Erm, it's been a little while since I've written, but time really feels like its slipping by now that we have less than a month left in Paris. I made a list of all the things that I want to do before I leave, which mostly includes museum visits, but the list seems impossible at this point. For the last few months, I think we can all safely say that there have been moments that we've put off all that Paris has to offer because the end of the semester seemed so far away. It's beautiful now, of course, which makes everything seem like it goes by quicker even though the days are longer. I go back and forth between whether I'm satisfied with my French after living here for three months. If anything, my comprehension has definitely improved. Unless someone has an accent...or is young...or is using slang....or I'm not paying attention, I can usually understand pretty much everything. I notice this most often when I'm in the street and I snatch up bits of conversation here and there. It's a remarkable difference from when I first arrived. However, last week during our private viewing of the Louvre (it was a Tuesday and therefore closed) while listening to our charming guide Sebastian I found myself struggling to understand. His accent was very clear and I recognized the bulk of the vocabulary, but it became clear to me how much of my understanding relies on context. It also takes me a moment to process things and meanwhile within that moment, everybody else has moved on. However, the combination of spring break and the aftermath also left me a little unsteady in terms of, well, speaking. Before spring break, I didn't. think. so. carefully. about how I was going to construct my sentence. Do I use the subjunctive here? Since this event would come before the one i just mentioned but still in the future, what form of the future tense do I use? Or is it conditional? Now I feel less confident. I get stuck. But in the meantime the French person I'm speaking to answers for me and I nod my head in agreement. My host sister from Berkley, Bria, just lets loose. Wings it. And while I notice that she has said something incorrectly, she communicating and people understand her and it's not slowing her down. Meh, I guess it's just yet another hurtle.
Last week, I tried to get back into the groove of going to shows since my few nights out on the town by myself at rock venues in the 19e turned out so smashingly. So I checked out my List O' Shows for Paris and decided to go see Telepathe, Fuck Buttons, and Crystal Castles at Trabendo on the Île de la Musique. It's pretty much at the Boulevard Periphique, seriously the outskirts of the city proper but I decided to walk there. So, since I was walking there, I decided to brig my bag with my headphones and map and water bottle, all the trimmings. This was my first mistake, since the show later turned out to be pretty raucous and I had no timid friend to leave my stuff with. I also brought no metro tickets since I decided that Paul was so wrong about the Velib sitch since I see tourists renting them all the time.
The show was great. Better than great. Insane. However, there was the bag thing, so I couldn't really let loose in the incredibly packed crowd that insisted on continuously trampling me. After several young men helping me up countless times, one of them put his arm around me in a protective gesture. Awww. Then he got his watch caught in my hair and in the end, he got to keep some of it. At one point he leaned over and said something in French about doing something for the last 38 hours. I still have no idea what he said and I thought it better not to ask, particularly since the screaming in my ear was painful enough the first time. Another hilarious incident; listening to a trio of indie "bros" repeatedly (and enthusiastically) saying "Yeah, beech. Brang eet on, beech" in between sets. This was less enjoyable once they started flirting with two blond girls from Nebraska named Kylie and Dakota (this is a lie, but it could have easily been true).
After the show I headed to the nearby Velib station, confident that I would be able to bike home that night and every night. Henceforth. In perpetuity. Hubris anyone? Turns out that, much like the automatic tellers at the metro stations, the Velib stations don't like my credit card. Either of them, in fact. Shucks. I really wanted to bike around Paris at night. Maybe I should just rent one from one of those bike shops that will inevitably rip me off.

Last week was our last visit to the Louvre *tear*. This was a huge draw for the trip but after we had class this week in the Petit Palais, it was like, aaaahh, air! Quiet! Less annoying tourists that stomp around you in exasperation, convinced that you're blocking their view of the best painting ever because there's a big group talking about it. Yeesh. Oh yeah, and the Petit Palais is appreciably beautiful.

