le Noel me manque

Not much of interest has happened since I last updated. Except that time that Leah and I went to buy yarn...in the ghetto. To be fair, it wasn't really the ghetto, but Barbes Rochechwhatever was certainly a higher level of sketchiness than I had as yet experienced in Paris. This made it all the funnier when we went into stores and asked if anyone knew where we could find yarn. "You know, the soft thing with which you do the knitting? And the crocheting? It makes a scarf for to keep warm?" Yes.

We also had to figure out if "textiles" was the same word in French as it is in English. We decided it was either the same, or it actually meant crackhouse, but the store with the big "textiles" sign turned out to be closed upon further inspection, so I honestly still don't know.

But the short story is that we didn't find any yarn, just a lot of fabric, much of which was hideously ugly. Like in the fuzzy, hot-fuschia zebra way. So after our futile quest we met up with Leah's friend from Bowdoin and headed to the Marais for FALAFEL! Which I had been craving like a nutcase for quite some time. It was tasty, if kind of expensive. It was so cold that we ended up wandering around the gift shop of the Centre Pompidou for no apparent reason other than the desire to not get frostbite. But we did find some postcards with the same technicolor zebra pattern we'd seen on fabric earlier. At least now we know who buys that crap, I guess.

Our lit prof is still pretty evil, only now we're reading a book which is stupid in an entirely different way from anything we've yet to see. It reminds me of that time I read the first 15 pages of Twilight and wanted to shoot myself in the foot because it was so hilariously badly written. In grammar we're learning the subjonctif (il faut que nous apprenions le subjonctif...fo' serious). And phonetique is nulle as usual. Theatre consists of me drawing christmas narwhals while our prof makes up things to take up our three hour class and prepares us to see a play which she fully admits might suck. Apparently it's gotten so awful reviews in le Monde, so that should be, you know, enjoyable.

Friday might involve a pizza party for Lizzie's birthday, and Saturday is Mwantuali's pot de Noel, after which we are returning chez moi to (hopefully) watch Love Actually, paint our nails, drink hot chocolate and probably eat more cochonerie (literally means "piggery" but is used to describe unhealthy food stuffs). And Monday is our long-awaited foray to Angelina's, which I have to prepare for by dreaming about montblancs and not eating anything remotely sugary for...as long as I can beforehand, which admittedly is not that long. Whatevs.

Only a little over a week before I go home for Christmas. Paris at Christmas is actually not all that Christmasy. With the whole "etat laique" thing going on it's kind of inappropriate to have open displays of religiousness, which is why the holiday windows at Galleries Lafayette are made up of purple rock men, octopuses (octopi?), babies on mushrooms and mechanical bunnies. I never thought I would be in support of open displays of religiousness either, mainly because I'm not religious in any way, shape or form, but I love Christmas with a flaming passion and I kind of need to have the traditional Christmas trees and Santa's and angels with harps and horns and reindeer and elves. I'm also OBSESSED with Christmas carols, as most of you know because you've probably gotten frostbite as a result. And if visual displays of religion are scarce here, songs about it are even harder to find. Except in Lily's Bread (an American bakery), and even then it's "White Christmas" and "Chestnuts Roasting" etc. Also, singing in public is probably frowned upon in France unless you're actually good at it, which I am certainly not. And lastly, wearing red and green striped socks and jingle bell earrings is definitely a faux pas. So needless to say I haven't gotten my Christmas fix in yet and am looking forward to being able to do so very soonly.

PS - I am obsessed with Fleet Foxes' White Winter Hymnal, so I'm hoping that one Hilary Raye Bovay might have put it onto a certain mix CD which may or may not be making its way across the Atlantic ocean to me as I type this. Hmmm!