What I Did in London

Me. I've been having such a great time in London!
Friend. That's great, Laurie! Did you go to Buckingham Palace?
Me. Oh, no I didn't, actually.
Friend. Oh, that's too bad. Did you make it to Madame Tussaud's wax museum?
Me. No, I missed that one unfortunately.
Friend. Well, what about Big Ben? Surely you saw Big Ben.
Me. Um, I think I saw a corner of it from across the city?
Friend. Well you must have gone inside St. Paul's Cathedral.
Me. No.
Friend. Windsor Castle?
Me. Nope.
Friend. Shakespeare's Globe Theatre? The Royal Mews? The Sherlock Holmes Museum? The Jack the Ripper tour??
Me. Um.
Friend. Laurie, what did you do in London?
Me. Uh, I watched 19 episodes of Twin Peaks and the entire third season of Sex and the City. It was great! You should totally go to London!

p.s. I'm going home tomorrow.

London

There's this Regina Spektor song that I listened to a lot last summer. I listened to it a lot. I listened to the whole album a lot but that song in particular. Driving through the rolling green fields of Wisonsin, windows down and music up, it took every ounce of willpower I had to keep from jumping out of the car and dancing on back country roads. That song felt like something in the inner recesses of my soul had been plucked out and set to treble clef and bass clef.

I haven't heard that song since last summer, I don't think, but I heard it a few days ago. I was stirring my coffee when it came on the radio and I thought how funny if someone had told me, while I was driving through the rolling green fields of Wisconsin, that the next time I'd hear this song I'd be stirring my coffee in the kitchen of someone's East End flat in London. And I wondered if some people are never surprised by where they find themselves.

I hope that all of you have the opportunity to surprise yourselves.

I'm staying with the nicest boys in the world. I met them in Berlin through a mutual friend (who I hadn't even seen in probably three years) and they're putting me up for seven whole nights in London. They're actually cat-sitting for a friend and the cat's staying with them the exact same dates that I am. They've put up a survey on the message board: "Which new housemate do you prefer? (please tally at will)". So far I'm winning by a landslide but then I clean up after myself and the cat's a bit ornery.

So far:

• trashy British television (a close relative of trashy American television)
• falling asleep on a double decker bus
• oohing and ahhing over baby farm animals
• fantastic exhibit at the Tate Modern
• brownie-baking and tear-inducing Noel Coward film
• frozen pizza on living room floor watching Sex and the City
• people-watching on a wall in Soho at twelve in the morning
• getting lost in Hampstead Heath Park (which, in addition to being the loveliest place imaginable, also has the cleanest park restrooms I've ever seen)
  

It's nice to be with people again.

I was thinking yesterday that there are so many people in the world who I love, love, love and who love, love, love me, too. I bet you have a lot of them, too, and isn't that the nicest thing in the world? It's nicer than sunning yourself in a park in Amsterdam, toes buried in the grass. It's nicer than strolling down a wide, tree-lined boulevard in Paris with flowers up and down the sides. It's nicer than watching the sun set over the Charles Bridge in Prague, city lights painting the sky one by one.

All of those things are very nice, actually, and they are experiences that I hope each of you can have someday if you want them but I was thinking today of that quote from The Wizard of Oz, the one that I never really liked: "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with."

I never really liked that quote but there's something to be said for it, I think.

The Saga Continues... and Then It Stops

So my housemate's still crazy.

My other housemate and I are rarely home and, when we are, we're quiet as mice at a Cat Fancy convention. We take out the trash and recycling, we wash our dishes instantly upon using them, we clean up after ourselves, we buy household supplies, we barely keep anything in the common space, we're respectful and we always lock the door behind us. We pay our rent.

In short, we are nearly perfect tenants and yet, every single time either of us passes the Crazy Housemate in the hall, she ambushes us (separately, we've never discussed this, I've just witnessed it) with a new list of things we've allegedly broken, things we've allegedly done that we shouldn't have done, and things we should be doing that we allegedly haven't done.

It has become unbearable.

Between her and the Crazy Landlady (who ambushes me with a similar frequency and with similarly inane, made-up issues), I am constantly on edge. I go out into the city and I'm bored and lonely. I come home and I'm bored and lonely and also alternating between hiding from my housemate and listening to her nag me while I stare dumbly at her and wonder if I've wandered into the Twilight Zone or perhaps Candid Camera.

