City of ?

I know it must seem as if all I do is complain. The large hammer banging against the building scaffolding is not helping me to “rise on the right side of the bed.” And if the sun were out (which it is not), my nicely refrigerated office would still be without this infrequent gem due to this mess of a scaffold. Yesterday I got excited about the tear in its netting as I was hoping to capture a photo of the rapidly falling snow. That didn’t work either. And then, there is Spike. He is the wretched little creature that lives above us. "Live" actually can sound civilized, so let me swap that word for "stomps." I have yet to see the demon, but know that he exists due to the obnoxious screaming matches, hissy fits, and ball-bouncing. To add to this travesty (and my anxiety), Wednesday the French children do not have school. Spike, I believe, is trying to increase his skills in both jacks and basketball, as all I hear throughout the day is relentless, irritating noise from above, only to be broken up by verbal spats. I would get up to bang on the ceiling, but I fear that I would take the broom and do something else instead. So, that is home life.

And where does the day take me? Yesterday I had one major item on my agenda, which was to go to the bank, Société Générale (sounds more like a prison camp), and to get a new card, since my ATM card has yet to function. Most of you know how I shop -- I opt for the rotting carrots because they are cheaper. I go for the table wine because it saves me a euro. What I had failed to calculate in initially is the $7-8 fee for using my American card while shopping. So, the French ATM card is a must. However, unlike in America, you sign-up at one location, and that becomes your “go-to.” In our case, it is six miles away on foot, or one very windy, vomit-invoking Metro ride away, so as I was still feeling a little ill, I canceled the appointment. I did a horrible, very non-Parisian thing: I asked my banker to put it in the mail. One item checked off the list.

Since I had been catching up on email all morning, I decided that for the sake of my sanity, I would do a little house organization. We all know how cleansing and alphabetizing soothes my soul. I staggered down our winding wooden staircase with a load of laundry, threw my heap in, and went to put in the money. Apparently I can’t count French money, either, as I was short fifty centimes. This typically would not be a problem -- two quarters, five dimes, a quick trip to next door to ask for change. HA! My resolution was to go back upstairs, grab the little Valentine’s gifts that I had assembled, and head to La Poste (whose location I was familiar with as I had already visited it last week to pick up an online purchase I had labeled incorrectly). Simple, right? Put a stamp on it and send it off the U.S. First I had made the packages too small, prohibiting the stamp and customs form from being in the proper place. Customs form —- in French. Eventually the lady behind the counter had to do a protégé, and I then had to fill in the others, as if she was showing me how to write my name for the first time and I was to then practice. And finally, when all that was over, form of payment. Certainly the thirty euros Matt had given me in anticipation would be more than ample. Instead, it was right on. And, if I spent it all at La Poste, there would be no change for La Damn Washing Machine. So, out came the Mastercard. Which wouldn’t work. As the beads of sweat started to form on my brow, I did the only thing I could think of to smooth over the situation: Merci on repeat. At least then I would be a polite moron, right? As the card finally took, and my packages were on their way, I turned around to see that the line was now fifteen people deep, long and thick, like the nice little noose they probably wanted to put around my neck.

To the Franprix I then went, as I still needed to break change. Up popped the idea (pun intended) that microwave popcorn would be a nice little American comfort food that would still be gentle on my unsettled stomach. Round and round I went until I spotted it. Approaching six euros for three bags of generic corn. Scratch that. Home I went with pretzel sticks that claimed to be “extra tasty mega salty sticks.”

In went the laundry, and out went my sigh of relief. It was then onto a phone call about my French lessons, as I was being a defiant school girl and refusing to continue the one-on-one tutoring. David Sedaris did me a huge disservice when he wrote about his time in Paris, making his French class the ultimate laugh. I want that experience (or at least to get out of my flat). It was decided that budget-pending, I would begin at the Alliance Française. Down to the Latin Quarter three days a week, with hopefully a few French words and friendships in return. And, just as my phone call was done, so was my baking project of the day. The oven knew not to screw me over this time (for fear of losing its life out of the window), and from within I could see the perfect cookie. Heart-shaped, as if the oven was trying to give me a sign.

And so the day came to a close, and here I am again once more, in my office, blinds closed so that men outside can’t see me in my H&M housecoat and leggings. Thus far today I have had two items of note. First, and most awkward, I am sure, is that my tutor showed up, having not been told that our time is dunzo. As she doesn’t really speak English, it was a horrible moment, where I wanted to crawl inside the ugly French book she handed me, and transplant myself next to Philippe or Juliette who looked to be having a lot more fun than I was at that moment. She told me to keep the book, and then continued to call me and ring the door bell as she had changed her mind. How do you say "uncomfortable" in French? Then in typical fashion of the news, it got me riled up (or typical fashion of anything these days). As I flipped on the BBC with my cup of tea, they started to talk about Paris! These days it is usually fixated on Andy Murray or Haiti, so I got a little tickled thinking they were talking about my city. Out it came: "Paris, the European Capital of Boredom." It spoke at length about how the city is becoming more strict with club hours and smoking, and then ended the segment by saying, “City of Lights, Capital of Sleep.”

To that I say, it depends upon where you live. If only I could be so lucky. Moreover, I think if they are going that far, to be thorough they should tack on: “City of Lights, Capital of Sleep, Demise of Ashley’s Sanity.” Oui. That is about right.