Thoughts on Barcelona

We just spent a long weekend in Barcelona. As you may know, Antoni Gaudi is the famous architect who designed the most visited and world-renowned art nouveau/modernist structures in the city. There is little doubt that these buildings are entirely unique, imaginative, and impressive. As such, they are definitely worth seeing. Moreover, they seem to set the tone for the city itself; fun and wild yet emanating from a traditional and solid base. Gaudi's works are also creations that do not necessarily appeal to me on a basic level. That is to say, if I had to live within or near one of these structures, I think I would have a perpetual headache. Thus, the architecture exactly sums up my feelings on Barcelona. Very fun place to visit and experience. However, I imagine I would become an inadvertent PR rep for Exedrin if I ever stayed there for an extended period of time. It is a place that feels, to me, like it thrives on its own very chaotic energy. Admittedly, I am not one who particularly enjoys a lot of rules and structure, but nor do I fare particularly well amidst chaos. Basically, and just to cut to the chase here: Barcelona is not the city for me. I can truly appreciate that it is a place beloved by others, and I can cognitively understand why. But for me, not so much. I sort of felt there how I feel in the presence of cat lovers, or when dining at an Indian resturant with a curry enthusiast. Like I get that there is something that I am clearly not getting. But that understanding does not make me get it anymore. You know what I mean? So, let's go over some of the weekend's highlights: on Saturday night, our third night in the city, we went to bed around midnight. We had our window open because the weather was just about perfect for doing so, and also because our hotel room was quite hot and stuffy when the window was closed. While I love fresh air, I do not love raging parties below my window sill that last until 5 am. And yet, for three nights, such was exactly the "bonus" to our Barcelona experience.These people were tireless ragers. They would seriously put American college kids to shame. On Saturday night, around 4 am, I was unceremoniously roused from my half-sleeping state (full sleep was not really a possibility with the amount of revelry occuring within such close proximity), and was instantly quite awake because what sounded like a harmonica, tambourine, and bongo drum ensemble started jamming with full gusto. Of course--don't all bands start playing at 4 am? I share this little story not to elicit sympathy at the sleep-robbery that transpired, but rather because I think the situation exemplifies my impression of Barcelona in general. There are no discernible "rules," people seem to abide by an utterly different time schedule, and at any given moment there is a strong possibilty that a mariachi band will materialize from nowhere and play with everlasting tenacity. Maybe even below your bedroom window. We went to check out of our hotel around 8 am on Sunday. At a hotel in the U.S., 8 am would be an hour where hotel personnel would be fully ensconced in the workday. Breakfast would be buzzing, the lobby would be pristine, and there would probably be a short line of slightly harassed-looking people, texting furiously on their blackberries as they wait to be checked out in an efficient and expeditious manner. In Barcelona, the bar/restaurant area was still in disarray from the night/morning's festivities, the cleaning crew was just starting to tidy the the reception area, and one bleary-eyed "night" receptionist checked us out in a haze that suggested we had just woken her from a deep slumber. I was actually envious of that look--did the trio of musicians not keep her awake too? Or did she go to sleep post-percussion jam? People eat lunch around 3 in Barcelona and dinner around 10 or 11. We eat late typically too (or so I thought)--around 9ish. Yet, we went to a restaurant at 9 on Friday night without a reservation, and easily and immediately were given a nice table. The place was really just starting to boom with diners when we left a couple of hours later. I seriously felt like an elderly lady who just enjoyed the early bird special. I fully realize, by the way, that it is not Barcelona's fault that I felt like a geriatric, but it nonetheless did not help my overall impression. Around-the-clock partying aside, Barcelona is a lovely city. Much like Gaudi's work, it is original and impressive. And it also possesses apparently deep traditional customs and culture. There were aspects I really loved, in fact. For example: it is surprisingly clean, and the harbor is gorgeous. The gothic quarter was an amazing place to lose yourself with all its narrow passageways, tucked away shops, restaurants, and churches. On the other hand, La Rambla is all hyped up as "the place" in the city center to see, but I found it to be a tourist nightmare rife with men hocking crap-tastic junk and an inexplicably large number of mobile pet stores housing various types of squaking parakeets. This road alone was was utter chaos comprised primarily of not very talented street performers, children buzzing around on wheeled apparati, and tourists white-knuckling their belongings in an attempt to stave off the much advertised thieves. La Rambla=not awesome. Other areas where breathtaking though. The Picasso museum is housed in a series of interconnected mansions, and there is a lot of fabulous green space in the city center. One day, we walked up the hill "Montjuic" and saw an incredible castle, enjoyed the vast and gorgeous parks up there, and walked back down through the art museum to the Plaza Espanya. It was a beautiful way to spend an afternoon. But, for whatever reason, I was just not sold on this place. Some people are likely outraged and I understand that sentiment. When people say they don't love Paris, I often simply nod and smile and say something (insincerely) sympathetic like, "Well, there is a lid for every pot." But really, I am assuming they must have some sort of mild brain damage or are just utterly moronic. So anyway, I am not sure Barcelona is the city for me. However, if I am ever in need of an all night party, I now know of no better place to find one. And that definitely counts for something.

