La Coquette

"I don't want that thing I like about you to change"

I saw Manhattan for the first time last night, which explains the title.  Isn't it so sad when Isaac says that to Tracy, before she leaves for school in London?  "Well, everyone gets corrupted," she replies.  How true. 

And how about when Isaac is looking at the skyline and says "This city is just, a real knockout"?  Will he always feel that way?  Because sometimes I love Paris so much I think this can't possibly be free, and I'd really like for that feeling to never change. 

This is what a bright Fall day is to me--being in pain every time I have to take the metro.  Physically repulsed when I have to go inside.  Taking the long way home so I can cut through the Jardin du Luxembourg.  Do you get sick of hearing me talk about how perfectly my neighborhood is located for walking everywhere? 

There’s going to be a lot of change for me this winter, and I’m starting to get real worried (and excited, but mostly worried).  My way of dealing with change is to go into a state of denial until the last minute when the inevitable must happen and to then panic.  What?  This thing that I always knew was arriving actually came? Even with my feelings I procrastinate.

Why do things have to change?  Change is really, really not my friend.  And short days make me kind of sad.  You know what I love though?  The leaves right now at the Jardin du Luxembourg.  They’re really pretty and part of me can imagine that the thing I like about them will never, ever end. 

Trained thoughts

It’s all that unplugged time, is it not?  The quiet cocoon moments on trains are so conducive to thinking in a way that, say, a crowded line 4 métro or your WIFI’d apartment do not oblige.  It was only four days ago I Eurostar-ed out of Paris, but now, back at my place, something feels different, like the first tickle of autumn chasing away an Indian summer.

The light was oh, so pretty in London.  Pretty in that you-make-me-want-to-be-a-better-man, anything-is-possible sort of way.  The view from our Clerkenwell hotel room:

Of course, when I post about London, it’ll likely be less about revelatory train moments and more about buying scandalous knickers at Agent Provocateur (75% off!  Boo yeah!), defeat by inanimate hotel objects and all manner of sisterly hahas and hijinks that transpired.

Speaking of sisters, yesterday afternoon, I took my fearless traveling companion, my cuddly Jennifer whom I love so much it hurts my insides, to the airport. I’ve taken a few people to the airport lately.  Those 40 minutes on the RER back from Charles de Gaulle, now that’s a whole different type of thinky train ride.  The first thing that happened was I missed my stop, St. Michel Notre Dame.  Then, I dazed back to my apartment from métro Luxembourg, fished in my handbag, and PULLED OUT MY METRO CARD instead of punching the doorcode.  As in, I stood on the rue Saint Jacques, staring at a large wooden door HOLDING A METRO CARD.  What?  You don’t accept month passes?  I just had to laugh, which felt good on the heels of a goodbye-type afternoon. 

So, yes, loads of London pics to upload and caption tonight.  In other blog homework news, Nardac has passed me a shoe meme along with expressed concern that I will not “bring it"....As if! 

Du pain sur la planche, les enfants.

Overheard near a famous cathedral in Paris today:

“Look, hun!  It’s Noder DAY-yam!” 

I love that there are places in America where the word “Dame” can be pronounced in two syllables.  Also, I would pay good money to hear this lady request directions from the “AYE-raw-port.”

And the award for Most Brilliant Parenthetical Usage...

“That's why, in the end, I cast my vote for La Coquette, the journal of a twenty-four year old American girl who is really French and who has returned to the land of her father(s).”

Consider this my formal request to the man who wrote the statement you see above: will you let me use the highlighted bit as my sidebar bio?  Seriously.  (Also, the check is in the mail).

From a positive standpoint, it's safe to say I burned off the celebratory croissant and hot chocolate I had for breakfast.

What’s stupider than a person who schlepps 70 pounds of luggage across the Atlantic Ocean knowing full well that reality in the form of FIVE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS AND NO APARTMENT ELEVATOR will come to bite them in the ass?  Someone who schlepps 70 pounds of luggage, 66 pounds of which are books that they DID NOT EVEN READ while on vacation in Florida, because they were too busy soaking up every MTV-loving moment of American cable television.

P.S.  If you’re looking for advice on how to pimp yo' ride, though, I’m your girl. 

The Coquette says, "Bird poop brings good luck."

A bird crapped on me as I was running on the beach about a week ago, and as I scraped the gunk from my shoulder with a small piece of driftwood, I remembered how bird poop purportedly brings good luck.  What a load of BALONEY, I thought. This is just the type of thing people say to make you feel better about SCRAPING BIRD CRAP OFF YOUR SHOULDER.  (Just as in France, they conveniently say it’s good luck to step in dog doo).

I may have to reweigh my philosophy.  I just now found out I’m a finalist in the Bloggie awards for the Best European Weblog, rendering me so full of shock that I turn to the bird caca theory as the only possible explanation.  Seeing the other nominees in my category only compounded the MASSIVE SHOCK FACTOR as I thought "WHERE THE HELL IS PETITE?"  (She’s in the Best New Weblog category, phew).  And "DO THEY REALLY MEAN ME?"

