So I finally did it. I finally watched the last episode of Sex & the City. I'd been putting it off. I'd been dreading it. I'd been downright avoiding it. But I've seen it now, and lived to tell the tale.
Here's the thing: I knew Carrie was going to end up with Big. Someone had spoiled that for me long ago, although it wasn't the spoiler itself that bothered me; they never do, except in the case of American Idol results. It was this actual plot twist that bothered me; I knew that if I watched that final episode, I would see this thing that I didn't want to see.
It's because Big has always reminded me of Piano Man; in fact, there was a time when Piano Man was actually saved in my phone as "Big". It's the situation: man who is bad for you but whom you somehow cannot resist, who flits in and out of your life at the worst possible times, breaking your heart and so many false promises. It's the mannerisms: calling at ungodly hours, calling you "kid", apologizing with puppy dog eyes before fucking it up yet again, cheating on you and with you and thinking almost nothing of it. And it's even the looks, a little: the eyebrows, the hair, the expressions formed by the nose and mouth, the overall body shape. All too similar for my tastes.
And aren't I a little bit Carrie? Less-extravagent wardrobe aside, aren't I the writer who keeps no secrets from her friends or, come to think of it, the general public? Aren't I the one so ready to let herself fall back under his spell, to denounce him one minute and defend him the next, to watch herself trapped in these patterns of romantic destruction?
Carrie couldn't end up with Big because I couldn't end up with Piano Man. I wouldn't have wanted to. I told myself time and time again during that non-relationship that if the opportunity ever presented itself, I would've said no - I am not one to be cheated on, and like fuck he could ever stop cheating. But in truth, I'm glad that the opportunity never presented itself, because I'm not sure I really would've been strong enough to say no. That's a big part of why I hate him so much: because of the hold he had over me and probably still could. It was always him calling the shots, really, even when I thought it was me. And what I hate even more is that I am not unique in this; I am by no means the only girl so ready to cater to his whims: commit, back off, go down, get tied up, lie, apologize, sit, stay, roll over... I guess it kind of goes without saying that he makes me hate myself as well, even now that I'm dead to him and so much better off.
But really, Piano Man turned out not to be Mr Big, in the end. Carrie went to France, Big followed her to get her back. I went to France, largely to escape my destructive relationship with Piano Man, and he did not come after me, although he did call me long-distance and continue generally tormenting me long after I'd tried to cut him out of my life. Big appealed to Carrie's closest friends for their blessing, and got it. One of my closest friends has been known to have said of Piano Man, "Not enough bad things can happen to that person." Carrie admitted to wondering what her life would be like had she ended up with Big. Well, we all know that for me, that person is What-If Guy; when I fantasize about Piano Man, it usually involves me punching him. Obviously there was a lot more forgiveness - and forgiveableness - in the show than there could ever be in my reality.
Which is to say nothing of my subconscious. I dreamt about Piano Man again last night, yet another version of the recurring dream where we run into each other somewhere, and he says, "Elle, I want us to be friends again," and I say, "Me too," and then we wonder just how we're going to figure our significant others into this picture, knowing how much each of them hates the other of us, and how we're going to figure our friends into this picture, knowing how strongly they disapprove of us having anything to do with each other, however platonic, because of how much our personalities magnify each other, and how horrible we really are for each other. And then we're running, usually hand-in-hand, away from anyone who might find out, and it's us against the world, and we are obstinantly determined to make this thing, this simple, always-should-have-been friendship work, because we know how good we really are, in spite of what everyone else seems to think. This dream always leaves me feeling sad, nostalgic, and a little guilty, and momentarily diminishes my desire to hit him in the face. But somehow I can't make myself stop having it.
Today I move on to Desperate Housewives, which I'm sure will only open a whole new can of proverbial worms.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
24 (not the TV show)
Oh sweet Jesus, I'm as many years as there are hours in a day. I feel old. Well, maybe not old, but grown-up in a way that's fairly disturbing. Like I should be wearing business suits. Or having babies. Odd considering that I still kind of think I'm too young to be getting married, but as my childhood friends will tell you, I always did insist that the two don't have to go together. (Marriage? Ew. Boys have cooties.)
In any case, my birthday was yesterday, and was probably one of the better birthday's I've had (21 was pretty exciting, 22 would've been good if I'd drank a little less, 23 isn't really worth mentioning since we had camp that day so my birthday was kind of a non-event). I even managed to accomplish my preferred trio of birthday indulgences: pedicure, chick flick, & hamburger. So here's how the day went.
I woke up to the doorbell, postman delivering a little package from my sister. Then I got lots of hugs and cries of "Bunny's birthday!" from Lui, who gave me a sweet card wherein he spells "love" wrong ("loye" for some reason) and then chides himself for it, and two presents: a CD of "summer favorites" (basically more of the American jazz classics that I love), and a full day at what, according to his research, is the nicest spa in Wales. (I saw this one coming; I did ask for professional pampering, and he's had a bookmark called "Wales's best day spas" in his football folder for a while now. Yes, I snoop a little, but really he should've renamed it "Newcastle" or something to throw me off course.) This is all taking place on Sunday (he's booked a massage for himself too so he's not there all day with nothing to do), and I have to admit it's a little scary. What kind of a facial takes an hour and a half? What if I have to pee mid-body-wrap? What are some of these other things I'm booked in for?
Lui went to work, and I went with his dad and sister to see The Break Up. So I'm kind of striking out with chick flicks recently; this is another one without the requisite happily-ever-after you expect (see: My Best Friend's Wedding, The Object of My Affection, Kissing Jessica Stein, Lost In Translation - ok, so that last one isn't really a chick flick, but still). I liked it, Lui's dad & sister didn't. Oh well, my birthday.
Came home in time for my 5:00 pedicure appointment with a girl I worked with at the restaurant for like five minutes. She's really nice - it would figure I find someone here to be nice to me like a month before I leave. She claims she can do toe art, but she can't really. I ended up with this dot pattern on my toes that's cool in it's own way, but is totally not flowah. I need a Korean immigrant; those women are gifted.
Lui came home sometime in the middle of this, but hid upstairs playing Playstation. We got dressed up, his family came over and gave me presents (series 1 of Desperate Housewives, which I still haven't seen, a little jewelery box so I don't risk losing my rings amid all the stuffed animals on my nightstand every night), and we headed off to my ex-place-of-employment for dinner.
I'd managed to swing the hamburger (usually a lunch item) by asking ahead. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to ask ahead for a margarita, or maybe that was just my attempt at not being too demanding, and so was unable to have one. We had a good meal though, in spite of the service being pretty bad - I'm not just saying that because I recently found out that one of the girls doesn't like me because I'm American (seriously? racism? that's the best reason she could come up with?) - we were literally waiting half an hour for our plates to be cleared so we could order dessert, and there were only three other tables in the whole night. After we'd asked for the bill, though, they surprised me by bringing out a cake that Lui's mum had dropped off beforehand, and my ex-bosses gave me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in all my favorite colors (bright ones). So then I didn't feel like complaining about the service anymore, although I am seriously considering emailing said ex-bosses and letting them know that - for once, mind you - it was below average.