Also this week: My second ever celebrity sighting! Pssh. I know you're jealous. So, I was walking home from class on Tuesday. Heading down the Rue de Rennes as usual, about to turn on to Saint German when I notice a very attractive and, yes, recognizable young man walking in my direction. It took me a minute to place his face, but given my extraordinary power to recollect character's from film and television (please email me if you know a way I could utilize this talent for monetary gain), I immediately identified him as "Michael Something-or-other", the lead male in the box office bomb Underworld (or perhaps it did better than I recall, since they made a second one. Either way it reeked.) Usually I don't let myself be subject to the Hollywood machine, but I've had a thing for vampires since I was a kid. Witches, too, but to a lesser degree. So no matter how incredibly subpar I know it will be (and let's face it, many vampire movies are), I'm cursed to watch one uninspired vampire movie after another. One of which, in particular, pertains to the this story. Which I will now continue. Attractive "Michael" stops me in the street and asks me if he can buy a cigarette off of me. I reply that he doesn't have to buy one, but they're menthol. He's says that's fine. I juggle my things while he waits patiently, lighter in hand. I keep looking at his face trying to remember the name of the stupid vampire movie...Was it Netherworld? No, that's not it. Shit. By this time, I've produced a cigarette and he's off (did I mention that this was all in English?) after a quick thank you.

"Hey...don't I recognize you?"
"Maybe. I think so."
"Are you an actor?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."

........and that was it. I didn't want to bother him but I also wanted to be sure it was him without revealing that the one thing I'd seen him in was so unremarkable that I couldn't conjure up the title. I went home and looked him up on IMDB. Scott Speedman. His gig roster is mediocre and he dated Cameron Diaz. Pretty dreamy.

My other celebrity sighting (wait, I just realized that I have another one besides this) was the guy who play Xander on the Buffy the Vampire Slayer t.v. show. Noticing a trend? However, just-recalled-celeb-sighting-number-three was my best and most fave although it doesn't exactly fall into the same category because it wasn't completely random. Last summer, Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman were touring around following the release of the Darjeeling Limited. I knew they were going to be at the Michigan Theater for the premier, but depite all my hook-ups, I was unable to attend. As luck would have it though, that evening my boyfriend and I were riding around on our bikes downtown and we passed them. We went back and talked to them for a bit. Very friendly. Mr. Schwartzman said I looked really good on my bike. Hott.

With the exception of a few showers, it has been exceptionally beautiful in Paris since my return from break. I've been walking so much lately that the calluses on my toes have been sharpened into talons and my Converse are barely holding it together. I would buy more shoes, but the same moment I'm tempted, I'm reminded that I could find the same pair for a fraction of the cost back in the States. Plus, my feet are apparently inordinately large for the likes of Paris, since I can't seem to find my size anywhere. In light of this past week's site visit to the Bon Marche and Les Galleries Lafayette, I desperately want to go shopping and recreate my wardrobe in the image of la jeune fille parisienne, but it'll have to wait. I have one month left to go and I refuse to blow the rest of my cash when the dollar is so grossly undervalued. 

Friday Sara and I walked to the Bois de Vincennes and stopped for a bit in Parc Barcy for une pique-nique. Once we reached le bois, we came across a hilariously unattended carnival complete with an amusing and decidedly French interpretation of American pastiche (please see above and I repeat, blogger sucks). We rode the ferris wheel to get a look at the carnival from above and laughed at how few people were there. Then we continued to walk around the moderately confusing bois, getting a little lost on several occasions. I looked at map as we were leaving and realized that they area that we walked around was actually pretty small, so I'm planning on a return visit. 

Last night was the La Nuit des Musees in Paris and apparently throughout France and perhaps in other parts of Europe as well. Carolyn (whom I met at le Institut) and I planned on hitting up Musee Quai de Branly, Musee de L'arme and Musee Rodin because of their close proximity. We got some most excellent sushi and headed over to Branly to find a crowd that wrapped around the block. In the spirit of French...I don't even know what to call it at this point...they were heavily regulating entrance. Security checks, attendance capacity, blah blah. We decided to head back later since everything was supposed to be open until 1am. I had read that there was going to be some sort of light show inside the dome of Les Invalides, so we spent some time around the Musee de L'arme, which was infinitely more interesting with Carolyn, since she has studied fencing for several years and wants to use her art history degree to specialize in military history. I probably don't have to tell you that the light show under the dome was incredible. I've never seen anything like it and I really don't know how to describe it here. It described France's military history from 1630 to WWI and I understood about 65% percent of the narration. We were packed in to the stairs, so parts of the light spectacle that focused on the tomb below were lost on us, but I was entertained nonetheless. 