This afternoon, I made the mistake of using the bathroom while she was home. I usually try to avoid that but she seems to be home approximately 23 hours a day. The remaining hour is the time she spends at the grocery store, stocking up on more food to cram into our tiny refrigerator so that my other housemate and I are allotted only enough space for about 1 or 2 food items each.

As I passed her in the hall, I was unsurprised when she called me into the shower room to "discuss something". The issue of the hour was that the shower is apparently broken. I probably wouldn't use the word 'broken' to describe the issue in question. I would probably say that it is a very, very old shower and it does appear that occasionally a drop of water escapes from the hose when it's not supposed to, although I had not noticed this previously.

"It's hard to say that anyone broke it," she must have said a hundred times, followed by the specific implication that I, in fact, did break it, evidenced by the fact that she thinks I am "rough with things" (what?) and that it was (allegedly) not broken before I moved in.

I calmly explained to her that it was a very old shower and it seemed exceedingly unlikely to me that anyone broke it, intentionally or otherwise, and that she should advise la guardienne that the apartment needs a new shower, if the slight dripping bothers her.

She assured me that that would be impossible for various inexplicable reasons and that she really hated to pay for it all by herself and it was likely to be very expensive and it's hard to say that anyone broke it, exactly, but...

And then suddenly it clicked.

She isn't crazy. She's trying to scam me.

And suddenly everything was ok.

"Eva, Eva, Eva," I said and then I laughed and then I hugged her, right there in the middle of the bathroom. And then I went into my room and I packed up every single thing that I own, and I went to the train station and I bought myself a ticket right out of this godforsaken country.

I'm cognizant of my privilege in this situation, of course. There are people the whole world over who are being ripped off every single day of their lives and for a lot more than a 200 euro security deposit and they have no place to run.

But I do have someplace to run. And that someplace is England.

I leave very early tomorrow morning. Walking home from the train station, I felt lighter than I have in weeks, which makes sense given that my pocketbook has just slimmed down considerably.

There are things in this world that Matter and things that Don't. Let's file this one under "D".

Two Roads Diverged in a Wood

I've been keeping an eagle eye on the bathtub. I check it several times a day, as if with a magnifying glass, prepared to scrub and disinfect at the first speck of dirt. Of course, it hasn't been two full days since I cleaned it so there's been no dirt to be found.

This morning, as I left the apartment, my housemate was already scrubbing the bathtub with a sponge.

Yesterday, on the way home, my bus passed a group of three girls on a bridge, posing for a photograph. Just as the camera was about to flash, one of the girls laughed and held out her hand to stop the photo, reaching up with her other hand and sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head. As the bus rolled away, it struck me that for the rest of her life, every time she looks at that photo of herself in Paris, her sunglasses will be on top of her head.

I don't know why that thought occurred to me but I couldn't stop thinking about it the whole way home.

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.

The World's Worst Zen Proverb

I was walking tonight, nose in a map, when I almost subconsciously noticed out of the corner of my eye that an old man walking just ahead of me was struggling to drag something down the sidewalk. Absent-mindedly, I reached out and grabbed the back of it as I studied my map. He said 'Merci' and it was about half a block before I realized that I was walking down the street, carrying a filthy old mattress with a homeless man. I still didn't know where I was so I walked a few more blocks with him until I figured out where I had to turn. I think he was blind in one eye.

I found Europe's largest Chinatown tonight by accident. I seem to find everything here by accident and whenever I try to find something on purpose, I can't. I think I just wrote the world's worst zen proverb.

In other news, I went back to class today and the cute boy still works at Starbucks. He is still cute. The only thing I have said to him is "Je voudrais un grand latte avec soja, s'il vous plaît" but when he handed me my drink this morning, he said "Un grand latte avec soja" and then added, I thought meaningfully, "For Laurie," pronouncing my name in that incredibly charming way that French people do. It actually had not previously occurred to me that it was charming but it truly, truly is.

Hypothetical Questions, Famous Paintings, and Corporate Coffee. Oh, and Decisions. Big Decisions.

So, hypothetically, the five second rule. Does it apply to the Paris sidewalk? Additional hypothetical information: you have not personally witnessed anyone urinate on this specific section of sidewalk and it's a really, really good pain au chocolat.

Hypothetically.

So I did a funny thing this morning. I woke up early, got dressed, bought my weekly metro pass, rode the bus for about half an hour, and got all the way to the Grands Boulevards metro stop before it occurred to me that I didn't know where I was going. My second two weeks of school are at a different campus and my only directions were: "Grands Boulevards Metro Stop". No walking directions, no street address, no description of the building. I guess I assumed it would be obvious. It wasn't.