We came home, and I had an email from What-If Guy - just a short one saying happy birthday and asking what he could get me (wink) - and then I really smiled, and then I really felt guilty, because it's becoming more and more obvious to me how big of a crush I actually still have on him. Then Lui took me upstairs and gave me a massage that was nearly every bit as good as the one I got from my beauty/holistic therapist friend - massage to me is like sex: why should I have to pay for it when I can get better for free? Sadly, to Lui, it's like oral sex: reserved for special occasions - and I fell asleep in his arm's and forgot about What-If Guy and his damn flirtacious email.
That was my wonderful yesterday. Today is just another day, except I'm still 24 and wondering why I'm not barefoot and pregnant yet.
In any case, my birthday was yesterday, and was probably one of the better birthday's I've had (21 was pretty exciting, 22 would've been good if I'd drank a little less, 23 isn't really worth mentioning since we had camp that day so my birthday was kind of a non-event). I even managed to accomplish my preferred trio of birthday indulgences: pedicure, chick flick, & hamburger. So here's how the day went.
I woke up to the doorbell, postman delivering a little package from my sister. Then I got lots of hugs and cries of "Bunny's birthday!" from Lui, who gave me a sweet card wherein he spells "love" wrong ("loye" for some reason) and then chides himself for it, and two presents: a CD of "summer favorites" (basically more of the American jazz classics that I love), and a full day at what, according to his research, is the nicest spa in Wales. (I saw this one coming; I did ask for professional pampering, and he's had a bookmark called "Wales's best day spas" in his football folder for a while now. Yes, I snoop a little, but really he should've renamed it "Newcastle" or something to throw me off course.) This is all taking place on Sunday (he's booked a massage for himself too so he's not there all day with nothing to do), and I have to admit it's a little scary. What kind of a facial takes an hour and a half? What if I have to pee mid-body-wrap? What are some of these other things I'm booked in for?
Lui went to work, and I went with his dad and sister to see The Break Up. So I'm kind of striking out with chick flicks recently; this is another one without the requisite happily-ever-after you expect (see: My Best Friend's Wedding, The Object of My Affection, Kissing Jessica Stein, Lost In Translation - ok, so that last one isn't really a chick flick, but still). I liked it, Lui's dad & sister didn't. Oh well, my birthday.
Came home in time for my 5:00 pedicure appointment with a girl I worked with at the restaurant for like five minutes. She's really nice - it would figure I find someone here to be nice to me like a month before I leave. She claims she can do toe art, but she can't really. I ended up with this dot pattern on my toes that's cool in it's own way, but is totally not flowah. I need a Korean immigrant; those women are gifted.
Lui came home sometime in the middle of this, but hid upstairs playing Playstation. We got dressed up, his family came over and gave me presents (series 1 of Desperate Housewives, which I still haven't seen, a little jewelery box so I don't risk losing my rings amid all the stuffed animals on my nightstand every night), and we headed off to my ex-place-of-employment for dinner.
I'd managed to swing the hamburger (usually a lunch item) by asking ahead. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to ask ahead for a margarita, or maybe that was just my attempt at not being too demanding, and so was unable to have one. We had a good meal though, in spite of the service being pretty bad - I'm not just saying that because I recently found out that one of the girls doesn't like me because I'm American (seriously? racism? that's the best reason she could come up with?) - we were literally waiting half an hour for our plates to be cleared so we could order dessert, and there were only three other tables in the whole night. After we'd asked for the bill, though, they surprised me by bringing out a cake that Lui's mum had dropped off beforehand, and my ex-bosses gave me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in all my favorite colors (bright ones). So then I didn't feel like complaining about the service anymore, although I am seriously considering emailing said ex-bosses and letting them know that - for once, mind you - it was below average.
We came home, and I had an email from What-If Guy - just a short one saying happy birthday and asking what he could get me (wink) - and then I really smiled, and then I really felt guilty, because it's becoming more and more obvious to me how big of a crush I actually still have on him. Then Lui took me upstairs and gave me a massage that was nearly every bit as good as the one I got from my beauty/holistic therapist friend - massage to me is like sex: why should I have to pay for it when I can get better for free? Sadly, to Lui, it's like oral sex: reserved for special occasions - and I fell asleep in his arm's and forgot about What-If Guy and his damn flirtacious email.
That was my wonderful yesterday. Today is just another day, except I'm still 24 and wondering why I'm not barefoot and pregnant yet.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Like a sieve
Maybe it's because I've always had such a good memory when it comes to things people say; it's called dialogue, and is a useful tool to have as a writer. Oftentimes, I'm able to write down a conversation I've had nearly word for word, sometimes as late as a few days after it's taken place. I pride myself on this skill, and am only now coming to terms with its downside: because I can remember what's been said to me, I now expect people to remember what I say to them.
I guess that's not so much to ask anyway: we all like to think that our lives and opinions hold some importance to the people we're close to; we all hope they're actually listening when we tell them things. But the fact of the matter is that Lui has a really selective, if not downright poor, memory, and I'm sick of him using it as an excuse.
Example: It took well over a year for him to actually register my dislike of being slobbered on. And we're not just talking accidentally sloppy kisses in the heat of the moment; we're talking downright licking me because the one episode of Sex & the City he remembers is the one where Charlotte is dating some face-licker, and he thinks it's funny.
A few nights ago, we had an argument to the effect of "you never listen to me," "yes I do, but I forget things." The apologies to this were actually rather cute. I asked him what he does remember that I tell him, and made him give example after example: "I know you like small dogs." "I know you don't like the word 'nasty.'" "I know you like kisses on the nose."
And then yesterday there was this misunderstanding, the details of which are too trivial to even post here, but the end of which was us talking in circles in the car on his way to work/drop me off at his Mum's house. And because I kept using the same argument, and he kept not getting my point and trying to tell me that it was my own fault I was upset, I eventually raised my voice for emphasis. I raised my voice a lot. I raised my voice so much, my throat still hurts 30 hours later.
"Don't scream at me, Elle," he said. "I've told you I don't like being screamed at."
To which I replied, "Sorry, I forgot."
As I got out of the car, I tried to apologize, but he wasn't ready to hear it yet. We both went about our days, apologies were eventually made via text message, and when he came to pick me up last night, everything was fine.
This is something nice about stability. I remember the days where I'd argue with Piano-Man (read: ex I want to hit in the face) and how I'd let whatever it was ruin my day/week/whatever until we'd "fixed" it. How I'd think that this was the end of the world, the relationship, my very life as I knew it. When I take it into account that all that anguish, nausea, loss of concentration, and melancholy are part of the "excitement and drama" I've been mourning, I start to think that the boring life isn't so bad after all.