We tried the Musee Rodin afterward, but depsite the fact that it was only a quarter to midnight, the guards in front insisted the museum was closed. From a small gap in the gate, I could see the two floors of the museum lit up and crowded with people, but I guess they were trying to make sure that the place was empty by 1. We had given up on Branly, but I knew that Pompidou was supposed to open later, according to a quasi-friend that works there. So we metroed over, but again were thwarted. Bummer. Carolyn headed back to her place, for fear of missing the last train and I decided to wander around for a bit and enjoy the spectacle of Paris at night. 

After a few block and several incoherent French men trying to grab me, I thought perhaps the aforementioned spectacle might be better enjoyed from my balcony. I headed back to the apartment and poured myself a scotch. 

I'm back from vacation and a long stint of internet deprivation, so this should prove to be a lengthy entry. Needless to say, I feel slightly more fulfilled having visited three more foreign countries in 3 weeks. I've also gotten the chance to play tour guide here in Paris, as Forest has had the pleasure of staying with my host family and I for a total of nine days. He doesn't speak much French, but has picked up some things here and there during his travels. Most importantly; "Je ne comprend pas" in a deliciously sultry accent, accompanied by furrowed brow. When he arrived on Wednesday, we had one of those cinematic running-towards-one-another-and-embracing-in-a-whirlwind-of-passion that either makes you cry and/or hate yourself when you see it predictably play across the screen. I've tried my best to act as translator during his stay, which has been slightly more difficult since our return as I try to recover from two weeks of strictly speaking English. Marie-Pierre and Jacques seem charmed by him, especially since he brought them more chocolate-covered cherries from Michigan and presented them after we had carefully practiced: "Merci pour tout. J'ai un cadeau pour vous." We haven't spent much time around them and hopefully they don't take it as an insult. On the whole though, I think they find us inoffensive.
We didn't leave for Bremen, Germany until Friday, so we spent Wednesday and Thursday exploring my neighborhood. At first I sensed something a little off with Forest, but I attributed it to jet-lag (which had an incredible effect on him. He slept for almost 20 hours the first day and a half he was here) and the adjustment to a foreign city. Paris was definitely overwhelming when I arrived, but my get-by-able grasp of the language allowed me to be more excited than intimidated. It wasn't until later, in Germany, that I would realize how daunting it can be to unable to communicate with the exception of hand signals and small handful of words. However, that wasn't to come until our second stop in Bremen. Yes, that's right, Forest and I traveled to three times in this mid-sized port town in Northern Germany. All of which lasted less than 24 hours. Asinine? Actually, it turned out to be more cost effective than flying directly from Paris to Dublin or Dublin to Malta. This seemingly ludicrous itinerary actually ended up saving us $150. Leave it to Ryanair, I guess.

*A quick note on this "low fares" airline: even after the hidden fees, one wonders how they manage to keep it going...until you're on the plane. Then it's like you've been sucked into a timeshare meeting. Once you enter the bright blue and yellow interior of the plane, accompanied by the quirky Ryanair jingle that makes you feel like you're in the Sims, and you notice that the overhead luggage compartment conveniently serves as ad-space, you realize that something. feels. different. "Two for one shooters" (they come in a plastic pouch), "Buy a Ryaniar scratch-win-ticket and you could really become a member of the Millionaire Club", "A selection of perfumes and colognes: Perfect gifts!". You can't even get water for free (which is particularly infuriating after airport security informed me that no liquids could be brought on the flight except for tiny containers in plastic bags and then promptly threw away all my toiletries and some of my make-up. You can, however, buy these things anew in the duty free shop next to the boarding queue).