Additional Guidebook Pontifications

I have been doing some more thinking about this intercultural guidebook that I may or may not ever actually write. Though, you might be interested to know that I have actually started it, so I dare say I hope it will be completed in some fashion at some point in the not-so-distant future.

I find that announcing your goals publicly can be good motivation for follow-through.

So, I have one more general observation about the guidebooks which are already in existence in abundance. My latest query does not have to do with their overall heft, as inexhaustible as that topic seems to be. Instead, it is a rather more subjective reflection. (By the way, I wrote "subjonctif", instead of "subjective" in that last sentence there before re-reading the sentence and experiencing a flicker of doubt as to its correct-ness. Light-bulb moment: another chapter for the guidebook = intercultural living erasing chunks of knowledge about your own language/culture before you are able to fully grasp that of the "other"culture and thus you find yourself speaking some mish-mash of incoherent drivel as you struggle to navigate your new environs. I think I will call that chapter: "Welcome to Language Pergatory". Forgive the religious reference).


But back to my subjective observation. Here it is: guidebooks really stress me out.

There is just so much to see and do in any one city, town, or province, and trying to figure out what to select as "musts" and what to leave out is a really anxiety-inducing activity for me. I want to see everything "worth" seeing, or else why would I go? As you maybe can tell, I am sort of an "all or nothing" type. Upon reading chapters upon chapters of possibilities and proposed itineraries, I start to become highly anxious thinking about all the activities, monuments, and sites that I will inevitably not be able to experience. And it also seems that just when I have calmed myself down from one of these ludicrous self-induced stress-sessions, a new problem arises. For example, have you ever decided that you could skip something, only to discover that some blasted guidebook "expert" has placed 5 stars of importance next to that item you so recently dubbed as "skippable"and thereby throws you straight back into the throes of that stress-sesh from which you were only beginning to emerge?

No? Me neither.

Obviously, I am totally neurotic. Some of you are reading this and thinking, "Umm, what is the problem here, exactly? Medication might be a good idea." And others of you are thinking, "Oh, my GAWD, me TOOOOOOO!!!!" After all, this blog is not the first place where I have shared my personal quirks, and I happen to know that there are plenty of others out there who also start sweating as they wonder why they are such a "bad" tourist before any of the touristing has even begun.

This entry is dedicated to you fellow-anxiety nutters. The rest of you can just carry on, blissfully missing entire countries without batting an eye.


This tendency of mine goes along with my husband's theory that whenever I have nothing "wrong" in my life at any given moment, I immediately conjure up potentially disasterous situations on which I can focus my emotionally and physical energy and thereby maintain some amount of misery in my life.

Again, some of you know just what I mean here.


Why I/we cannot simply enjoy these rare moments of happiness is beyond me. It is an asinine way to live. And so it is equally as redonky-donk to not actually just enjoy what ever sites we may be able to see on any given trip without worrying about all that we cannot see.


I mean it is not like we are collecting stamps or something. The whole purpose here is not to acquire something. It is to experience new things, to simply live life, and enjoy time spent in different environs from your "norm." It is not as though we will be losing money, integrity, or intelligence by missing a monument here and there.

We might be missing a day elbowing Japanese tour groups out of our line of vision, but I can live with that if you can.

