In case my map (that I can’t read) and my undying urge to wear sweatpants didn’t let you know I’m a tourist…
Here are the “must sees!!!!!!!” I’ve hit so far. I’m not a real sight seeing kinda gal, but when in Paris do as the Parisians do (pretty sure that born and raised Parisians aren’t posing with their entourages in front of the city’s ‘hot spots,’ but you get what I mean).
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…
That’s what I would have said if the nasty priest hadn’t shunned me from his glass confession box. That’s the first problem: a glass confession box. Wait a hot second, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning…
If you ask me about religion you can expect a solid eye roll and a lot of nothing else. I’m a big believer in spirituality - religion as an attempt to find comfort in yourself and the world - however, I’ve noticed that not many people are on the same page. In my opinion, religion has turned into one more thing for people to disagree on and compete over. Very, very long anti-religion rant short: I don’t associate myself with any single religion, but have been interested in and respectful of all of the religions that mean so much to others. My acceptance of all religions was shot to hell when I visited the Notre Dame.
It all started when my History of Architecture “teacher” took us on a walking tour to the famous church. I was surprised to find that I actually gave a shit about all of the facts she piled on: there’s a story behind each of the intricate carvings on the exterior, thoughtful names of each of the three doorways at the front of the church, etc. My interest in the place only grew when we stepped inside. Beautiful stained glass windows lined the walls and high, high ceilings, and the light from clusters of candles illuminated every aisle and walkway. All in all, the Notre Dame rocked, and I was definitely trying to get in on its coolness. I signed the guest book with a heartfelt message: “Sophie, Chappaqua NY,” made a donation of 21euro-cents and lit a candle. This small candle was lit for Poppi - a man who would have punished me for participating in church activities by “braiding” my hair into a giant knot, but whose candle shone brighter than all of the others.
Shout out to the man who is missed: I wish more than anything that you were here. I think about you every time I see a dirty glass, a happy couple, a bottle of scotch, a kite. I know you’d be cracking the same joke for the billionth time if you were here - I promise I’d laugh. I love you.
Anyway, after becoming one with the Notre Dame I set out to do something I had always hoped to do: make a confession. I don’t know what it is about those little wooden cages, but those things definitely make me want to spill my secrets - and spill secrets and sins I was ready to do. (This post cannot fully explain just how excited I was to go to a confessional…seriously jumping for joy when I saw the sign “Priest is in”). So picture this: little (awkwardly tall) me searching around for an open confessional, only to find that the wooden structure I had dreamed of had been modernized into a huge glass room where you sit face to face with a priest. Don’t care, I’m going in. I sat in the waiting area and then walked up to the glass door and let myself in.
“Parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked. The cute old man said he did, in fact, speak English..go time. I was honest and began to tell the priest that I had never done…this…before, and asked how I should go about beginning. “You are not Catholic,” he spit out before I could even finish my introduction. Ok awkward…I tried to ask why that mattered and how he knew but he was done with me. I stood in his “office” for a few minutes hoping to make this work, but he wasn’t having any of it. I was officially shunned from the Notre Dame confessional.
To say I was an unhappy camper is an understatement. Crushed, embarrassed, heartbroken (insert other dramatic emotions) is more like it. THIS is exactly why I hate religion. Who gives an F if I’m Catholic or not - if I want to confess or take part in your practice let me do so, and welcome me with open arms…if you don’t you’ll end up as a horrible experience on my blog and your reputation will be ruined forever.
So here I am, full of sins I’m ready to confess and apologize for. Oh well, gave it a shot…YOLO.
peace, love, paris
The fans have been requesting more frequent updates, so here goes something…
Alright, folks, I’ve got a long hour and 15 minutes of class tomorrow, so I’m off to bed. Learning comes first!!!! (notice that excessive punctuation is usually a sign of sarcasm). I’m hoping to drop some dolla billz on something other than food and alcohol tomorrow, so reports will definitely be plentiful. Special shout out to Sister Hansen who graduated from the XOCC; Sister Kline and I support your decision so ditch us (but we also hate you).
peace, love, paris
Call me, beep me if you wanna reach me…
On my new French celly! Getting one of these bad boys has been nothing short of a struggle, but Ror and I finally have the latest and greatest in French technology (a piece of shit phone that’s more low-tech than my first phone circa 6th grade). Dial these digits: (parental control)
Speaking of phone numbers, Rory, Jord and I learned a valuable lesson: don’t give them out to strangers, especially 30+ year-old men from Sweden. Picture this: 3 hot chicks (us) strolling to a table at an outdoor cafe near the Eiffel Tower. After ordering 3 hot chocolates we are greeted by a blonde haired, blue eyed cutie pie and his overweight friend, the two men sitting at the table next to us. The men introduce themselves as Kenneth and “J” (because his real name was completely inaudible…mumbled by the tobacco shoved into his lips). The two chat us up for a good 30 minutes then offer to buy us a bottle of wine. Uh, yes please. Conversation isn’t too shabby until Kenneth becomes uncomfortably drunk and starts saying things to the likes of, “what happens in Paris stays in Paris!” “I traded in my old wife for someone younger…she’s 20.” “I had 21 strawberry daquaris by the pool in Vegas!” Ok, Kenneth, cool it, you’re weirding us out. Drunk Ken and J invite us out with them and, to make a longer story short, call us 10+ times throughout the night. Ipso facto, phone numbers are for friends.
Off to finalize travel plans. TTYLaterToday
peace, love, paris
Smiling leads to rape…
According to my CEA adviser, the reason Americans view the French as rude is because they are taught not to smile. You might wonder why the fack anyone would be instructed against smiling- well, in these here parts a smile is pretty much the same thing as saying “lets do it.” Wait right there you scrawny, smelly French man- I smile because I spent a lot of money on braces, and because I’m a happy gal…a smile is not an invitation into my pants. So far smiling and sarcasm are big no-no’s (there goes my social life). While smiling is not allowed on the heel-destroyer streets (cobblestone), the French love a good smooch - air smooch, that is. An introduction is not complete without two cheek-to-cheek air kisses, known as “bizou, bizou.” I’m not a fan of touching my face to that of a stranger, so call me a bitch but I’ll shake your hand and leave it at that.
Our trusty CEA advisers also taught us a couple other useful things, like: JK orientation week was a big fat waste of time, hence the reason Rory and I bailed on most of the sessions. We’re blaming our absence for the reason we don’t have that many friends (half joke). We did, however, make a couple of pals who love wine, cheese and all of the French illegals (smiling, sarcasm and sweatpants) just as much as we do. Please welcome Jordanna to the blog! Jord is a California native who studies at Parsons in NYC (wutup, Empire State), and she rocks.
Many, many more thangz to share, but I have to go microwave some frozen pasta…seriously. Special shout-out and the sincerest apology to my loyal fans (hi mom and dad) for my lack of blogging - I’ve been too busy having a life (sleeping). I will keep the updates coming on a more regular and frequent basis, so you can sleep easy now, loved ones.
peace, love, paris