We were only in Bremen for the afternoon, arriving at 14h and leaving at 22h, giving us some time to take the tram into town and explore a little. The woman at the information counter at the airport instructed us to get off at Domsheide (P.S. If you ever go to Bremen, don't bother buying tram tickets. They don't check and "students" ride for free. Less than half of the people that boarded validated the little piece of paper that we bought at the airport). Domsheide is the stop right next to St. Peter's Cathedral, which I had read a little bit about before our trip. Since February, I've visited a lot of churches in Paris, but there's most definitely a special place in my heart for the almost kitschy fairy-folktale Neo-Gothic German style.
>>>>
After checking out the cathedral, we walked around a bit and found a couple of bars. Originally we went to this Irish pub, I guess in our anticipation of going to Dublin (?), errrr, but we left due to the loud pop music that for whatever reason didn't seem to bother the seasoned crowd of malcontents. We ended up at a kind of Tex-Mex restaurant called "El Sol" that played mostly 90's Top 40 and featured a beach motif. Not really our style, but (blush) comfortingly "Am-aaiirr-ikan" (you should be imagining this with a Texas drawl). We had encountered several adequate English speakers while wandering the streets, but the effect of not being able to read anything was incredible. Plus, it was happy hour. Actually, Bremen is pretty cheap. Dinner for two plus drinks runs you maybe 20 euros. Gawd, what a relief. I later took advantage of this and bought back all the toiletries thrown away by airport security and put them in Forest's bag, which of course they didn't check for "liquids" because he's a man.
When we landed in Dublin, the woman at customs grinned when Forest leaned over to give me a kiss on the nose as she inspected our passports. She gave us a pass for a month after I told her we'd only be there for a few days and assured us that we would love the city so much that we wouldn't want to leave. We took a double-decker bus into town and located our hostel, falling asleep immediately after debating whether we should join the obviously active nightlife of Dublin. The next day, we searched our map and decided to go record shopping and then head out for Irish Film Institute, which turned out to be one of my favorite events of the trip (We saw a French called Naissance des Pieuvres, but was running on the more friendly English title of Water Lilies. Think synchronized swimming as a metaphor for adolescent dysfunction. Are you sold on it yet?) While digging around for records, Forest spotted a T.Rex on T.V. bootleg which features some never-before-seen performances which capture Marc Bolan's journey from heart-throb to laughing stock. I've had an obsession with Bolan for the past few years and this DVD is priceless! It even features cuts from his T.V. show "Marc", which features a performance by a young Billy Idol when he was playing with Generation X. Forest said that he had never heard me laugh like that before and truly, watching a fat Marc Bolan blunder "Dreamy Lady" due to intoxication that prevents him from being able to hold the guitar, let alone lip synch, is a testament to the power of schadenfreude.
Although I had planned for us to try and see some of the surrounding countryside, we only could have managed this by renting a car or signing up for a tour. A car would have been preferable, but due to expenses, obviously not an option. At first, I didn't mind the idea of a guided tour, but it reeked of fanny packs and souvenir t-shirts and I'm happy now that we decided to forgo this style of traveling. However, we did get our fair share of it when we went to the Guinness Brewery the next day. You gotta love that free pint and view of the city from atop the "Gravity Bar", but I would say that unless you're a beer extremist, the museum is not a must-see extraction (if you do go, I recommend skipping the floor entirely dedicated to the effects of alcohol on the human body). In line, we met a couple of American flight attendants that talked our ears off about their occupational plight, convincing me that this is not only an undesirable way to travel, but guaranteed to make you incredibly boring.
Our last day was spent walking along the harbor, where we discovered a secret motor-cross track and cluster of abandoned bikes. The view was beautiful and we returned to town just long enough to stop at the film institute for lunch and the best cappuccino I've had since I came to Europe. I got to geek out a bit with the barista, who had just bought the shiny new Gaggia behind the counter.
So back to Bremen. We were supposed to land at 19h, giving us enough time to head downtown again before returning for an airport lock-in, since our flight left at 6h the next morning and I saw no reason to spring for hostel accomodations or finding a couchsurfer for the short stay. However, the flight was delayed and we didn't end up getting in until 22h, making the trip into town impossible since the trams stopped running a little before midnight. We drank at the airport bar before they shooed us along and we decided to go across the street for one last drink at the airport hotel. When we returned a little later, we were dismayed to find the doors of the airport locked! We saw people sleeping inside but we had no way to get in. I spotted a custodian on the other side of the glass doors and waved him over, only to discover that the language barrier prevented us from learning anything beyond his inability to let us in and that we should go "that way" as he motioned violently to our right. Still unable to find a way into the airport, we found an open door into an office building next door and tried to find a warm hallway. After pulling on several more layers of mismatched clothing, I tried somewhat successfully to sleep while Forest plowed through 200 pages of Lynch on Lynch. Three hours later, we jumped into action when we heard someone enter the building below. I shoved everything into my bag (including my phone and charger, as i had made use of a nearby outlet) and braced myself for the barrage of German, reprimanding us and demanding an explanation for our presence in the building. Just as we got our things together, a well-dress business man appeared at the top of the stairs and began walking towards us. As our mouths gaped, he greeted us with a tip of the head and a friendly "Guten morgen" and continued past us, oblivious to our shock (later, our couchsurfing host, Torsten, would explain that this was completely normal as we tried to emphasize how not okay this would have been in the States). We returned to the airport to find it bustling with activity at three in the morning. What happened there? I still don't know.

