Last night at La Cochonaille:
Blair: "Matt, I like your pants."
Matt: "Oh, my trousers? Thanks, there from Giorgio."
Blair: "I think it’s cool how you say trousers, too..."
Matt: "Oh, you’re American... what is it you say over there? Oh, yeah, Paaaaaaahnts."
Blair: "Hey, give us some credit, it usually doesn’t stretch into fourteen syllables like that."
Matt: "Yeah, right, when I’m at work, people come up all the time and ask ‘excuse me, I need help finding paaaaaaahhnts,’ and then I know they are American, so I always make it a point to say back to them, ‘Oh, alright, sir, the trousers are right over here.’"

Saturday night I went to dinner with a huge group from church– there were fifteen or twenty of us total, so we hit up this place in the restaurant district, where there was not nearly enough room for us all, so they stuck us in the basement, a former wine cave. The basement was amazing, lit only by twinkling lights wound around the high domed ceiling and candles on the tables. I ended up at a table with two American au pairs who speak no English, two British guys fluent in French, and one French guy who speaks English at about the level I speak French. Quite an interesting mix. I am trying to practice speaking to the French guy, only we are both so paranoid about the other person not understanding us that we do things totally backwards, speaking slowly in our foreign tongue and quickly in our own, much to the chagrin of the other. Still, we got some conversation in and I fell in love with the French language again... it’s times like last night that remind me why I am still struggling over verb tenses and slang terms like "mefs," "mecs," and "bouffe." I realized that I have settled into this comfortable routine of speaking in French when I need to get something done, to a shopkeeper or Madame or the people in charge of my program or my profs, but at all other times, instead of attempting to make French friends, I just be quiet. Which is fine, because honestly I am not to the point with my French that I could make, like, real normal friends the way a native speaker could. But sitting at dinner last night I wanted to just sit and practice speaking with this poor 19-year-old guy across from me. His English was awful, which was, honestly, refreshing, after constantly opening my mouth to speak to people in French and having them switch to English, which they are equally fluent in. But he was not, so we helped each other through the menu ("cabbage? What is cabbage?" he asked. "Chou! C’est CHOU!" I replied with an obnoxious amount of excitement because for once I knew the answer) and then tried to talk about our classes... he’s in optometry school and studied English in high school (I didn’t let his lack of fluency comfort me too much– what he lacks in English he probably makes up for in both Italian and German). But it was one of the few times I have had a long while to speak with someone in French who is actually my age, no good in English, and not a professional decipherer of Anglicismic errors. Good times were had.
Today I helped one of my ex-pat friends from church move into her new apartment on the south edge of Paris. She had already gotten all her stuff over to the new place, so I just hung out with her for awhile, cleaning the place up and folding clothes, which was so much fun... I mean, honestly, her own place in Paris at the age of 21? I am kind of madly jealous, until I remember that I have my own wing of this place at the age of 21 from which I can see the Eiffel Tower, which is only just across the river from me, and thus pretty cool. After we finally finished folding the 6-meter high mound of clothes that covered the bed, we laid down on it for half a second and fell asleep, to wake up an hour and a half later because our stomachs were growling so loud. So we left and wandered her neighborhood until we found a pizzeria/brasserie, where we ate two whole Quatre Fromages pizzas and drank a whole carafe of red wine. Then, of course, to finish off the night in true style, we needed Nutella crepes, which we found for the bargain price of 1,50Euro, and then ate wandering the 13th for awhile, getting Nutella all over our faces and clean black gloves, but it was worth it. Delicious. I anticipate spending a lot of time at that pizzeria in the next four months.
In other news, I have somehow roped myself into a babysitting job for, get this: one hour a week, 830am to 930am on Monday mornings. HOW DID I THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA? Answer: I didn’t, but I couldn’t figure out how to get out of it gracefully in my second language. Dannnng it. As a foretaste of a reward, to celebrate my soon-to-be dedication, I bought a concert ticket with the money that I will have made by the middle of February.
I must get a handle on things.
Furthermore, I am trying to find a summer job, in the US, from France, which is extremely not simple. AND classes start this week. AND I realized that, strictly speaking, I am still employed as a tour manager for a European rock band, though I have been sucking at doing my job. Which means 1) I feel awkward every time I think about it and 2) I need to work up my guts and start doing something about it again, but everytime I think about it, I get so dang nervous I just can’t convince myself it is a good idea. There’s only so much humiliation and humility one person can take, you know?
So to answer your question, yes, I answer the phone whether it rings or not.
~La Boom