Picnics in Paris

The whole concept of springtime in Paris is a bit overrated, for the very good reason that it doesn't really exist.  Seriously, one day it's winter, and the next thing you know we've skipped right on through to summer.  Well, whatever - the important thing to know is that as soon as it's warm enough, it's picnic season!  My friend Southern Belle was in town a couple of weeks ago and we made an attempt at the first picnic of the year - it wasn't particularly amazing food-wise (see photo below), but since it was the 16th of March and we were still wearing coats, it wasn't a bad attempt!

However, today it was sunny and 24 Celcius and I met up with English Rose to kick off the picnic season properly.  She has the same kind of part-time work hours as I do, and we agreed that the only real benefit to being so poor and under-employed is the freedom to spend random weekday afternoons in the park (beside the Louvre, I might add), enjoying the sunshine while more gainfully employed people are stuck in the office.  Of course, this is the only kind of dining out that we can actually afford to do in Paris, so just let us have our little moment of smugness, okay?

Picnic #1 - bottle of wine and bag of chips. Not quite gourmet, but still delicious!

Picnic #2 - much more respectable, and even a few healthy items.  No wine, but that was only because of our hangovers from the day before...

Zzzzzzzzombie...

Let me tell you a little story about the zombiefication (it's my blog, I get to make up whatever words I want, so there) of Miss K.  It all started on the 29th of December when I caught my red-eye flight from Toronto to Paris.  Here's the thing: I can't sleep on planes.  Ever.  I am so wretchedly uncomfortable that it's impossible, no matter how tired I am - somehow it seems that my already-long legs grow an extra three inches, my already-bony knees expand to the size of watermelons, my already-broad shoulders increase to linebacker size, my already-long neck elongates so far that my skull dangles right off the back of the headrest, and I'm pretty sure I grow an extra arm from somewhere around my left shoulderblade.  But one day, a friend of mine introduced me to sleeping pills and ahhhhh, sleep on a plane became possible (the first time it happened I was freaked: took off in Toronto, swallowed a pill and, like, five minutes later we were landing at Heathrow, it was like traveling through time!)

Anyway, all was going according to plan - got on the plane, ate my meal, washed my sleeping pill down with some red wine (yeah, I'm so rock'n'roll), put in my industrial-strength earplugs, put on my eye-mask and blanket, pretzeled all my extra limbs into the most comfortable position possible...and then the toddler in the row in front of me started to scream.  And I mean the most bloodcurdling, earshattering scream ever in the history of the universe - my industrial-strength earplugs were no match for ol' Lungs McDecibelthroat.  And he screamed all the way to Paris, I kid you not.  And the reason I know this?  Is because I was f*cking awake for the whole flight.  Grrrrr doesn't even begin to cover it.  But remember that sleeping pill I took?  Well, the good people who invented Zopiclone were not messing around - the stuff works, especially when you combine it with fatigue and jetlag.  So as soon as I got on the bus from the airport?  Asleep.  As soon as I walked from my stop to my apartment and got into my room?  Asleep.  Asleep for 14 hours, people!

But that worked well because it was New Year's Eve and I had a party to go to (which was fabulous and I had a great time and it totally took the bad mojo off the holiday for me, in case you were wondering), so I was absolutely fine to be awake until 6am and then to sleep off my monster hangover all day.  But by this point, my poor body clock had no idea what timezone it was in, who the hell I am, or why it should cooperate with me in any way whatsoever.  So I spent the last few nights tossing and turning (and cursing that toddler - if that's wrong and bad and mean, I'll just go ahead and add it to the very long list of things I'm already going to hell for) and not falling asleep until about 7am, which did not lead to productive days, I assure you.  So last night I had to turn to those nice Zopiclone people again to force my body clock to get into the right timezone, and I finally got a decent night's sleep. 

That's why you haven't heard from me for the past few days.  I mean, I could have posted, but Zombie Miss K would have only written something like: oihgeo ihah daegfnq oen igei hfqek fnkavn dtler joarhe.  So you really didn't miss much...

Brunch - expat style

I mentioned last time that I went to a party on Saturday night - it was a delightful occasion at which I met many lovely people. It was also an occasion at which I drank a disgraceful amount of champagne and staggered home at 4am (for those of you keeping score at home, yes, that is indeed twice in two weeks that such a thing has happened), but that was okay, because one of the lovely people I had met invited me for brunch on the Sunday. Ahhh, brunch - I had visions of a hangover-friendly, Canadian-style brunch dancing through my inebriated head - juice, caffeinated beverages, eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, things like that. Is that what I got? Not so much...

We were meant to meet there at 12:30, so I rolled out of bed at about 11:30 (looking and feeling like something the cat had vomited up) and got myself together, which was relatively easy since I was still wearing my make-up from the night before - yes, I am just pure class. Got on the Metro and got a seat. Okay, not so bad, I might get there without throwing up or my head exploding. And then.... the mariachi band got on and started playing. No, I am not kidding and that is not some sort of euphemism - two guys playing sax and trumpet along with a very loud boombox. There are often musicians on the Paris Metro and I probably could have dealt with a nice gentle bit of accordion music, but a freakin' brass section??? (And the weirdest music selection ever - "When The Saints Come Marching In", followed by "Hava Nagila" - wtf?) It was only a few stops but it was the looooongest trip of my life.

Finally I was at Bastille and started walking toward the brunch venue, when suddenly I spied a McDonald's (those of you who know me will be aware of my firm conviction that the only help for a hangover is a Big Mac and fat Coke), and even though I was already on my way to eat, I decided that it was a medical emergency and I had to have it. Good thing, too, because when I arrived at the brunch venue, it was not a cafe. Or a restaurant. It was a wine and oyster bar. Yes, wine and oysters. Take a moment to imagine yourself nauseated beyond belief, with an absolutely crushing hangover, and finding yourself surrounded by the smells of wine and oysters.


And then imagine yourself meeting what seemed like the entire expat community of Paris in such circumstances - wow, do I know how to make an awesome first impression or what? I could have lit the whole room with the glow from my bloodshot eyes, I could barely string a coherent sentence together, I was thisclose to vomiting the whole time, and I'm quite sure I was still reeking alcohol from every pore. Niiiice. But they were a very jolly group and I actually really enjoyed my afternoon. I will tell you a bit more about them at a later date if I ever see them again (which, see above, doesn't seem all that likely!) as they were an interesting bunch.

I rounded off the day by trudging home so that I could stop along the way for some KFC. What? You thought I was kidding about how classy I am?