We arrived in at about 10h and took a two hour bus ride up to Mellieha. Someone at the airport advised against it, but it really is the best and cheapest way to travel. First of all, the buses look awesome and you get to experience the sheer terror of riding the highways of Malta. There are zero traffic laws, very narrow streets in the urban areas, and the land is very hilly, so you're bouncin' around like crazy. Hotel Panorama is located behind this incredibly beautiful church on one of the highest points on the island and as promised, the view was excellent. We were decidedly the youngest guests at the hotel, it being the destination of mostly British and German senior couples. We passed out for awhile and woke up in time for dinner, which was part of the package I bought online. The food was what you'd imagine for, well, a package that you'd buy online. I even threw up the last night after eating some chicken that I originally thought was fish until I was a couple of bites in. But wine was cheap and we took full advantage.
We were all set to spend an entire week in this Mediterranean paradise, but I was adamant about starting on my tan early, so we headed down to the beach early the next morning and proceeded to lay in the afternoon sun for over five hours...without sunscreen. Somehow I have yet to learn my lesson when it comes to sunburns, having thoroughly convinced myself that I tan well as a result of my Croatian/Yugoslavian background. I at least suffered less than Forest, who is of German heritage and got into the shade about an hour before I did. We both ended up with some ridiculous burns, somehow burning in some areas while remaining completely fish-belly white in others. Forest's shoulders got the worst of it, while it was the back of the legs for me (particularly painful since we did A LOT of walking the next couple of days and climbed an endless number of stairs). On our way to the hotel the previous day, I had noticed a couple of young cats at the end of an alleyway and went up to pet them (I am in serious cat-withdrawal. I miss my kitty! Mavis, I miss you!) until Forest pointed out that they were scratching themselves furiously. To and from the beach, we noticed several more cats. Seriously, cats EVERYWHERE! I had no idea, but we were to learn later that this is common to the Mediterranean and led us to make several jokes about the promotion of authentic "rabbit" stew in front of several Maltese restaurants (We, in fact, saw no rabbits on the island, despite our meanderings into the countryside).
The next day we headed to Valleta, the capital of Malta and an incredible mixture of beautiful slum and British tourism. We took several "arty" pictures (at least, I like to think so) and ate at this great little outdoor restaurant that overlooked the sea called Les Deux Baronnes. We got the "maltese platter" and two "maltese coffees" (Excellent! Blood orange rind in a medium-roast, probably African) and we started taking notes for our next dinner party. Maltese food is awesome! We planned on going back to try more, but unfortunately never got around to it. That night we went to check out some Maltese films at the European Film Festival after we saw a poster in town. Three euro for a night of films and after-party potential! Pretty siked, we got some coffee and waited for the evening to begin. The film center was a peculiar modern building that kind of reminded me of being in a minimalist sea shell. It was a pretty swanky crowd and I felt a bit self-conscious with my lobster tan and totally casual attire, but after one or two films it was like, jokes on you pretentious London crowd! They were basically student films that were formulated like Hollywood trailers and needless to say, Forest and I hightailed it out of there immediately after, despite the promise of free wine. We went to get some dinner, which I was really enjoying until I checked my bus schedule and realized that we had missed the last bus back to Mellieha. At that point we had no choice but wander the streets until 5h or take a cab back. The chilly night air eventually convinced us of the necessity of returning to the hotel and we bit a thirty-three euro fare as a result. Ouch.
When we first got to the hotel, we noticed that on the other side of the bay was this crazy cliff and our adventurous spirit prompted us to promise each other that we would climb out there before the end of the trip. When we awoke the following day (after Valletta), I was anxious to get outside and we decided that we'd sunscreen it up and conquer the cliff. We estimated that the trip would take us about four hours, there and back, giving us time to rest and explore. Working against us was the hottest day of our trip and the inviting look of the beach as we passed, but we were still crispy so another beach day was out of the question. The first leg of the journey was spent hiking along the edge of winding highway, which was kinda scary due to the aforementioned Maltese rules of driving conduct. Once we got up past the Red Temple (check out Wikipedia!), there were very few cars along the road and we had a great view of the island. The closer to the cliff we got, the higher we were and several times we walked to the