allez allez

Last month I ran my first race in France.

My aunt (who is also my godmother and the visionary individual who introduced me to J.R.R. Tolkien, inspiring my life-long love of Middle-earth and a somewhat unfortunate dwarf rune tramp stamp) and I took advantage of a fare sale and escaped to Paris for a long weekend.

Coincidentally, our weekend away was also the same weekend of the Course de la Saint-Valentin, a 10K organized by the Paris Frontrunners, an LGBT running club. The race is four hilly loops through the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, which is one of my favorite places in Paris and also happens to be where I rolled my ankle and ended up with a cuboid stress fracture six years ago. I took this as my opportunity for a do-over and signed up immediately.

C'est magnifique!

One thing to know about racing in France: There is a mandatory medical release form for every race. It must be signed by a doctor, and you will get e-mails in French every few days until you upload the completed form. Luckily, I had my annual physical in January, so timing worked out for me to have my doctor complete it. (Also, my aunt – in addition to being a book binding artist, owner of a massive stamp collection, and mother to a crazy cockatiel named Gershwin – is a doctor. So I was doubly covered.)

And then there was the race swag.

Yes, that is a condom. When I showed it to my aunt, her immediate comment was, “So is that French sizing?” (She was also quite thrilled by the sexual health literature that accompanied said condom. Best French vocabulary lesson ever.)

Race day was equally awesome. Many runners were in costume. (My favorite: Gay Ninja turtles, complete with green body paint.) And the active warm-up was a riot – I couldn’t stop laughing! (Picture Mario and Luigi joyfully doing squats.) And crowd support was on point too. (There were drag queen cheerleaders who swatted you on the butt with a leather whip as you ran past.)

Post-race yoga with your favorite Nintendo characters.

 This was a slow race for me (much hillier than I’m used to – finished in 1:00:59), but I had a blast!

my left foot

I ran this morning. It started well. I made it to Les Parc des Buttes Chaumont, which was lovely.

And I was truly enjoying myself and marveling at how great I felt post-marathon and making all sorts of witty mental notes about Euro runners and the abundance of manpris.

And then my left foot totally crapped out: Horrible, sharp, piercing pain that started on top of my foot and radiated outward.

My run lasted all of 25 minutes. And then I had to limp two-something miles back to the apartment. (And on the way, I got hit on by a French dude who told me I looked good and asked me for coffee. When I said no, he asked me if I wanted to have a cigarette. Which makes perfect sense since a cigarette is exactly what I want after run-limping. Whatever. I'll quit being bitchy and take it as a compliment that someone thought my gimpy ass was worth talking to.)

And I haven't been able to walk since. I hobbled down the street for lunch at Comme Sur Une Ile, which thankfully is only a block away ...

... and then hobbled across the street to the pharmacy for anti-inflammatory cream ...

... and then spent the rest of the day in the apartment, icing my foot and reading and trying not to think about Ghostie turning the bathroom lights on and playing with the shower door.

My foot is swollen around the outer ankle bone, and I don't have full range of motion. It also hurts to put weight on it. But the worst part is being stuck indoors on vacation. I feel slightly helpless and isolated and like I'm wasting precious time. And I'm a blatant traffic target now -- if I almost got hit by a bus yesterday with full mobility, there's no way I could escape limping around like I am.

Fingers crossed that by resting today, I will feel better tomorrow and can explore again. 

le fantôme

Perhaps I've been away too long in a place where I can't readily communicate with others. Or perhaps I've gotten too involved in my most recent read (which is all about a creepy house and a creepy family whose members slowly seem to be losing their minds in a creepy way). Or perhaps I've been hanging out with too many skeletons.

Literally.

But I'm starting to think this apartment is haunted. It doesn't feel scary or uncomfortable here by any means (in fact, it's downright cozy and homey and wonderful), but small, strange occurrences keep happening.

For example, the other day, I dragged a chair into the bathroom so I could stand on it to look in the mirror. (There's no full-length mirror here and I'm short, so acrobatics are necessary.) I swear I didn't take the chair back out of the bathroom before leaving for the day, and when I came back, the chair was in the kitchen.

I figured I just wasn't remembering correctly. Maybe I did put the chair in the kitchen. Maybe eating a ridiculous amount of meat parts makes you forget entire chunks of time. 

I didn't think too much about it until I woke up this morning and the kitchen window was wide open (and very conveniently airing out the laundry I did last night and had hanging on a rack to dry -- thanks, Ghostie, for the help!). I know I didn't open that window. In fact, I probably couldn't have even opened that window if I wanted to because it took me a really long time to figure out how to close it.

