fair. There are many interesting images to share, but I'll stick to my favorites:

Corkscrews throughout the ages and various sundry objects.

This looks like something my dog Toofy would hang on her mantel, if she had one.

Ancient music boxes (I think) that cost over 100 euros each.

Cute or creepy? You decide.
There were plenty of terrifying hairless dolls, and
such nightmare-inducing marvels as a box full of
blue, lashed doll eyeballs. Only 1 euro each!

Translation: "Male thieves, female thieves, warning.
You risk making a huge! huge! investment in dental work and hospital bills (2 dead - 8 injured)"

Glimpse #6: We stop at a restaurant, and imagine my relief at seeing this posted on the door:



Glimpse #7: There are many fascinating sights along the road. Stopped at a light, I wonder...is that Batmobile rides to the left?




Glimpse #8: Tuckered out from our navigating and planning, T. and I take a little sieste.

FIN

Recipe no°18: Traveller's Choice

What would you like to drink? A beer? A glass of wine? Red or white? A panaché (beer mixed with lemonade)? A coffee? A double? Café au lait?* A pastis? Quick, le monsieur nous attend...

*My oh-so-cute mother actually thought this was called "Café olé"

My ambitions as amateur food and travel writer are put momentarily on hold, or perhaps they're conversely kicked into high gear as my mother, her new boyfriend (whom I'm meeting for the first time) and her two friends descend upon my little city of Grenoble, anticipating my help as travel agent, guide, translator, activity organizer, and cultural commentator. I wear these different jackets with pride, and even find it fun, but it can also be exhausting. Here are a few glimpses into the last few days...

Glimpse #1: I'm at work, waiting for my mother to call me from the Lyon airport, to assure me of their safe arrival. Instead, I receive a call from a French-accented woman from Air France, informing me that she "has my parents". After the initial shocks of wondering if a) they are incarcerated/still breathing/alive and well and b) if a man I've never met can be considered my "parent", she further informs me that all is well and that they've simply lost their luggage, can it be delivered tomorrow and to what address. NB: if this ever happens to you, thank your lucky stars: instead of hauling your heavy baggage through a foreign city, you will have it delivered to your doorstop by a burly airline employee. Pack underwear in your carry-on and you're covered on all fronts, literally.

Glimpse #2: As the visit progresses, a few of the things that merit commentary from her and her boyfriend (she having travelled several times but not often to Europe, he being for the first time in a foreign country, not to mention airplane!): the shape of the cars, the fancy Affligem beer glasses, the ridiculous gamme of Euro coins (8!), the lovely public transportation, the lack of sidewalks. They are worried they won't be able to get money (there's an ATM on practically every corner), are bothered by the late dinner-times (7:30 at the VERY earliest), but are easy-going and generous. I'm slightly embarrassed by the constant photo-snapping and loud American voices, but what can you do.

W. and Ric snapping away on the téléphérique.

Glimpse #3: We travel to Lyon to pick up my mother's friends T. & W., who live in Austria (an Austro-American couple), and I take them to lunch in a typical Lyon bouchon. I make a show of finding the one I knew, but really we could have eaten in any of 10 or more practically identical restaurants. We sat outside, and the waiter brought us several very long menus that I began to translate, to the best of my ability. I was doing fine, but there were too many choices, and I had to explain the concept of the French menu. I finally finish, breathless, and the waiter returns. "Ils parlent anglais? Vous voulez des cartes en anglais?" Well, yes, that would be nice. A bit too late though. Mother's BF loves the food, and mentions several times that he will try to find it again before they leave. How do I explain: all the restaurants in Lyon are good, and we weren't even in one of the better ones. C'est pas la peine. Plus, don't you want to try something new? My friend kindly points out his attempt to attach to something familiar, that he

knows he likes. My job becomes more complicated as I realize there's some psychology involved.

Glimpse #4: We arrive at T. & W.'s Grenoble hotel, only to discover that the welcome desk has closed il y a une heure. Someone lets us in the front door, and we call the number left in the lobby for late-comers. The man puts me on hold while he searches for their reservation, then comes back on the line.

"Are you à l'intérieur de l'hôtel ?"

"Oui..."

"Do you see a cabine téléphonique ?"

"Oui..."

"Inside the cabine, do you see a small safe?"

"Oui..."

"Next to the safe there is an envelope."

"Yes, I found it! There's T.'s name on it and the key inside."

I hung up, half expecting him to tell me that this envelope would self-destruct in 5 minutes.

Glimpse #5: W. has brought from Austria a lovely, grand 500 euro bill, in all its purple glory. He foresees no problems. He attempts to pay for some breakfast items at a low-cost grocery store, first thing in the morning, with this note. It does not fly. He asks me to accompany him to the bank to break the bill; the teller replies in a haughty tone that he will not break the bill, it is against the law (huh???). "C'est comme ça qu'on fait le blanchissage d'argent," he accuses ("That's how people launder money"). I ask him where we can break the bill, and he says ponderously, "NULLE PART." No where. After having a minor freak-out and calling France a third world country, W. lets it go the next day, and it becomes a joke. Merci à dieu. But still, pretty weird...

