Violet's Birthday

To say that Paris has been amazing and wayyyy better than Orthez would  1)be  totally correct and 2)cheapen and downplay the awesomeness of Orthez, because they're like apples and oranges. I cannot go into detail about France. On 21 minutes of battery life I can't even go into detail about tonight but here goes. 

A mom [from my hometown] living in Paris told us about a drink called spermedebarman. Yee. 

Go to a club with bright neon lights, men in thongs, smoke, the whole deal.

Order "Sex on the City" a pina colada, three mojitos, a spermedebarman. 

Violet gets black penis in her face. A lap dance. 

The Losts Posts Part III: The Frenchie Party

April 12, 2009—2:30 a.m

Baptiste’s mother swore she wouldn’t come into the party to check it out, and we swore we wouldn’t drink. It’s only fair, then, that now Baptiste is hiccoughing like a mariner in the other room.

As soon as we got into the party, at about eight thirty when the lights were still on, Baptiste’s mom had her face literally pressed to the glass of the windows and her hands cupped around her eyes like little binoculars. I have to hand it to the French kids, they knew what they were doing. They had all the juice and coke spread out under the counter facing the window, while all the alcohol—an ungodly amount of it—was spread out right under her nose, under the window, invisible to the voyeur. Then of course, she came inside and hung around for a while as the kids cracked out a few beers for the parents who asked and a few shots for the kids who wanted. She hung around, she hung around, and finally she retired to Ludovic’s house—down the street.

Again, the French kids knew what they were doing. They had t-shirts on, in red and white Bearnaise colors, that read proudly “I HEART AMERICAN” and the name of their correspondent on the back. I am glad, proud, ecstatic, that Baptiste never took off his sweatshirt. They also had these hand stamps that really served no purpose, and they had a little schedule behind the bar with French kids’ names written at different hours—the hours they had signed up to serve at the bar. So I thought that was nifty. Anyway:

 

• I had a drink in my hand as the $9.99 DJ started his miserable setlist, the likes of a Bar Mitzvah DJ.
• I had a drink in my hand as the French kids taught me how to play baseball in the bathroom—that is, take a smoke from a joint and hold it in until it is passed all the way around and back to you.
• I had a drink in my hand as I smoked one, two, three, chainsmoked cigarettes with a passionate disassociation.
• I had a drink in my hand as the “rugbymen” arrived in their bicycle jerseys, high socks, and shorts and blew their party horns.
• I had a drink in my hand as little piles of vomit piled up in the sink of one of the bathrooms, as vomit clogged the thing and made and swim with water and regurgitation.

           

And you know what? I didn’t get drunk. Or stoned. So I gave up, finally, and:

 

• I didn’t have a drink in my hand as French kids snapped pictures of drunk American girls rubbing themselves on French boys who were smiling for the camera.
• I didn’t have a drink in my hand as innocent American girls, neverbefores, coughed up a lung of my cigarettes with their first puffs.
• I didn’t have a drink in my hand when a girl ran outside AS SHE PROJECTILE VOMITED everywhere and then disappeared. I actually when around the side of the building to help the poor thing so that she didn’t get lost.
• I didn’t have a drink in my hand when everyone poured outside at the end of the party to listen to the Rugbymen sing, proudly and drunkenly, Basque songs. And all I could think was, “Well, Mr. Zailian, I’m immersed in French culture.”
• I didn’t have a drink in my hand on the drive home, when Baptiste hiccoughed up a STORM and elicited silly comments from our chauffeur, Remy’s dad.

 

This was the first one of these high school parties at which I didn’t want to shoot myself. I actually had quite a nice time. It was very different than American parties—for the first hour I kept glancing at the door because I was convinced the police were about to bust in. And then I remembered I wasn’t in Mill Valley anymore. 

The Lost Posts Pt. II: French P.E.

I tried to piss myself off today to have a good post, but it didn’t work. Maybe if everyone else was a lot less ANNOYING all the time, I would be able to work up a bit of a panty-knot, but because it gets really tiresome to hear everyone else complain all the time, I don’t let anything bother me.

 The funniest thing that happened today was French P.E. At Lycée Gaston Febus, one group of kids has the same schedule. There are at least five American correspondents in Baptiste’s class, I think I’m forgetting someone, but by the end of the day I was the only one left. I kind of let it happen. I had a choice between being with the Americans, which would have been me pretending to be friends with those kids and just kind of embarrassing myself, or staying with the French kids, where at least I’m kind of a spectacle by default. Even the cool French kids bounced before P.E., so by the time we filed into the locker room, it was me and all the hurtest people in the class. But I like them anyway.

Their P.E. teacher is one of those that forgets they teach high school physical education. But, like, not in the way that they get really militaristic about it and make people stretch all the time or something. She did this whole drill where like, the kids had to make up some kind of gymnastics routine incorporating the following moves:

-marcher sans rhythme (walk slow and fast)

-chute 5<20 (this one’s the best: you have to fall, but break it into 5-20 steps)

-retracter (curl into a ball)

-tirer (stretch)

-lancer les bras (throw your arms in the air)

-3 appuis (hold yourself up by three body parts, ie. head/handstand)

-4 appuis (as above, only with four)

-glisser (slide. something)

-s’enrouler (roll)

-tourner (turn)

This got gay fast, for sure. Especially because no one knew that you had to actually make a routine and know it by heart. And she wouldn’t let me do my homework during the second hour, and instead I had to watch people roll around on a mat, which was not at all a waste of my time.