But wait! I have another story!
I got an email last night, from my senior year roommate, Flower: a big stoner as long as I've known her, always a little spacey and a little flaky, now also engaged to the guy she was dating since before we lived together. This email said:
"hey girlie girl! wud up? well, my wedding is officially set for July 14, 2007...so mark your calendar!!!!!! Peace."
Um, hello? My wedding is the 7th of July, and has been officially set as such for months! She knew this! We've exchanged planning details before, and last I heard she was looking at September 07. Of course, the chances of her flying across the country for my wedding have always been slim, and theoretically our mutual friends could attend both (if not, I've already claimed C-List, and obviously Sunshine, who is my maid of honor), so really the only change here is that I now can't go to her wedding. But still! I would expect her to take my date into account when choosing hers, and truth be told, I kind of hate her right now. And her goddamn drug habit.
Somehow, this incident, much more than my fight with Lui, felt like one of those world-ending dramas from my Piano-Man days. Which is just fine with me.
I guess that's not so much to ask anyway: we all like to think that our lives and opinions hold some importance to the people we're close to; we all hope they're actually listening when we tell them things. But the fact of the matter is that Lui has a really selective, if not downright poor, memory, and I'm sick of him using it as an excuse.
Example: It took well over a year for him to actually register my dislike of being slobbered on. And we're not just talking accidentally sloppy kisses in the heat of the moment; we're talking downright licking me because the one episode of Sex & the City he remembers is the one where Charlotte is dating some face-licker, and he thinks it's funny.
A few nights ago, we had an argument to the effect of "you never listen to me," "yes I do, but I forget things." The apologies to this were actually rather cute. I asked him what he does remember that I tell him, and made him give example after example: "I know you like small dogs." "I know you don't like the word 'nasty.'" "I know you like kisses on the nose."
And then yesterday there was this misunderstanding, the details of which are too trivial to even post here, but the end of which was us talking in circles in the car on his way to work/drop me off at his Mum's house. And because I kept using the same argument, and he kept not getting my point and trying to tell me that it was my own fault I was upset, I eventually raised my voice for emphasis. I raised my voice a lot. I raised my voice so much, my throat still hurts 30 hours later.
"Don't scream at me, Elle," he said. "I've told you I don't like being screamed at."
To which I replied, "Sorry, I forgot."
As I got out of the car, I tried to apologize, but he wasn't ready to hear it yet. We both went about our days, apologies were eventually made via text message, and when he came to pick me up last night, everything was fine.
This is something nice about stability. I remember the days where I'd argue with Piano-Man (read: ex I want to hit in the face) and how I'd let whatever it was ruin my day/week/whatever until we'd "fixed" it. How I'd think that this was the end of the world, the relationship, my very life as I knew it. When I take it into account that all that anguish, nausea, loss of concentration, and melancholy are part of the "excitement and drama" I've been mourning, I start to think that the boring life isn't so bad after all.
But wait! I have another story!
I got an email last night, from my senior year roommate, Flower: a big stoner as long as I've known her, always a little spacey and a little flaky, now also engaged to the guy she was dating since before we lived together. This email said:
"hey girlie girl! wud up? well, my wedding is officially set for July 14, 2007...so mark your calendar!!!!!! Peace."
Um, hello? My wedding is the 7th of July, and has been officially set as such for months! She knew this! We've exchanged planning details before, and last I heard she was looking at September 07. Of course, the chances of her flying across the country for my wedding have always been slim, and theoretically our mutual friends could attend both (if not, I've already claimed C-List, and obviously Sunshine, who is my maid of honor), so really the only change here is that I now can't go to her wedding. But still! I would expect her to take my date into account when choosing hers, and truth be told, I kind of hate her right now. And her goddamn drug habit.
Somehow, this incident, much more than my fight with Lui, felt like one of those world-ending dramas from my Piano-Man days. Which is just fine with me.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Somethin' about tha party!
I swear I'm not really that much of a jet-setter, but I went to London this weekend. It's another city where I class myself as a tourist-local: I'm clueless enough that I have to follow the signs in the tube, but have been there enough not to need to see any sights, or stand in people's way in the middle of the sidewalk... Er, pavement. Sorry.
It was nice to see Marc again - or, more likely, it was so nice just to have a friend again. I'm sure that's part of why I think my life is so boring, even while embarking on the biggest adventure of it. (That is what they say about marriage, right? Or is that parenthood? Or college?) On Saturday, we sort of wasted a lot of time, then went to see Avenue Q, which was everything I'd always hoped it would be. We both fell a little in love with the guy playing Princeton. He looked a little like my ex, my What-If Guy, which prompted a late-night conversation wherein I argued that the stable life is boring (see previous post) and Marc argued that the single life is more sad-making drama than exciting excitement. When it comes down to it, we're jealous of each other, and probably, above all, need to just learn to enjoy the lives we're in. Still, this didn't stop me from dreaming I was kissing What-If Guy, and waking up all hot, bothered, and guilty. (I could have called him in that moment, in the middle of my night and his, to demand the answers to my what-if questions, but that's really something I'd rather do in person.)
On Sunday, we met up with some of Marc's friends for sushi in one of those restaurants with the rotator belt, then abandoned them to seek out the opposite of football, which a certain Carlsberg commercial had taught us is "cheek fleek" (that's "chick flick" with an Eastern European accent). We went to see Imagine Me & You, which is a new British rom-com with a twist: girl getting married falls in love with her lesbian florist during wedding ceremony. It was like the anti-Kissing Jessica Stein, and vaguely saddening - not quite a cheek fleek, in the end. We walked back along the river - I got my first coffee in over a year, and it didn't make me sick - and made a vegetarian feast, then watched Bright Young Things, which is not a cheek fleek either, while smoking hookah, drinking red wine, and eating melted ice cream. Before I left, I borrowed Muriel's Wedding from him; I haven't seen that since I was like 12, and maybe it'll put me in the right mindframe about this whole stability thing.
To come back to that briefly: an old flame and longtime friend, who has always been incredibly gifted at making me laugh, and who is now also in a healthy and stable relationship, put it this way: "Yes. I miss playing the game of flirting and fooling around and trying to get down pants. But I am happy too."
When I got home, Lui gave me a hug, and immediately said, "Your hair smells different." (I'd left my shampoo at home and had been using Marc's all weekend.) If that isn't true love, what is?
It was nice to see Marc again - or, more likely, it was so nice just to have a friend again. I'm sure that's part of why I think my life is so boring, even while embarking on the biggest adventure of it. (That is what they say about marriage, right? Or is that parenthood? Or college?) On Saturday, we sort of wasted a lot of time, then went to see Avenue Q, which was everything I'd always hoped it would be. We both fell a little in love with the guy playing Princeton. He looked a little like my ex, my What-If Guy, which prompted a late-night conversation wherein I argued that the stable life is boring (see previous post) and Marc argued that the single life is more sad-making drama than exciting excitement. When it comes down to it, we're jealous of each other, and probably, above all, need to just learn to enjoy the lives we're in. Still, this didn't stop me from dreaming I was kissing What-If Guy, and waking up all hot, bothered, and guilty. (I could have called him in that moment, in the middle of my night and his, to demand the answers to my what-if questions, but that's really something I'd rather do in person.)
