La pantouflarde

Here is an unfortunate reality about “studying abroad in the City of Lights”: the first part is always true, and the second is rarely. That is, 1. you actually have to study, and 2. sometimes it rains, like, all the time, lights be damned. This means that every weekend cannot be packed to the brim with champagne-swigging by the Seine and deafening discothèque Europop. Sometimes, you just have to stay home, with butt in chair, and plow your way through Descartes.

It’s very unromantic, sadly. Especially when the rain continues comme une vache qui pisse well into Monday (and probably will Tuesday and Wednesday as well) and Descartes is…well, Descartes*.

I could not have learned the French word for homebody at a more appropriate time. I barely took my feet out of my pantoufles all weekend, and even then it was only to go to the farmers’ market. I was productive, I guess (I mean, I did write a 6 page paper in French), but I still have that lingering feeling of awful. A kind of chat dans la gorge and a weekend-long case of wine tummy that spilled into Monday.

So today, again, is a day with no adventure greater than reading and writing, no beverage more intoxicating than a cup of ginger tea, no plans more complicated than going to bed early so I don’t get sick. But that’s the thing about being in Paris like this: yes, it’s capital-P Paris, but it’s also a city, and sometimes you just have to exist in a city to get by. There may not be much to say for keeping feet in slippers and reading the Déclaration des droits de l’homme**, but the days of eating escargot and meeting exotic European men have to be thrilling in comparison to something.

*Meaning he sucks.
**Or speed-writing to catch up on your Nano novel. Whatever.