Notes from the Jet Lag Lounge

My very confused engines started racing at 3am, and there was nothing else to do (after last night's dishes) but finally sit down and write a blog post.

I used to brag about my immunity to jet lag. No matter in which direction I had traveled, no matter how much coffee consumed, I was somehow able to sleep on command. This talent was developed, along with many useful others, while working the graveyard shift at a Kansas diner.

That, however, is a different story, and a seemingly moot point. Because the 'Sleep Whenever' trait has reached its expiration date. I now belong to that unfortunate camp of people who find themselves awake against their will at absurd hours in the morning. The breastfeeding and menopausal, plus me.

One week is a silly amount of time in which to visit the United States. I arrived at my mother's and spent the first three days in a haze, waking up in the wee hours and sleeping again at the first sign of light. Near the end of the trip, my body adjusted. I became very briefly delightful and then boarded another plane.

Now I'm counting the minutes before I can mount a Vélib' and head over to Au Duc de la Chapelle. My sleep-deprived mind is finding poetry in the idea of pedalling to the Best Baguette in Paris as it is pulled hot from the oven.

But will Anis Bouabsa be pleased to find an American sleeping on his bakery's doorstep? There's only one way to find out...

32

Form a line to the throne comments box because today, dear readers, is my birthday.

The day began with bright sun streaming through my window and crisp blue surrounding the visible sliver of Sacre Coeur. Birds - I kid you not - were warbling on the balcony.

My roommate had left a pot of strong coffee waiting, along with a spot-on funny gift. I drank it in slowly while making a new mix tape CD, quite content to be hookey from work.

A date drew me out of musical solitude, and I set off to meet Catherine around 12:30.

A perfect assiette at the Cantine de Quentin, and then a walk along the shining canal.

Cath returned to work and I continued on to meet another girl. After four months apart, I wasn't sure what to expect from our reunion. My bike was waiting for me outside an Oberkampf pool hall, a little worse for wear but still beautiful. I hopped on for a wide-eyed ride through the city and then installed the bike at her new digs in Montmartre.

I later transferred my fesses to Nicole's scooter - a machine that always makes me feel like a teenager. There was much "wheeeee!!!" as we rode over for cocktails near Abbesses. And there was much gossip to accompany our kir.

I haven't even told you about the Vagina Party yet, have I? The one that spawned at least 5 (however temporary) couples? The one that left me exhausted at 6 am amid a pile of red feathers?

That'll have to wait.

After 5 consecutive nights of stuffing my gullet, I am calling it an early night. Perhaps tomorrow, after some digestion, I can be clever again. For tonight I'm just pleasantly stuffed. And quite grateful to friends for the filling.

I shall leave you with this hopeful message from the Onion:

Your Birthday Today

After days of grave and anxious discussion, the stars have decided that it's better you don't know.

F the Pig

On December 31st, while ambling up the rue des Martyrs, I came across this little wagonful of pig.

Some children were gathered 'round, flanked of course by watchful parents.

I dove right in to feel the pig's short black bristles and smooth pink nose. This, to the dismay of those waiting for permission to touch.

Imagined conversation:

"Maman! Why does the giant lady get to do it?"

"Just look at her, Ludivine. She's wearing sweatpants. I think that answers your question."

(I was coming home from the gym...)

My pig-stroking made a challenge of the lebanese flatbread I later bought. It would have been terribly inconvenient, so few hours before New Year's Eve, to contract some sort of mouth disease. But I managed, while nudging through the frenzied fish shop spillover, to keep a napkin over my fingers at all times.

This neighborhood is perfect, I thought to myself, as I crested the butte near my home. Not only do I get to look at this during my morning walk, but there's a pig in the street for no reason.

It only dawned on me today that it might have something to do with astrology. 2006, remember, was the Year of the Dog.

(You didn't know?)

And 2007, which technically doesn't begin until February 18, is the Year of the Pig.

Because my knowledge of Chinese Astrology is limited to whatever was printed on the placemat of my hometown "oriental" restaurant, I turned to Google this morning to find out what it all means.

And what it means, according to this site, is that I'm screwed.

Some remarks about my coming year:

"It is actually a year of transition for the Rabbits"
...Hey - they're right on!

"They have chances to handle major issues or tasks"
...That's right. Watch me go.

"But Rabbits should not expect to have any achievement this year."
...Um, what?

"Otherwise, you are just going to be hugely disappointed at last."
...

"Because of your energy this year, you would fail to find support and assistance from others."
...This is a joke?

and finally...