I wasn't that broken up about it, to tell you the truth. This is actually the third day in a row that my plans have been thwarted as a result of my bad luck, my ineptitude, or both, and all three times I've left the incident feeling not frustrated or annoyed but instead almost giddy with happiness. That's Paris for you, I suppose.

It's funny how every part of Paris feels like an entirely different city. The area that's currently hiding my French school looks exactly like parts of New York except with broader sidewalks and more crooked alleys. There's a Virgin Megastore and about seventy-three Starbucks and the most common variety of Homo sapien is White Man in Business Suit.

Speaking of Starbucks, I've patronized exactly two multinational coffee chains since my arrival in Europe. The first was a Gloria Jean's in Budapest and the second is the Starbucks where I am currently writing this entry by hand. I fear I may be back here as it's (presumably) on my way to school and the barista behind the counter is incredibly cute (why couldn't he ask me out on a date?). Also, I actually tasted the sweet taste of soy milk today for I think the first time on this trip. The smell of cow's milk makes me a bit nauseous after awhile, even in coffee.

Budapest marked my first ever visit to a Gloria Jean's and my only prior knowledge of one was the one in the Brandon mall where I think my friend Bri worked in high school. I didn't even know it was a chain let alone that there would be one in Budapest.

As I walked in with my Australian friend Leah that I met in Krakow, she exclaimed, "Gloria Jean's! I didn't know they were a chain! I thought they were just in Queensland!"

Anyway, this Gloria Jean's (aside from being expensive even by American standards-- oh, Budapest, you little minx!) was by far the largest and most beautiful coffee shop I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a palace. This Starbucks where I am sitting in Paris is probably the second biggest and second prettiest coffeeshop I've ever seen and it too looks like some sort of palace or maybe a fancy hotel lobby. I've seen a few McDonalds here that were similarly glamorous; it must be how these American franchises attempt to compete with European cafes.

I'll be the first to admit that I do not have a refined appreciation of art. There are things I think are cool and things I think are boring and the vast majority of 'art' falls into the latter category for me. That said, I felt compelled to go to the Louvre today. Maybe it was guilt from missing class.

It was a spontaneous decision so I didn't have my camera. There were a few times when I momentarily lamented its absence but when I imagined what poor justice any photograph I could take would serve, I decided it was for the best.

The Louvre is nothing like I expected. From the outside, it looks like a small, unimpressive building with the words "Musée du Louvre" stamped on the front. But past that misleading façade is an enormous and beautiful interior courtyard complete with fountains and the giant glass pyramid so famously described in The Book That Shall Not Be Named.

The museum itself is grand in every possible way. In fact, it's almost too grand. Every single inch of that museum is so old and beautiful and impressive, so crawling with people and camera flashes, that it's a bit deadening to the senses. You feel after awhile that you're being clobbered to death by beauty and genius. Oh, and tourists.

That's not to say that you shouldn't go. It's free for children under 18 and only nine euro for adults and I was so close to the Venus de Milo, I could have reached out and touched her (although I don't think the gentlemen wearing army fatigues and carrying automatic weapons would have appreciated that).

I saw the Mona Lisa, like the Eiffel Tower, by accident. I was in an especially crowded room and I turned to escape the crushing mob and there she was, right in front of me, view unobstructed.

The Mona Lisa is famously unimpressive in person so I won't bore you with a description of her boringness. I gave her a good look because I was supposed to and I moved on, like a zillion tourists before me and a zillion tourists after me.

Walking through the significantly less crowded outer hall of Italian paintings, I passed a hundred paintings that could have been the Mona Lisa. Why her and not them? They've probably spent the past 500 years wondering the same thing.

I wasn't overly excited by the Venus de Milo either. I mean, it's fine but there were a zillion other perfectly nice statues that looked just like it. Winged Victory, however, is so much more beautiful in person than she looks on the cover of postcards. Unlike the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo, the crowd gave her a wide berth, never standing closer than five or six feet although there was no guard rope.

My favorite section by far was the African art (all African countries were in one section together, except for Egypt). It was the only art that moved me at all and nearly every piece was incredible.

The only piece outside the African art section (aside from Winged Victory) that really affected me was Agnolo Bronzino's "Portrait d'homme tenant une statuette". I passed it twice and I don't know if this was the original intent but every time I did, I felt a chill go down my spine.



Oh, and I decided once and for all to go to law school in August. Surprise! What's not a surprise is that I am, how you say, ze 'crazy'?