On Sunday, we met up with some of Marc's friends for sushi in one of those restaurants with the rotator belt, then abandoned them to seek out the opposite of football, which a certain Carlsberg commercial had taught us is "cheek fleek" (that's "chick flick" with an Eastern European accent). We went to see Imagine Me & You, which is a new British rom-com with a twist: girl getting married falls in love with her lesbian florist during wedding ceremony. It was like the anti-Kissing Jessica Stein, and vaguely saddening - not quite a cheek fleek, in the end. We walked back along the river - I got my first coffee in over a year, and it didn't make me sick - and made a vegetarian feast, then watched Bright Young Things, which is not a cheek fleek either, while smoking hookah, drinking red wine, and eating melted ice cream. Before I left, I borrowed Muriel's Wedding from him; I haven't seen that since I was like 12, and maybe it'll put me in the right mindframe about this whole stability thing.
To come back to that briefly: an old flame and longtime friend, who has always been incredibly gifted at making me laugh, and who is now also in a healthy and stable relationship, put it this way: "Yes. I miss playing the game of flirting and fooling around and trying to get down pants. But I am happy too."
When I got home, Lui gave me a hug, and immediately said, "Your hair smells different." (I'd left my shampoo at home and had been using Marc's all weekend.) If that isn't true love, what is?
Friday, July 07, 2006
Sevens
Today is weird.
Two years ago today, Lui's beloved Nan died, which means Lui will spend the day in a state of mourning and reflection. He's asked to have a nice evening when he gets home from work, maybe watch a movie or something.
A year ago today was the London Underground bombings, which means the whole of the UK - including, it would seem, the weather, is also in a state of mourning and reflection.
Today is hanging under the cloud of all these people's sadness, and I'm not really sure what to do with it. I have no direct connection to a past traumatizing event on this day, but somehow the pervading gloom is making me reflect on my own past events and sadnesses, which usually just results in me wanting to punch my ex in the face.
And to add to the bizarrity that is today, is the fact that a year from today, I'll be getting married, which I still haven't quite come to terms with. So maybe what I'm mourning today is that spark, the new relationship energy, the nervous "is he going to kiss me?" feeling, the butterflies of waiting for a phone call, the cocktail-tinted expectations of a night out... the drama, the heartbreak, the desire to punch someone in the face - and wouldn't it be nice if it were someone other than the guy I stopped seeing two years ago and still can't manage to forgive?
Life seems so predictable now that I'm settled, in a real relationship for the first and last time; oddly, the fact that I would never ever even consider cheating on Lui, having been on the wrong side of cheating myself before, is sort of disappointing too, because it reinforces that I've given up all of those above feelings in favor of (God forbid!) the love and security he gives me. I can have sex whenever I want it, which largely means that I don't want it that much. And what's even worse is that he does: he still gets that here-and-now feeling about me, he wants to sneak off to toilets together, he wants me to slip my thong to him under the table at the restaurant, he wants to carry me upstairs and throw me down on the bed, he wants a lap dance. My feeling on all this? Pretty much, "Meh. If I'm not too tired/feeling sick/busy doing something else." It's horrible, and I hate myself for it.
Because here's the other side of the story: I love him. I look at our inevitable two-month separation when I go back to America and he stays here working, waiting for visas to coincide with life, and I'm devastated. I look at this weekend's trip to London to visit Marc, and what I focus on is not all the fun we're going to have, not the excitement of finally getting to see Avenue Q; no, I'm focused on those two nights of sleeping in a bed by myself. I know I couldn't live without Lui; I don't even want to try. But I need to figure out how to get those feelings, that Monica-and-Chandler-sneaking-around-behind-everyone's-backs excitement back. And we used to be just like that: discovering each other, revelling in each other, not giving a fuck about what anyone else thought (sorry Trish), constant PDA that makes some go "Aww" and others go "Eww". Now we're still happy, but significantly more boring, and it's all my fault.
My childhood best friend, Beth, is also getting married next year, and wrote to me in a letter, "Sometimes I think that I am never satisfied in the moment I am in, I am always wishing for the past or longing for the future, and I can forget to just enjoy the now. I think it is perfectly natural with every new beginning to grieve the ending that precedes it. But... our lives will be enriched with wonderful firsts and amazing moments, because we are blessed to experience them with people that we love with all our beings, and who share and return that love. How lucky are we!" This is comforting. Perhaps even more comforting was when, during our engagement photo shoot, we asked our 25-year-old photographer what married life is like, and she replied simply, "It's great. He's my best friend."
Lui is my best friend. Sometimes I forget that; other times I remember it and it surprises me. I know that we'll be happy together forever. We never get sick of each other, never run out of things to say to each other, never argue unless we're tired or hungry, and even then only about shit that doesn't matter. He makes me laugh. He takes care of me. I take care of him. When he's upset, I'll stop at nothing to make him feel better. When I'm mad at him for whatever stupid reason, or throwing a tantrum like I do sometimes, I mostly just can't wait for it to be over so I can hug him again. We talk about names for our children, and how we'll raise them. I never even thought about having children with anyone else, except in the malicious, "What if I got pregnant? Then what would he do?" sort of way. It's all nearly perfect (some visas would help right now), and it is exciting, just not in the same way.
What can I say? I'm a drama queen. I miss my drama. There's gotta be a way to make my life feel like a TV show again...
Two years ago today, Lui's beloved Nan died, which means Lui will spend the day in a state of mourning and reflection. He's asked to have a nice evening when he gets home from work, maybe watch a movie or something.
A year ago today was the London Underground bombings, which means the whole of the UK - including, it would seem, the weather, is also in a state of mourning and reflection.
Today is hanging under the cloud of all these people's sadness, and I'm not really sure what to do with it. I have no direct connection to a past traumatizing event on this day, but somehow the pervading gloom is making me reflect on my own past events and sadnesses, which usually just results in me wanting to punch my ex in the face.
And to add to the bizarrity that is today, is the fact that a year from today, I'll be getting married, which I still haven't quite come to terms with. So maybe what I'm mourning today is that spark, the new relationship energy, the nervous "is he going to kiss me?" feeling, the butterflies of waiting for a phone call, the cocktail-tinted expectations of a night out... the drama, the heartbreak, the desire to punch someone in the face - and wouldn't it be nice if it were someone other than the guy I stopped seeing two years ago and still can't manage to forgive?