I am so honored.  I just have two wishes for the Bloggie Award Genie:

1.  I wish that my very first commentators, fellow expatriates in France, and proprietors of their own awesome weblogs, were nominated, too. 

2.  I wish I could have seen the incomparable Bluepoppy on the Best Writing list.  (And I am SO NOT BIASED because she once sent over a heap of her readers with this generous post).  No, it’s just that Bluepoppy writes the pants off everyone. She’s wildly engaging, and inspires me constantly.  Plain and simple.  Someone has got to get this lady a book deal.  Oh wait, she has already had one?  Okay, someone needs to get her about a gagillion more.

The frosting on the gateau, so to speak, was discovering that I’m also nominated for Best Personal Weblog in the Satin Pajama Awards over at Fistful of Euros! (You can vote here for the Satin Pajama Awards.  And here for the Bloggies). J’ai trop de chance, people.  Blessed be the God of Bird Poop. 

I'm okay, you're okay.

Sequence of events Tuesday morning:

1.  I open an email from someone who thinks I am Madame André (It is not the first time).  This one was from a friend of hers named Olivier and featured a picture of him next to his motorbike.  It’s a nice email.  Nicer than what my friends send me.  The subject was: “Bonne année!”

2.  I see that Jason has called me “Eurotrashy” here.*

3.  I see that he has followed it with, “Her words, not mine,” which got me thinking, "Eurotrash" is a REALLY GREAT WORD if it merits the disclaimer “her words, not mine.”

Redneck (her words, not mine).

Whore (her words, not mine).

Republican (her words, not mine).

And then it hit me:  I HAVE USED THE WORD "EUROTRASH" IN CONJUNCTION WITH A WORLD-FAMOUS HOTEL, PEOPLE WILL BE OFFENDED.**

THIS COULD HAVE SOME REAL HATE MAIL POTENTIAL. WAHOOO!!!!

And my response to that is YOU THINK THAT’S ALL I GOT?  You see, there are two things I didn’t tell you--I have a source deep within the Hotel Costes, who WORKS THERE, a good friend who, if I don’t post tomorrow, you will know she murdered me for posting EVEN THAT MUCH INFORMATION.  And I have a WHOLE OTHER STORY that involves babysitting for a fashion photographer's daughter IN AN ACTUAL BEDROOM AT HOTEL COSTES DURING THE HAUTE COUTURE.  And that’s all I’m going to say for now because I am the Coquette, and that makes me, by definition, a tease.***

*And my first thought was “Boy, this guy really gets me." 
**Although probably not Jason, and judging from his comment here, should you ever wish to buy him a drink at the Costes, he will be there in a hot minute.
***If anyone ever wants to buy me a drink at Costes, I will be there in a hot minute, too. 

Yet another club that didn't want to let me in.

I have been waiting for someone to invite me to Gmail.  Twirling my hair in the corner of the gym watching everyone and their half-cousins get picked for the team.  WHERE WAS MY INVITE, PEOPLE?   

Like a postage-due letter from Rip Van Winkle (to quote Tina Brown), it finally arrived last weekend.  And since I promised my sister AIMEE I’d sit on her and pull her hair if she didn’t invite me I’d plug her on the site--SPANKS AIMEE! 

The address is la.coquette@gmail.com and if you’re letching for Gmail too, I will hook up the first two people who email, err Gmail, me.  Or you can try this.

AIMEE and I then had a conversation in 92 Gmails (I love that you can treat it like Instant Messenger) while AIMEE  worked on my masthead in a college computer lab where cell phone usage is interdit.  This is what was said:

Me:  I’d like this, please.
Her:  That’s going to be fugly.
Me:  Yeah, well, it’s my website so you have to do what I say.
Her:  Okay. 
Me:  Are you kidding?!  That’s totally fugly!  Whose idea was that?
Her:  silent hatred  THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’M REDOING IT.

ABOUT 92 TIMES.  We're still working on it. 

It's okay, only my father and I think this is funny.

My father has been in an excellent mood since reading my last post, and over the phone from work just now, he shouted to me “C’est tout bon!”  To which I answered “Mr. All Good.”  Then we laughed like drunk hyenas.

You see, there was a French minister of culture called Monsieur Toubon who created a controversial law listing thousands of French expressions that must be used in place of their English equivalents in all advertising, radio, and TV broadcasting.  Being that his name sounds exactly like the French expression for “all good,” his opponents took to calling him.... MR. ALL GOOD.  Get it?  GET IT!

Je veux du Taco Bell

French lessons from Mademoiselle Torro

pink boots - des bottes roses
t-shirt - un t-shirt
sparkly necklace - un collier scintillant
crazy ears - des oreilles dinges
beatific smile - un sourire béatifique

This is the dog of Cortney and Tom, my friends and first-rate hosts in New York.  (Even though they fed me Reeses Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast).