il y des jours pour et des jours pour pas travailler
I've been in Paris for over a month now, but I don't think I've written anything about it in here.
I had some trouble at first, but now everything is much better and I don't want to leave!
Here is something I wrote about the disaster that happened when I first arrived:
It started to rain, on top of everything, updating the status of my day from hell from horrible to comedically horrible. There I sat during my first few hours in Paris, in the middle of some grand Parisian courtyard, with a friend during her last few hours in the city. I was one part thankful that I had a good friend by my side and one part distressed that I was not able to appreciate the beauty of the scenery around me due to my shitty circumstances.
By that point, I had already suffered a plane ride delayed by over four hours. I sat next to a sweet yet very religious college-aged boy from Florida and an insane artist who decided to press the flight attendant request button to harass the females by asking them to sit on his lap.
After a sleepless plane ride and while nursing an intense headache, I dragged my luggage into a cab. My driver, eager to speak English, first asked me to marry him and take him to the United States. But by the end of the ride, he had decided to go on a diatribe scolding me for not being religious. In less than three hours, two people had told me (in so many words) that I would be going to hell. However, between the marriage proposal and the religious fanaticism, my driver told me helpful things about Paris while pointing out notable buildings and helping me with my French.
Finally, I arrived on the supposed street of the apartment I thought I rented, where I met a friend of mine. We searched but did not find my apartment, as it started to rain and jetlag began to freeze my brain. Alas, the given address for the apartment was really the address for a school, we surmised after speaking to guards in broken French. Frantically, I called the person who I thought was the owner of the apartment, but the number sent me straight to a generic voicemail message.
After waiting in a courtyard for a few hours, my boss came to help me make some sense of the situation. We spent a few more hours running around, trying to figure out what exactly was going on, but the rapidly appearing truth of the situation was not what that I wanted to hear: I had been the victim of fraud.
Without anyplace else to stay, I slept on my boss’s couch that night and dreamt that this was all some simple misunderstanding instead of any crime.
This is the view from my friend Melissa's room.
More to follow!
I had some trouble at first, but now everything is much better and I don't want to leave!
Here is something I wrote about the disaster that happened when I first arrived:
It started to rain, on top of everything, updating the status of my day from hell from horrible to comedically horrible. There I sat during my first few hours in Paris, in the middle of some grand Parisian courtyard, with a friend during her last few hours in the city. I was one part thankful that I had a good friend by my side and one part distressed that I was not able to appreciate the beauty of the scenery around me due to my shitty circumstances.
By that point, I had already suffered a plane ride delayed by over four hours. I sat next to a sweet yet very religious college-aged boy from Florida and an insane artist who decided to press the flight attendant request button to harass the females by asking them to sit on his lap.
After a sleepless plane ride and while nursing an intense headache, I dragged my luggage into a cab. My driver, eager to speak English, first asked me to marry him and take him to the United States. But by the end of the ride, he had decided to go on a diatribe scolding me for not being religious. In less than three hours, two people had told me (in so many words) that I would be going to hell. However, between the marriage proposal and the religious fanaticism, my driver told me helpful things about Paris while pointing out notable buildings and helping me with my French.
Finally, I arrived on the supposed street of the apartment I thought I rented, where I met a friend of mine. We searched but did not find my apartment, as it started to rain and jetlag began to freeze my brain. Alas, the given address for the apartment was really the address for a school, we surmised after speaking to guards in broken French. Frantically, I called the person who I thought was the owner of the apartment, but the number sent me straight to a generic voicemail message.
After waiting in a courtyard for a few hours, my boss came to help me make some sense of the situation. We spent a few more hours running around, trying to figure out what exactly was going on, but the rapidly appearing truth of the situation was not what that I wanted to hear: I had been the victim of fraud.
Without anyplace else to stay, I slept on my boss’s couch that night and dreamt that this was all some simple misunderstanding instead of any crime.
This is the view from my friend Melissa's room.
More to follow!