I really wish my building had a bathroom somewhere between the first and third floors, or rather, on any one of the first three floors. I don't know what it is, but by the time I mount those five flights of stairs (there is an elevator, but I don't have the key) and open my door, I am doing the "pee pee dance" and can barely make it to the bathroom on my own floor in time. Because the bathroom uses a real skeleton key, I think it best not to carry it (the key) around with me (although I wonder if I would be able to use it in any other lock in the city - hmm, must research). I've been considering getting to know at least one neighbor on each floor in case of an emergency of the bathroom kind.
Of course, considering my response to one of my older neighbors, I'm sure they've all been warned that there is a crazy American lady in the building and would probably bar the door if they saw me coming. I was overwhelmed one day in September because I had spent the day in classes and had to go to dinner with classmates and professors across town. I was feeling the pressure: I had to get up those stairs, change my clothes, do something with my hair, refresh my makeup, and get back to campus in 25 minutes, so when my nice elderly neighbor asked, Comment allez vous? (how are you), I didn't hear him correctly and thought he asked Où allez vous (where are you going) so I told him, wondering why he was asking me such a question. I couldn't understand why he looked bemused and kept backing away from me until two days later when the realization hit me; I now hang my head in shame when when walking through the building, avoiding everyone's stares. I think I have the same reputation "Lucy Ricardo" had when she visited Europe; let's home I don't get into a fight when stomping grapes.
No description of my apartment would be complete without talking about the shower. You know, it's bad enough that I don't have a bath. As some of you may know, one of my favorite luxuries is to read in a bubble bath; I have spent hours in the tub, emerging only to look like a prune (sorry for putting that picture into your head). Alas, I have no tub, and my shower stall is so small that if I were to gain twenty pounds I would not be able to fit through its doors. About those doors. They are held together by magnets, and every morning is a battle to keep them closed (I didn't realize magnets, like some people, lost their attraction.); sometimes, I spend 5 minutes trying to find the attraction between those magnets because I do not want to risk getting my avocado green desk wet, nor the similarly-colored wardrobe. Also, the thingie that holds the shower head in place is broken, so I have to hold the shower head to wet myself down, turn of the water, soap myself up, and turn on the water to rinse. I'm from the drought years of California, so I'm fine with that; it saves water and is efficient. But, there is another aspect thing to add to this. Some weeks the drain works, and some weeks it is rather slow, and on the latter weeks, there is another step to the shower-taking process. After the initial rinse, I get out of the shower, run the water in the tiny sink next to the shower, plunge it (to create the necessary vacuum to help the shower water drain), and hope back into the shower in order to soap and rinse. Those weeks seem to coincide with lower temperatures, so I stand there cold, wet, and naked plunging the sink to get the shower to drain. I find the ridiculousness of the scenario rather amusing. And then there is the gurgling. The first time it happened was in the middle of the night. I initially thought Nessie had swum down from Scotland, crossed the Channel, and somehow ended up in the pipes below my shower, but was disappointed to discover the sound was caused by water backing up into my shower every time a neighbor used their faucets.
This apartment is, to say the least, colorful, and as much as I love my little apartment and feel it is perfect for the first semester, it is for my first semester only!
So, having begun my day with the battle of the shower, a couple of days ago I looked outside of my window into the courtyard and there were a few clouds in the sky, but it looked as if it was going to be a nice, warm day. By the time I walked down those five flights of stairs, it was raining. Hard. I was running a bit behind, so I had neither the time nor the desire to climb those stairs and grab an umbrella; I began my school day looking like a wet rat. Thank god for waterproof mascara, and my brand really works. As it is, my flat iron isn't working here, so my hair already has a tendency to frizz, even with product. Imagine what it looked like with the product rained out of it. Well, at least I didn't have to handle the nozzle for that shower.
Here's a little bit of good news, one of my professors is kindly allowing me a few extra days to complete an assignment because I am in the play, AND he's insisting on attending the play despite only returning to Paris from a conference at which he has to give a presentation the day before (I am including this information because he is now a recipient of these missives). Frankly, I think he wants to see me looking simply bovine in that muumuu. Actually, I greatly appreciate this because having to memorize those lines, write three papers, and the myriad of other things was starting to freak me out, and we happened to be discussing mnemonic tricks in class that day when I asked him (after class, of course, because I don't want my classmates to hear that I'll be in the play for fear of heckling) if he knew of any tricks to memorize lines in ways besides thinking of chocolate covered lighthouses (don't ask, but I bet you'll never forget that, will you?).
Bisous (kisses) to all.
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