I’m back! And tan!

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And oh how being tan makes me a much happier person. That and the sweltering heat seems to have dissipated a bit here in Paris, leaving nothing but blue skies and more urban tanning opportunities. (For those of you worried about the health of my skin, fear not: I always apply at least SPF 50 to my face and leave the rest to bronze naturally. It makes for quite a unique look – just ask my friends who are usually embarrassed to walk around with me in the summer!)

We had an awesome trip down to the Cote D’Azur, complete with sun, sand rocks and crystal clear ocean. Yeah, about those “beaches” down there. Don’t get me wrong. They are stunningly beautiful.

But my definition of beach includes soft sand in which to bury your toes and scoop out a (big) divot for your butt to facilitate more comfortable lounging. Not sun-roasted stones that singe your feet and bruise your thighs when you turn over.

Every trip to the water was an animated hopscotch from shady rock to corner of towel, ending with a sad crawl to the water to avoid the shin-assaulting pebbles that rolled in with every wave. But all of this was totally forgotten since I got to lay on a towel next to this guy:

Being surrounded by naked, saggy french boobs, Husband felt totally justified rocking his hoo-ha mold. In public. Purely for entertainment value and blog material. God I love that man.

And really his little shorty shorts were not even a blip on the nudity radar. Yes, there were nipples aplenty, many that were not meant to be shared with mankind. But I also saw a man’s bare bum. And another guy’s hoo-ha. Just lounging out there, gettin’ some sun. Free as a bird. A shriveled little bird. A shriveled little bird that made me wonder, “Does he put SPF 5o on that thing?”

Vocab Friday: The I’m Not Here Edition

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Ok so it’s not technically Friday yet. But that’s cool, because I’m not really giving you any vocabulary this week. I’m going on vacation instead!

I’m not leaving you empty-handed though. Spend this 4th of July weekend thinking about how I’m going to tell you one helluva story about me volunteering to hand out gift bags at the ambassador’s house with some other teenage helpers who may or may not have been totally sneaking booze on the job. Kids these days.

Happy weekend and a bientot!

Oops.

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Here I am thinking I at least have command of my native tongue, when it seems I can’t really express myself in english either. Maybe pig latin is where it’s at for me.

Anyways, wanted to clarify my post on french healthcare, thanks to an astute comment calling me out for trashing a healthcare system I have championed in the past for being free. So yeah, let your eyes glaze over for a minute while I get all political – I promise this is the last time!

I’ll basically just say what I replied back in my comments: My fear and hesitation to seek treatment here has nothing to do with the healthcare itself, and everything to do with being in a foreign country, speaking a foreign language, and not knowing exactly how the system works. As I stated, the system worked out just fine, it just works differently than it does in the U.S., like in the simplest of terms – for example, here the doctor does almost everything, nurses play a smaller role. The waiting room is different – not bad, just not set up the way it is in the States. So I was nervous not because I thought I was going to get bad care, but because it was wholly possible that I would misunderstand something in French and end up asking for fertility treatments when I really just needed some eyedrops. I have the exact same feeling of panic when I have to call and order takeout over the phone. Nothing to do with the French, everything to do with my tenuous grip on the french language. Sorry I didn’t explain that better.

Is the french system superior? Quality-wise, it seemed from my limited experience the same as it is in the States. Except it’s free for French people. Does that make it better? That’s fodder for some other blog. I’ve got champagne to drink.

First foray into French healthcare.

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Don’t worry, I didn’t fall off my bike already. But I did finally get up the nerve to see a doctor about my eyeball. Yes, my eyeball and I have not been getting along lately. Because while I enjoy staring at my laptop screen 90% of the day, my left eye would rather twitch frantically until I chill out and stare at anything else for a while.

Now up until this point I have avoided foreign healthcare at all costs, waiting for trips home to get checkups and renew prescriptions. But as you might imagine, trying to type while holding your eyelid still with one hand isn’t so fun. So I took a deep breath and booked an appointment with an opthamologist.

To be fair, I cheated and went with a guy at the American Hospital who speaks english. But I was still supremely nervous. Why? Was I scared of socialists? Afraid I might have to fill out paperwork in French? Worried that champagne might be the only form of anesthesia?

I could only hope.

But my first French healthcare experience was totally fine. Different in many ways from typical American care, but really, I came out unscathed and well treated. You just have to set some expectations before going in:

1. There might not be air conditioning. Even in a modern (looking) hospital.

2. But there will be coffee and croissants in the lobby.

3. Since you’re American, the free part of french healthcare doesn’t apply.

4. And it may or may not take you 10 minutes to figure out how to write a check to pay the doctor.

5. The nurses will not be offering restorative coupes de champagne.

Next, a pony.

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She’s no beach cruiser, but look at that basket! I’m so excited to start biking around Paris! Nevermind that I’ve been on a bike exactly 5 times since 1992. And I nearly killed myself hauling this one up the stairs. This is going to be awesome.

Vocab Friday: The Crazy Edition

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Yes, that is a Sephora box you see there. Of course I still hate them, but it just so happens that they’re the only people who carry my most favorite shampoo, so I have to cross the picket line every now and then in the name of good hair.