This morning, they left me for a few days to head off to Aix-en-Provence, and I cheerfully waved goodbye as they dropped me off on their way, along the quays of the Isère. "What will we do without you?" W. moaned as I hopped out of the rented Opel Zafira. Vous vous débrouillerez, I thought; you'll figure it out. And best of all, you'll be happy to see me when I get there on Friday.

The gang.

But first, I'm gonna go have a beer. BY MYSELF.

Recipe no°17: The Revelation

After a very brief search for a cocktail relating to my title theme of "Revelation", I stumbled across this very interesting recipe on Wikipedia. I like to think that after several years of working as a waitress and bartender, that I have a fairly extensive knowledge of wine and spirits. I have no idea what half of these ingredients are.

The Revelation appears in William "Cocktail" Boothby's 1908 work The World's Drinks And How To Mix Them^[1]as "A swell after-dinner drink."

Into a small mixing-glass place a little cracked ice, two-thirds of a pony of Bénédictine, one-third of a pony of Kümmel and seven drops (no more) of Crème de menthe. Twist and throw in a piece of lemon peel (a la cocktail). Stir thoroughly until cold and serve in a pony-glass.

This is a most seductive after-dinner beverage, and was originated by Mr. Dennis O'Sullivan, the well-known mixologist, several years ago, and is still very popular with many connoisseurs and clubmen."

Enjoy.

Here's a picture that I feel captures me in one of my perfect moments; sitting on my favorite leopard-print chair, mulling over a French project in my sunny yellow kitchen. I like to contemplate this picture when I feel homesick or worry about my future, feeling I don't know who I am or what I should do with my life.

**Warning: This post is a bit self-centered and ruminative, but then again, what are blogs for but a literal tooting of one's own horn?

Well the other day, while sitting miserably at work nursing a headache and trying not to drip too much snot onto my keyboard, I was casually surfing the net. After perusing the Opinion section of the New York Times and happening upon a review of Rome's various trattorias and the wonderfully delectable things you can consume in them, I felt an urge to explore the possibility of becoming a food critic. One google later, and I stumble across the blog of a man who has a similar educational background to my own (he has a PhD in Spanish Baroque theater, I may someday have one in 18th century French literature) and who now works as a restaurant critic in New Orleans.

I am now utterly convinced that my résumé is ideal for this kind of work, and that it is my true calling.

My idea is more of a travel/food writer, and I feel this kind of work is something people consider to be a swanky, cushy job but there must be some demand...I mean I can name at least 10 brands of travel guides and they have to be constantly updated.

Also, you'd be hard-pressed to come up with many people possessing the perfect combination of skills for this kind of work, which of course I have...

Here are my impeccable credentials:

1) I've spent almost every year of my life since senior year of high school working in the restaurant industry. Tasting, talking about food, learning about wine, becoming a basic food snob and often showing up my fellow cooks in their culinary knowledge (I'm talking about the terms and meanings, not the actual cooking). I.e. "No, Jason, you can't make 'baked ziti' with rigatoni because then it would just be 'baked rigatoni' ". Jeez.

2) I am now pursuing a PhD in French Literature, which not only forces me to hone my writing skills, but also involves intense study of the French language, obviously a useful language when it comes to food snobbery. Now I'll really know what it means when I say, "Garçon, hurry up with those hors d'oeuvres. Oh, merde, you have spilled the crudités, how gauche."*

*having been a garçonne myself, I would obviously never talk to one that way.

3) I have lived in Spain and France for extended periods of time, and both travel and waitressing has made me an expert and talking to strangers. Just give me a real reason and there's no stopping me! Plus I have excellent spelling and grammar.

4), and most importantly: travelling and going out to eat are like, my favorite things EVER. Do what you love, they say.

Actual proof that I travel and eat in restaurants.

I've always wanted to be a writer but not really the fictiony or history kind. And so I toyed with the idea of being a translator of literature but it turns out you have to be a famous recognized professor and then people ask you to translate their books...you don't sign up on craigslist. Dammit. So this seems like the perfect option; I get to write, entertain and be original but by waxing poetic on the wax beans I just consumed. I love it.

Here's a little practice blurb...tell me if you think I have what it takes. I'll review the dinner I ate with my host family this evening.

We started off the meal with a comforting if predictable watercress and carrot purée. The soup was pleasantly acidic, its tartness countered by a splash of milk; a slightly higher serving tempurature would have been ideal. A chilled cake of aubergines and egg, topped with tomato sauce, comprised the main course of the evening. The cake, reminiscent of raw tofu, was a bit bland but refreshing, and the sauce, if it had been homemade, could have been its saving grace (the hostess apologizes--she's had a busy day). A light salad of romaine hearts and balsamic vinaigrette was a welcome accompaniment to this springtime fare, and any lingering hunger was quelled by the cheese course (camembert, beaufort and chèvre). A simple dessert of fresh fruit and hazelnut-studded chocolate, healthy and unassuming, brought the meal to a close.

Ok, I know I have some work to do. I just couldn't wait to get started.

Recipe no°16: Eau de l'école

To create this lovely, nostalgia-inducing perfume, you need only mix these elements:

Several glue-sticks (Elmer's in America)

Various crayons and pencils, with their shavings

Floor cleaner

Chalk dust (or for a more modern aroma, whiteboard markers)

And last but not least, the secret essential ingredient: orange peels.

*****

More adventures from the land of the small people...