So, in my WIP guidebook, I will definitely be devoting a chapter to the point that stressing out about what you will not see is a ridiculous waste of time when traveling. I think you have to repeat to yourself (calmly and patiently) that you are never going to be able to see everything. You are never going to have the time, the money, and/or the energy to see every last nook and cranny of every amazing place in the world. And, I mean, if you miss seeing the Mona Lisa because you decided to have a baguette picnic in the Jardin du Luxemboug on a gorgeous day, rather than to wait in line at the Louvre, it actually does not mean that you "missed out" on something in Paris (well, except the aforementioned experience with the Japanese tourgroups). Quite the contrary, in fact: you will have truly enjoyed your moment in Paris.

And besides, if you really HAD to see the Mona Lisa, just go home and hit up Google Images for a good clear shot Da Vinci's work.

Isn't that what the internet is for anyway?

Well that and porn.

So my guidebook will not be conventional, but I think it will be useful. I picture it being short, maybe 10 chapters, and thus not inadvertently herniating any disks. I picture it offering insight, guidance, and (I hope) humor. It will probably focus on France/Paris, though will pull inevitably from experiences in other countries. Anyway, I think it will be something I wish I had before moving to Paris. So now I have to follow through since I have talked a blue streak about the dang thing. That said, I will definitely let you know how it shapes up.

What Do You Think About A Guidebook?

So I am thinking about writing some sort of guide book on intercultural traveling/living, etc. You might be thinking, "Umm, nice idea girlie, but haven't you heard of Fodor's, Lonely Planet, or Rick Steve's? The concept is a bit--how do you say it--oh yeah: done?"

Because I am not a complete ignoramus, I do actually realize that the guidebook market is essentially saturated with books advising visitors as to which monuments to see, where the most fruitful exchange rates for currency can be located, public transportation tips, and suggestions for room and board in foreign cities. Indeed, I actually use (and thoroughly critique) a number of travel sources myself, so I know that there are a plethora of choices for "traditional" tomes of this variety.

What I think is missing from these helpful traveling companions, however, is some crucial information about some of the intercultural differences which can be found in everyday life when living or traveling elsewhere. Of course, we "need" concrete information in order to enjoy and to "succeed" at a visit to a different country, or countries. These books definitely provide an ample supply of important information.

And, since these sorts of guidebooks typically weigh more than a small dog, I am not criticizing the writers or organizations behind them for "leaving out" information. I realize that choices need to made as to what to include, and it is probably more important that people are informed as to the operational hours of the Louvre rather than be given information as to why my baker treats me with contempt if I do not announce "Bonjour" within two seconds of entering the premises. Of course there is only so much that can be included and really there is an identifiable limit for things that are "crucial" to know. In fact, the books are already way too heavy if you ask me.

No one actually did ask me. But since the topic has come up: if I were an airline, I might consider sending Rick Steve's and the folks at Fodors a basket of fruit or nice bottle of bubbly or something since those barbell-weight books probably lead to more than a few "over the weight limit" charges for travelers whose cumbersome luggage is already stuffed beyond capacity with "comfortable" walking shoes and five different rain coats.

In terms of MY (as yet theoretical) guidebook, it will offer some information pertaining to different cultural affects, cultural traditions, and customs. We all know that stereotypes abound, and that almost any given country is "known" for having certain attitudes and attributes. The anecdotes that people love to acquire and to cultivate while traveling abroad in order to share with family and friends upon their return "home" often serve to re-enforce these stereotypes.

I am not saying that I possess the desire nor the power to debunk stereotypes. I am not a wizard after all. In fact, I do not even believe in wizardry. No offense, Harry Potter.

I just think some breakdown of what day-to-day differences exist might be useful. So here is just a little taste of what my book might include: we have these delightful friends who are a French couple of about our same age. We often talk about the ways the Americans and the French differ in their approach to "small talk." They find it baffling/humorous/asinine that people in America always say, "Hi, how are you doing?" whenever they see anyone at all--friend or stranger.

Their response to this "normal" American greeting, is as follows: "Why do you want to know how I am doing? I don't even know you! It is none of your business how I am doing." And: "Why do you ask that same thing every time I see you during the same day? Isn't one time enough? Why would I be 'doing' any differently two hours later?"

When we told them that no one actually wants you to honestly answer the question, this explanation only served to increase the confusion. We told them that the "normal," and in fact the only acceptable, thing with which to respond is some version of: "Fine thanks, and you?" Their perplexity deepened. They wondered why someone would ask any such question if they really did not want to know the answer. Hearing their perception of this verbal transaction that often occurs multiple times every day, it all did sound rather ridiculous.

