I literally can't stop bouncing up and down to this tune. I love tongue twisters. However, I have been on the receiving end of some humiliating one. For example:
"She shines her city shoes."
Warning: Don't say this one in public. Especially on a bus. And shouting. Take it from the voice of experience.
Ulysses has proven to be really personal and inspiring. For instance, on one particular page, despite all the word-muddled mire you have to sift through, one sentence stood out in particular to me:
"C'est la pigeon, Joseph."
That's what I love about literature. Joyce, writing this in the early 20th century, couldn't have known about me, or my grandfather--obviously. It sounds stupid when said out loud, but reading that line, it's like he reached into my mind. And though I miss my grandfather, I also love seeing the pigeons in the street and feeling like they're watching me. One heck of a guardian angel to choose, some would say, but as a "Methodist atheist," I suppose it's fitting for my odd stance on life, the universe, and everything it contains. (Shout-out to any Galaxy Hitchhikers!)
It's very esoteric when I say it like that, but I just don't believe in attesting every little coincidence to "fate." Of course, some might say (like my mother) that I have a rather cynical view of the world, but I like to think my personal philosophies make the world a particularly nice shade of rose in my eyes. Because, just like Sally Brown, you can't just have one philosophy: "Mine last a minute!"
Sorry, my thoughts are going to bounce around today.
I'm very contented this weekend to just wrap myself up and read Ulysses and Antony and Cleopatra, and Troilus and Cressida and Richard III, while I'm at it. I told you I have a lot to catch up on!
Then again, I'm also very happy to plan my European trips over the phone with my mother. And to fill out my March Madness bracket according to my method of madness. And to eat edamame and watch The Princess and the Frog. And to look forward to jaunting off to the Curie Museum once again, my place of solace.
Last week, my friends pointed out various un-charming aspects of Paris: the problem with public urination, the creepy guys who take pictures of random girls (i.e., us) posing in front of the Notre Dame, the potential prostitution exchange on the Metro, the rude woman at Monoprix. And I'm not ignorant of those things. And I don't not notice them. I'm not oblivious. Honestly, being in a group actually makes you more of a target for the creepers--excuse me, flippants, as my French teacher says they're called here.
But I like to plug myself into my world of musical theater while riding the Metro. I remember that New York smells exactly the same, and that New Orleans--according to reports from friends and family--smells even more horrendous on Monday morning (all that trash has to go somewhere...). And I get irritated when people stand in front of train doors or don't move on he Metro, causing one (me) to miss the next train. And don't think I have completely overlooked the whole "chinoise" thing, either.
Then, I remember how excited I felt when looking at Madame Curie's desk, or when we clinked our glasses at Les Deux Magots over a delicious cheese platter. And how excited the French people were after seeing Singin' in the Rain, imitating scenes from the show and saying the word "superb" a lot. And the taxi driver who helped me bring my suitcases up and argued with me when I attempted to tip him. And the waiter at my café of choice, who still hasn't judged me on my very anal-retentive ritual of ordering a "thé Earl Grey" every day. Or that time I walked up the stairs of the Louvre the first time, the adrenaline and excitement outweighing the soreness of my feet. Or how I feel after every class I have, happy that I'm learning something new or have a theory to mull over and perfect in my mind.
I didn't have to expect Paris to be magical; I made it magical myself. And that's the most extraordinary journey.
Cutting the sentimental
When my mother was here, and we were leaving the Musée d'Orsay one day, I surreptitiously noted that the Souvenir Guy who hounded me for my number and promised to "teach me French" (a euphemism if I've ever heard one) was back. I was prepared to walk by calmly, repeating to myself that this guy probably hits on about 100 girls a day and would not remember me at all. But then my mom stops and turns to me as I'm almost out of the Danger Zone.
"You said you couldn't find some postcards of the Degas paintings in the museum store. Maybe they're here?"
"No, Mom, I have everything I need. Let's go." My mouth was set in a thin line.
"Are you sure? It wouldn't take any time at all."
"Mom, we have to go."
"Kate--"
"MOM, we need to go." Obviously telepathy was not working, but then again, neither was the spoken word.
Finally, when we exited the vicinity of the Souvenir Guy's shop, she turned to me and made an oh-I-see (not an acronym called OIC) face, and asked, "That's where the Souvenir Guy works, right?"
Sheldon Cooper would approve of my cat picture.
Once again, I'm picking on Mom. Poor Mom. I'm sorry. But it is a funny story!
For those interested (Jamie), you'll be happy to know that I bought some Embryolisse at the Monoprix near me. It just occurred to me: I hope "Embroylisse" doesn't secretly mean that there are embryos embedded in the cream. I guess it wouldn't matter to the fashion world as long as it made them look fourteen years old. But yeah, that Embroylisse was totally at the Monoprix, just as it was supposed to be. So take that, rude worker at the Monoprix on the Champs-Elysées! (In my head, I'm doing a kick like Mulan at the end of "I'll Make a Man Out of You.")
I am also planning investing in some of this Chanel-made-for-us-plebeians makeup. What is happening to me?
Or should I say, "Oh, mon Bleu"?
Phew. I need to stop with the cheesy jokes. But let's be real: it's probably not going to happen. I've accepted the fact that I have the sense of humor of an eighty-year-old man. (I also have the voice to match.)
So I'm going to sort out my To-Do List, which includes lamenting over the number of great Broadway shows coming soon and my lack of money to see them all. Oh, and the itty-bitty problematic fact that I still don't know what the hell to do this summer. Internships don't magically fall out of the sky. Even if they did, this is most certainly what would happen:
Ta-ta for now!
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