Life seems so predictable now that I'm settled, in a real relationship for the first and last time; oddly, the fact that I would never ever even consider cheating on Lui, having been on the wrong side of cheating myself before, is sort of disappointing too, because it reinforces that I've given up all of those above feelings in favor of (God forbid!) the love and security he gives me. I can have sex whenever I want it, which largely means that I don't want it that much. And what's even worse is that he does: he still gets that here-and-now feeling about me, he wants to sneak off to toilets together, he wants me to slip my thong to him under the table at the restaurant, he wants to carry me upstairs and throw me down on the bed, he wants a lap dance. My feeling on all this? Pretty much, "Meh. If I'm not too tired/feeling sick/busy doing something else." It's horrible, and I hate myself for it.
Because here's the other side of the story: I love him. I look at our inevitable two-month separation when I go back to America and he stays here working, waiting for visas to coincide with life, and I'm devastated. I look at this weekend's trip to London to visit Marc, and what I focus on is not all the fun we're going to have, not the excitement of finally getting to see Avenue Q; no, I'm focused on those two nights of sleeping in a bed by myself. I know I couldn't live without Lui; I don't even want to try. But I need to figure out how to get those feelings, that Monica-and-Chandler-sneaking-around-behind-everyone's-backs excitement back. And we used to be just like that: discovering each other, revelling in each other, not giving a fuck about what anyone else thought (sorry Trish), constant PDA that makes some go "Aww" and others go "Eww". Now we're still happy, but significantly more boring, and it's all my fault.
My childhood best friend, Beth, is also getting married next year, and wrote to me in a letter, "Sometimes I think that I am never satisfied in the moment I am in, I am always wishing for the past or longing for the future, and I can forget to just enjoy the now. I think it is perfectly natural with every new beginning to grieve the ending that precedes it. But... our lives will be enriched with wonderful firsts and amazing moments, because we are blessed to experience them with people that we love with all our beings, and who share and return that love. How lucky are we!" This is comforting. Perhaps even more comforting was when, during our engagement photo shoot, we asked our 25-year-old photographer what married life is like, and she replied simply, "It's great. He's my best friend."
Lui is my best friend. Sometimes I forget that; other times I remember it and it surprises me. I know that we'll be happy together forever. We never get sick of each other, never run out of things to say to each other, never argue unless we're tired or hungry, and even then only about shit that doesn't matter. He makes me laugh. He takes care of me. I take care of him. When he's upset, I'll stop at nothing to make him feel better. When I'm mad at him for whatever stupid reason, or throwing a tantrum like I do sometimes, I mostly just can't wait for it to be over so I can hug him again. We talk about names for our children, and how we'll raise them. I never even thought about having children with anyone else, except in the malicious, "What if I got pregnant? Then what would he do?" sort of way. It's all nearly perfect (some visas would help right now), and it is exciting, just not in the same way.
What can I say? I'm a drama queen. I miss my drama. There's gotta be a way to make my life feel like a TV show again...
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Quincampoix toujours m'inspire
After a hot and stuffy backwards train ride, we arrived at the gare de Rouen Rive-Droite where we were met by Isabelle, who has a new short haircut that Dominique doesn't like. She took us straight back to the house, which, as always, was under some form of construction. This time it was a new driveway being put in, resulting in us having to enter and leave the house by way of the back yard - fine in the day, a little awkward in the dark. Last month's project, expanding the pond in the back garden, is nearly finished; Isabelle now has upwards of 20 fish, including a sturgeon named Chirac, and has picked out a pair of ducks from what I understood to be a Bizarre Pets Catalogue. The ducks will be officially ordered once the pond remodel is officially finished.
We watched the Germany-Argentina match on TV before Isabelle and Dominique had to leave to go rehearse for the concert they had that night. (She plays the trombone in a jazz ensemble; he plays the tenor sax in a harmonie [brass band]; her ensemble had a concert and their tenor saxophonist was out of town.) Clément made us a quick dinner of soft tacos - I introduced him to the wonder that is sour cream in Mexican cuisine - then drove us to the church where the concert was taking place.
I have to admit that old French churches don't make the best concert halls. The straightbacked wooden pews are fine for hearing about how you're going to hell, but not so accomodating for enjoying music. We got there late, and so had to sit all the way in the back, which was fine in accordance with my need to know I can get out of any given room at any time (it's not claustrophobia so much as what-if-I-suddenly-have-to-pee-ophobia), but meant that we couldn't see the musicians. Still, we could hear them, and that was all that really mattered as they played songs such as "Sentimental Journey", "L-O-V-E", "Smooth", "Mambo #5", and "Tuxedo Junction" (something I learned with my choir once, but never performed and don't really remember). The concert was long, we were tired, and Lui started complaining towards the end, but I loved it anyway. I theoretically know the value of music from years of singing, but it still surprises me every time I experience it up close.
We had juice and cookies at the after party in a nearby hall, then headed back to the house and went to bed, windows open, no blankets. A few hours later (I think), I woke up completely panicked from a dream that my dreams were being haunted by a demon, and I couldn't remember the words to any prayers to expell him. It sounds silly now, but at the time, I woke up Lui and made him say the Lord's Prayer with me, then hold me tight in spite of the heat.
Saturday afternoon, we headed into Rouen to go shopping: I wanted to find a Fossil watch I'd seen online (I rarely buy things online because I can't try them on), and Lui wanted to replace some sunglasses he bought in France last year, then promptly lost. We'd made the mistake of reminding Isabelle and Dominique that our birthdays were coming up, so the understanding became that we would not be purchasing these items ourselves.
The watch hunt was fairly simple. We went into a few shops before finding the exact model I wanted, but find it we did. I tried it on, debated as to how well it fit (two links off is too loose, three links off is borderline too tight), then decided I wanted it anyway. Isabelle bought it for me, and we walked on.
The sunglasses hunt was slightly more complicated. After going into a few actual glasses shops, which Lui said put too much pressure on the buyer, we ended up back at the same men's clothing store where we'd gotten his glasses the year before. Miraculously, we found the same pair, but when Isabelle saw the price (€30), she declared they weren't fit for his 24th birthday present, so he bought them with some birthday money his aunt had given him.
We met Fabien and Thomas for lunch; I had a big salad and a Mystère - I'm devastated that I can't get them outside of France, by the way. So many good memories of eating them with Emma while watching Sex and the City in her messy room. Afterwards, we went to another men's clothing store so Thomas could get a new suit for the summer, and after a few minutes of standing around there, Dominique suggested that Lui and I accompany him to the Fnac... where he insisted on buying Lui a digital camera for his birthday. Isabelle and Thomas soon joined us to help pick out the right one, and after much argument on Lui's part (I'm reluctantly used to this open-wallet policy by now, and quietly excused myself to go find a French-language Bible: we're having a reading in French at the wedding), bought him a nice little €300 appereil.