And then today when I got back from wandering around Canal Saint-Martin and the 10th arrondissement, it was chilly in here, so I went to get my lululemon jacket and had trouble finding it. I swear I had draped it on a chair over my leather jacket this morning when I left the house (and I distinctly remember double-checking my lulu pockets for extra coins for subway fare), but this evening the leather jacket was on top, and the lulu jacket was underneath.

There has to be a logical explanation for this, right? Maybe I'm just not remembering everything completely? Meat coma? Plum brandy hallucination? Creation of imaginary friends to keep me company?

Anyway, other than the ghost thing, which really isn't bad at all (in fact, I suspect this is a very orderly, Type A ghost who enjoys household chores and having things arranged a certain way) today was nice (well, except for the horrific moment when I almost got plowed over by a bus while I was in a crosswalk and had the right of way -- seriously, I came about a foot away from becoming a ghost myself this afternoon -- not even exaggerating, it was that close).

I escaped the hordes of tourists and went to the 10th arrondissement. Lunch was at La Pointe du Groin, an off-the-beaten-path bar/tapas place that serves wine in magnums and has guests pay with tokens they get from a machine instead of with cash (tricky but fun way to get people to spend more). The prices were fantastic (happy hour all day!) -- I spent 20€ and had grouse terrine (I guess a grouse is kind of like a pigeon?), crudité, panacotta, two glasses of cider and an espresso. Not bad.

And then I took a long walk along the canal.

eating here

Recent victories: Conducting an entire tampon-buying transaction in French. Figuring out how to use the washing machine in this apartment sans tidal wave of sudsy liquid. Finding amazing vintage literally a block away. Timing this vacation perfectly for "first Sunday free admission" at the Louvre.

Recent failures: This salad.

Note to self: The Louvre is wonderful; its food is not. In fact, this salad made me so angry because it broke my streak of awesome meals here. Also, it was €12,80 (with the bottled water), and only the chicken (and the water) was decent. Grrr.

But other than today's lunch failure, dining in Paris has been beyond incredible. To keep from going broke and gaining a bazillion pounds here, my strategy has been to eat one nicer, destination-type meal each day, and then outside of that, eat cheese at the apartment or pick up a small snack somewhere. I've also been trying to have my more expensive meals at lunch, when menu prices tend to be more affordable. (You know what's great? How responsible that just sounded. When the truth is I've just spent all of my money on shopping, so basically I can't eat more than one nice meal a day. Which is maybe what I suspect the French Paradox really is: French women don't get fat because they spend all their money on amazing clothes and therefore have no money to eat. Which works out because then they look good in said clothing. OK, I'll stop now.)

So where have I been eating (when I'm not longingly caressing everything in Zadig & Voltaire or going crazy over the cat print lingerie at Princesse Tam Tam -- this exists and it is my destiny -- or wandering through the antique stalls at Village Saint Paul)?

Last Tuesday's lunch destination was Le Baratin (which I previously wrote about). Wednesday brought me to Le Severo, a ridiculously awesome 14th arrondissement steakhouse run by a man who used to be a butcher. I had the best boudin noir of my life there:

I was tempted to order seconds, but instead ended up having a medium-rare hamburger steak (I really think the theme of this trip is "stuff your face with weird meat parts") and frites. And then I walked off all of that meat by visiting some dead people and climbing a ridiculous amount of stairs. So naturally, I got hungry again and went to Jacques Genin for mille feuille:

Side note: Clearly this was not gluten-free. But I've been picking and choosing my battles. Been good for the most part (no daily trip to the patisserie or boulangerie, which has required so much willpower), but I have been been sampling a bit here and there. (And dealing with the consequences. But look at that mille feuille: Totally worth it. Oh, and the toilet paper here in this apartment is pink with flowers. It's very pleasant.)

On Thursday, I had lunch at Guy Savoy because I wanted to splurge and experience the whole Michelin three-star thing. This was mind-blowing and will be a future post all on its own. (You just have to remind me, though -- because I know I say "future post" a lot, and that pretty much turns into "never post." And the photos from this meal were just too gorgeous not to share.)

That night I broke my one-decadent-meal-a-day rule and went to another steakhouse with Derrick and Brooke. Where I proceeded to eat this entire thing all by myself:

Meat marathon, anyone? (And remember how I used to be vegetarian? This is kind of embarrassing. I've barely eaten anything green on this trip. Just a lot of flesh. Wait -- if I'm eating flesh and hanging out with dead people a lot, does this mean I'm a zombie?!)

Then Friday's meal was the plum brandy night at Aux Petits Oignons (and I'm reading that post and thinking that maybe I should never ever have plum brandy and be anywhere near a computer).

Which brings me to yesterday's eating adventures and this wonderful find:

Breizh Café, a.k.a. where you can find the perfect crepe, an extensive cider list and a very, very cute server. (Oh, did I just say that?) I was planning to order only a savory crepe ...

... but the sweet ones looked so good.

