my daily bread.

French bread must be tainted with a sort of addictive narcotic. I just can't get enough. I don't drink as much coffee or tea here as I do at home, and my caffeine-dependency headaches frequently make their presence known, but this bread addiction is something else entirely.


I spent last weekend in London, visiting Colleen and Matt, and I even got to spend some time with Paula and Ju, although unfortunately not as much as I would have liked. Colleen's friends threw a party on Friday night, and because the English freshmen are English freshmen, the party's title was GLOW and we were expected to dress the part.
Armed with neon paint from Poundworld and Hanes men's undershirts, Coll and I transformed old t-shirts into magnificent (and witty!) costumes, with the help of neon tights and glittery bangles. God bless Primark.

"Costume? My hair IS my costume."

I took myself on a little walking tour during the day, as Colleen had a full day of classes and Matt is now working at the Royal Bank of Scotland. We met for lunch, and afterwards I meandered along Oxford Street, saw Piccadilly Circus and Covent Garden, and perused the tabloid that Londoners call their daily metro paper. Instead of learning about Sarkozy's latest snub, I got to see what Bob Geldof's kids wore to their latest birthday party. Who needs real news when you've got celeb goss?!



After meeting Matt for dinner at an Indian restaurant on Brick Lane, Colleen and I went to the party sufficiently decked out and ready for a good time.

If this isn't appropriate "glow-wear", then I don't know what is.

The next morning, much to our chagrin, we found that the water had been turned off throughout the building as work was being done on the pipes. After a short meeting, we decided to head to Leicester Square to meet Ju and Paula for the Ireland v. England rugby match. I threw my facewash, toothbrush, and some makeup into my bag and we freshened up in the bathroom of the pub. It was hilarious.
Unfortunately, Ireland lost the match, but Matt, Colleen, and I got to see Ju and Paula and chat a bit before parting ways for dinner. I grabbed fish and chips at a pub with Matt before going to see his room in South Kensington, where I met his roommates and hung out a bit before going back to Mile End with Coll.

Paula, me, Coll, Ju, Matt (sleeping?)

It was a great trip and although I didn't stay for the St. Patrick's Day festivities, I was all celebrated out nonetheless. I'm luckily going back in April, en route to Budapest for spring break!

Our group went to see an opera called "Zampa" on the night of March 17th, and therefore, celebratory activities were limited to two drinks at a bar called O'Sullivan's after the three-hour performance. After paying 7 euros for a pint of cider, I preceded my next order by asking the bartender if there was any discount for "real Irish people". He looked at me, left my Guinness to settle on the bar, and refused payment, saying in his English accent, "There's your discount then." It made my night.

Niamh arrives on Monday morning, and I don't know if I'm prepared for the onslaught of sightseeing and activity her visit will inevitably bring. Unfortunately, I've been stuck with my first grammar test on Wednesday, as well as a petit résumé of "Bonjour Tristesse," a novel by French writer Françoise Sagan. I have a midterm on Thursday night for my History of France class, but luckily, that shouldn't be any chore for Niamh as she's quite enamored of l'histoire de la France. We have lots to see and I'm so excited for her to see my life here in Paris; although I have classes and homework this week, she speaks French well and will be glad to wander around herself a bit.


Paris never disappoints. I was feeling down earlier, and finding the trials of forced friendships preoccupying. I sat on the computer for too long, worrying about class registration, internships, the schoolwork of the upcoming week-- and then I decided to throw on some clothes and go out. I'm learning the art of being alone.
I sat in a café today after venturing to Montmartre for cheap postcards. The following is from those few hours:

I love the life of this city: the way it breathes, moves, seems to be a living being. Depending on my mood, Paris can be the coldest, loneliest space possible, but I think that the city is the best friend I've got here. It's just right. I love that little babies wear bonnets that fasten under the chin. I love the couple I see walking past this café right now, sporting identical knit green hats. I love that I meant to walk outside for just a breath of fresh air when I left the foyer over two hours ago. Only in Paris could I eat a delicious meal in the middle of the afternoon, in the same space that cigarettes in brightly colored packages are sold to busy people on their lunch breaks. Two girls sat outside under the canopy with their picnic lunch, just purchased at the market I can see from this window, as first the rain fell, then hailstones. The owner didn't mind their presence. Now they're inside, hands wrapped around steaming drinks.
The woman who I've seen looking in my direction out of the corner of my eye is on her third coffee, and I know she'll order another before leaving. I've been sitting here for about two hours. My croque madame and salad are long gone, I've order and subsequently finished a café crème, and all the waiter has said to me since is, "Ca va?" He knows I'm in no rush, and therefore he relaxes as well. It's really another world over here.