Yesterday a small boy and I carried on this exchange (again, entirely in French):

Boy: But why can't you speak French?

Me: Well, I can. I'm speaking to you right now in French! Don't you understand me?

Boy: (looks at me with wide eyes, shakes head slowly)

Me: Do you understand the words I'm saying to you, right now?

Boy: (slowly shakes head no)

So I rattle off something in English, and then say to him in his language: "See, that's what it would sound like if I was speaking English. You really wouldn't understand!" He looked even more confused. Bon, laisse tomber. It was getting a little too metaphysical for both of us there.

It's funny to see how many of the children, even the older ones, seem to think that  because I'm the English teacher, that I'm speaking to them in English, even though I only do about 8% of the time. I'm also realizing that I am fairly clueless when it comes to English grammar.

Here's an example; can you help me out here?

I ask the students to correct a few sentences, including this one:

I like swim.

One girl figures out the problem, and I explain that it's just like French. We don't say J'aime nage, do we? After a conjugated verb, we use an infinitive.

But later, I'm looking over one of their previous worksheets, where they often use the expression "I can" for learning activities. And lo and behold, we don't say I can to swim, do we? Whyyyy? And this after I've been telling them English is so easy, look, you barely have to do anything to conjugate a verb, blah blah...to the point that several kids asked me, "So if it's so easy, what do English kids study in school?"

Here's another example of the grammar or pronunciation rules I kind of "stumble upon", and then am terrified that I have just made up. This happens to me when I teach French, too, but not as often since not much of French is instinctive for me...

When words end with 'e', it makes the vowel in the middle of the word (usually just before the final consonant) sound long, and I described this as pronounced like we pronounce the letter of the alphabet. Examples: wine, make, complete, more, pure. Now there are tons of weird pronunciation things in English, so have I cursed my students by affirming this to be true?

So much I take for granted...who knows what else I'll discover I already knew, but didn't know I knew.

Recipe no°15: Making Flippy Floppy

1 bottle of nice white wine
some nice snacks of your choice
1 Talking Heads album (also your choice)

I just found out, grace à l'internet, that David Byrne's refrigerator contents (Grapefruit, white wine, cheese, leftovers, tortillas, ice cream, frozen pizza, hummus) are scarily similar to what I often have laying around. So let's crack open that wine, put on that record and rock out. And don't worry about the government.

"Loved ones, loved ones, visit the building, take the highway, park, and come up and see me. I'll be working, working, but if you come visit, I'll put down what I'm doing, my friends are important."

Fun moment today (well it was actually a couple of days ago)--the meeting of two of my very favorite minds in the world: Stephen Colbert and David Byrne. I thought I might explode. They were quite cute together, actually. I got to see David perform in 2004 at the State Theater in Ithaca, NY (highlight: hearing him sing "Life During Wartime" and saying "I got some groceries! Some peanut butter!"); Stephen performed there at some point over a year ago, and I didn't make it. Someday. But if you're interested, David Byrne and Brian Eno just came out with a new album, that you can hear in it's entirety without even clicking on anything, just by going to this website:

www.everythingthathappens.com

Pretty cool, huh?

The Talking Heads have been my favorite band since I was about 5 years old, thanks to my dad who played lots of cool music for me, while my mom played me opera and Raffi. Apparently my dad decided to initiate me into the world of music through his mainstream favorites (he studied computer music in the 1970s, so I'm sure his own projects would have been beyond me), also including The Cars, The Police, and Paul Simon. This music became permanently lodged in my brain, and has forever branded my taste in music. I can quote just about any lyric of the album "Speaking In Tongues", despite the fact that Byrne apparently wrote the songs first, made noises to accompany the music (hence the "speaking in tongues") and only then wrote the words, to whatever the sounds sounded like. That's obviously not totally true, as the lyrics include well-formed sentences, with subjects, verbs, etc. But the entire album is basically a sequence of non-sequiters. From the paragraph that holds together:

I remember when

Sittin' in the tub

I pulled out the plug

The water was runnin' out

To the more literal interpretations of their motto, "Stop Making Sense":

I got a girlfriend, who's better than that

She has the smoke in her eyes

She's movin' up, goin' right through my heart

She's gonna give me surprise

Despite (or maybe because of?) their strangeness, the music of the Talking Heads will be forever near and dear to my heart. I love the bizarre simplicity of their music, so hypnotizing and appealing; this simplicity often pertains to the lyrics as well, despite their non-sensicality (exhibit A: their second album entitled, "More Songs About Buildings and Food". And they are.) If you have the time and/or the inclination some day, I highly suggest listening to the entirety of "Speaking in Tongues" with headphones. It's like listening to a mathematical equation. If you like that, the film "Stop Making Sense" is definitely worth a view; you get a live concert in your living room, and get to see David Byrne shaking around in a giant white suit, as is his wont.

*****

In other news, G. sent me a text asking if he should erase my number from his phone. Boys. I pointed out the ridiculousness of this question, and it seemed to go over well. But I think things are cooled down between us. In fact, I have developed a new interest in a restaurant owner, but have visited the establishment 3 more times only to discover his absence. Gotta keep on tryin'... However I am convinced that he is keenly interested on me based on this iron-clad proof: as I was leaving the party where I first noticed him, I thanked him (very gauche-ly, as if he had personally invited me) and he replied, "Je n'ai pas entendu ton prénom." This seemingly innocent request for my name is clearly indicative of a strong attraction, don't you think? I'll go ahead and obsess about it, thank you very much.

