On le metro

Today marks my five-week anniversary of living in Paris. Oh, how time has flown. In these short fives weeks, I have made new friends, discovered great boutiques and bars, and also managed to get my wallet stolen on the metro! Woohoo! While the last item on my list of accomplishments isn't really a warm fuzzy memory that I'd like to keep forever, I will add that it seriously forced me to grow the fuck up. Let me paint you a picture of how it all went down:

I woke up on a beautiful sunny day vers 11h and wore a super cute dress that I bought at this clothing store called BA&SH and then left my apartment to meet a friend at this super cool falafel place I'd heard about called L'As du Falafel in the Marais. The food was great, the servers were (surprisingly) friendly, and we had just enough time to make it all the way down to the Jardin Luxembourg to meet our class for an excursion to the Pantheon. Things seemed like they were going perfectly well.

Then I arrived at the Pantheon to meet my I-once-studied-philosophy-and-am-French-therefore-I-am-better-than-you professor. He insisted that we show our Reid Hall student ID cards to get into the Pantheon for free EVEN THOUGH I had my Sorbonne ID in my pocket and can still use it to get in for free. I helped up the line at the ticketbooth while trying to find my wallet to get this damned Reid Hall ID and no luck. Eventually the ticketbooth guy was just fed up enough and let me in for free anyways. 

I'm a Leo, therefore inherently stubborn and I was determined to find my wallet anyway after searching in the deepest pits of my purse and still no luck. I turned to my friend who I ate lunch with and said, "This must be a fucking joke". My teacher scolded me for talking during his lecture but also for cursing. I was fed up as hell and was just like "Look, I lost my wallet and I need to leave." He seemed kinda confused but let me leave anyway (even though his permission wouldn't have stopped me from doing so) and I retraced my steps back to the Falafel place. No luck there. It was at this point that I realized some scumbag pick-pocketer stole my wallet on the metro. 

If you don't know me that well, let me just tell you that I rarely cry. In fact, I think I only cry when I'm seriously pissed off beyond belief. And I was THIS close to crying on the metro. 

But alas, big girls don't cry and me crying wouldn't help solve anything. So even amidst all this craziness, I was forced to take control of the situation. I went to a metro window to file a report of theft with the metro police. I cancelled all my credits cards and then after much frustration, finally got them to ship new fucking pieces of plastic to France, which they made a near impossible task. I even went to the fucking FRENCH POLICE to file a report of theft.

After all the headache, I can say that it definitely forced me to really act not only like an adult, but a French adult. Dealing with the police in French was definitely a hard task. I didn't understand everything at first but I eventually was able to communicate what needed to be said. I got over my stupid fear of being ridiculed for having an accent whilst speaking French. And you know what? I'm glad I did. Not only am I more comfortable asking for directions or for menu recommendations in French thanks to this experience, I also realized that these steps were all very necessary!

I'm happy to share that I got a call from the police this morning saying that they found my credit cards on some guy and need to go to the station to pick up my wallet. THANK.THE.FUCKING.LORD.

I'd like to thank the French police for lookin out for ya girl and Alex for lending me 20 euros. 

And most importantly, thank you Bordeaux for your wine and Jack Daniels for your whiskey. Without you, I probably would have had the shitiest weekend ever. You the real MVPs.

With love from Paris,

Gabby

On falling in love in Paris

Before I flew across the Atlantic Ocean, my abuelita asked me to promise her one thing: Don't fall in love with a French guy. Sorry Ceci, but it happened. I fell in love. With a French guy. 

Here's how it happened: We met at the cutest little coffee shop by the Sorbonne and I ordered un expres which tastes like the devil's asshole  and then he asked for my number, and well, the rest is history.

No, I'm totally kidding-- instead of asking for my number he asked if I wanted to pay in cash or credit card and then looked creeped out as I stared in awe of his attractiveness. This, unfortunately, is a true story, but I'm not too ashamed because the next day, I fell in love again and this time it was real. (Again, totally kidding. In fact, don't ever take what I say seriously because chances are I'm being sarcastic.) 

Basically, I "fall in love" like every time I don't have dinner with my host parents and have a male waiter under the age of 40. I'm pretty sure I even fell in love that time I saw my plate of foie gras being brought out to me at Bouillon Racine, and this time I mean I fell in love with the dish, not the waiter. 

Now, don't get me wrong. Yes, I did go to an all-girls' school for ten years, but I was not nearly this boy obsessed when I first started at Wes. I've started to seriously become worried for myself because I can't keep falling in love with waiters. I began asking myself: Am I going crazy? Maybe. Are people here just that much more attractive than in the States? Unclear. 

In the back of my head, however, I heard a little voice. Her name is Kate Gibbel. "Froggles", she said. And I was like "Wutthefuck Kgibz?" And she was like "Yeah, Gabarias. Froggles." 

"Froggles" are short for "Frisbee Goggles" AKA the sad realization that all the guys at our annual Frisbee Tournament are just inherently nerdy and unattractive, therefore standards must be lowered and one must wear these aforementioned goggles. 

Similar concept applies here, in France, except "Froggles" mean "French Goggles". You could honestly be kinda fugz but the fact that you're French makes you that much hotter or suave or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. The longer I'm here though, the more I realize that French guys aren't that different from Americans. It's really just the damn accent. And lack of boat shoes/critter shorts. AND, if hypothetically a French guy asked me out, we would literally have nothing to talk about on our date because the state of my French fluency is in shambles. 

So, Ceci, even though you're probably not reading this, don't worry. I probably won't stay behind in Paris because of some French dude who drives a vespa. In the mean time, catch me eating my feelings and eating dinner alone in my room: 

Fact: I also fell in love with the guy who sold me this baguette.