Day 4

Hopefully this is the worst day that I will encounter in Paris. In all reality, it wasn't horrible, but almost.

Today I am on my own, as Alex has decided to take the extra French Open ticket that his friends have. Apparently it is an all day event, I vaguely remember going on a date to a US Open (at least, I think it was) match, but it was only two sets of competitors (not five), and it was just in the evening. This means that I can close the curtains, and not close any of the doors while I am in the shower or the toilet. After living on my own for the past two years, it still seems strange to close doors.

To school. As I waited to pay the rest of the fees, I ran into Christine, my teacher from last time. She recognized me, and remembered that I was une infermiere. Not to be big-headed, but I think I was one of the better and more vocal of her students, at least of that class four years ago. Then again, there were only five to six of us, so it was not hard to stand out. Turns out that I am in Christine's class again. Surprisingly, with a first half morning class of seven, there are three other Japanese women. One youngish one who is earning her keep by cleaning house for a local (if I understood correctly), and two whose husbands are working in Paris for a year or so. It's quite amusing to see them flip back and forth between Japanese, English, and French, as they search for that elusive word at the tip of their tongue. And when I say "they," I also mean "we."

During the mid morning break, Christine pulled me aside to see if I wanted to advance to the harder class that meets in the afternoon. I dithered. I was flattered, but my small vocabulary, inability to conjugate verbs, and hesitation with unfamiliar pronunciation made me decide to stay in the lower class. At least for now. Maybe if I really study hard this week, it may be possible to advance later in my stay.

I was reassured that I'd made the right decision in the second half of the morning, as we reviewed verbs ... Vocab, conjugations, and reflexives.

After class, I wandered the fashionable streets of Paris, looking for a pair of comfy black shoes, like a desert wanderer searching for water. I don't know how these French women do it. Traipsing along in high heels, or sandals flatter than a crepe, and with about as much arch support. And then it started to rain. Not hard, but enough to make me rethink the thong birks I was contemplating. That and the fact that I can't wear thongs that have anything other than cloth straps. I found a pair of comfort sandals that would do the job, but they were brown. Not great for someone with an exclusively black wardrobe. I tucked them into my mind as a possible option, bathe proceeded to find nothing at Clarke's (such a tragedy, they were out of my size), Footlocker (I just couldn't bring myself to buy an ugly and expensive set of trainers), BHV (I looked all through women's wear and through the directory and couldn't find shoes), and several other cheapish shoe stores along Rue de Rivoli. I could feel a blister developing on the ball of my right foot, a souvenir from walking in my amphib shoes without my socks, as we rushed to take the last metro, and started to feel desperate. I returned to the brown shoes, and bought them.

After changing into my shoes, I felt much better. At least everything but the developing blister. The other ones were fine. So, I returned to the rental agency to inquire about the second set of keys. Voila, it was pas du probleme! Harder to get was an answer on how to pick up the phone messages at the apartment. Even harder was trying to tell them that the shower was still problematic. Yes, the tubing was fine, but water streamed out from a seam in the shower head, instead of all in the usual place. They didn't have an extra at the agency, but said that they would send someone to fix it today. Really, I was just proud to be able to say, "La douche ca ne mache pas." I know that's not how the phrase is spelled, but that is how it sounds from my language cd's.

Stopped at the pharmacie around the corner from the agency, and bought some excellent foot pads to place in my new shoes to ease blister pain. The man behind the counter had a most beneficent smile. Or was that just my pain and hunger manifesting? For the latter, I got a crepe. For the former, I hurried back to the apartment, cleaned and popped the ball blister, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in bed. No going to the Musee Rodin, or searching for exotic chocolate shops, but those can wait for a better day.

All in all, not a terribly devastating day, but I hope the rest are loads better.