"Third-year American girls in Paris think they have it all figured out..."
~An American In Paris.

The thing about my life is that nothing can ever just BE. It’s never simple with me– if we’re driving somewhere, we’ll get lost. If I have a map, the road will be closed because of bad weather. If I have a 5-minute errand to do, I can about guarantee that either I will encounter a stranger in the process that ends up becoming a good friend, OR that the five minute will turn into at least a half hour.

Like last week, when I had to return a book to the bookstore. I have avoided even attempting to return things to the store here, the French are notoriously NOT OK with the concept of returns and exchanges– the germophobe in me has even gone so far as to eat a jar of jam that I got home and realized wasn’t sealed, because I knew it wasn’t worth it to even attempt to try to explain it to the people at Monoprix.

(Sidenote: I realized today that I may officially have grown up– I was at Monoprix and realized that the guy in the produce department who always weighs my fruit for me had gotten a haircut... I NOTICED THAT MY FRUIT WEIGHER HAD GOTTEN A HAIRCUT– do you realize what this means? That I have "a grocery store" that is mine now. Lord, next thing you know I’ll be buying mutual life plans or something.)

Anyway, I went back to the store to return this book, and this is how it went:
I walk into Gibert-Jeune (which, for the record, is the only large-scale bookstore in Paris, and still much smaller than any run-of-the-mill Barnes & Noble), wait in line at the cashier, book in hand, with receipt, and get to the front of the line to be told (obviously in French) that I had to go to a different floor to return it.
"Which floor?" I asked innocently.

"Ahh, I don’t know, 2nd, I think." I walk to the second floor, wait in line at the point d’information and ask to return my book– am told "Oh, mademoiselle, you have to go to the THIRD floor for that."

I walk to the third floor, wait in line, and then the guy tells me that I am at the HISTORY point d’information and to return a book about ART HISTORY, I have to be at the ART point d’information on the other end of the floor.

I wait in that line, get to the front, the guy takes my book (AT LAST, I think to myself), and gives me a form that I have to take back to the entrance to get (not money, obviously), but "Gibert cash" which is shaped like Euros and kind of looks like them but can only be spent there.
I lost track of how many lines I waited in after four. It’s things like that which I have forgotten used to be so simple– because I went into that errand fully aware that it would take at least that long, and require at least that many lines.

I was actually kind of proud when it was said and done that I hadn’t screwed up the language at all.
That same bookstore serves as the University bookstore– that is to say, the Sorbonne, where I go to school, is old enough (like, you know, 700 years) that it doesn’t have the "requisite" college things like, oh, a bookstore, so one has to go to Gibert Jeune to buy one’s school books, which is unbelievably annoying, because there are four of these bookstores in the Latin Quarter, but each one only sells certain subjects of books. (So if you need an art history book, you have to go to the one on Bd St Michel, but if you want a book on Biology, you go to the one in the restaurant district, see?) So yesterday I went to buy a book for one of my classes, a book the prof wrote. This is the only bookstore in the city of Paris that sells the book, and, of course, they don’t have any.
It’s not like I’m last minute– the prof only just told us about the book last week. The exam is three weeks away and THERE IS NOWHERE IN THIS CITY TO BUY THE TEXTBOOK. And the lady actually said to me when I asked "Yeah, you know, it’s odd that we don’t have any– you’re the third person in here this week to ask for it!"
No kidding.

Today, also is a jour ferie-- a national holiday. The French, as I now know, do one thing well, and that is party. In May, there are three national French holidays, but they must be every college prof's worst nightmare, because they are seven days apart each-- so I won't have my Tuesday classes for another two weeks. This week the holiday is "premier Mai"-- May 1st. That's the name of the holiday. And when I've asked people WHY it is a holiday/what it celebrates, I get the same answer every time: "Well, it's a day off work, obviously!"
???
I had forgotten how France shuts down on jours feries-- particularly ones on Tuesdays or Thursdays, because then all the French people "font le pont" (jump the bridge) and take off work on the Monday before or the Friday after to make it a REALLY long weekend. So today, though I had no classes, I got up at the crack of dawn to go tutor Fabrice. I arrived, and his parents answered the door in pajamas, because they didn't know I was coming. Not really my fault-- they didn't tell me not to and it's not a holiday in MY country, but I was mortified. Also, it's Fabrice's little brother's birthday today, so they had the whole house set up indian-themed for the party. A huge teepee in the living room, and homemade totem pole in the hallway... I think his poor mom thought I would be offended, given that I'm American. I wasn't, but the whole thing was hilarious-- they had a poster set up with all the kids Indian names, things like "Loup Puissant," and "Aigle Courageux." (Powerful Wolf and Brave Eagle.) I told Fabrice that when I was little I lived on an Indian reservation for awhile (true story, I swear), and had an Indian name. He asked what it was, and I told him, and he failed to be as impressed as I thought he ought to be. I think he thought mine was too masculine, that I should have had a name like "Tigerlily" or "Morning Princess" or something as poetic as "Powerful Wolf" instead of the one I did have.
How,
B

P.S. In exactly a week the third Pirates Of The Caribbean movie comes out here, which means there is a huge premiere on the Champs-Elysees. And as we all know, I came here with only one objective, one duty, to all American womankind, as it were, and that was to meet Johnny Depp. Because he lives in Paris. And will obviously be at the Champs-Elysees premiere. (Probably along with Orlando Bloom-- I guess I ought to be excited about that too. But I have a friend who lives literally in the same building as Bloom in London, so he seems not quite as exotic.) Anyway, I've failed in my mission thus far, but today I found out when I am leaving Paris for good (May 27-- the end is in sight, which is scary), and now I have a time limit on this plan... and luckily a movie premiere that is open to the public to go see. My (american) friends and I are already making plans, because my European friends really could care less.