There’s an ad in the Metro right now for Kaporal 5 brand jeans. I never really liked these jeans that much, but the ad right now is a man and woman with this beat-up jalopy of a car in the middle of the desert. The car’s hood is up like it must have overheated, and the man and woman are sitting and standing next to it, looking like they are about to overheat just from being so dang stylish. The slogan says, in English, "ALWAYS ON THE ROAD." I find the whole thing odd because, well, for one thing, the brand is not even American– I think it’s Scandinavian or something, and then they put the slogan in English? I suppose they want to look hip, but it is so weird. Anyway, on the ad at my Metro stop, someone spray-painted "BOIKOT AMERIKA!" directly under the slogan. I stared at it for a long time, thinking. It’s not a direct address, because there is no comma. Which means it must be a command. Written in some kind of pidgin English... to the French... about the US... with regard to a Scandinavian brand of clothing.

In other news, I am at McDonald’s right now, using their wireless, but I felt guilty showing up and just ordering an orange fanta and then hanging out for three hours, so instead I got a McFlurry. Being an American, it still is hard for me to remember (slash DESIRE) to say American words with a fake French accent, but I try anyway... usually. But I was in the middle of ordering my McFlurry when I realized I had no idea how to pronounce it and make it sound French. So I just said, "Je voudrais un McFlurry, s’il vous plait." The rest of it terribly French, the "McFlurry" awfully American. And, like clockwork, the guy says, "Quoi?" "What?"
So I try again: "Ahh... Meek-Fleh-Ree?"
"Ahh, bien sur, mademoiselle, MeekFlehree!"
I have a great uncle who lived in Argentina for like a million years. He’s a little bit crazy, as is most of my family (ok, ok, I’ll admit it, I’m really the only sane one to come out of the lot of them), and I have heard this secondhand story about how he hated the way the Argentinians (whom he calls Argentines, which probably means it is right, since he is married to one, but it sounds like not a real word, so for my intents and purposes, we shall use Argentinians) said American brand names, specifically Colgate, which they called "Coal-gott-ee." I always thought it was funny... but thought he must have made up the whole thing. Now I have learned better. I live near Metro Franklin Roosevelt– "Fronk-la Rooooz-vell." And "McDo," pronounced "MeekDough," which is what they call McDonald’s, but now it is starting to annoy me too. It’s quaint and adorable, except that they don’t understand the American way of pronouncing it, and we really ought to get to decide since we were the ones that invented it, right? Not that I am proud of my country for having invented soft-serve ice cream shaken around with pieces of peanuts, but still. And I don’t think we even invented Colgate, I’m pretty sure that was the Germans. But then as the guy handed it to me, he said, "Et pour vous, ma cherie," "And here it is, my dear." So I guess that is good.

I’m reading this crazy book right now about the philosophies of yoga... and one of the things that yoga teaches is that anyone can live in bliss on earth. Yogics say that, whether you practice yoga or not, sometimes you will just have a moment of pure joy, where one moment you are schlepping down the street and the next minute you are consumed with awe for the beauty in everything around you, and their thing is that they want to teach everyone how to hold on to moments like that. I am not a Yogic. But I was thinking about it, and I guess that is what happens to me when I am walking down the Paris streets. Ever since the old woman stopped me early last semester and told me that I "have nothing to be sad about," I have realized more and more that she was right. And I thus find myself often walking down the road and suddenly grinning my ears off inexplicably. (This is quite off-putting to the French, whose American stereotype is that we are too eager to be friendly, and anyone that willing to grin uselessly must be trying to sell them something.)

Yesterday I passed a horse butcher, which should not have had this effect on me, but it did, because the more I thought about it, the funnier it was to me that I moved, almost directly, from the Bluegrass State, where they bury horses in special cemeteries fancier than many people cemeteries, to a city where they butcher horses and sell the meat for you to feed your dog. Or make soup out of. And it further occurred to me that in Kentucky I always have to practice my best "Yes, that sounds delicious" face when people recount delicious meals of squirrel, coon (what kind? Rac?), rabbit, or deer. I usually just pretend I am the Queen of some far away land, trying to make good diplomatic relations with a new colony of people, so I have to act like the things they say and do are not weird to me. I practice this same game in France when being fed paella with whole octopi in it. Either that, or I just sit there and think to myself, in either Kentucky or France, "Don’t think about it, this is not happening. Don’t think about it, it didn’t happen." I’ve become quite the Queen of that secret country, and my powers of self-denial would rival any insane person’s. I don’t know that either of those is a good thing, but hopefully I’ve managed to keep a few people from being offended by me thinking the fact that they eat skunk is weird.
Back to the horse butcher: I took a picture of the sign, I couldn’t resist, because I knew if I didn’t know one would believe it. I am not really partial to horses, given that, over the years, they have over and over shown they are not really partial to me. Plus when you ride, you get all sweaty and dusty and sore and covered in bugs, and you’re liable to fall off and break your elbow. Ahem. Or so I’ve been told.

I have passed a lot of fliers in the last few days advertising the French Festival to Commemorate Trains, the Metro, and Film. Let’s play a game, shall we? Which of those three doesn’t belong with the rest?

Saturdays in Paris are kind of like Fridays in Bible times. I always kind of feel like one of the Hebrew children, because on Saturday mornings, you know that there is not going to be any food available the next day– anywhere, and therefore it is absolutely necessary to gather twice as much manna as necessary (or, in this case, clementines, gaufres, milk, and coffee filters) in order to assure you can have food to eat on Sunday.

I bought a cramique sucre today... I went to the boulangerie with the plan of buying a demi-baguette like a good single girl living in Paris... I came out with a frisbee-sized circle of bread weighing as much as a small dog. Or a large cat. I don’t know how they make bread so heavy. Basically, it changed my life. Imagine every good thing you’ve ever tasted rolled into one... Gram’s cinnamon rolls mixed with Hawaiian bread mixed with monkey bread mixed with those European waffles full of crystals of sugar.
Yum. Like there are no words. Not exactly a dinner-ish kind of bread. But did that stop me? What do you think?

I realized recently that my hair, now that it is not natural again, has potential to lose its luster and become natural-looking brown instead of ebony teak or whatever the heck the last thing I dyed it was. So I bought this cream stuff to keep it from looking natural that is supposed to restore shine and keep hair bright. I’ve been diligently rubbing it through my blowdried hair every morning, it smells like the beach, which is good. But it also has strict instructions on the bottle to wash your hands after every use.
My hair doesn’t look any shinier, but my hands are getting tanner every day.

Word of the day: Tronçonneuse– Chainsaw.
Don’t even ask.

~Of sugar and ice,
Blair
P.S. What do you call a person from Maine?