But now I'm worried it's been too long, and he will have long forgotten my prénom and perhaps our initial coup de foudre. Fortunately I remember both, so I can go back eventually and do that awkward thing where I say "Bonsoir, Nicolas," admitting my obsession, and he says he forgot mine, admitting his non-chalance. On verra...I'll let you know how it goes.

That reminds me, why are Americans obsessed with the concept of awkwardness? It's apparently the word all the cool kids are using. I've been repeatedly asked for a French translation over the last few months. In French, however, there are several words to convey the concept, depending on the context; whether it's a physically awkward person, or an uncomfortable situation, etc. I wonder if it has to do with the recent popularity of what I call "awkward humor" (which I love but some cannot stand), genre "The Office" or sometimes "Arrested Development". This kind of humor doesn't really exist in France, to my knowledge. Some graduate student should study the differences between senses of humor in different cultures; it's something that fascinates me.

This post is all over the place. I'm signing off.

Recipe no°14: Grown-up Time

2 oz. vodka

6 oz. fruit punch

Pour over ice and down it quickly, for maximum effect. Lord knows you need it.

Sorry, numerous fans, I know I've been lax in my duties (I wonder how many blog-entries start out this way, I bet millions) but first I went to Spain (more about that later) and then I started a new job, which meant I went from being mostly-never-always-having-time-to-blog busy to...well, busy. Which is good for me, I think, but already quite a shock...working EVERY DAY? Who does that? Please don't kill me.

It turns out this new enterprise of mine involves kid-wrangling, something I sometimes enjoy but I'm not sure if I'm,  you know, any good at. I tend to treat kids like little adults, thinking they'll share my interests and get my dumb jokes. Not so, oh, not so. But there are compromises: maybe I'll sing a few Beatles songs with them (is 'All Together Now' actually written for adults anyway?) to take the edge off 'Old MacDonald', and yes, we can discuss the fact that Doctor House is in fact named Docteur Maison. But here's my favorite exchange from Day 1:

Characters: me, a 5-year-old boy named Tanguy (this is actually a quite common French name, believe it or not; it's pronounced tong-ee).

NB: this conversation was held entirely in French, after I had been speaking mostly in French with the class for the past 10 minutes (except for the occasional overpronounced "BLUUUUUUUUUUUUE!".

Tanguy: Teacher, can you...speak French a little?

me: Well, Tanguy, what do you think?

Tanguy: (thinks hard)

me: Yes, Tanguy, I can speak French.

It only gets better from there. But in general, the little buggers are pretty cute and the job is pretty interesting so far. I may include some highlights, but I do have a nagging fear that somehow it's dangerous to write much about your job in a blog, as it could get you fired! I realize that the principal of my school is probably not on my list of 6 or so readers, but you never know. Suffice to say, it's a challenge, rewarding, interesting to observe de si près the French school system, and amazing how completely possible it is to be tormented by a 7-year-old, and I'm glad it ends in July.

Otherwise, I'm just getting ready for various visitors in the months to come: my dad, my mom and her new boyfriend (whom I've never met!) and then my dad again, this time with his wife...it's fun to plan though, and I know the next few months are going to fly by. 

Especially now that I'm BUSY!

p.s. For those of you who are just dying to know, I haven't totally broken things off with G., there's still an occasional text message after we ran into each other chez C. and the backstreet boys last weekend (and yes, I may have possibly kissed him and then promptly gone to bed. Alone!). But I'm not sweating it...I still would like to meet someone who doesn't live with their ex. If that's not too much to ask. 

Recipe no°13: Chocolat Vert (and apple juice?)

1 cup of hot chocolate
1 1/2 oz. Chartreuse verte

Combine these two ingredients for a lovely pick-me-up on a cold, snowy day. Sip slowly; can cause slight heartburn.

A friend of mine, Omar, known for coming up with obscure truisms, once put something into words that I had always felt but never really thought about concretely: "Isn't Sunday night, like, the most depressing time ever? It's still the weekend, but you know you have to go back to school or work the next day, and you feel the week starting already..." Yes. Sunday nights are a fleeting, paralyzing moment of the week where you scramble to finish what you started on the weekend, or what you need to have finished for Monday. Why do you think there's so much good TV on Sunday nights? To zone us out of our end-of-the week depression.

When I was a kid, living in my hippie community Longhouse, I somehow managed to forget every single week that Sunday night was potluck. My mom would yell to me to get ready for potluck and I would inwardly groan, again? It wasn't that I hated potluck, it's just I forgot about it every time and planned to use those two hours toward procrastinating and wallowing in the calm sadness of Sunday night, instead of being quizzed by neighbors and harassed by their children.

