Pardonnez-moi

Oops.
It’s been a week and I’m overwhelmed again.
I went to a house party this weekend with my host brother. His name, for the record, is Théo. I know this only because he used my phone to send a text message, and I looked at the message afterward. I still have no idea what my host sister’s name is, and I talk to her every day. Names are hard to understand.
Anyway. House party. We (Théo and I) met up with his friends at a bar in Vincennes, un banlieue, and watched the France vs. Ireland rugby match, then went to a house party nearby. It was utterly fantastic. I met the self-proclaimed biggest Bob Dylan fan in France, who educated me on Bob’s fictitious, publicity-induced relationship with Joan Baez and wrote the names of songs I need to hear and movies I need to see all over my arm. Additionally, I met the French equivalent of Wutang. Wutang, I realize, is a group of people, a large posse if you will, and not one person; nevertheless, Guillaume, on his own, apparently equals Wutang. Intermittently throughout the party, someone would let me know that the rap we were listening to was, in fact, Guillaume. He was actually pretty good, switching back and forth between French and English and making sense for the majority of the time. I made the mistake of telling my new French friends that, sometimes, I like to freestyle when I drink. So they made me freestyle. Freestyling in French is pretty humbling; my rap went something like “Nous sommes ici, à une boum, everyone is dancing in the room.”
I salsa danced and discussed the philosophical wisdom of “Hakuna Matata” and learned how to say “motherfucker” in French. Théo and I finally left at around 4 and made our way home on the night bus, le noctillien. He is utterly fantastic. He invited me to his country house in Bretagne, and told me he would take me to all of the “cool” places in Paris. In a lot of ways, he is the most American guy I’ve met here. He wears t-shirts with holes in them and mumbles and blasts classic rock from his room.
I spent Saturday with the niece of a friend of Yolaine (my host mother). The friend had met me on Thursday night and, unsolicited, arranged a lunch for me and her and her two nieces so that I could meet more people. The niece, Marine, and I spent the afternoon walking around a park and talking—she doesn’t speak a word of English, so the pressure was on—and she told me to call her because she wants to take me to Versailles. On Saturday night, I met a French woman at a club who gave me her number and said that she wants to take me shopping because I told her that I don’t feel fashionable enough in Paris. I’m not sure whether or not everyone is going to follow through on what they’ve promised, but right now I’m pretty much tossing aside the entire conception that Parisians are cold. Je suis complètement bouleversée.
I saw Jim Morrison’s grave on Sunday. And a few other homies.
Tonight at dinner, we were discussing French exclamations, such as “zut!” and “sacre-bleu!” and somehow that turned into every member of my host family saying “fuck.” I don’t think they really got it.
I picked out classes. At IES, I’m taking Traduction (translation), Atelier Plume (creative writing), and Dessin (drawing—drawing for, like, ultimate beginners and/or retards. Yesterday we drew circles and squares and the teacher let us know that—don’t get overwhelmed now—we will be discussing perspective in classes to come). At the Sorbonne, I’m taking Métiers de L’Ecrit (careers in writing); at Paris VIII, the institute for feminine studies, I’m taking Ecrire devant la Mort (writing before death). I’m a little nervous about the university courses. They start next week. I’ll keep you posted.
I saw a French film last night that was possibly the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Un Homme Perdu. I was perdu.
Ok. More soon. Once I get into my regular schedule it will be easier.
Sorry for the meaningless promises. We’ll just have to see how it goes.