On the flip side: French people say "Bonjour" to everyone the first time they see them during a given day. (And, like my baker story from earlier in this entry, if you are a patron in a shop, it is the customer who is responsible for initiating the greeting, not vice-versa like in America. Failure to do so, will earn you some mighty icy glares). After saying "bonjour" to someone, your greeting quota for the day has then been fulfilled. That is to say, if you then see someone again that afternoon--someone to whom you spoke at, say, 9am--you would not say anything to them again unless you had something specific to say. The idea that you could enter a room occupied with only one other person and not say "Hey" or "What's up" or anything, seems pretty strange to me. As an American, I have the urge to say something, to engage in some sort of phattic conversation. But in France, this is idiotic, you already said "good day"--what else is there to say, unless it has substance, unless it serves an identifable purpose?

This parsimonious way with greetings strikes me, as an American, as being a bit unfriendly. And, conversely, our custom of saying: "Hey, how are you?" at every turn strikes the French as being redundant and moronic.

So who is right?

Obviously, no one is "right." But if you were not privy to these cultural traditions, you might be inadvertently offending people left and right. I mean, if you moved to Paris, and you did not KNOW about this whole single-serve bonjour thing, you might spend a few months making non-friends and irritating the oreos out of people.

Not that I did that for, like, four months, or anything.

Anyway, my proverbial sac a dos is filled to the gills with scenarios such as this one. And I think a little book relaying some of the more obvious intercultural customs might be useful. At the very least, in might save some future ex-pat girl from being subjected to evil stares from her future baker.

And this leads where?

A few weeks ago, one of my old bosses visited Paris, and we were able to spend some time exploring the city and catching up. This particular fellow was someone with whom I worked when I was a wedding planner on Cape Cod a few years ago. We need not go into the logistics behind that vocational situation now, as I cannot really explain how it came to be. The only light I can shed is that my time spent planning weddings was just part of my "figuring it all out" process in terms of my professional path.


Incidentally, I have not as of yet figured any such thing out. Proof? I am currently a university "teacher"-- a job for which I have neither the training nor especially the interest, except that it is a means to an end (i.e. enables me to live in France), and it is also shaping up to be quite the social experiment as well. And boy, do I love a good social experiment. But, even though I have had more "careers" at age 33 than most people have teeth, I feel no closer to really knowing what my "calling" might actually be. So do with that what you will.

In any case, my old boss, Kalson, asked me an interesting question while he was here. He posed the following: "If someone had told you two years ago that you would be living in Paris, what would you have said?"

I love this sort of game. In fact, my whole life is one big question of this variety. I mean if someone had told me when I was in my early twenties that I was going to be a woodworker, I would have laughed my sides off at the ridiculousness of that prediction. Cut to me, two years later, trudging to class with a satchel of chisels under my arm and sawdust covering my jeans. Likewise, if someone had told me I was going to be a wedding planner, I would have given them a look of ardent skepticism and wondered where they came up with such a foolish notion. And then...cut to me a couple years later, running around like a madwoman as I tried to pin boutenires on hungover groomsmen and reassure the mother of the bride that no one has stolen her cake knife, which was allegedly a family heirloom (what?). If someone had said to me when I was 28: "Oh you will move to Charleston and work as a professional matchmaker," I would have politely, yet firmly, suggested that they cease huffing glue as a recreational activity. And then, cut to me, age 30, living in South Carolina, interviewing and "matching" people up to go on dates with one another. Given my stocked arsenal of past careers, we could play this game all day.

Fun as that would be, my point is that life, or my life at least, has been full of unpredictable surprises.

Yet it is also full of links and connections too.


So I will change Kalson's question a little: If someone had told me, when I was working as a wedding planner in 2006, that five years later I would be in France with that very boss, driving through Champagne country, I would in turn question his (or her) sanity.


And then, there we were, guzzling bubbly in a renowned Champagne cave after he weaved and sped with all the other wild European drivers on the French highway out to Epernay.


I mean, who would have predicted such a thing?


Life really does not follow an easily chartered path. Sometimes, I want, so badly to know exactly in what direction my life is headed, to have validation that there is a "point" to all I have done thus far. At times, I feel extremely embarassed that I am 33 years old and I have no idea what my professional calling actually is--despite grandiose efforts to figure it out.


Being in France has taught me much about patience, has given me myriad lessons in pride swallowing, and has opened my eyes that there are so many ways to live and none are "better" or "worse" than any other.