Back at the house, we watched the devastating England-Portugal match (there is no justice), had a lovely barbecued dinner outside on the terrace, then watched the fantastic France-Brazil match. It ended just after 11, which meant we still had time to go back into Rouen and see the Cathédrale de Monet spectacle. Some background info: Claude Monet painted a series of, um, paintings of the Rouen Cathedral. In order to get the best view of the cathedral, he sat in the window of the shop facing its front. That shop is now a pharmacy, but used to be a women's clothing store, and Monet painted from the dressing room. Anyway, during the summer nights, the city puts on a show wherein these paintings - and other artists' interpretations of the cathedral - are projected onto the actual front of the building. It is awesome.
What was even more awesome was the reaction of the French to France's quarter-final victory. Horns were honking, people were singing, flags were flying out of car windows. We heard several chants of "Allez les bleus!" and even one "Qui ne saute pas n'est pas français", which is totally not how I learned that song. After the spectacle, and a quick drink at the self-same cafe where my dad and I had a post-SDCC-concert drink with Isabelle and Dominique's family eight years ago, we drove back through the celebrations to my last night in Quincampoix.
Maybe I haven't quite been clear. The city of Rouen means a lot to me. The village of Quincampoix, with its delicious bakery, cheeky shop owner, and boules court, means a lot to me. These people, who have adopted me as their American daughter in a family of French sons, mean a lot to me. Their house, their dog, their cat, and all those fish, mean a lot to me. The electric toilet in their upstairs bathroom means a lot to me. This environment inspires me, it is the France I was thinking of and looking for when I first decided to learn French. This is where I came last year, whenever I needed a break from my English-speaking city life. I am constantly in awe of every aspect of this place, and never leave it without stories to tell. If ever there was something to write a book about, it's Quincampoix.
I'm just sorry I haven't been able to spend more time there. God only knows when I'll get a chance go back.
We watched the Germany-Argentina match on TV before Isabelle and Dominique had to leave to go rehearse for the concert they had that night. (She plays the trombone in a jazz ensemble; he plays the tenor sax in a harmonie [brass band]; her ensemble had a concert and their tenor saxophonist was out of town.) Clément made us a quick dinner of soft tacos - I introduced him to the wonder that is sour cream in Mexican cuisine - then drove us to the church where the concert was taking place.
I have to admit that old French churches don't make the best concert halls. The straightbacked wooden pews are fine for hearing about how you're going to hell, but not so accomodating for enjoying music. We got there late, and so had to sit all the way in the back, which was fine in accordance with my need to know I can get out of any given room at any time (it's not claustrophobia so much as what-if-I-suddenly-have-to-pee-ophobia), but meant that we couldn't see the musicians. Still, we could hear them, and that was all that really mattered as they played songs such as "Sentimental Journey", "L-O-V-E", "Smooth", "Mambo #5", and "Tuxedo Junction" (something I learned with my choir once, but never performed and don't really remember). The concert was long, we were tired, and Lui started complaining towards the end, but I loved it anyway. I theoretically know the value of music from years of singing, but it still surprises me every time I experience it up close.
We had juice and cookies at the after party in a nearby hall, then headed back to the house and went to bed, windows open, no blankets. A few hours later (I think), I woke up completely panicked from a dream that my dreams were being haunted by a demon, and I couldn't remember the words to any prayers to expell him. It sounds silly now, but at the time, I woke up Lui and made him say the Lord's Prayer with me, then hold me tight in spite of the heat.
Saturday afternoon, we headed into Rouen to go shopping: I wanted to find a Fossil watch I'd seen online (I rarely buy things online because I can't try them on), and Lui wanted to replace some sunglasses he bought in France last year, then promptly lost. We'd made the mistake of reminding Isabelle and Dominique that our birthdays were coming up, so the understanding became that we would not be purchasing these items ourselves.
The watch hunt was fairly simple. We went into a few shops before finding the exact model I wanted, but find it we did. I tried it on, debated as to how well it fit (two links off is too loose, three links off is borderline too tight), then decided I wanted it anyway. Isabelle bought it for me, and we walked on.
The sunglasses hunt was slightly more complicated. After going into a few actual glasses shops, which Lui said put too much pressure on the buyer, we ended up back at the same men's clothing store where we'd gotten his glasses the year before. Miraculously, we found the same pair, but when Isabelle saw the price (€30), she declared they weren't fit for his 24th birthday present, so he bought them with some birthday money his aunt had given him.
We met Fabien and Thomas for lunch; I had a big salad and a Mystère - I'm devastated that I can't get them outside of France, by the way. So many good memories of eating them with Emma while watching Sex and the City in her messy room. Afterwards, we went to another men's clothing store so Thomas could get a new suit for the summer, and after a few minutes of standing around there, Dominique suggested that Lui and I accompany him to the Fnac... where he insisted on buying Lui a digital camera for his birthday. Isabelle and Thomas soon joined us to help pick out the right one, and after much argument on Lui's part (I'm reluctantly used to this open-wallet policy by now, and quietly excused myself to go find a French-language Bible: we're having a reading in French at the wedding), bought him a nice little €300 appereil.
Back at the house, we watched the devastating England-Portugal match (there is no justice), had a lovely barbecued dinner outside on the terrace, then watched the fantastic France-Brazil match. It ended just after 11, which meant we still had time to go back into Rouen and see the Cathédrale de Monet spectacle. Some background info: Claude Monet painted a series of, um, paintings of the Rouen Cathedral. In order to get the best view of the cathedral, he sat in the window of the shop facing its front. That shop is now a pharmacy, but used to be a women's clothing store, and Monet painted from the dressing room. Anyway, during the summer nights, the city puts on a show wherein these paintings - and other artists' interpretations of the cathedral - are projected onto the actual front of the building. It is awesome.
What was even more awesome was the reaction of the French to France's quarter-final victory. Horns were honking, people were singing, flags were flying out of car windows. We heard several chants of "Allez les bleus!" and even one "Qui ne saute pas n'est pas français", which is totally not how I learned that song. After the spectacle, and a quick drink at the self-same cafe where my dad and I had a post-SDCC-concert drink with Isabelle and Dominique's family eight years ago, we drove back through the celebrations to my last night in Quincampoix.
Maybe I haven't quite been clear. The city of Rouen means a lot to me. The village of Quincampoix, with its delicious bakery, cheeky shop owner, and boules court, means a lot to me. These people, who have adopted me as their American daughter in a family of French sons, mean a lot to me. Their house, their dog, their cat, and all those fish, mean a lot to me. The electric toilet in their upstairs bathroom means a lot to me. This environment inspires me, it is the France I was thinking of and looking for when I first decided to learn French. This is where I came last year, whenever I needed a break from my English-speaking city life. I am constantly in awe of every aspect of this place, and never leave it without stories to tell. If ever there was something to write a book about, it's Quincampoix.
I'm just sorry I haven't been able to spend more time there. God only knows when I'll get a chance go back.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Paris, je t'aime
I'm just back from my last time in France for an unspecified period. I had so much to say while I was there, so many descriptions of things planned out in my head, waiting for the inevitable creation of this blog. And somehow they've all been reduced to fragments again. But I'll try.