Anyway, this weekend has been well-spent; went to see Benjamin Button (pretty to look at, but not near deserving of best picture, Oscar people), went out with friends...I really do feel I'm getting old sometimes though. I often go out, not wanting the night to end but hating every bar I try to go into; too crowded, nowhere to put jackets, umbrellas, etc. I think, this is why it's good to be rich. Room to sit down or dance, coat checks, and someone to drive you home at the end. I would just so much rather have a nice wine-soaked dinner party with friends, a dance party in my living room, or a leisurely meal out on the town when I can afford it. While I've never been a real discothèque type, I'm finding myself even starting to hate the crowded bar scene, especially in France (must say the U.S. is worlds ahead of France in fun bars--or maybe I just don't know where to go--and cocktails aren't even worth mentioning/buying here, for the most part). More and more it seems that going out is great way to spend more for your drinks while being fondled/harassed/having your hair sniffed by strangers.

Unfortunately I live with a host family, and too far out of town to have many elegant dinner parties, but I'm trying.

I never heard from G. this weekend, and I think I inadvertently offended him with a text message (ah, the convenience of modern technology). I didn't realize it was to the point of permanently ending our budding friendship, however. C. told me not to say mais, bon after telling him I didn't really understand his last text (and why must he write in English, not his native language, that's just asking for trouble!), but honestly I hate cryptic texts and wanted to convey my vaguely-pissed-off-ness with a casual, but, you know, whatever. Maybe I shouldn't write in French!

Well, off to savor my Sunday-afternoon gloom while it crescendoes slowly into full-blown Sunday-evening existential dilemma...I'll try to savor it. For the rest of you frittering away your Sunday on the interwebs, I hope I've entertained you and helped you to pass approximately 4 minutes. I'll leave you with another of Omar's gems:

Isn't apple juice sometimes, just like the best thing you've ever tasted? And sometimes, it's just, like, meh?

Totally.

Recipe no°12: Cold As Ice

2 shots Zicam nasal gel

1 Non-drowsy Sudafed

1 Tylenol Cold PM (if desired)

as much hot liquid as you wish

Insert Zicam shots up each nostril every 4 hours. Mix the rest of the ingredients as needed. Garnish with thousands, and thousands of tissues; finish with a generous helping of Vick's Vap-o-rub.

Lucky for me, being enrhumée this week (what a great word, sounds like I got run over by a rhinoceros) kept me from making what apparently all y'all think is potentially the worst dating mistake in the history of the entire world: seeing G. again. Yes, I get it. He is bad news. Ironically, I was trying to give a fair and balanced opinion of him in my last entry; the negative effect it had on the greater public was overwhelming. Not all responses appeared as posts on the blog; elsewhere, I was even accused of liking G. "because he is French". OK, I will admit I moved here in part to lower my standards a teensy, eensy bit, but if I were attracted to people based on the mere fact that they speak the language of my beloved Balzac (to whom I am STILL not attracted), I would not still be shoppin' for a copain. Already I've shot down several would-be wooers, from a 22-year old student with a ponytail to a 50-year old café server who admired me from afar. Non, non, it is not G.'s Frenchness that holds his appeal.

But less and less I am remembering what DID hold it in the first place, if it was not the timeless age-old trick that always sucker-punches me: he likes ME. Obviously this does not work for everyone (see above) but if you're mildly cute and entertaining (and my age)...

Yeah, yeah; I'm working on that old self-esteem, ok? Does it help if I mention that G. is not only a plumber, but a self-proclaimed graffiti artist? That he kissed me on the forehead when saying goodnight, and said HE wanted to take things slow?

Well, thanks to my internet friends, it's going to go glacially, planet-formingly slow. We didn't see each other again this weekend, and my illness has prevented me from wanting to spend time with other sentient beings. I can only hope that R.'s proven technique of "not talking ever again" to someone will work, but unfortunately I'm not as, let's say, resolute as she can be. Which is a problem. My real plan: when he surfaces again, as I'm sure he will, I will say that since last week I've had some time to mull over the fact that he LIVES WITH HIS EX and that I don't think it's the right time but we can be friends blah blah *** (here's where I choke on the attack of the killer clichés that I hate but have not yet found anything with which to replace them).

Wow, I really know how to pick 'em, don't I? Did I mention he also does deliveries, in addition to graffiti-ing and plumbing? 

Where do the literature boys hang out?? 

Recipe no°11: Plumber's Punch

(a.k.a Planter's Punch)
4 oz. fresh orange juice

1 oz. fresh lime juice

3 oz. dark rum

2 oz. simple syrup

(www.drink-recipes.co.uk)

Triple the recipe, stir with a monkey wrench and pour into a glass bottle, so you can share with friends. Turn up the thermostat and drink over ice, imagining you are on a tropical island (I'm assuming you're not).

Last night I had a date, sort of. It was a date in that I texted a boy to come meet me for a drink, and not in the sense that I brought C. along as a wing-woman. As stated previously, G.'s cute-osity potential had previously been difficult to ascertain, obstructed by his insistance on sporting a winter hat designed to protect the ears, and thus covering a maximum of head area and letting nary a hair peek through. My fear that he was perhaps prematurely balding (sadly, I'm realizing that as I age, the baldness of these men may not be so premature) was only multiplied when he entered La Boîte à sardines (one of my favorite bars in Grenoble, despite the bipolar server who suddenly was all smiles and sunshine last night, after formerly behaving as though the fact that we were ordering drinks from him was just so unbelievably annoying, couldn't we get them ourselves?), wearing a soft grey cap, jauntily positioned to the side.

I later assuaged my baldness anxieties by asking him to remove the cap, revealing a rather full head of fro-ish hair. Ahhh. The rest of the night was rather the same, in terms of him revealing himself little by little to be: very considerate, well-traveled, not half bad at English, affectionate, and flattering.