So, while I could play a version of that game of prediction, I think I finally have to accept that no amount of thinking, overthinking, or stressing is ever going to result in a crystal ball showcasing my future.

I suppose people often try to guage what their future will hold, many of us do things like make "five year plans" or the like. There is some comfort in knowing that your are headed in some specific direction--it gives life focus. And, sometimes, meaning.

I can easily enough voice my values, my hopes, my dreams--at least in an abstract kind of way. I am less able to specifically identify the path on which I would like to tread mostly because the darn thing keeps shooting off in directions I never before even saw as possibilities.

Yet, my path, however it may frustrate me, has lead me to Paris. And that is something. Something great. Maybe it has not proffered up my "calling" but it has allowed me to sample a heck of a lot of options--if only to take a quick taste of each of these offerings and think, "Ugh, nope. Next!"

So what else is there to do but to continue on my wily way. Who knows--maybe next month I will be wandering around the Jardin du Luxembourg with the woman who owned the Bed and Breakfast I ran, or walking along the Seine with one of my former co-workers from when I was a technical writer (or from when I was a waitress, or a travel agent, or a lifeguard...you get the idea).

In terms of the meaning for which I am constantly searching; maybe the life lesson here is that, while I was obviously so NOT meant to be a wedding planner, maybe I was meant to see Epernay, a gorgeous little French village in Champagne region. My former boss may not have been able to interest me in the intricacies of the "Platinum" vs. the "Gold" package, but he still taught me something: that it is worth risking your life on the French roadways to taste really yummy champagne. Not a bad boss, in the end.

So maybe the message here is that all these "failed" careers will wind up being good for something. Let's hope so. In the meantime, this "teacher" will continue to seriously moonlight as a student; life seems to be teaching me something new everyday.

Precarious Positioning

Sometimes I come across things over here in France that really make me question my perception of "normal." That is to say, not everyone in the world does things the way they are done in America; rules and regulations that seem impenetrable in the U.S. are not so everywhere in the world. That observation is quite apparent, I know. Yet it is still a surprising fact when I see things unfold in a vastly different manner than I have been culturally conditioned to expect.

Recently, a couple of these various "things" (situations, behaviors, etc.) have also illustrated to me how much more creative and interesting America could/would be if people were not sueing each other over every single trangression--big or small, imagined or real. I mean, if no one had to worry about lawsuits, I think the country would be a much more honest, not to mention colorful, place.

Hang on a sec, I am just going to hold hands with my neighbors and sing It's a Small World.

What inspired this train of thought about lawsuits and stifled creativity, are two experiences that have unfolded over the past couple of weeks. The first is that I recently discovered a used book shop for English books. The second is that my husband recently started reading for pleasure.

Obviously you are missing the connection. You should be, as I have not yet gotten to it.

So I was delighted to hear about this second hand bookshop located in the 6th arrondissement, not in the least because that is my favorite area to wander around on a free afternoon. One thing about me, I read quite a bit. And this hobby has produced a personal pickle of sorts for me in Europe: most libraries in Paris have pretty limited English sections and Amazon is not really a concept that has taken off over here. As a result, I have been frequenting my favorite English book shops, Shakespeare and Company and The Village Voice. Both are charming little shops that I absolutely adore and sort of want to move into, but the prices of books are not exactly pas cher.

And I certainly do not mean that as criticism directed towards these little treasure troves, I only bring it up in the sense that, as someone who lives here and buys books a lot, prices are something I do consider. That said, neither place is overpriced and they are both well worth a visit to absorb the adorable "old world" charm of these character-ful shops. As I said, I sort of want to move in to either. You might too, so definitely go visit.

And actually, since I am not a drug addict, a gambler, or someone who needs to eat foie gras and caviar every day, spending money on books does not really bother me, per se. The issue is that I am not going to be able to lug these books back to the U.S. with me, and so accrueing piles of literature in our tiny temporary apartment just seems silly.

Hence, I was really jazzed upon learning about San Francisco Books and the fact that the owner will buy back most books you bring in and/or grant you a credit. His books range from 1 euro to about 5 euro, with only the really new and mintly-conditioned cream of the crop fetching about 10 euro (note that this scale is a marked financial improvement over the 11 euro to 18 euro that I paid per book at either of the other places).

