In Which Many Things Happen and Yet Really Nothing At All

It wasn't quite nine in the morning when I'd already had a Day.

My female housemate has been out of town most of the time that I've been living here so it's taken me awhile to notice that she's a complete nutcase.

I awoke at eight o'clock this morning to her yelling at me. She'd just arrived from Nice and she was angry because in the two weeks since I've moved in, she's scrubbed the entire house three times while I've merely taken out the trash, bought toilet paper, washed all of my dishes within moments of dirtying them, and wiped down the counters after using them.

Let me repeat that. She has scrubbed the entire house three times in two weeks. It is a very small apartment and I am essentially the only person using it. I don't know the French word for it but in English I think we would call this 'OCD'. I wanted to discuss her childhood and what sort of repressed emotional trauma could result in such an acute case but she wasn't in the mood and she was still yelling, now about the fact that everytime she gets into town she is exhausted and wants to take a shower but she can't because it's been three whole days since the bathtub has been scrubbed with disinfectant.

Seriously crazytown.

So after a pointless shouting match (France has taught me how to yell at people I barely know, an important skill to have here) and scrubbing the tub at eight o'clock in the morning (during the course of which I did manage to remove the single speck of dirt which had accumulated, you'll be relieved to hear), my coffee had gone hopelessly cold and I had no stomach to stick around and no plans to go to class (we were scheduled to do "skits" today, no thank you).

I walked for awhile and then decided to take a bus to a shop where I once saw a purse that I haven't been able to stop thinking about in the intervening week. This shop is in a touristy area of Paris and it wasn't open yet (things tend to open late in Paris in my limited experience-- take the official opening time listed on the door and add about an hour and a half) so I had a cafè crème at the only open cafè on the street.

Every single person in the entire cafè was American.

Yesterday I was in a dressing room, trying on a sweater, when I overheard a girl talking outside and I was momentarily struck by the strange sensation that it was my own voice I was hearing. I know that doesn't make sense but such was my feeling of connection and familiarity to that voice. My second supposition was that it was the voice of someone I know. It took me probably two or three full seconds to realize that I didn't know her at all but that she was simply speaking English with an American accent. I almost never encounter Americans in Paris, or English-speakers at all for that matter, and for a moment it sounded like music.

Anyway, this morning I heard enough American accents to last me a year. The primary offenders were a group of WASPy 50-somethings. They were a set of three couples and I got the impression that they might have been on some sort of church trip but I may have made up that part.

When I sat down, they were talking (loudly, Americans are famous for talking loudly and I must admit that I am a great offender on this one) about some terrible ordeal they'd all been through and how shaken up they'd all been about it. My first thought was that they'd been in a train wreck, although I don't know why I thought that. It turns out they were pickpocketed.

I have not been pickpocketed, despite the fact that I have taken practically zero precautions against it and semi-frequently do inadvisable things like leave my bag unattended while I'm in the bathroom. I'm not a complete fool-- I keep my bag closed with my arm over the flap when I'm walking, I don't keep money in my pockets, and I only leave my bag unattended if the situation is such that it's virtually impossible that anyone would touch it. I ditched my money belt my second day off the plane.

If I were a pickpocket, however, these people would probably be my first target. One could surmise in three seconds or fewer that these people were wealthy, obnoxious, and not very smart.

The group quickly launched into a full analysis of each of their positions prior to the incident, the various "bad feelings" they'd each prophetically had, and each of their astute observations regarding the "suspicious" character who would later attempt to steal WASPy Man #1's wallet, following a ten page rap sheet of shifty moves and ominous facial expressions. The story went on for a good fifteen or twenty minutes.

"... and then, out came the wallet. I saw him take it out. I hit him in the arm and then--"

"You hit him in the arm?"

"I think I hit him in the arm."

This is one reason why I like to be alone. No to avoid these people because lord knows you can't. No, I like to be alone because I'm afraid of becoming these people. I often feel, after witnessing a particularly embarassing display such as this one, that I should try very hard to never speak again. Better to be mute than to risk ever sounding like this.

"... you know, Ken does a lot of pro bono work."

The husbands are lawyers. God help me.

The cute boy was working at Starbucks again today. I hope he appreciates the number of subpar lattes and ill-executed pastries I am suffering through for him. Today I bought a cheese and vegetable wrap because it was lunch time and because it had the word 'vegetarian' in the title and, as this was our third date, I thought it was time to tell him that I hope to raise our children vegetarian. I hope that sentiment was subtly but clearly conveyed through my "Bonjour" followed by my "Merci" and then my bungled mumbling as I attempted to say "Au revoir" and "À bientôt" simultaneously. I sat in a purple arm chair and wrote in my notebook, trying to look both pensive and single.

I bought the bag, by the way. Actually, the original was pink and this one today was green, which I liked better. The first time I saw this bag, I thought it looked like the perfect "Paris" bag. I didn't buy it because I assumed that I'd see a thousand more just like it but I never did.

As I was signing the receipt, a woman walked up and asked the shopkeeper if mine was the last bag of its kind. It was. We were all very sad. Well, they were very sad and I was kind of sad but also thrilled because this is the bag to end all bags. It's the sort of bag that gives the wearer the sense that she can be a whole new person, starting today. I have a few bags like this and they've never lost that feeling for me. Every time I wear them, I feel filled with possibility.

Speaking of possibilities, I went to see a movie today. It was Raisons d'Etat which I selected because I liked the name. I think it was called The Good Shepherd when it was released in the States. It was very long. It was so long in fact that by the end of it, I'd somehow contracted the flu. Also, I think Angelina Jolie was miscast.

I discovered that the Starbucks boy speaks English. I can't tell how much but when he wrote my name on the cup of my frappuccino, he said, "Ah! Laurie!" as if he was pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He makes my name sound like abracadabra. I hope he got the part about our kids being vegetarian.