Big hairy butt with your daily shopping, anyone?

While innocently minding my own business yesterday, on the way to Monoprix, I had to pass through a small passage between the back of a bus stop and a video store. Three lovely members of Paris's teenager male population were waiting for me. I had to squeeze past two of them while the other was inside the bus stop, up against the glass panel. The first two started yelling at me as soon as they saw me.. "Ehh, ehhh, viens ici ma cherie, je veux que tu vois quelque chose" and as there was no other way to get around I had to walk by them. I was completely ignoring them while listening to my iPod, and as I turned my head away from them while I swept past, I got a full glimpse of the third boys' ass pressed up against the glass on the back of the bus stop. And it was hairy, really hairy. I was going to turn around and comment on the fact that it was so hairy.. something in the category of "maybe it's time to faire une epilation" but I decided it would be easier to just ignore all of their laughter.

Days like that make me want to go back to the 16éme. I'm starting to get really angry I can't even walk out my door without hearing some comment from someone. And they're not all like the little old man who told me my hair was pretty this morning, because that I would be ok with. They're more in the genre of sexually agressive turn-my-cheeks-pink comments. You'd think I'd be used to it after more than a year and a half, but somehow I don't think I ever will.

Sondage?

I have discovered the perfect way to avoid people wanting to survey me in the streets. Somehow I always feel very guilty passing up those poor rebuffed souls who just want a few minutes of your time. In the United States I always feel the need to make up some story, going much further than the normal "I just don't have time" speech. And then I feel even guiltier for lying. But in France, it's much easier and partially true. I just tell the women in front of Monoprix, in the middle of the market street, in my best American-trying-to-speak-French accent "Je ne parle pas beaucoup de francais" with a little sad shrug of the shoulders and that is quite enough to scare them off. It's my new best trick - and it really comes in handy, because somehow those survey people always pick me as one to go after that. Now that is something I wish I could figure out.

The Kindly Jehovah's Witnesses of Paris

Well, I've arrived in Paris, with the help of some kind French Jehovah's Witnesses. Because of a "suspicious package" at Charles de Gaulle aiport, I didn't get off the plane until an hour after we were supposed to have landed. My friend Matt was there to help me with my suitcases but unfortunatly he could only get me to Chatelet, otherwise he would've been late for an interview.

That's where the Jehovah's Witnesses come in. Matt helped me onto my metro headed for Villejuif and we awkwardly did the French kiss good-bye - I can never manage to get it right with other Americans, I think because it feels too personal with them but with the Frenchies bring it on! Anyways, I got off at my stop and managed to roll out my very large 50 lb. suitcase and smaller 40 lb.-er, along with my blue Longchamp baise-en-ville and my laptop case. As I was going up the escalator a meekly dressed young woman asked me if I was all alone. That should have been my clue - French people never talk to strangers for no good reason!

I explained that my fiancé was at work and my friend could only take me to Chatelet, and the woman offered to help. Normally, I would say no, but she wooed me in with her praise of my grasp on the French language. So I chatted with her and her friend about their recent missionary trip to bring God to the Chinese, as she rolled my suitcase along the street, until out of nowhere she asks "Vous etes croyant?" (Do you believe in God?). Well, I am, so I told her about my church and she thought all the modern elements like our band and the worship music were a shame. A shame that churches need to use those sort of things to attract people to God. Then she asked me if I knew the bible, if I had found the "bonheur" with God, etc. Then we realized we lived right next door and she sais it must have been fate.

She invited me to her church and I asked if it had a specific name. When she told me I thought it sounded kind of familiar even in French, then her friend said in Engish, Jehovah's Witnesses, you know? He went on "We're the same everywhere you go!". And in that moment, I realised they really were.

I think the help I got from them was mostly good karma because I helped two older American ladies sitting near me on the plane when I realized that they thought Charles de Gaulle Etoile was where the aiport landed.

In any case, Régis is worried now that I'm going to be converted and drag him along to church. I promised him I'll only do that if I find a French church that has a band for their worship music, but that's not so likely.

Avocado tartare

9 days until I'm back living la vie parisienne.. if only for a week, it's better than nothing. I can't wait for our (Me + Regis) cooking lessons at Arômes et Saveurs (http://www.saveurs-aromes.com/). I believe we're going March 15th, my last evening in Paris.

