Warning: This post starts off mundane and gets increasingly more exciting.
I knew from the day I got here that we had a public pool across the street. After two months of enough bread, butter, and cookies, running just wasn’t cutting it. I dragged my comfy bum outside and into the public pool (getting there took about 30 seconds).
The first shock came when I found myself in the men’s change room, and was alerted of this by a man in a very tiny bathing suit. I have no clue how this happened, as I actually do know the difference between homme and femme.
After entering the change room, looking around for quite some time, and reading all of the rules and regulations that in a normal instance I would never have bothered to read, I discovered the use of a swim cap is mandatory. I’d heard rumours about this, but didn’t realize that this nightmare could actually become a reality. There was a vending machine that sold swim caps out in the entrance, and I quickly chose the cheapest one they sold, for 1.50. Maybe not the best choice, because when I put in a 5, the machine gave me only 1.50 change. I asked the lady at the front desk about my missing change, and she claimed there was nothing she could do. Great, a 1.75 trip to the pool was getting more and more expensive!
In France, they are obsessed with hygiene. You have to walk through this foot bath that kills all the germs on your feet before even getting out to the pool deck. With all their vigilance, I was expecting to see multiple lifeguards on strict alert, especially since it was the school holidays. Instead, I saw one guy sitting at a desk doing a crossword. Later, an older man joined him, texting on his phone. I felt really safe. Neither of them were wearing bathing suits, although most men in the pool felt more than comfortable wearing barely anything at all. That was my first and so far last trip to the pool. I walk past it every day and hide my face in shame. I’ll go again, eventually.
On a more exciting note, this past weekend I got to celebrate the birthdays of two of my favourite people here! Saturday was my friend Katherine’s birthday, and I was not going to let this important day go uncelebrated. So we set off at ridiculous hours in the morning for a saturday and began our long journey to an amusement park outside of Paris called “Parc Asterix”, a made-in-France approach to Disneyland. This included 3 different trains to get to the airport, and then a shuttle bus from the airport to the park. The journey was well worth it. We spent an amazing day on roller coasters, watching a dolphin show, and grinning like crazy 10-year-olds the whole time. Saturday night I came home to a piece of birthday cake sitting on my desk, reminding of the other birthday celebration I had to come the next day– E’s.
With my host mom’s parents from Hungary nestled into our flat for the past week, things have been quite “cozy” with 6 people living here. It doesn’t help when two of those people do not speak a word of English or French. We had a fancy birthday lunch for E, which was rather silent and included lots of hand gestures. The highlight of the day for the birthday girl, and me as well was our trip to an Irish dancing show in Paris. It’s not your typical Dora the Explorer birthday show, but I’ve never seen eyes that big on a girl that small. She loved every moment of song and dance, and I appreciated how the family included me in their gift to her.
Finally, a huge shout-out to Peter for the setting up the amazing opportunity for me and a couple of friends to see Jason Mraz in concert monday night, and meet him and his band afterwards. After quickly meeting him with a handshake and a “Hi, I’m Jason from California,” we spoke for a while with the guitarist in his band who set up the tickets for us. Satisfied we’d had our fill of exclusivity and worried about missing the last train home, we left backstage for the bitter cold, where we were greeted by the envious stares and questions by French fans and American exchange students alike, waiting in the back parking lot for a glimpse of the singer. Realizing our mistake after leaving without a photo or a real conversation, I could already feel the regret dripping through my veins. “We’re going back in,” I announced. When we got back to the gathering, every one had pretty much left, leaving the band and a few friends hanging out around a table. They invited us to join them, filling up white plastic cups with red wine and offering us some Lindt, without having any clue as to who we were. Yes, eventually we got our pictures, and my autograph. Who would have thought I would ever be asked for recommendations on where to party in Paris by band members staying at the Crowne Plaza? We missed the last train, but the price of a taxi was well worth it.
Mondays can’t get much better.
Life in Le Pecq... 