Thinking of titles is the worst part of having a blog

It is Friday evening. I had a long day—up too early after going to bed too late and drinking too many pints the night before (too many pints=two pints, FYI), then class at the Sorbonne, my three hour Friday class that I’ve missed exactly 50% of the time, then a long walk home, tracing a diagonal line across the city, from the northwest corner to the southeast. When I left class, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun had just reached that late-afternoon angle position that creates dramatic, blinding, isolated spots of light. I reached my apartment beneath an almost indigo sky, with a hint of moon but no stars. I don’t know if I’ve seen any stars in Paris, now that I think of it.

Two remarks concerning class today: 1) during the lecture, the enormous, hour-long class held in “le grand amphitheatre,” I witnessed what I believe to be the French concept of class participation. The professor asked, “do you understand?” and no one responded, because there were a hundred billion people in the room and who wants to be the loser who says, “I sure do understand! Thanks a mill, prof!” so then he said, “I didn’t hear an answer…” so then a few people mumbled and incomprehensible noise which he interpreted to be a yes, and he said, “Bon! Un petit peu d’interactivite entre nous!” 2) In the three-hour “small” class (=30-ish students), I got back an essay and I got a good grade. My professor said it was better than most French students’ papers. This is gratuitous self-promotion right now, but I have no one here who cares/wants to hear that type of thing, so I’m putting it in my blog in the hopes of getting a pat on the back or something. Please excuse my constant need for validation.

Tomorrow I am going on an IES excursion to Provins (I, incidentally, pronounce Provins horribly, and it sounds like I’m saying Provence, so I’ve had several very confusing conversations about my weekend plans). We are meeting at 8:15. That means I will be up very early. Because of my deep-seated, perhaps foundationless, disdain for all things IES—and, more generally, all things involving large groups of Americans with digital cameras and guidebooks—I am not too excited for the excursion. But I skipped the other one I was supposed to go on—I guess I skip things a lot—so I feel obligated. But I’ll keep an open mind. I forget exactly what Provins is, but I think it involves going underground at some point, which is cool, and there is a free lunch somewhere in there, which is also cool.

Today I was thinking about how much I like Paris, and the thought occurred to me that maybe I just like places. If I spend enough time in a place, and really think about it as a concept, how it differs from other places, what its people are like, what its culture and history says about it, what kind of lifestyle it promotes, I tend to grow to really love it. This summer, when I was spending a lot of time in Boston for my internship and doctor’s appointments and visiting friends, I started to feel very attached to the city itself. I sat by the banks of the Charles and spilled out three or four pages of florid praise for Boston. During brief trips to both New Orleans and New York this summer, I felt the beginnings of similar attachments stirring inside me. Is it possible that just the idea of place appeals to me? The more I think about it, the truer it sounds. I think I like places more than people, to be honest. No offense.

But maybe not. Maybe I really just love Paris. It is important to keep in mind that everything on this blog could be complete bullshit, since most of what I write are thoughts that come to me while I’m on the metro, between playing rounds of snake on my cell phone and trying to figure out if I’m wearing the same boots as the old lady next to me.

One more thought: When I walk out to the main street in front of my apartment, Boulevard Voltaire, I usually turn left. Left is where things are. If you go right, I recently discovered, there are about 15 blocks which are, I swear to God, all identical. They are all clothing stores aimed at 20-something women, all owned by Asians, all bearing the words, “Pret-À-Porter” (“Pret-À-Porter,” literally translated, means “ready to wear” [isn’t all clothing sold in stores “ready to wear?” have I been missing some crucial post-buying pre-wearing step for all these years? (by the way, thanks for the math bracket suggestion, Maya, but if you take a closer look at previous blog entries, you will see that I was already privy to that tidbit [I am aware the I used the word “tidbit” in my last entry, and since it is quite a distinctive word, I fear that readers might scoff at the repetition, but I just really like the word “tidbit”])]).

Okay.

Dinner then sleep.

Let’s hope Provins rocks.