But there must be some downsides. He also made it known over the course of the evening that he was: a plumber--while I find this a respectable profession, and potentially useful to me (see sink-clogging entry), it can be a slight letdown when I long to discuss literature or philosophy, but hey, maybe he's a literate, philosophizing plumber! I mean just look at all Joe has accomplished! He is also a shoplifter, and by consequence obviously pretty broke. But here's the icing on the cake, that makes me think I should really think of running straight back for the hills of dateless, single life: he lives with his ex-girlfriend (and her sister). It gets worse. Now, when he told me this, he was obviously chagrined (yes, I'm having fun with the dictionary/thesaurus today) and embarrassed, and assured me that he worked like crazy, trying to get his own place, and was there as little as possible.
Yet--when I casually posed the obvious query: "So, you've been separated for how long?" his response was less than satisfactory. Because two months ago, that was when we met. That was when we spent the night dancing away, and then he left C. his number for me to call. Which I waited to do until I saw him again, after the concert (and oh-so-smooth, all I could think of to say was "Oh, it's YOU." He made fun of me for that). So unless he started liking me the day he broke up with her (yet continued to live under the same roof)...
Plus, if you're living with someone, that indicated you have probably been together a good long time. And not necessarily over each other in two months (especially if you're still living together, dammit!), let alone the 5 minutes he apparently waited to start giving out his phone number to drunken dance partners. O mon dieu.

What do all y'all think out there? Am I totally nuts for even agreeing to see him again? Keep in mind, the dating drought around here is causing some serious dangerous conditions...flames could arise at any moment. This isn't the giant cumulo-nimbus raincloud I've been waiting for, but little sprinkle could be nice...

Recipe nº10: Stranger's Danger

1 1/2 oz. sambuca
1 1/2 oz. cherry brandy
2 oz. orange juice
2 oz. pineapple juice
splash of grenadine

(www.cocktailmaking.co.uk)

Pour over ice into a pint glass, garnish with an orange slice. Drink slowly while peering over the rim of your glass at other party-goers. Use as a conversation starter, or simply wait for the effects of the alcohol to loosen your tongue...

Alright, fans of French boy sagas! The newest episode is in, but it promises to be slightly less interesting than previous ones. Désolée. In fact, all I can really say is that I went to their concert, it was good but not stunning (I'm holding out for the 'Modern Folks' concert, which will include both Manu AND Dmitri); I was one of two people dancing (yeah, Caitlin!) in a sea of head-bobbers; Dmitri is actually really good and I would tend to disagree with Romain in calling him a "guy who hangs out with musicians". All in all, it was good clean fun; the party afterwards had to be cut short on my part because I had to go hiking with my students the next day. So responsible. Apparently I left right before a 4-hour dance party began; thanks Manu, for telling me you were putting on jazz so everyone would go to sleep!

For those of you who tuned in exclusively for the drama: Caitlin's boy didn't show up and has been M.I.A. for far too long, my recent rejectee was rather cold to me (but apparently said nice things behind my back, who DOES that?), and I ran into a dance partner from a former party, who was a very respectful dancer and won major points for that, but unfortunately I had had just enough drinks at the time to not really be sure now if he's "cute or not". Verdict is still out as he wore a winter hat with earflaps the entire time on Saturday. But I think we're going to call him...although would you believe a mixed-race, rap-loving great dancer could be named 'Gérald'?? Me neither.

It's hard trying to party with French people--it takes forever to get good enough at the language that you can hold witty conversations (see previous blog-entry) and more importantly, to be able to decipher the general cacaphony surrounding you. And maybe this is just in M&D land (God, I complained they were conceited and now they have practically a whole blog dedicated to them; I need to come up with a better appellation for the part of my life that they occupy), but C. and I were the only girls in the beginning of the party, and the boys stood around talking to each other and ignoring us! Maybe I'm just an attention hog, but please; it's tough enough being a foreigner, don't segregate us based on gender as well!

Plus I'm in this weird kind of limbo in terms of becoming friends with the whole gang; I'm definitely friends with C., who lives with some of them and wins their good graces through her lovely vibrant personality and culinary skills, among other things. So by default they must accept me, but we haven't exchanged phone numbers and if I get invited to do things, it's through C. (which, if you're reading this C., is just peachy!). But all this boils down to (and I know it's my insecurities talking), do they like hanging out with me, vraiment? I'm sure they do to some extent, but when people know you're only here for a year and then leaving, possibly forever, it does tend to mark their impression of you. So here I float; definitely not a groupie, but just sort of an incrusteuse, a word which comes from one of my fave French verbs: s'incruster. A reflexive verb, it means what it looks like: to "encrust" yourself onto others, to join a party you weren't really invited to. You just know the right people who know the right people.

Merci, C.

Recipe no°9: Apple Pie Martini

1 1/2 oz. vodka

1/2 oz. cinnamon schnapps

2 oz. apple juice

1 oz. cranberry juice

Shake over ice, strain into a martini glass. Garnish with an apple slice.

For a little extra flair à La Ricaine, garnish with an tiny American flag or a lit sparkler*.

*Let sparkler burn out before attempting to drink. 

Hold your heads high, fellow expatriates, and feel free to shout English in the streets! You need no longer endure the mépris of those who surround you, the asinine, condescending smirks on their faces as they ask you, "Ah oui, tu es américaine ? Tu aimes ton président ?" (smirk, smirk). Watch as they now humbly bow to you, claiming their country is still not ready to elect a non-white (although maybe a woman, if Obama's team hadn't stolen her ideas). Bask in the warmth of their approval/jealousy. Ahhh...

If you still feel the French don't love you quite enough, you can always share with them this uber-inspirational video, which I discovered grace à one of my favorite Americans, miss Caitlin.

A while back I talked about the things I love about France, which make it hard for me to leave. I promised to do the same for the U.S. of A., and something tells me that day has come.

Reasons why I love my country:

1) Obama.

Ok, so I know it's a little bit fresh, but the U.S. does have a certain something, a way to prove that even if we're over-consuming, rich bastards, there's a reason why we're number one (as much as I cringe to type those words). There is something special about our country; we've shown we're not quite as predictable as the rest of the world might make us out to be. And although there are many aspects of the typical American life that I disapprove of or even disgust me, Obama is ready to address many of them and force us to address them as well. I could go on about this forever, so let's just leave it at this: I'm proud of us for the first time I can remember.

2) My family (and friends!). 

Yes, here's the corny part. But you try living so far away you can't go home for Christmas/Inauguration Day. But I suppose even if  was home, my little sister is off gallavanting over in Uganda...that is if they allow gallavanting over there. God I hope she's OK.

I list this because it is a deal-breaker. I miss everyone too much to set up permanent house over here.

3) Understanding everyone/being witty.

You take this for granted, don't you. And no, maybe I'm not the wittiest of them all but I certainly feel more free when speaking English to say every little annoying or possibly hilarious joke that might cross my mind. Is this necessarily a good thing? No, but it sucks thinking of something and then the moment has passed or you don't know how to say it with the same nuance. Let's just say I often feel the version française of my personality is less interesting.

4) Heat.

Here comes the spoiled American talking. Grenoble is probably warmer all-around than Boston, but indoors... France is cold ! I've noticed people do dress more warmly, so I've invested in a few turtlenecks (making their first come-back in my wardrobe since 6th grade), but still...it doesn't get much warmer than 15°C in my room on cold days, and I looked it up, that's only like 59°F! Luckily I can write my blog in the office because at home my fingers don't move so well (cue world's tiniest violin). But although I miss this, I think the U.S. should strive to copy France in this arena, as unpleasant as it may seem, you can get used to it.

5) Convenience.

Almost all businesses, including grocery stores are closed on Sundays here, and often on Mondays too. Maybe eating at 2am isn't the best idea, but it's nice to have the option, and not being able to grocery-shop on a weekend day is just plain silly.

6) Diners.

Need I say more.

OK, I know I'm forgetting some important things so please remind me what they are. But this list would not be complete without :

7) Macaroni 'n cheese.

What would a list about America be without some kind of powdered cheese? I think what I love the most is the horror this idea can inspire in any cheese-respecting French person. Sometimes you just need a little reminder that you come from a place where cheese can viably be spelled with a 'z'. 

God bless! 

Recipe nº8: Soirée avec des garçons

4-5 bottles of Leffe Blonde (25cl)

a drop of whiskey

Drink the 4-5 beers warm, directly out of the case that's sitting on the floor. Use a lighter to open the bottles. Finish the night with the whiskey.

So as promised, here's episode 2 of the Manu and Dmitri show: The Party.

After spending the day attempting to cross-country ski (harder than it looks, ok?) and pulling small children around a (flat) yard in sleds, I was exhausted and not in the mood to party. Note: naps after 8pm are not a good idea. I texted Caitlin something to that effect, and immediately was called back: "Are you kidding me? If you don't come over right now, we're coming to get you." Reluctantly I showered, dolled myself up, and headed over.

The smoke hovered around Caitlin, Martin, Mathias, Romain and Manu in the hazy living room. Everyone laughed at me a bit for being tired, and then went on with the party, which I would characterize as divided into three phases: YouTubing (ok, this is France so DailyMotioning), sing-along, and finally dance party. The highlight of the first phase was the viewing of this video, which at the time seemed like the best thing I had ever seen. Was this just the Leffe Blonde talking? I'll let you judge for yourselves...

Part two was a good old-fashioned jam session/sing-along, where Manu finally got to witness my skeelz which were much improved as I had trimmed my nails. I don't think I blew his mind, unfortunately. But I did show him how to play the chorus of "Hey You've Got to Hide Your Love Away". There was much fun had by all.

Part three was candle-lit and techno-y, and after jumping around like a crazy person for a few songs, my second wind had died down and I was ready for bed. Of course I couldn't leave without having a classic awkward moment with "the boy". This is a scene I know by heart, as I'm sure many of you do as well, and have been experiencing since 7th grade.

Boy: C'mere, I want to tell you something.

You (reluctantly, not wanting to lean in that close OR hear what he has to say, as you know the gist all too well): Ok...

Boy (petulantly): You don't want to hear what I have to say?

You (screaming on the inside, "How old are you??!!"): Mmmm, I'm not sure...

Boy: Fine then. (pouts)

Five minutes later, he tells you anyway.