The menu:

Tartare d'avocat au crabe et agrumes
Khoresh d'agneau à l'orange et aux pistaches
Crème de riz, sauce acidulée à l'hibiscus et gingembre

My translation:

Avocado tartare with crab and citrus fruit
Orange Persian lamb stew with pistachios
Creamed rice, sour hisbiscus and ginger sauce

Who knows if those are anywhere near correct, or what exactley they are.. but it should be fun getting taught how to make some delicious recipies and then getting to eat them, too. I hope Regis will wear his new apron I got him for Valentine's day, complete with pink hearts. The website does say, 'Bring your own apron!' I'll take a picture if I can manage to convince him..

The horror...

I can't wait to be holding a warm nutella crepe from the crepe stand near St-Placide metro, walking up and down rue Rennes, dragging Regis into shops he'd rather die than walk into.

Making pasta and pesto all warm and cozy in Regis's apartment. Renting videos from the shady video machine at Kremlin-Bicetre. Not shopping at Leclerc at Kremlin-Bicetre until they fire the nazi store-clearer woman, who is so rude she should be fired on the spot.

Visiting Regis's mom and getting the "Comme tu es belle" speech everytime. Eating her lovely Gambas a la creme (Giant shrimp with bell peppers sauteed and then drenched in a delicious creme sauce). Making quesadillas for Regis and him making crepes in return.

Only 2 weeks to go and I'll be back where my heart never left. Oh how Paris brings out the cheesiness in me.

If only I didn't have so much due before I get to leave. But at least the majority of it will be over Thursday evening.. except for my Organizational Behavior exam next week. And then I'm home free, doing nothing but reading, cuddling, watching movies, cooking, and spending time with Regis's family. A perfect vacation.

Un amour de Brandi

To begin a new blog about my life as the fiancée of a frenchie, I decided it was only appropriate to be entirely cliché. So I have added my favorite picture of the la tour eiffel.

In January 2006 I met Régis in the mall at les Halles outside le FNAC for our first date. In all my American glory I actually wore my mom's vintage cowboy boots tucked into jeans. Luckily, he overlooked my tendency to hop on the bandwagon of trends where I don't have to actually buy anything new. We went to all the typical 11eme hot spots, a Vietnamese restaurant where two can dine for less than 20 euros and an Egyptian hookah café. It was a particulary warm day for January and since Régis has a tendency to wear only a corduroy blazer even in dead winter, he needed someone to keep him warm when it turned cold in the evening. An american girl wearing a puffy coat was more than happy to help him and we shared our first embrace on rue de Belleville.

Not wanting the evening to end, we decided to meet up later at the Mix for Erasmus party. Haven for all American students studying abroad who have been told "everybody goes there" when in actuality, everyone who wants to end the night drunkenly making out goes there. But that's another story. So at Erasmus party, in all it's sweaty, body-swaying glory, we had our first kiss. All due to his inability to correctly pronounce English words.

The bet: If he could correctly pronounce 'deep-pan pizza' he would get a kiss. After a few (about 40) tries I decided it was close enough.

The next day we met at la tour eiffel where Régis waited over an hour for me, since I can never seem to figure out how long a metro trip actually takes. Isn't it supposed to be 2 minutes per stop? While waiting on his new foreign interest, he snapped this photo and sent it to me as a memoir of our date. He suprised me with ice skating on the eiffel tower. Although I'm a horrible ice skater and we were surrounded by 20 five year olds with their parents watching from the side, yelling "Fait attention, cheri!"... I'm going to have to say it was still somehow magical.

After that point we were inseperable for 3 months until I had to return to down-home Indiana to finish my last year of university. He spent last summer barbequing with my family in the mid-west and traveling with me to visit my brother in Florida (his first trip here ever). I returned to Paris for Christmas and New Year's Eve with his family, and the last day I was there he proposed.

I'll try to keep whining about the long distance to a minimum, but I do plan to chroncile the difficulty of a cross-cultural relationship with a sea in between.

Until, of course, I move back to Paris and become 'une petite femme francaise' [a little french wifey], as one of my french girlfriends suggested I was starting to resemble. I made quesadillas and guacamole (my specialties) for the fiancé's party and continued to make them throughout the night. She slipped over and whispered "Wow, Brandi, tous les amis de Régis doivent etre vraiment jaloux! Tu es la parfaite petite femme francaise." [All Regis friends are probably so jealous, you're the perfect lille french wife!] I'm not quite sure how I feel about that statement.