Ask me what a bidot is. I dare you.

Nobody here thinks I’m American. That is not to say that they believe I am French, but rather, that I am English or Australian or from Quebec (what is the word for that? Quebeci? Quebecian? [en français, c’est québécoise (désolée pour le français, ma chère Maggie)]). What that says about me or about Parisians I do not know and I will not attempt to analyze here. Just an observation.

The past few days have been busy, filled with tasks and commitments that are slowly coming together to form my daily routine here. IES classes, dance class, the Louvre, Café Titon, visiting my favorite little Greek sandwich shop where the Turkish man behind the counter talks to me and corrects my French. Also, I’ve started doing homework. Sort of. It’s, like, really really great homework—we’re talking worksheets and fill-in-the-blanks and vocabulary quizzes.

Wednesday nights, IES hosts a conversation workshop, open to American and French students who want to hang out for two hours and improve their skills in whatever language is not their native tongue. The concept seems bizarre at first—one person speaking French and the other responding in English—but it works out to be a really fluid blending of the languages, and the brain manages to transition between the two modes of speaking pretty seamlessly. Last week was a special wine-tasting conversation hour, so about 40 IES students showed up. The lack of alcohol this week meant that only huge nerds like me showed up. It turned out to be a great decision, though—my friend Lauren and I ended up talking to three French garçons and going out to get a drink with them afterward. They are all really great and funny and down-to-earth—no pointy-shoed, tight-pants-wearing, cologne-doused, slick-haired Euro-style. One of them, Olivier, may be the only person in Paris with dreadlocks. After a very American weekend, it felt good to meet some new French people. Apparently, they love IES and come every Wednesday, so there is some serious French homie potential there. Incidentally, my French slang is getting really good. Ask me about verlan.

Today I got a walking tour of Paris from a French student I met while I was roaming aimlessly along the Seine. I discovered secret parts of the city that I never would have found otherwise—a hidden quai by Ile St. Louis, a raised garden not five minutes from my apartment that runs along a serious of connected roofs for miles, all the way to the Bois de Vincennes, a secret alley that will seriously cut down my morning walk to the metro.

This Saturday France plays England in the semi-finals. Serious stuff. I was really disappointed to miss the France/New Zealand game last weekend, so this time I’m going to ensure that I am surrounded by excited/drunk French fans.

I’m still feeling overwhelmed by how much stuff there is to see and do. Time speeds silently by, imperceptible, striking me suddenly when I ask someone the date and realize that I’ve been here for one month and two days. Jesus. Sacre bleu.

Nathenel, my little host brother, had to write a paper for school, in English, describing his ideal day in New York City. This day revolved around hanging out with homeless junkies in dark alleys. Last night I heard him playing Smells like Teen Spirit on his guitar in his room. He wears skin-tight jeans—we could probably share pants. I wish you all could meet him. I want to write a whole blog about him. Fifteen-year-old boys are great.