After shooting down yet another would-be French lover, in my heart-of-ice no remorse manner, I tottered home (more tired than drunk) to my bed.

Although I may talk of other things before then, do not fret Manu/Dmitri fans! Episode 3 will be aired after the January 24th "Code" concert, which I am being forced to pay 12 euros for since Romain loves Caitlin and has given her his free ticket, and I don't want to ask the boy for his or I will surely have to pay for it with my body. Beware, Caitlin!

That's all for now; I'm sure it was exactly how you imagined it, only better.

Have I converted a few Claude François fans, au moins?

Recipe nº7 : Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder

1 glass of champagne
1 oz. absinthe

Pour the absinthe into a champagne glass and add the bubbly, in the manner of a kir. Drink and try not to vomit.

courtesy of Rachel

OMG numerous fans...please do not incur your wrath upon me! I know my absence has been inexcusable but I am still getting ahold of this whole "blogging" thing (only about 5 years behind schedule, I know). As a lovely lady named Talia once said, and I paraphrase, sometimes people get caught up DOING stuff and don't have time to write about it. I don't want to be one of these people, really. So I'm back.

I'm also giving up on trying to have really cool themes for every one of my posts, because if I keep trying to do that, I will probably have one more. So I'm joining the bandwagon of everyday rants because it sounds like so much fun, it's cathartic, and as I'm beginning to learn from reading others' blogs, utterly fascinating! Like literary reality TV. Well, depending on who's blog you read anyway.

Oops, bathroom break. See? It's REAL LIFE!

So the French life continues...for some reason I only seem to be able to meet and become friends with dirty-ish, pot-smoking, can't quite get it together at almost age 30 guys. That sounds mean. But I think it's because all the clean, clear-eyed, together guys are married with like, 12 babies already. And come to think of it, I did make friends with a super Catholic guy (who was still dirty, ugh. I mean, I didn't LIKE him like him but I still showered to go to the movies!) who turned out to be no fun so maybe I'm better off with the potheads.
De toute façon, it's beginning again, as I get to know my fellow expatriate friend Caitlin's roommates and their friends, who not only are dirty smokers but also form not one but two musical bands, called "Code" and "Modern Folks" (I tell you this now so you can say you read a blog about them way back when). These bands, as I understand it because I have never heard them play other than a few muted emanations from Caitlin's basement, perform songs whose lyrics are entirely in English. This has got me thinking; at first I was skeptical, thinking the would-be poets were apt to make glaring grammatical errors that would ruin the effect. However, the "Modern Folks" leader (who, incidentally, rattled off no fewer than five adjectives to describe their sound, two of them being psychedelic and timeless) Manu has explained to me that the French language does not lend itself to rock lyrics in the same way the English does.
NB: If you are a desperate graduate student in music who happens to speak French, I happen to think this would be a great dissertation topic.
Anyway, Manu and his petit frère Dmitri are quite the characters. I'm tempted to post a photo of them, but I think this would violate several ethical codes. However the two of them recently participated in a band-related photo shoot, hanging a black sheet in the living room, donning rockstar sunglasses and strutting around beneath a multi-colored strobe light. The brothers both share a love for seventies style, hang-in-your-eyes hair that is obviously essential to their personality and sex-appeal.
After enduring (admittedly amusedly) the antics of these two for several months, I finally had to opportunity to spend some time with the other band members. An entire night, in fact, as Caitlin and I were invited to a party in the nearby town of Voiron and were at Manu and Dmitri's mercy for getting home. So we walked into a party of 10 dirty French bandboys plus...us. With no hope of leaving until 2 p.m. the next day, when we would have to be back in Grenoble because (how adorable!) they all had band practice.

My favorite moment of the party: I asked Romain, who plays guitar for both Code and Modern Folks, why he shaved his head. He replied (please allow me to translate and paraphrase), "I hate those guys in bands with their stupid mèche that hangs in front of their eyes, I would never want to be like that." Wow, what a relief, I thought these guys shared M & D's mèche-adorned belief that they were God's gift! I immediately stuttered something to the effect of, "but what about...them?" and he just laughed and said they were the worst. "Especially Dmitri, he plays the drums, and everyone knows that's just a guy who hangs out with musicians." It was beautiful. He even insisted that Caitlin and I go to one of their concerts, something the brothers have never done; they'd rather have us believe that they're going to drown in a sea of panties tossed to them onstage. I will update you on the reality of this supposition.

Another beautiful moment in the night was when they were passing the guitar around, as always happens in the wee hours of the morning at a party where there's a guitar and anyone at all knows how to play...but an already too-long story short, I played a few riffs of "Blackbird" and had them all freaking out like they didn't know Americans could manipulate strings. Unfortunately I wasn't playing my best with long nails and no calluses but to them I was frickin' Eric Clapton. One guy even made several attempts to make out with me throughout the rest of the evening, assuring me that he had noticed me before, it was just my unbelievable guitar prowess that had him drooling. I should learn a few more chords, maybe I can score a date with Chris Martin! Jeez.
Too bad Manu and his mèche weren't there to witness my skeelz.

More to come from the Manu & Dmitri show...my admirer has invited me over (to Caitlin's house!) for apéro on Saturday, there's sure to be more excitement. Better practice that guitar, or on second thought, maybe not.