edge to look down into the sea. At one point, we noticed a steep trail and the water looked so blue and inviting. We climbed down and as we reached the bottom rocks, I suggested we go skinny dipping. Forest had never swam in the ocean before and I laughed when we got in the water and he thought the salty taste in the water was his sunscreen (he knew that it was salt water but was struck by just how salty it is). The little cove we swam in was gorgeous and I loved being able to enjoy the sea without the bother of a beach full of tourists. Once we finally made it to the cliff, which we learned later is called the White Tower, we sat on the edge and watched the waves crash against the rocks, thrilled by that feeling that you won't be able to stop yourself from jumping or falling (We were very careful). The journey took about as long as expected and I gorged myself with cheese and crackers from the buffet upon return.
The next day we went to the Blue Grotto, taking a bus into a nearby town and walking along the highway to coast. The road wove around a rural area, split down the center by a massive gorge where spotted some local kids playing. Once we got to the Blue Grotto, my camera died just after I got a picture; the last from our trip since I was concerned about the carry-on baggage weight limit and didn't bring my charger. We stole away to a quiet area and tried to share a romantic moment, but after a moment of kissing, I opened my eyes to find that we were surrounded by tourists, all trying to politely ignore us. I really wanted to yell at them, can't you find somewhere else to sight-see for five minutes!? We climbed around a bit and then went to a nearby restaurant to enjoy some of that fine Maltese "rabbit", which really did taste like chicken. We were having a great time until the waiter started trying to kick us out, finally removing my unfinished plate and informing us that we could pay downstairs and leave our tip with him. Yeesh. We hitched a ride with a friendly local back into town and took the bus from there.
After all that excitement, we needed a day to wind down and since our burns had pretty much faded, we went down for another day at the beach. A shorter day. With sunscreen. Everything went pretty smoothly and though I'm peeling a bit now, I'm brown as hell and loving it as I see so many bright pink chests and shoulders on French girls back in Paris.
Our last full day was spent on the two smaller islands, Comino and Gozo. Comino first: a rocky island with tons of caves and very little beach, all of which was occupied by tourists. We brought our bathing suits in case we wanted to swim, but there was no way that we were going to try to squeeze in with that crowd. However, Comino is surrounded by several smaller islands (??? More like giants rocks and cliffs jutting out of the sea). There was one that was hollow in the center and framed the horizon like a window out into the sea. Beautiful. After short discussion, we put on our suits and jumped from a rock into the sea, swam towards the rock island and carefully climbed it. It was a steep surface and the coral-like texture of the rock hurt our bare feet, but once we made it to the top (about 75 ft high), it felt so good to look down and watch the waves crash into the cave.
We didn't have much time in Gozo, having learned our lesson about Maltese public transportation, but suffice to say that we once again renounced the beaten path, walked along a country road by-passing a mass of horny sheep, climbed a dangerously steep hill covered in unfriendly plant life and risked death sliding down a path of loose dirt and made it back to our hotel satisfied.
The next morning, we once again took the bus to the airport and I couldn't believe how homesick I was feeling. For the first time since I've been in Europe, I don't just miss my mom or my cat or my friends, I miss Ann Arbor. I miss my country. I never expected that. The feeling was amplified once we landed in Bremen for the last time and once again I was faced with a place in which I was unfamiliar with the language. Our couchsurfing host, Torsten, didn't get out of work until 19h, so we had hours to kill. When we finally met up with him, we ended up sitting around his place and talking with him and his housemate. Both great people. Torsten lived for a semester in Oklahoma when he was in high school and so our conversation focused a lot on our perceived differences between the cultures. On the plane back to Paris the next morning, I was surprised that I didn't feel comforted that I was returning to the place that I've been calling home for the last three months. I wanted my old neighborhood, my car, my old stomping grounds, the familiarity of a place that I have so often lamented. Strange.
Now that we are back in Paris, I feel better. Being able to show Forest the places I've come to know since my arrival, all the gardens, Sacre Coeur, Pompidou, the Quartier Latin, I feel a little more secure and excited about my next two months abroad. I plan on keeping busy and really digging into French, especially since my recent lone outings to the bar have proved successful. Tomorrow I'm going to see Tindersticks with a potential French friend. Yeah, I know, I'm a dork.