Besides the weather, which I kind of like but kind of hate passionately, Paris is wonderful. The limestone buildings glow in the evening light, contrasting against the grey sky, and the language rolls into my ears like rivulets twisting over slippery rocks. My<\/em> words aren’t quite as beautiful; were they rivulets, they would pool in shallow depressions and eventually gain enough momentum to run onwards, creating an almost-constant sound. But that is how language goes, n’est<\/em> pas<\/em>?<\/p>\n And now I’d like to share a few moments from Paris with you, if you don’t mind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cBut, only Asians live on the sixth and seventh floor. Are you sure you\u2019re in the right house?\u201d she asked, perched in her doorway, her face a mix of confusion and worry. I wasn\u2019t sure. I had no idea, in fact, if I was in the right building, because apartments 40-47 were all built by the same architect in 1914 and were like six peas in a pod, neatly lining the street near Pont de Versailles station. \u201cNon, madame, je suis super desol\u00e9e mais je sais pas, est-ce que je peux utiliser votre t\u00e9l\u00e9phone, s\u2019il vous pla\u00eet? J\u2019ai pas assez de cr\u00e9dit, et \u2026.\u201d The woman whose home I\u2019d entered handed me her phone with concern, and I dialed Anneli\u2019s number for the sixteenth time, my fingers shaking and my eyes blurring with prickling tears. I turned away from the woman for a moment, waited, and heard nothing but faint clicking. Anneli\u2019s phone wasn\u2019t working, and neither was Mandi\u2019s. I called Steven again, and for some reason, it went through, again; the only problem was that his calls weren\u2019t connecting to either of the girls, and we were both about to run out of credit. It was already 9:00, and I\u2019d been trying to get into Anneli\u2019s house for exactly an hour to eat dinner and plan our evening. Obviously, it wasn\u2019t working. Distressed, I thanked the woman and left the apartment building, knowing I was in the wrong place and that there was no way Anneli could see me from her 7th story window. I walked to the m\u00e9tro, defeated, and was letting line 12 rock me to sleep when my Bollywood-esque ringtone jolted me upright. It was Mandi, who said that her phone wasn\u2019t working and that she couldn\u2019t get through to Anneli either, and that she had just failed to enter her building. I told her I was going to meet Steven instead, as I hadn\u2019t eaten, and she said she\u2019d probably do something else and maybe I\u2019d see her later. Our hopes lowered, we ended the call and I sunk back into my chair, my eyes closed, counting the 15 stops until my next transfer.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n It\u2019s a\u2019 one two three take my hand and come with me cause you look so fine that I really wanna make you mine.\u00a0<\/em>His eyes were more than halfway closed, his shirt buttoned incorrectly, but his feet grooved to the driving beat. We threw our heads up and down, tasting the humid air with our hanging tongues as if to quench our wild thirst, but only succeeding in looking absolutely insane. To put it frankly, I didn\u2019t give a care; I was on a perfectly-crowded, perfectly-lit dance floor in Paris with two awesome girls and thirty-odd French guys just off of Rue Oberkampf at 3 in the morning. \u00a0I swung my wet hair out of my face, singing the words to Jet\u2019s best song along with the rest of the club, the only difference being that mine were correct and not tilted sideways with the smooth French accent. The music went on. I was so glad to be wearing sneakers instead of flats. I could dance forever, and had been dancing for at least two hours among well-dressed, kind of skinny, faintly cigarette-smelling men and my ladies, stopping to refuel on cold water and ice cubes snatched from champagne buckets. Mandi and I had gone to the bathroom a few songs ago, which was a thin corridor of black-lights and white writing, contrasting slightly from the higher-lit rest of the club; I was glad that I only looked relatively insane (maybe just suffering from a personality disorder). Now, however, I could be sure of nothing about my appearance except for the fact that it felt like I\u2019d been swimming in the tropics for the past twenty songs and that the guys here were pretty good dancers and, if they weren\u2019t, they were at least fun to watch.\u00a0Four five six come on and get your kicks now you don\u2019t need money with a face like that do you honey?<\/em>\u00a0Nope. I don\u2019t. Which is good, because I don\u2019t have any more cash.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \n My iPhone charger wasn\u2019t plugged in so there was no alarm, but it\u2019s a good thing I am fast at getting dressed, because I\u2019m already a half-hour late to meet Anneli for brunch and I haven\u2019t even left my flat. Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, I\u2019m at Bastille again, this time for the pleasures of Sunday morning, also known as brunch and less tourists in the Marais. I see Anneli (orange dress, grey sweater) before she sees me (orange shirt, blue pants). We embrace in our\u00a0d\u00e9mi-fran\u00e7ais<\/em>\u00a0half-english way, hugging and cheek-kissing all at once, and decide on Fontaine Caf\u00e9 for the morning special of croissants, coffee, and wifi. As expected, all are slow, but we have plenty of time to spare and it\u2019s best spent together before the afternoon clouds roll in. Over buttery, feathery pastries and\u00a0caf\u00e9 allong\u00e9<\/em>\u00a0(luckily not the expected tiny cup of espresso) we let delicate French words roll off our ever-studious tongues, weaving stories of childhood and countrysides that bind our friendship tighter. A firetruck passes by, the siren tearing at my eardrums, the contents of the packed-vehicle eyeing us like we\u2019d just eyed our croissants. A little boy in a red striped shirt and mussed hair reminds us of Hanna Anderson, yet another thing we had in common growing up, and more stories fill up the hours of the morning. By the time the waiter comes with the check, it\u2019s hard to stop talking and stand up. It\u2019ll be even harder to cease speaking French and leave Paris, but I suppose we have some time.<\/p>\n <\/p>\nThe Phone<\/strong><\/h3>\n
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<\/a><\/p>\nPuma Social<\/strong><\/h3>\n
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Brunch<\/strong><\/h3>\n