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.