(no subject)
If it weren't for the fact that I was in the South, it wouldv'e been a waste of a weekend. Pity.
I went back to Shakespeare and Co. and this time it was outdoors, thank the Lord! It's gettin' hot in here. This week it was The Guardian's (English paper) Chief Correspondant in France, Jon Hendely. He didn't say anything that I don't already know. And despite him expressing his annoyance for France's re-electing Chirac 2 years ago(to which I commented rather loudly "Hmmm that's a hard one, Chirac... or the second coming of the Third Reich"), it reminded me that yeah, I could make a living doing what he does, and not actually feel like another suit monkey on Bay Street (Wall Street to you Americans, or La Défense/2eme arr. to you frenchies). He cracked a lot of Frog jokes, at which Frieda and I busted a gut laughing about, and basically told everyone he thinks French journalism sucks ass. Which is does. This reminds me, that drunken crazy night with that Irish girl I met a guy finishing up his PhD, with his thesis focusing on Politics and Journalism, must remember to hunt him down to dicuss. Nicolas was his name.
Then Frieda and I met up with a girl who's name I forget now, French and really cool, we hit it off well. We went to go watch her roommate and his pals play boules by Les Invalides (right across the street from where I work). That game with those silver balls (haha) that Old european immigrants play. You Brampton people MUST have seen them in the park at one time or another. I thought to my self "if those guys arent French, I dont know what is". One of them named Antoine offered to teach us, but in France, it's much cuter to be coquette and stand around and giggle than to potentially kick their asses at their own beloved sport, so naturally we declined. This is France, not Canada afterall.
Funny thing is, I got an email from my dear friend, he disappeared for a while because he was working as a mechanic for a (go)karting championship in Bretagne. Unlike with those other boys playing boules, I did not feel obliged to act proper and refined around him. On a boring day in Tours, I helped him look for an appartment to rent for September. I sat there legs crossed, hands folded in lap with a demure smile on my face and he shot me a look and said "Stop playing the timid girl. Yell and joke around a little. I know how crazy you are, why are you so afraid to show it?" I just kinda stared at him with my mouth open. One of a kind in these parts, the kind that is better kept at a distance. (Fucked up reasoning à la Melissa).
Of course, the next night, he gave me my first drink of absinthe at a house party (the illegally smuggled from Spain kind) and all hell broke loose. Good times.
I went back to Shakespeare and Co. and this time it was outdoors, thank the Lord! It's gettin' hot in here. This week it was The Guardian's (English paper) Chief Correspondant in France, Jon Hendely. He didn't say anything that I don't already know. And despite him expressing his annoyance for France's re-electing Chirac 2 years ago(to which I commented rather loudly "Hmmm that's a hard one, Chirac... or the second coming of the Third Reich"), it reminded me that yeah, I could make a living doing what he does, and not actually feel like another suit monkey on Bay Street (Wall Street to you Americans, or La Défense/2eme arr. to you frenchies). He cracked a lot of Frog jokes, at which Frieda and I busted a gut laughing about, and basically told everyone he thinks French journalism sucks ass. Which is does. This reminds me, that drunken crazy night with that Irish girl I met a guy finishing up his PhD, with his thesis focusing on Politics and Journalism, must remember to hunt him down to dicuss. Nicolas was his name.
Then Frieda and I met up with a girl who's name I forget now, French and really cool, we hit it off well. We went to go watch her roommate and his pals play boules by Les Invalides (right across the street from where I work). That game with those silver balls (haha) that Old european immigrants play. You Brampton people MUST have seen them in the park at one time or another. I thought to my self "if those guys arent French, I dont know what is". One of them named Antoine offered to teach us, but in France, it's much cuter to be coquette and stand around and giggle than to potentially kick their asses at their own beloved sport, so naturally we declined. This is France, not Canada afterall.
Funny thing is, I got an email from my dear friend, he disappeared for a while because he was working as a mechanic for a (go)karting championship in Bretagne. Unlike with those other boys playing boules, I did not feel obliged to act proper and refined around him. On a boring day in Tours, I helped him look for an appartment to rent for September. I sat there legs crossed, hands folded in lap with a demure smile on my face and he shot me a look and said "Stop playing the timid girl. Yell and joke around a little. I know how crazy you are, why are you so afraid to show it?" I just kinda stared at him with my mouth open. One of a kind in these parts, the kind that is better kept at a distance. (Fucked up reasoning à la Melissa).
Of course, the next night, he gave me my first drink of absinthe at a house party (the illegally smuggled from Spain kind) and all hell broke loose. Good times.