Actuellement, c’est le verite. I am very excited. I have my first private tango lesson tomorrow at noon. I have my shoes, thanks to my everlovin sistah! I have excitement bubbling over into a fountain(fontaine) of mirth, joy and effevescent giggling. In short, business as usual for your friend freaka.
I should say though, depending on the company, I’m sure je suis tres excitee is a perfectly fine thing to say. And it’s more than likely that the way I typically say it, hands balled into fists, eyes screwed shut, hair flying wildly about my head as I jump up and down, probably leaves little to the imagination of how I intend aforementioned sentence.
However, it should be known, that this is France. Which would explain the hordes of people walking about speaking a language I barely understand a lot of the time. I have discovered if one uses the viewfinder on their camera more than the display screen, people tend to think you’re a journalist and defer a bit more respect than if they believe you to be an american tourist. Although, once I tell them I’m a Canadienne, the love abounds. As one guy put it, you are french canadian? No? Well, we like english canadians almost just as much. And everyone is enchantee’d to meet me, cuz here I’m the exotic. Whoot-de-dooo! Little miss canadian firespinning tango dancing loopybusgirly european traveler thing..huh, actually, that does sound slightly exotic.
Ah yes, distractions abound. Okee, for instance, if you are meeting someone of the sex you wish to potentially copulate/cohabitate/feel up in an alley/go bowling with (I have yet to see a bowling alley here but I’m sure it happens somewhere) I do not recommend telling them how excited you are to be in Paris. More so if you don’t want to jump into any of the previously mentioned scenarios. Also, when in some crazy basement rocking out to drum and bass or electro or whatever is playing at Point Ephermere, Le Zorba, et al, I don’t care how much more you sweat than the french girls around you (I swear they never sweat, and I don’t mean they perspire instead, I never see these fritches(french-bitches..see?) sweat! I’m down to a tanktop, I can put my hair into a ponytail using moisture alone, my pants are sticking to my legs in a most unflattering manner, my face is beet red, or better, blotchy beet red and the french girl next to me? Wearing a scarf, sweater and jacket, with a pale complexion, makeup perfectly non streaky, lipstick intact regardless of cigarettes and beers consumed and kisses had…and they can’t all have it tattooed on…) do not announce to the guy next to you, it’s really hot in here. It is just like that horribly annoying and talentless song where some generic rapper dude advises girls on their wardrobe. Or his desire for their lack of. Seriously ladies, if you would just get your damn self esteems in order and stop putting out for these derelicts, perhaps they would find something worthwhile to rap about, rather than dems my bitches and such.
Because I am queen of esteeming myself..ha! I deprecate, but these days it’s more in jest than ever before. When I had first arrived, I considered that one of the things I might do while here is something called a relooking. It’s essentially a style makeover. These professional relookers assess not only your personality, your bodytype, faceshape and colors etc to determine what would work, they sketch and put wigs on you and fabrics and the like so that you can see too! It’s not cheap, but hey, it’s Paris, and there is felt a certain frumpiness felt by moi at times when faced with the everyday style that is Parisienne woman. Every night I would think, tomorrow I’ll ride my bike over there and check it out. And every morning I would wake up and think, today I’m going to go play the piano…or go to yoga..or find that organic restaurant near Bastille (it was very tasty). In between, I found an organic makeup store and bought (purple!) eyeshadow and (superawesome) lipstick. I even learned the difference between daytime and nighttime lipstick (and I now have both..ha! Who saw that coming!) I layer skirts over pants and tuck them into legwarmers with ballet shoes and a long black tshirt and show up to a very fancy concert….then I put on a dress with a shawl, long socks and boots and show up to a very casual outing…I never seem to get it right, but I find that it bothers me less and less. If I went to this ‘relooker’ she would advise me on how to dress in fancy clothes that work with my body type and colors that flatter my eyes and a haircut that I’d probably have to use hair spray on to get it somewhere near how the stylist made it look for that one day. And then, perhaps I would look french, or cosmopolitan, or chic, bourgeosie, dans la mode.
But I wouldn’t necessarily look much like me. How much would that suck?
Oodles. And if I had fancy clothes, would I be likely to take a bottle of wine and crawl through the tiny window out onto the dirty rooftop next door to watch the sunset over the sacre coeur(I think that’s west of here…)? Well, being that it’s me, probably, but it wouldn’t be a great idea.. Some people have fashionsense, and some people have senseless fashion.
I’m okay with being the latter. Besides, there are so many people out there who are tapped into what it takes to be hautey couturey, do they really need one more?
And now, I have a date with a dirty rooftop and a bordeaux.
bise bise mon amis…