I couldn't resist. But can you blame me? (Especially since the cute server taught me how to ask for the crepe in French. Le sigh.)

the eiffel tower, etc.

Tonight's question: If I listen to enough Spotify commercials in French, will I wake up tomorrow and be totally fluent and awesome?

Probably not, but please don't burst my bubble, especially since it's Friday night here in Paris and I'm typing this in bed, all squinty-eyed and lip-bitten because the bartender at the bistro a block away decided to introduce me to a French plum brandy called Vieille Prune and just kept pouring (and pouring). "Welcome!" she said. And it all went down the hatch.

Also, I have kept the "weird meat parts" theme going and had bone marrow for dinner tonight.

Which was followed by a traditional pistachio rice pudding that the bartender made me order. (But I was so thankful for her forcefulness -- this dessert was amazing.)

Besides stuffing my face, today I went to Montmartre and searched for the places where "Amélie" was filmed.

The toilette scene is my second favorite in the movie. (First favorite is Nino dressed as a skeleton in the fun house and whispering in Amélie's ear. Hot.)

I also went to the Sacré Coeur, where I met up with Derrick and Brooke, who are visiting from California. (I love it when worlds collide in the best possible way. We had dinner yesterday too and then walked to the Eiffel Tower, when it was lit up and lovely.)

Speaking of the Eiffel Tower ...

Allow me to explain: I made the mistake of telling a friend about the infamous Tour Eiffel dildo, and he then decided that was the one thing he really wanted from Paris -- to give as a gag gift for another friend's birthday (or so he says). So I wandered around Pigalle this afternoon, going from sex shop to sex shop in search of this particular dildo.

I'm a pretty brazen person, but I'll admit that buying a tourist dildo (in a horrible metallic gold color) took a bit of courage. Thankfully, as I mentioned earlier, people in Europe barely blink when it comes to sexuality. (Dear 'Merica: Why so Puritannical? And does a Statue of Liberty dildo exist? Or even better -- what about the Washington Monument? Because it is already the correct shape and would be very easy to market.)

You know, I just re-read that last paragraph. I'll stop now while I'm ahead. In the meantime, here are some photos of street art I saw today during my dildo search.

bonjour

Which is pretty much one of the few things I can say in French that people actually understand. Which has been interesting since I've been rolling solo in Paris since Monday night. (Best reason to run an international marathon: The travel.)

I won't lie: At first, it was slightly terrifying. I've never been here before, I'm totally alone and of course, I had heard all of the stereotypes and stories about rude Parisians who hate you for speaking English.

So I did my best to recall what I could from the whopping six months I spent in French class back in 2010. And besides "bonjour," the only things I really feel comfortable saying are "Where is the cat?," "I am going to explode," "Where are the toilets?" (very necessary if explosion is imminent) and "I love fries!"

But I've been determined not to look like the dumb American. (Oh wait -- just remembered I know how to say "I am American." We can add that to the list.) So I've been fumbling my way through food orders and fromageries (try asking for very strong Brie using nothing but hand gestures) and the local LARP store (which, yes, I did happen to find -- totally by accident, I swear).

And so far, the experience has been amazing. Yes, no one can understand half of what comes out of my mouth, and they all end up speaking English or pantomiming. But they're very nice about it. And I do understand what they're saying in French, but I sound like an idiot when I try to respond.

Anyway, I am enjoying myself immensely and want to remember Every Single Detail. Therefore, be warned: If you aren't into a shit-ton of vacation photos, you should stop reading now. End public service announcement.

Yesterday I explored the neighborhood I'm presently calling home, which is Père Lachaise/Gambetta in the 20th arrondissement -- not far from Ménilmontant and Belleville. I found a store that sells Eiffel Tower-shaped dildos (I know, I know -- I should've purchased at least three in multiple colors -- missed souvenir opportunity!), a fantastic cheese shop run by the nicest people (my goal is to buy a different cheese every single day I am here) and Le Baratin, which is known for a wine list focusing on natural wines and also has a killer three-course lunch for just 19€ (wine not included).

I started with the terrine ...

... moved on to the pork ...

... and finished with cheese. Which I didn't take a picture of because I pretty much inhaled it. (By the way, the toughest question in Paris: Fromage ou dessert? Oh, decisions, decisions!)

After that long, lazy, lingering lunch, I wandered through the Père Lachaise Cemetery for hours.

I failed to find Jim Morrison's grave, but there were so many other beautiful things.

And then I came home and stuffed my face with more cheese, plus some duck mousse and tomatoes. (By the way, I may be the only person to bring her own bread to France. Stupid gluten.)

(Also, side note: Isn't it dumb that this blog is named what it is and I can't speak French or eat wheat? Feel free to call me a poser in the comments section below. I'll accept your scorn.)