"You would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards."
_________________________

After a full minute of staring with my jaw dropped, I went back to the search screen. And I Googled and Googled until I came up with something more to my liking:

"This is a good year for those who are born in the year of the Rabbit."
...Damn straight.

"There are signs of promotion and you will be given the power to be a leader in your career."
...I knew it!

"Do not push your luck by trying to reap profits through illegal means."
...But you just said...

"Put a scepter to your right on your office table. Place a lepidolite near you."
...
_________________________

To round things out and add a little occident to the mix, I paid a visit to the only horoscope that really matters.

And here is The Onion's prediction for Pisces in 2007:

"The New Year will start out with a bang for you. Unfortunately, it will also end with a bang for you."

I think I'm finished with astrology.

Lost (Happy New Year)

I spent the better part of yesterday on the sofa watching Lost.

I've never before been the serial type, but was grateful - upon rousing myself from the hangover bed - to find my roommate's DVD collection.

Television is such powerful escapism. I'd forgotten about it during my six weeks of squatting. It's even more effective than, say, drinking one's own body weight in champagne and pretending to be a libertine.

Another New Year's Eve, another attempt to wipe clean the temporal lobe slate. This wasn't the first year that I'd drank too much on NYE, but it was the first time I'd done so alone. Alright, okay, so I was hardly alone. But I wasn't in the bosom of my long-time friends, and it had me feeling a bit maudlin.

I looked around the party and couldn't ignore what was missing: Loretta dancing in a giant pajama sack...Roshen passing out the lyric sheets...Friese tossing his wig under a canopy of paper foliage...Jennifer not knowing when to stop with the jello shots...

What? That was me?

And, of course, Jayson. In their place were some strangers who were doing a miserable job of already knowing me. Several hours after midnight, with the party nowhere near dying down, I grabbed my coat and fled to the Pont des Arts.

I stood for some time staring blankly at the city, waiting for an epiphany to bubble up from the Seine. In its place came a text message from Yorkshire, reading:

"I'm in a bar with lots of rough people with non-ironic mullets..." followed by some unrepeatable instructions on lightening the hell up.

In lieu of further revelation, I went back to the party. And I had, against all odds, a very good time.

Reinvention seems to be a little easier on Lost. A plane crash strands them on a tropical island and these characters can be whoever they want to be. The criminal becomes a do-gooder. The wounded cripple is suddenly a hero.

So what exactly am I supposed to be? Your suggestions, particularly if accompanied by costume ideas, would be appreciated.

And seriously, are there really polar bears on that island?

Happy New Year.

Boo (Hoo)

Evidence of Halloween is paltry today, not a ghoul or a goblin to be found. I don’t blame the French for not getting into the holiday – it makes no sense from their perspective.

Logistically, Halloween is a nightmare in Paris. School-sponsored events are out because the holiday falls during a mid-semester break. No Halloween parade for the kids to show off their costumes. No thematic cupcakes, no dry ice.

Trick-or-Treating, the raison-d’être of Halloween, is ruled out by building security. A child without a door code cannot enter from the street. Thus, the doorbells are not rung and the threats are not issued. The candy is purchased and consumed in moderation.

The cultural differences are more glaring when one considers Halloween for adults. Dressing up in costume is not just child’s play in the States. Some of my best holiday memories involved university parties, a hasty get-up and even hastier hallway kissing.

Costumes for adults fall into one of the following categories:

1) Trying to be sexy
2) Trying to be ugly
3) Trying to be clever
4) Not trying (see mask and sheet)

Most of my costumes fell into the third category and enabled a range of irregular behavior. Dressing as a bonobo allowed me to demonstrate my ape calls and hump assorted legs. Dressing in foliage and carrying a scythe enabled me to make a political statement...or at least to try (“I’m a Bush. Get it?”). Dressing as Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo gave me the freedom to leave little brown smears all over a friend's apartment.

Parisian adults are more limited in their choice of costume. “Trying to be sexy” is not a once-a-year frivolity here. “Trying to be ugly” is just out of the question. Clever is good, but not at the expense of decorum. Dressing oneself as a turd? I think not.

That leaves #4: Not Trying. Parisians making an effort will simply accessorize.

Others will reject the holiday kit and caboodle, deriding Halloween as an imposition of Anglo-American culture and commercialism. They’re not wrong. In absence of trick-or-treating and costumes, the only visible signs of Halloween can be found in Happy Meal boxes and at Euro-Disney.

In this context, I chose boots for Halloween. And also tights, a knee-length skirt, and fitted shirt. I put on a scarf and brushed my hair, looking for all the world like a Parisian.

It is, after all, the day to be something you’re not.