 So the first girl goes up, this nice, fat, and blonde girl, and she does her little routine and the teacher says “Okay, do it again.” So she does another. And the teacher’s like “What the fuck, you did something different, do what you did the first time,” and the girl was like ?.

 All the teacher’s comments were all about actually performing for an audience, like “You know, it was really good until you stood up. That didn’t seem natural.”

I don’t really have a way to end this one. Oh, I know. Tomorrow there’s supposed to be this party for all the Frenchies and Americans, plus a hundred people, and Baptiste’s mom is for sure flipping a SHIT. In any case I’m sure this whole ordeal will piss me off at some point, it’s got to be interesting. And what I mean by “Baptiste’s mom is flipping a shit” is that during dinner, she would be silent for a while, and then say something like, “One hundred twenty people, there’s bound to be some that sneak in” or “I’m going to call and make sure some adults are there.” I can only imagine that in the time between her out-louds, she was imagining every possible scenario.

           

 

 

The Lost Posts Pt. I: Don't get too FUCKING happy

written at 8:55 a.m. on April 4

I WOKE UP AT 3:00 SO I ONLY SLEPT THREE HOURS BECAUSE I COULD NOT FOR THE LIFE OF ME FALL BACK ASLEEP THEN I FOUND FOOD OUTSIDE MY DOOR AND I THOUGHT OH HOW WEIRD, THEY ARE GIVING ME A PRESENT BUT REALLY IT WAS THE FUCKING STINKIEST ROTTEN MEAT EVER AND I THINK THE HOTEL LEFT IT OUTSIDE MY DOOR FUR BUSTING THE POWER AND THEN FRANCE BROKE MY HAIR STRAIGHTENER SO I CRIED A LIL AND NOW I HAVE TO GO TO ORTHEZ WHERE I'M SURE I'LL FIND MY HOUSE IS ACTUALLY A HUGE MOUND OR PIT OF FECES AND MY HOST FAMILY DOESN'T EVEN SPEAK FRENCH JUST KLINGON.

Edit/Translation: I plugged in my hair straightener, which not only killed the thing but shut off the power on all of the fifth floor of the Hotel Trianon Rive Gauche. I went downstairs and told them the TV fell off the wall and dented the floor so that what I actually did didn't seem so bad. Then I cried at the airport because I was feeling so shitty for no reason that Ms. Gordon, who is a high school counselor, came up to me and tried to comfort me. She's been keeping an eye on me this whole time, I think. I can't believe I started almost crying in front of a counselor, of all people.

finally-the internet

I have a few posts on the backburner that I will publish as soon as possible, and this right here is to pretty much to say okay, I've written some stuff, but there's almost no internet here. Mine is the only computer in the house. And that's probably because we're living in the nineties over here. The school, the people, the technology is all in the nineties. Actually, the iPhone 3G just came out in France today, and I know that's not really ninties at all but it gives you some idea of their behind-the-timesness.

Mr. Zailian no doubt chose Orthez for the exchange because the shift in culture benefits both sides; the country bumpkins get to come see the busy city and all the rich kids, and all the rich kids are forced to park themselves in population 200 and then some cows. So of course the rich kids are complaining complaining complaining "Can't we just go back to PARIS" "All I've eaten here is bread" etc etc. I guess they're just going through what I went through last summer, so I understand, but at least I sucked it up enough to eat the goddamn food. Being pinner about food in France means you actually suck at life really hard. How are you ever going to survive food in Prague, in Cadiz I'm sure, in Africa, SUCK IT UP, sorry the nearest Cafe del Sol is 6,000 miles away.

I came here without expectations, without having really thought about it at all, and after my culture shock last summer, so I am fine. Granted, I am pretty good at speaking and understanding French, which makes it wayyyy easier. Like I actually speak French. I'm not perfect, but I can say with confidence that I can speak French and understand people with ease. Only the accents here are whack. Hopefully I won't come back with a honky country accent.

Oh, funny things, right.

1. In English class, the French students ask the Americans questions in English. The one they ask the most is "Is euh, your school like in the American series?" meaning, are American TV shows accurate? Well, which ones do you have in mind? clarifies the teacher. And every time, we're asked about High School Musical. I am pretty funny, I must admit, so Baptiste told me a bunch of kids came up to him and said they liked me. So I win at France. This time around.

2. Marley Pettigrew was in English with me and someone asked her if she was "chief of pom-poms." Better yet, I hear tell they ask that of all the pretty blondes on this trip. God French people are so retarded.

3. UPDATES ON CHARLES:
We just got back from the Tour Moncade, this crazy old tower castle thing that I don't want to explain. Someone burned a Bible there, because the ashes are all spread out and all the burnt pages are everywhere. Charles peered at one of these burnt pages for a good twenty seconds, as I frantically attemted to read his mind, and then bounced so hard back to the school, ahead of everyone else.

