What is it with train stations?

The things I see on the metro will never cease to amaze me. The most remarkable thing (this week) I've seen has to be the dread mullet. Let me elaborate. In the front, it was business. Albeit a very 80's-esque business, it was definitely cut in a fairly normal, if not David Hasselhoff inspired way. In the back it got a little wild. I would call it "rastafarian reggae party". Of course I had about ten stops to sit and analyze this unique 'do and I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person actually tries to only have dreads on the back half of his head. And even if you only want a few dreads, do you have to make them even more terrible by adding the mullet to the equation? Some people....

The metro isn't the only place total weirdos call home. There is also the train station. A different kind of weird is found at Paris Est (est being east in french), the station where I catch my train. Generally speaking, there are fewer bums around because train tickets cost more than metro tickets. However, bum (obviously) does not equal weirdo, and just because there isn't anyone clearly looking a little down on their luck doesn't mean you're safe from the bizarre world of public transportation. Case in point: today I got to the station a little early and bought myself a magazine. All the benches were taken so I just found a little place to stand that was near my train voie (don't even know the translation for that one). I'm devouring my mag when I suddenly notice that the man standing very close to me has actually been making circles around me for about ten minutes, furtively sneaking glances at my face, my clothes, my bag. What I would consider an intense violation of personal space. And don't worry, he wasn't a thief. Just a creep. I look up, role my eyes very obviously at him, and continue reading. A moment later I look up and he has posted himself about four feet from me and is staring directly at my face. I snarl and peace out, only to be accosted by an overweight man in a much too small baseball jersey telling me how "belle et ravissante" I am....seriously, sir?

That, sadly, is only one of many weird train station stories. All the normal people using the wonderful system of public transport in France apparently don't take my train...

In serious news, school is going very well! Sometimes I have to take a breather and remember that it is in fact France-Langue school for foreigners and not Vanderbilt. On the first day my teacher was explaining that we would each have a twenty minute presentation to give later in the semester on a subject pertinent to France or a francophone country. Immediately I got excited and decided I would research HIV/AIDS in Senegal (I'm going to school for public health next year....). Then I looked around and remembered where I was. I don't mean that in a snob way, either. I just don't want to bore everyone to tears. If I came to class presenting that topic...while everyone else talked about a french monument or some french vacation destination...they would think I was more bizarre than the weird german twins who dislike "TV, the city, movies, each other" and basically everything but la nature. Nature.

So yea, it's really useful to go and get a refresher, but I'm not going to waste my time worrying about some presentation. I have made several friends who feel the same way. They're actually really great! There is a german girl named Sarah-Jane, a girl from Turkey named Ayse, and an american (duh! I had to find one) named Kate. I think I may have mentioned it last week but I just wanted to update you. I have friends...FINALLY! Everyone in the group speaks english at some level (probably better than me) but we stick to french. This always proves amusing when we're at a cafe together. French people from all sides stick their necks out to listen to our conversation, trying to make out where the hell our accents are from and why we're butchering their language.

And finally, an embarassing story to make you feel better about your life (if you're feeling down). I don't think I have shared this with you, but Eliott has a really, REALLY beautiful guitar teacher. Wavy black hair, blue eyes, PLAYS GUITAR. I mean this guy is a 10 ( God, I hope he never finds this). Anyways, on Wednesday, I took advantage of the weather and having no kids around (Zoe had a bday party to attend and Eliott was at music class) and went for a nice run. Unfortunately for me, it was relatively hot on Wednesday. I finished my run and walked over to the conservatory to get Eliott from music class (not guitar lesson). I am not too worried about the fact that my white t-shirt is saturated with sweat, I smell like that weird metro stench I was subjected to a few weeks ago, and that my hair has formed itself into an afro of sorts, because Eliott's music theory teacher is...not cute. I'll leave it at that. I'm sitting outside the classroom mopping my face with paper towels and fanning myself like a crazy woman when I hear footsteps. Who do you think comes around the corner? Beautiful guitar boy. GREAT. F&*^ing great. I stutter, chuckle, and say "err, ha, bonjour". Without looking at me, he says "...bonjour" and did what I would call a run-walk out of the hallway. My already non-existent chance with him just ran right out of the hallway with him and his cute little Sperry's.