The Eiffel Tower.

I've gotten through two posts without mentioning it, but let's face it, it's basically the elephant in the room. We'll call it E.T. for short (if abbreves are sweeping the naysh, they may as well be sweeping this one too). For how out-of-place it looks in Paris, it may as well be an extra-terrestrial. I pass by it whenever I get on the metro and I have to catch my breath every time. I know the French hate it, but you can't argue with its grandeur. That tower owns you, and it knows it.

Because E.T. works kind of like a magnet. Attempting to blend in with the French regulars on the metro, I try my hardest to ignore the 7300 tonnes of shining cultural controversy that pop by the window between the Passy and Bir-Hakeim metro stops, but I find my eyes gazing up at it in spite of myself. Today, I gave in. I hopped off the metro at my usual stop (Passy) and instead of taking a left before the pharmacy to get into my apartment building, I veered right and embarked on one of my first Parisian firsts: walking from home to the E.T.

At a brisk pace, of course, alone, and God forbid I whip out a map and effectively brand myself with the giant "T" that makes all wide-eyed tourists so easy to identify. In the end, it took around 7 minutes. That's right. It takes less time to walk to the Eiffel Tower than it does to walk from my house at Tufts to Davis. And I am proud to say I accomplished my mission while walking past more than one of the vendors that creach around the E.T. area (the kind that haunt the tourist hot spots and shove overpriced, plastic E.T. keychains in people's faces if they detect the slightest interest in the looming metal tower in their eyes) without any of them trying to sell me anything. And I only took out my camera once (okay, maybe twice) and snapped a picture so fast before thrusting it back into my coat pocket for fear of getting knowing, demeaning looks from passerby that it turned out blurry. And then I turned right around nonchalantly and walked back. But fear not, my little American friends, I still have 4 months to figure out how to take a good picture of the E.T. without being caught by the public. And we'd better go back to calling it the Eiffel Tower, because I just can't take E.T. seriously. Then again, I don't think anyone who even remotely identifies themselves as "French" can take it all that seriously either.

"J'ai voté pour Obama - achetez-moi un boisson!"

Dear Gina,

What is it like being abroad on Inauguration Day?

Love,
Most-of-the-people-Gina-talked-to-yesterday


I will answer your question with a statement: It was the first time I have ever been in another country and proud to be an American.

Instead of lowering my voice to a whisper when speaking English in public (something I usually try to avoid in the first place), I sang along with the national anthem during the inauguration ceremonies, loud and proud.

Instead of shooting looks of horror and disgust at tipsy, singing Americans, the waiter made a motion with his hand to offer us a microphone.

Across from the grand Opéra Garnier, American pubs sported "LIVE OBAMA NIGHT" signs on the windows. Crowds of expats and French people alike spilled into the streets, jamming the doorways in an attempt to catch a glimpse of our new President or what Michelle Obama was wearing.

1/20/09. A good day for Americans in Paris. And for Americans everywhere.

And tomorrow, it's back to mumbling "Toronto" instead of the truth when people ask where I'm from.*



*This has not actually happened yet. I am tempted.

The Golden Rule: ALWAYS Check First.

Let me preface this by saying that this is not the way I anticipated starting my blog: by recounting my first embarrassing abroad-story involving a full bladder, toilet paper, and comically unfortunate timing.

That's right. Six hours after landing in Paris, I parked myself in a bathroom at my host family's classically decorated apartment and somehow managed to notice the intricate carvings on the soap dish while completely missing the blatant lack of toilet paper until, of course, it was too late. This was time for quick thinking. I went from "really, Gina? really?" to scanning for paper-like bathroom items in 10 seconds flat. Potential replacements included:

1. A towel.
2. A cardboard toilet paper tube. In the trash.
3. Nothing (Part A): Make a dash for it. This would have been the winning option had it been my house.
4. Nothing (Part B): Call out for reinforcements. Lose all hopes of a normal host family relationship.
5. My underwear.

Process of elimination led me to Option 5 (those standardized test skills had to come in handy someday). And that is how I found myself going commando in my room with my toilet paper replacement wrapped up in a plastic bag to be thrown out when no one is looking, waiting for hallway traffic to cease before running back to the bathroom to put on underwear. Because when it comes down to it, a first day in Paris necessitates holding onto your dignity more than holding onto your underwear.