In Paris, there was a brochure on a table in the lobby of the hotel. It had a picture of a lady and her boobies on it. I picked it up and put it smack in Charles's face. He looked away, blinking, and thanked me. You're welcome Mormon Charles!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Take II [another chance to fuck it up]

It is, of course, crazy weird to be back here. I'm going through one of those moments that teenagers go through where they have to process so many things and it all crams and backlogs and lights start flashing and then you have to restart. So here's me restarting. Or retarding. O r whatever it is that I do.

I set a goal for myself this time around: write, write, and then keep writing until there's nothing left to be said. To give an overview of my progress so far:

-During the landing, I scrawled a few notes about how predictable going to a UC would be compared to...oh I won't say it because it's impossible. 

-We got on the bus and I reclused it out hard, turned on Animal Collective really loud (Merriweather Post Pavilion = wayyy better than Strawberry Jam) so that I could pretend like I wasn't with anyone else. 

-I wrote about how annoying I thought Charles was.

But I ended up eating dinner with Charles. It was Charles, Travis and I, and we walked around the Latin Quarter, ate gelato at a restaurant featured in Paris, Je T'aime, had philosophical conversations in the Luxembourg Gardens (my new favorite place in the world) and actually had a nice time. I still have no idea what is going on in Charles's head, though. 

I should stop this before it gets to happy, because that's not really the point of Popo mind control, is it? Oh, I have something. Today on the plane, I didn't sleep at all but for fifteen minutes or so, which means  I've been away for about twenty-seven hours. I started watching The Curious Case of  Benjamin Button at the beginning of the flight, but turned it on and off so many times that I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO SEE THE END. The plane turned it off.  How strategic was it that they made the movie star Brad Pitt; just when you want to shut down the movie, you CAN'T because you know Benjamin's going to get hot sooner or later. 

NUMBER FIFTEEN: Paris Alone

Victoria has been pissing me off lately. It comes and goes; one minute I'll be furious with her, and the next I'll be fine. This morning I was furious. I woke up at 9 a.m., because I'm not going to waste what little time I had in Paris, got ready, and waited for her to wake up. Ten o'clock rolled around and she was still asleep, andalthough I wanted he r to wake up, I didn't want to do it myself, so I took my breakfast outside, into the courtyard. A little girl approached me and I had to talk to her a while, which was actually really cute. She called me "vous," which was weird for me. I go back in the apartment. She is still asleep. I go for a walk, call Adrianne (whos e phone was OFF, today was the day she was coming to Montmartre and we were supposed to meet), come back. She's still asleep. I go for another walk, come back. She's STILL asleep. It's eleven. She didn't end up waking up until about noon. I came back into the apartment and she was cleaning the tiny kitchen. Really cleaning it.

This is exactly what I'm talking about. The constant, "Isa, est-ce que tu as besoin d'aide?" every time Isabelle does anything to the point where it is truly obnoxious, even to Isabelle I think, the constant ass-kissing. I understand that Isabelle is being really nice by letting us stay in her house, but was bringing her gifts, cleaning up after myself, and helping when help was needed too little? Should I have scrubbed Victoria's house raw? Does Victoria think I'm rude, ungrateful? She probably thinks she's better than me because she cleans the kitchen, because sometimes she acts that way. Am I rude and ungrateful?

I couldn't stand to wait for her to finish over-cleaning the goddamn kitchen then take a shower and get ready, and I couldn't help in the kitchen myself because a) kitchen is too small, and b) then it would look like I thought that was a good idea and I wanted to like, even the tables or something. So I cleaned up the room we sleep in, as I did yesterday (rearranging the furniture, putting away the sheets, futon, etc), and then got the fuck out of the house.

Fucked around Paris for a while, which was cool, and ended up in a McDonalds near the Opera/Printemps/Galeries Lafeyette watching Mika sing about "big girls" on a million different screens lined up on the walls. This Mickey D's was pimped OUT. It was made to look like a restaurant, with an upstairs and a downstairs, booths, dark colors, fancy-fancy this and that so that you don't feel like you're eating in a public restroom (McDo's on Haight, for instance), and television screens lining the walls.

I have come to the conclusion that Mika will not ever be worth my time. What a two-bit act, he can't even think of his own ideas except to flame up Freddy Mercury (even more). Here he is, singing the 21st century's "Fat Bottom Girls" and singing in a high voice and dressing funny.

The next video they showed was shocking. It was a long, drawn-out, horribly violent video game fight scene. The only reason the creators got away with being able to show the thing on many, many television screens in McDonald's is because it was a computer generated thing. Literally, one of the guys jump onto the other's chest and trampled all over it while the guy was standing-and the trampler was wearing shoes with BLADES on the bottom. The next thing I remember is the two of them, back-to-stomach, a sword through the both of them, writhing and writhing on the blade. I'm not usually one to nag about video games and violence, but it was kind of obscene having it pumped into your brain at McDonald's.

Oh and by the way, if you're ever in Paris, make sure to bring some Feist for the daytime, Man Man for nighttime, and MGMT for whenever you wish Feist made more songs.