Good hair that I almost lost today in the midst of mid-day Parisian traffic, because wouldn’t you know it, the crazy continues! This time on two wheels!

See, rather than wait 15 minutes with my bookbag and shopping bag and Sephora box for the bus, I decided to haul it on over to the Velib station and rent a bike. Really, why waste a perfectly beautiful day ensconced in the safe confines of a bus when for just 1 euro I could be cruising on a public rental bike through the streets of Paris? Without a helmet?

So after tipping over twice, I gained control of my bike and sped off. In the wrong direction. Faced with an impenetrable roundabout/intersection, I pedaled down a narrow side street, only to be confronted by angry delivery trucks and shouting pedestrians.

Sweating and swearing I finally popped out on the Champs-Elysees. You know, that 6 lane death trap of lawless french drivers. Oh boy. With a white-knuckle grip on the handlebars I took a deep breath and swerved into the flow of traffic. Just picture it: Me on an overweight beach cruiser, sporting baby blue fake Raybans, pedaling furiously between taxis and frantically ringing my bike bell. SSSSPRRRIIIIIIIIING!

Which finally leads me to today’s vocab. Because reading that story probably made you think, sweet geezus she is nuts. Well, if you were French, you might ask instead:

Tu as fumé le moquette?!

Which means literally, Did you smoke the carpet? or in essence, What kinda crack have you been hitting?

My answer: the pain au raisins and champagne kind.

Oh yes.

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The crazy continues: 2 posts in 1 day! But after I called Donovan my secret lover, I had to reconfirm my devotion to Bocanegra. Carlos honey, you may have questionable taste in books and shoes – but you are still my one and only.

 

Photo: Robbie Fimmano for Interview

Crazy town.

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People, there is some wacky stuff going on today. For starters, I’m watching soccer. And if that wasn’t weird enough, there’s actually some scoring going on! I know, I didn’t believe it at first either. But then my secret lover Landon Donovan went and made this game mildly interesting. He didn’t even have to take his shirt off!

But I wish he did.

Then over at Wimbledon, which no one’s watching because they’ve been tricked into thinking this World Cup scoring thing will continue, some guys are in the middle of a 9 hour match. 9 HOURS. Over the span of two days. At that point wouldn’t you be ready to just flip a coin or something? Rock Paper Scissors for the win? Call me a quitter, but I think I’d just as soon bean the other guy in the face and get it over with than play the 65th game of set 5. But that’s just me.

Also, apparently when you talk mad smack about your boss in a major magazine, you get fired! Bananas I tell you.

Seriously, you know the world has gone bat-shit crazy when the most normal part of my day was running into Anne Hathaway doing a photo shoot with a Rolls Royce and a great dane.

Vocab Friday: The Boob Edition.

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Oh my holy crap did I learn so many good things today! But before I share, can I just take a moment to say that I love my french teacher? Not the one who gives me withering stares. The other one. The one who is so incredibly fun and enthusiastic, who makes me practice my conversation skills for at least an hour, who teaches me awesome things like how to say “hoo-ha mold.”

She is the bright shining star of what has been an otherwise painful and embarrassing journey through foreign language land. Sure, we study some grammar and practice verb conjugation. But there’s always time for a quick cultural aside, a brief lecture on the dirtiest of street slang. That’s why this woman should get the highest award in my book. Where the others are teaching me how to read and write, maybe even speak a little bit, this woman is teaching me the art of french communication!

And it’s all thanks to her that I can share with you today these wonderful sayings. Don’t ask me how we got on this subject – just enjoy Vocab Friday: The Boob Edition*.

  • Lesson 1: If you see an ample-bosomed lady who’s maybe spilling out of her top, you might lean over to your friend and say:

“Heh, Il y a du monde au balcon.”

Definition:  Heh, It’s crowded on the balcony.

Hilarity factor: High.


  • Lesson 2: If you perhaps feel the need to comment on someone’s itty bitties, you could snark:

“Elle a des boutons de culottes.”

Definition: She’s got pants buttons (for boobs).


  • Lesson 3: If you happen to see some lucky guy dancing with a lady who has du monde au balcon, you’d elbow your buddy and say:

“On a la vue sur tout Paris!”

Definition: He/We’ve got a view of all of Paris!

Yes, french is officially the most awesome language in the world. You’re welcome, and happy weekend.

*Bien sur, this is a cheap and tawdry attempt to grab your attention away from World Cup.

Showoffs.

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There are many interesting things that I could tell you about this photo. For starters, I could say that we’re standing in a private residence on top of the Australian Embassy, facing a wall of windows that look directly out to the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. I could explain that this lovely international array of women are from my french conversation class. I could tell you that for the end-of-year party, our group recited a children’s poem, and I might even elaborate on just how embarrassing it is to basically recite Dr. Seuss when the group before you went balls to the wall with Baudelaire.

But no. What I will say about this picture is that immediately after we finished our timid presentation, an imposing Mongolian woman led her group with one hell of an Edith Piaf impersonation. NON! RIEN DE RIEN! NON! JE NE REGRETTE RIEN!

God I love a good showoff.