We flew into Paris on Thursday, in accordance with the expiry date of my visa. Our usual hotel hadn't been offering discount rates this time, and would've put us on the wrong side of town anyway, so we'd reluctantly booked a different one, and I have to admit I was a little disappointed when we checked in. The hotel was under renovation, and although the room was impeccably furnished - the usual selection of French channels and fuzzy CNN were presented on a flatscreen TV this time - the hallway was still pretty torn up. And I couldn't help but make comparisons: "our other hotel has bigger rooms", "our other hotel has a fan in the room", "our other hotel has a bigger window with a better view". (If you ever go to Paris in the summer, you'll know how important space and air truly are.) But it wasn't that bad. I lay down on the bed while Lui went out to get some bottles of water, then down to the lobby to iron our clothes for the evening (he wasn't allowed to bring the iron up to the room) with what he reported was a several-year-old, barely functional machine. By the time he got back, it was time to turn our sweaty, traveling selves into classy French tourist-locals.
Binga arrived just as I was trying to figure out how to secure the belt on my cheaply made but oh-so-classy red dress, and I was somewhat relieved to find that she, with all her fashion-consciousness, couldn't find a better way to manage it than I could. So I prepared for a night of tugging on the end of the belt, as it would repeatedly be coming loose every time I sat down or breathed, and we left.
I have to say, and this may be a little mean, that I am constantly amazed by the fact that Binga has never been mugged or attacked in the streets (of France). She speaks English so loudly, stands in the street looking around so cluelessly, and is so generally vulgar, I just find it surprising that she hasn't attracted attention as a prey-worthy tourist, even if she does actually live in France. Of course, it did happen once that she made herself a target, but unfortunately, I was with her that night, and it was my bag that was torn from my hand, while she looked on dumbfounded.
Still, it was good to see her again, as it's good to see all ex-roommates after the "I hate you for not cleaning the kitchen" period has passed. And last time I was in Paris, her boyfriend had suddenly broken up with her less than an hour before my arrival, so this trip found her in much better spirits than the last. The three of us walked to where we would be having dinner, at the Café des Deux Moulins (of Amélie fame). Unfortunately, the new owners of the place have taken out the Tabac counter, to make room for more tables, so the scene isn't exactly as it was in the film. (For instance, in the film, there isn't a giant, signed Amélie movie poster hanging on the wall.) But the bar is the same, and the toilets are the same - and so incredibly filthy that it makes the raucous sex scene even more enjoyable.
I wasn't planning on drinking - we were all so dehydrated, and Lui and I had a bottle of champagne to look forward to - but Binga ordered a peach kir, then Lui said to make it three (I don't even like peach kir), and so the two of them ended up splitting most of mine. For a simple brasserie, however, the food was fantastic. Lui had filet de boeuf (fillet steak), Binga had magret de canard (duck), and I had piccata de volaille (some sort of flattened chicken, that may not have really been chicken, as "volaille" just means general "fowl"). But what I was most impressed with was the little salad that came on my plate: layers of iceberg lettuce, tzatziki, and apple slices - something I never would've thought of myself, but will definitely be making now. God bless the French.
We had dessert (I got the requisite crème brûlée), paid and left in search of the epicerie (produce stand) from the same film, which was only a few short Parisien blocks up the road, but couldn't find it; it was late and most things were closed, and none of us could remember whether our waiter had said to turn right and it's on the left, or to turn left and it's on the right. So Lui and I said goodbye to Binga, then headed over to the Moulin Rouge.
We waited in line for what seemed like forever, and eventually found that there was no reservation list and that payment would be taken at the table during the show - they claim the thing sells out nearly every performance, so why let people walk in off the street and possibly take the seats that others have called ahead for? But we'd gotten there early enough to not only get in, but to get really good seats: close, but not too close, and right by the waiters' station. Some people would be annoyed by this, and a woman at our table blatantly was, but I thought it was fascinating to watch the staff carrying bucket after bucket of champagne, or to overhear them making fun of their tourist clientèle (it's good to understand French), so I really didn't mind that my view was occasionally impaired. It's not like there weren't enough boobies to go around.
Don't get me wrong, the show itself was really entertaining, and I did appreciate the multitude of boobies. What I didn't so much appreciate was the multitude of anorexic-chic bodies on the stage, and Lui even remarked that not many of the boobies were very sizable. At least I now know how far I want to go in my "must lose the belly" resolution: not that far. But the music was catchy, the costumes were fantastic, the talent was so far above and beyond anything I could ever dream of doing... It was a truly captivating show, which I know sounds cliché and sort of stupid, but can I really describe something like the Bal du Moulin Rouge in words? No, no I cannot. And cameras were strictly interdits. (We did go back to the boutique the next day and buy a 30€ book of photos; I just couldn't justify walking away from something as once-in-a-lifetime as the Moulin Rouge with nothing but memories that I can't even describe. Unfortunatly, the entractes - the acrobats who held each other up by their heads, the juggler, the weird guy who brought people up from the audience and made them do a scene - aren't in the book.)
The show ended just after one a.m., and we thought we'd get a taxi back to the hotel. But, as is the case with late nights and big cities, the illegal taxi drivers outside the theatre wanted 35€ for what would amount to a 15-minute walk in painful shoes. So we walked back to the hotel, had sex quickly (because, hello, Paris, cabaret show, you kind of have to), and fell asleep outside the covers, the window wide open to fight off the heat.
The next morning, as I said, we went back for the book, then had an hour to kill and so decided to check out the Musée de l'Erotisme (Museum of Erotic Art). It was interesting, to say the least: some of it laughable, some of it tasteful, some of it completely tasteless, and some of it kind of hot. As usual, I was drawn most to the black-and-white photography and simple drawings, which I guess is what you get for spending some time as an art model. On most floors (there were seven), comment books had been left open for visitors to sign, and most visitors had either drawn funny cartoon penises or gone on about how turned on they were. I can't honestly say that the museum really turned me on - I checked with Lui, he agreed - but it was a fun way to kill the afternoon, and I can now say that I have a thing for the work of a certain erotic artist (named Barbé), which is so much cooler than loving, say, the Impressionists.
I have to admit, I like Paris more every time I go. On my first visit, I was 15 and a non-French-speaking tourist, required to do all the required touristy things. When I next went back, six years later and speaking French, it just seemed too big, too full of people picking up on my accent and answering me in English. But it's gotten better since then: it's all about going places where the tourists don't go, or going places where the tourists do go and quickly and forcefully establishing yourself as not one of them. (I think my accent has improved as well, which probably helps.) It's about accepting Paris as Paris, and not trying to make it into somewhere quaint and French and able to be claimed as one's own. Anyway, I've already claimed another French city, and I'd hate to cheat on her with her promiscuous bigger sister.
After our tryst with the museum, we collected our bags from the hotel, walked to the nearby Gare de Saint-Lazare, and caught our train to Rouen.