And like, the other two bookstores, the shop is a tiny, cavernous little affair that is stocked to the gills with all types of books. The passageways are such that if two people of relatively normal proportions need to pass by one anther, one will have to fully press him/herself up against a wall while the other squeezes by. And, here is where things get interesting; there are random stepstools and ladders strewn about the store for customer use, since the books are piled floor to ceiling on shelves that look as though they could give way with the slightest jostle. Standing on a ladder trying to reach a Ken Follett book, I suddenly had a vision of myself tumbling to the floor, landing with an ominous thud, and being subsequently buried by an avalanche of literary marvels as my stocking feet stuck up in the air.

Would not be bad way to go, actually. Provided my underwear was not visible to the general public, of course.

But my real point is not that I am a danger-loving, shelve-climbing fool, but rather that this store has random ladders strewn about (did you get that when I first wrote it in the last paragraph?). There are no "regulation" step stools, or warnings to stay off these climbing apparati. In fact, one guy in the back room was, rather precariously, balanced on a step stool as he hovered above anther guy who was absorbed in perusing a detective novel, fully unawares that one wrong move by the climbing ape could result in a dual-concussed situation.

I mean, this "system" would NEVER happen in a U.S. book store. The proprietor/corporate office would be way too terrified of the multiple lawsuits that would be forever imminent by climbing customers.

And that reality is a terrible misfortune for the U.S., because this place was basically exploding with character and unique charm that any viable bookworm would devour with relish. It seems worth noting that my other two aforementioned fave spots are similar in the crowded chaos sense. Fire marshalls in America would close these places down in a heartbeat.

And, again, that regulation-following would lead to a true bummer, because these places are as original and quirky as the books that are crammed and balanced on the shelves, stairs, and floors of these lovable little shops. Personally, I wish the U.S. would allow such a thing, because the sterile environment of the corporately-cloned Barnes and Noble stores are really not doing any of us any favors.

But maybe that is just me, looking to plug my anti-chain store beliefs into this "un-agenda-ed" little blog of mine.

So my reason for going to the bookstore yesterday was threefold: because I love bookstores, because I wanted to return some books for credit/trade, and because I was looking for a new book for the new reader with whom I live (my husband, in case that was too cryptic a description).

And, on that note, my husband has been taking a book to the park and reading on a bench (how terribly Parisian, I know!) It has been bizarrely sunny in Paris this past week, and no one quite knows how to handle the situation. So droves of Frenchies have been outside soaking up the rays a best they can, depite the fact that the weather is a far cry from "warm."

As such, my husband has hardly been alone in the parks when he goes to read. The other day, there was a guy sitting on the bench next to my him, having a sandwich and enjoying a sit. After eating, the bench neighbor got up and threw away the trash from his meal. He then started chucking his pocket switchblade at the tree in front of him, ostensibly practicing the accuracy of his shot.

I mean what?! Some guy, in a public park, in broad daylight is hurling a KNIFE through the air?

This would never fly (literally) in the U.S. He would be arrested in two shakes. Not in France, anything goes as long as you act like you are in the right, deliver a well-timed "pfffffft" and shrug of your shoulders. Basically, if you have the right attitude, you can pretty much get away with anything.

So there you have it; two scenarios that remind me that what I perceive/accept as "normal" are hardly situations/behaviors that qualify as everyone's "norm." Like most intercultural differences, I see both bad and good sides. It would be really lovely and amazing if the U.S. could relax on the "regulation" front and thus allow small mom and pop shops to flourish with all their code-violating, ladder strewing, uniqueness. But I also know that Americans themselves sort of ruined that possibility with their over-zealous need to squelch cash out of others and thus to sue anybody and everybody who could have possibly inadvertently minorly affected them in a perceived negative way.

Not to be too cynical.

On the other hand, I will not squak about anyone's rights being terminated when the police in the U.S. pick up a park-dwelling, sandwich-eating, knife-throwing dude. I mean, some rules do apply to all, and sorry to stifle the local color, but I prefer to not fear incurring a flying stab wound when walking through a park on a sunny day. Or any day, for that matter. So do with that what you will.

And once again, these two situations are indicative of my experience here. On any given day, something happens that results in my marveling at the ways it seems to me that France has things just so absolutely "right." And then I am presented with another situation offering juxtaposition to that realization and I see ways in which this country/culture is absolutely bonkers.

Welcome to my life in Paris.