Please Allow Myself to Introduce Myself

Hey it’s me! SBSHF (single black smoking hot female) traveling and occasionally attending classes while I study abroad in France!

I made a promise to keep friends and family posted on my adventures in France, and I am sad to say I have truly been lapse in that area outside of a few random and somewhat cryptic Face Book posts. I have decided to get caught up (disregard any spelling and grammatical errors, simply consider them alternative uses of the English language). I am going to tell you about all the things I have learned and learned to love about Paris, not to mention a few things I have decided, “Screw it, I will never be that French.”

For example, and with special loving gratitude to my mother, I will never think it is okay to smell like you ate a hunk of Roquefort cheese for breakfast, used a hunk of Camembert to wash your hair and then went to work in Brie factory for at least 18 hours—then because you have completely trashed your own sense of smell, you decide to punish what is left of the smelling populace with a strategic attack on the olfactory sensations of the rest of the world with what can only be described as mind numbing and a damn near blinding precision. You begin with a calculated maneuver, a near “blitzkrieg-ian” philosophy (yes I made that up). Resolved to launch what little Parisian concept there is on personal space right out the window (with massive force), you place your stinky arse down in the seat across from ME on the 45 minute train ride (when there are at least 20 other open spots else where) in the unfiltered airtight metal container. This is a true story - Last time it happened, after I came to (because I am pretty sure I blacked out for a few minutes) I just got angrier and angrier – it is almost like I can see the funk rising off this person in waves and attaching itself to my coat. Pointlessly, I place my scarf over my nose, because at this point I don’t give a you-know-what if my actions offend him, as far as I am concerned – He started it. I kept wishing the man would get comfortable and stop moving. Perhaps it itches to smell that bad? Every time he resituated himself a new and somehow slightly different smell would waft in my direction. I felt like yelling “hold still, what did I ever do to you!” If the French could figure out how to deploy these people en masse to other countries, they would be considered a wholly new type of bioWMD and the country would rise to a new level of super power…except in countries where there are already funky people, and there are more funky people…hmmm, this plan needs work. Especially since after the first wave of the invasion they would cease all operations from 12-2pm for a cappuccino and baguette break and perhaps a Lucky Strike.

But don’t get me wrong– that is just one thing I have found that I don’t like in France – the stinky cheese people and the non-existent policy on personal space, and to be fair, I would hate that in any country. For me that is a universal dislike. I thought having a super sensitive sniffer was a good thing and it is, in the kitchen, say on Thanksgiving, but not so much on a Metro train. Oh and I have to mention the line cutting issue here – which I have resolved by cutting the person right back and saying “no cuts, no buts, no coconuts” – I do say it in English and even if they speak English they have no idea what I am talking about and usually keep quiet out of respect for my obvious Frenchness and my awareness of acceptable local queuing procedures.

It may seem like I am complaining…I am alittle, but I will take complaining in Paris over a lot of other things in my life. Even the small arguments I make about the cultural differences, are interesting enough to keep me getting out of bed each day and wondering – oooohoho what’s next?! And there is of course the thrill that at any moment my restraint might give way and I really do smack the beejeezus out of the 5 foot tall, 60 yr old woman standing on my foot on the train in her “oh so faux” mink(like) coat – pretending she doesn’t know I am there…do I or don’t I? To bitchslap or not to bitchslap. More than likely, and with thanks yet again to my mother, out of politeness and the fact that I do see myself as an American representative (haha-sorry for you), I probably won’t headbutt her tiny old forehead out of vindictive enjoyment – I will give a gentle shoulder tap and an “Excusez moi, mon pied, si vous plait” and I will point at my foot and she will move and then I will say “thanks heffer” – with a big ol smile.

There is so much more I love about being in Paris, because I do feel fortunate and happy to be here. I promise to talk more about that next time – I just had to first get the sarcastic aggression out of the way…at least this way, you know it is me!

So far the way I see it, it’s all one big adventure - this huge jumble of laughter and smells and mistakes and questionable outfits is called life. I am taking the good with the bad and either way always with a smile while thinking, “I am so making fun of this later.” So I will continue to travel and record always with my tongue in cheek, simply because that is how I feel about it. If you don’t like it, then how the hell did you make it to the last line in my blog?

Smooches,

Linds