If you hate being uncomfortable and have little patience for the absurdly awkward, then travel and living abroad are simply not for you. Fortunately, I am well versed in all things awkward, and I mostly love the fact that every basic task becomes monumental now that I live in a city where my knowledge of the language pretty much limits me to, “Hi, my name is Nicole. I would like a croissant, please.”
On Saturday, a friend and I decided to take advantage of what we are told are the last vestiges of insanely fabulous weather by studying outside. I got through approximately ten pages in about three hours, making it a misguided effort from a being-a-good-student vantage point, but the sun was out, the Eiffel Tower kept reminding me to smile, and I got my daily dose of other-people’s-crazy so I’ll call it a win.
In 20–30 minute intervals, we were interrupted by: (1) A costumed man in the middle of his bachelor party, requesting a cut-out piece of our underwear. (2) A homeless man who, after we refused to speak to him, called us prostitutes (repeatedly) and told us to go fuck ourselves. (3) A woman raising money for her tuition by selling us gummy bears for 1 Euro. (4) Two children trying to get people to give them money just because. Upon being denied, these children burped loudly in our faces. (5) A “medical student” asking to give us free foot massages so that he could practice.
Just a typical day. I have stopped trying to figure out if everyone else finds themselves in these same kinds of, “Wait, what is actually happening here?” scenarios.
Sometimes, of course, it is necessary to be proactive in fueling the non-stop awkward train. The ideal opportunity for this presented itself when the lovely Erin invited me to a party, bringing me the first international edition of Meeting Internet Friends. Accompanied by a few friends from my graduate program, I ventured out of the campus/home bubble of the 7th/16th arrondissements that has mostly contained my Parisian existence. Given that I live adjacent to a facility where well-to-do Parisians stash away their elderly, my trip to an apartment in the 10th was a cultural discovery of its own.
Better still, I found a whole new crop of people to tease me for being an idiot who lives in Paris and can’t actually speak French. The French version of this site, then, will be “Sweeney Says Nothing.” OOH, OOH, “SWEENEY NE DIT RIEN.” Unfortunately, “because she is an idiot” is outside my linguistic capacity (that’s the point, isn’t it?)
I am only kidding, though, about the unfailing awkward (and my saying nothing, though not about the idiocy). Without a doubt the most awkward part was trying to explain to my friends how exactly I knew this person. Having already met plenty of blogger friends, it becomes a bit routine, and Erin is ridiculously cool and I swear I’m not just saying that because it’s the internet and this is super public. Double super pinky swear.
I could babble about the fact that her friends are almost equally as lovely, how awesome her apartment is, or how much fun it was to find someone who was willing to listen to me babble about Africa and the Cold War (this happened and I can’t remember why), but these things have a way of turning into diary entries far too easily, so let’s not go there. Erin’s got a much better post about it anyway.
Unfortunately, active exploration keeps being mitigated by this whole, “I am a graduate student,” phenomenon. Oh, but don’t you worry! Just because I had to spend my entire Sunday attempting to be productive does not mean that the French didn’t manage to find me at home, on my couch.
When the mythical promised vlog about my apartment finally occurs, I will be sure to show you the lovely extensive water damage. As it turns out, this water damage is so extensive that when the equally mythical promised repairs finally happen (I can now liken my imaginary timetable to being a French thing. I knew I liked these people…) they will take so long that I probably shouldn’t be here. So, operating on a ridiculously ambiguous (and thus oh-so-French) timetable, I must now find a new apartment.
I have been told by both my housing office and my landlord that I must find this new apartment, though both have indicated that I have time. I have yet to find anyone that really understands what this means.
I’ll be taking my sweet French time on this project, mind you. Details to follow. There could even be a tumblr — “Homeless American In Paris Microblogging!” — should this time table prove more pressing than the nonsense of “Maybe you should move out,” that has been sold to me so far. Perhaps I should have befriend that budding foot masseuse.