We flew into Paris on Thursday, in accordance with the expiry date of my visa. Our usual hotel hadn't been offering discount rates this time, and would've put us on the wrong side of town anyway, so we'd reluctantly booked a different one, and I have to admit I was a little disappointed when we checked in. The hotel was under renovation, and although the room was impeccably furnished - the usual selection of French channels and fuzzy CNN were presented on a flatscreen TV this time - the hallway was still pretty torn up. And I couldn't help but make comparisons: "our other hotel has bigger rooms", "our other hotel has a fan in the room", "our other hotel has a bigger window with a better view". (If you ever go to Paris in the summer, you'll know how important space and air truly are.) But it wasn't that bad. I lay down on the bed while Lui went out to get some bottles of water, then down to the lobby to iron our clothes for the evening (he wasn't allowed to bring the iron up to the room) with what he reported was a several-year-old, barely functional machine. By the time he got back, it was time to turn our sweaty, traveling selves into classy French tourist-locals.
Binga arrived just as I was trying to figure out how to secure the belt on my cheaply made but oh-so-classy red dress, and I was somewhat relieved to find that she, with all her fashion-consciousness, couldn't find a better way to manage it than I could. So I prepared for a night of tugging on the end of the belt, as it would repeatedly be coming loose every time I sat down or breathed, and we left.
I have to say, and this may be a little mean, that I am constantly amazed by the fact that Binga has never been mugged or attacked in the streets (of France). She speaks English so loudly, stands in the street looking around so cluelessly, and is so generally vulgar, I just find it surprising that she hasn't attracted attention as a prey-worthy tourist, even if she does actually live in France. Of course, it did happen once that she made herself a target, but unfortunately, I was with her that night, and it was my bag that was torn from my hand, while she looked on dumbfounded.
Still, it was good to see her again, as it's good to see all ex-roommates after the "I hate you for not cleaning the kitchen" period has passed. And last time I was in Paris, her boyfriend had suddenly broken up with her less than an hour before my arrival, so this trip found her in much better spirits than the last. The three of us walked to where we would be having dinner, at the Café des Deux Moulins (of Amélie fame). Unfortunately, the new owners of the place have taken out the Tabac counter, to make room for more tables, so the scene isn't exactly as it was in the film. (For instance, in the film, there isn't a giant, signed Amélie movie poster hanging on the wall.) But the bar is the same, and the toilets are the same - and so incredibly filthy that it makes the raucous sex scene even more enjoyable.
I wasn't planning on drinking - we were all so dehydrated, and Lui and I had a bottle of champagne to look forward to - but Binga ordered a peach kir, then Lui said to make it three (I don't even like peach kir), and so the two of them ended up splitting most of mine. For a simple brasserie, however, the food was fantastic. Lui had filet de boeuf (fillet steak), Binga had magret de canard (duck), and I had piccata de volaille (some sort of flattened chicken, that may not have really been chicken, as "volaille" just means general "fowl"). But what I was most impressed with was the little salad that came on my plate: layers of iceberg lettuce, tzatziki, and apple slices - something I never would've thought of myself, but will definitely be making now. God bless the French.
We had dessert (I got the requisite crème brûlée), paid and left in search of the epicerie (produce stand) from the same film, which was only a few short Parisien blocks up the road, but couldn't find it; it was late and most things were closed, and none of us could remember whether our waiter had said to turn right and it's on the left, or to turn left and it's on the right. So Lui and I said goodbye to Binga, then headed over to the Moulin Rouge.
We waited in line for what seemed like forever, and eventually found that there was no reservation list and that payment would be taken at the table during the show - they claim the thing sells out nearly every performance, so why let people walk in off the street and possibly take the seats that others have called ahead for? But we'd gotten there early enough to not only get in, but to get really good seats: close, but not too close, and right by the waiters' station. Some people would be annoyed by this, and a woman at our table blatantly was, but I thought it was fascinating to watch the staff carrying bucket after bucket of champagne, or to overhear them making fun of their tourist clientèle (it's good to understand French), so I really didn't mind that my view was occasionally impaired. It's not like there weren't enough boobies to go around.
Don't get me wrong, the show itself was really entertaining, and I did appreciate the multitude of boobies. What I didn't so much appreciate was the multitude of anorexic-chic bodies on the stage, and Lui even remarked that not many of the boobies were very sizable. At least I now know how far I want to go in my "must lose the belly" resolution: not that far. But the music was catchy, the costumes were fantastic, the talent was so far above and beyond anything I could ever dream of doing... It was a truly captivating show, which I know sounds cliché and sort of stupid, but can I really describe something like the Bal du Moulin Rouge in words? No, no I cannot. And cameras were strictly interdits. (We did go back to the boutique the next day and buy a 30€ book of photos; I just couldn't justify walking away from something as once-in-a-lifetime as the Moulin Rouge with nothing but memories that I can't even describe. Unfortunatly, the entractes - the acrobats who held each other up by their heads, the juggler, the weird guy who brought people up from the audience and made them do a scene - aren't in the book.)
The show ended just after one a.m., and we thought we'd get a taxi back to the hotel. But, as is the case with late nights and big cities, the illegal taxi drivers outside the theatre wanted 35€ for what would amount to a 15-minute walk in painful shoes. So we walked back to the hotel, had sex quickly (because, hello, Paris, cabaret show, you kind of have to), and fell asleep outside the covers, the window wide open to fight off the heat.
The next morning, as I said, we went back for the book, then had an hour to kill and so decided to check out the Musée de l'Erotisme (Museum of Erotic Art). It was interesting, to say the least: some of it laughable, some of it tasteful, some of it completely tasteless, and some of it kind of hot. As usual, I was drawn most to the black-and-white photography and simple drawings, which I guess is what you get for spending some time as an art model. On most floors (there were seven), comment books had been left open for visitors to sign, and most visitors had either drawn funny cartoon penises or gone on about how turned on they were. I can't honestly say that the museum really turned me on - I checked with Lui, he agreed - but it was a fun way to kill the afternoon, and I can now say that I have a thing for the work of a certain erotic artist (named Barbé), which is so much cooler than loving, say, the Impressionists.
I have to admit, I like Paris more every time I go. On my first visit, I was 15 and a non-French-speaking tourist, required to do all the required touristy things. When I next went back, six years later and speaking French, it just seemed too big, too full of people picking up on my accent and answering me in English. But it's gotten better since then: it's all about going places where the tourists don't go, or going places where the tourists do go and quickly and forcefully establishing yourself as not one of them. (I think my accent has improved as well, which probably helps.) It's about accepting Paris as Paris, and not trying to make it into somewhere quaint and French and able to be claimed as one's own. Anyway, I've already claimed another French city, and I'd hate to cheat on her with her promiscuous bigger sister.
After our tryst with the museum, we collected our bags from the hotel, walked to the nearby Gare de Saint-Lazare, and caught our train to Rouen.
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