Travel story alert! (eventually I'll get all this out of my system)

My first goal in Paris was to find the office of tourism. I thought that was a good place to start and there it was, plain as day on my map on the corner of the on the Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe. So . . . I left the hotel, walked up to the bus/metro stop and took a look around . . . "Surely I can find my way back to the hotel from here" thought I, and I went on the bus to the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs Elysees (and the tourist office which was just across the street.)

That was one of the most hair raising bus rides I've ever been on . . . and that's saying something because I've been in some interesting places. The bus driver took an accordion style (double long) bus down an alley with a moving truck on one side and a delivery truck on the other side. I wouldn't have even tried to get my car through that little space. But this just goes to prove my point, "There is always room for a bus."

I got to the Charles de Gaulle-Etoile and pointed myself toward the Arc de Triomphe.
"Yeah!Napoleonn!" it seemed to say.
I gave it a look or two and said to myself, "Self, first the office of tourism." Myself agreed and we turned down the Champs Elysees. I looked left, I looked right, I looked high and low, I looked way down the street, several blocks but I couldn't find it. I know those tourist maps aren't drawn to scale, but it was obviously right there on the corner!

No biggie, I thought, it's okay to spend an hour or so walking along one of the most famous streets in the world. As I went along, I saw a funny sign and took a picture (like I do.) Some brown man gave me a funny look. I thought to myself, "I'm in Paris, I'll never see this guy again." I gave him a funny look back.

I went in a few stores, wandered around a few more minutes and hmmmm . . . there he was again. He said, "Do you speak English?"
I said, "Yes."
We went through the "What's your name, where are you from, I'm from . . . do you like it here blah, blah."
Finally he said, "What are you doing?"
I said, "I'm looking for the tourism office.
He said, "I will show you." So he pointed me back toward the corner of the Arc de Triomphe. Well, maybe I missed it. I went back.

I could not find it! Eventually I just gave up and asked someone in the bank where it seemed the tourism office should be.
She said, "It has, uh, move."
She gave me the address and the Metro line. Time to tackle the Metro.

I found the Metro, I went down and remembered that I wanted to buy an orange card. I found a machine, I bought a card it was a tiny 1" by 3" orange card, but then I was confused. Did I need a picture (as the tour book said) or did I just go through the turn style? Would it give me my ticket back? What if I lost it? Why was it so tiny? How did these Frenchies do it?

I stood there looking confused for a few minutes (just for good measure) when here comes the same guy from the sign incident. "Did you find the tourism office?" I explained it had moved, I had a ticket but I didn't know what to do next. He took charge of the situation. He took me to the counter, got me a little plastic holder for my ticket, a few maps and then he gave me his card, with his phone number. He told me he was Pakistani, he owned an Indian restaurantt (I'm guessing it's really hard to sell people on the idea that Pakistani and Indian food are pretty much the same.) He told me I should come by for a meal. (Chalk one more up for Shannon and the brown men.)
I said, 'Thank you" outloud and "probably not" in my head and started walking through the turn style and down the tunnel toward my train.
He called me, "Excuse me! Miss! You are going the wrong way!"
Dang it! Was I ever going to get away from this guy?!
I waved, "Thanks" and turned around to to go to the next tunnel.

He was a really nice guy. He didn't touch me or ooggle and google me like some brown guys try to do, but it is a little unnerving to be alone in a big, strange city and feel like you are being followed by a stranger.

I found the train, got off at the correct station and couldn't figure out how to get out. Everywhere I looked it seemed to say "Exit" but you had to put your ticket in so it also seemed to say, "Exit to another train" in Shannon language. I didn't want another train! I wanted outside!

I gave in and put my ticket in the turn style to get out. And that's how it's done in Paris. You have to prove you paid to get in and you have to prove it again to get out.

The address was 11 rue de whatever. I found the rue, I found 11 I went in. They said, "No, it is 11, it is down" and pointed. I did that three times. I swear they were all 11s! There must be some secret number code in Paris. The whole city block seemed to be 11!

By the time I found the office of tourism I was all out of the mood. I didn't even care anymore.
I looked around a few minutes found no new information for my trouble and left.

On the map, the Seine River looked close. I decided to walk on down to check it out. It was not as close as it looked on the map. (Naturally, but another day on what happened in the Jardin des Tuileries.)

If you've ever dreamed of seeing soy sause represented as a gay superhero:
http://yoga.at.infoseek.co.jp/flash/kikkomaso_e2.swf

if you double click the funny, you can actually read it - - - yo, yo, yo

The burrito I really want:

My burrito has 46g of fat, and 1198 calories. How about yours?

The burrito I will get next time:

My burrito has 26g of fat, and 638 calories. How about yours?

This is selling for $60 on E-bay. I don't know what made me think of it this morning, but I remembered that I had one in Pre-school and it would sing to me in the morning . . . something about getting up and brushing my teeth . . . I think I need this type of encouragement again . . . I'll have to save up for this purchase.

the out takes





My Funny Valentine.

I'm looking for patterns . . . I don't know of what. Everywhere I look I want to see a rhyme and reason for it. Sometimes when I get an explanation, I reject it.

Every time I teach a lesson, I say, "What is the pattern here? Can you see it?"

I'm looking at my life for patterns. How very Virgo of me.

In my age I think I'm becoming more Virgo all the time. I'm not sure I like that. I always think of the worst traits first (also Virgo of me.)

Here's a possible pattern.

I got an email from Kerrie S. I met Kerrie in 1st grade. I don't actually remember this, I'm not sure she remembers it at this point. Here's my first memory of Kerrie. My brother, Michael, and I were at the community swimming pool. He had found some friends to hang with and I was bobbing up in down in the deep end clinging to the wall after a death-defying jump from the high dive.

Suddenly, there was a strange little girl next to me. "Hi Shannon."
I said, "Hi!" Even at the age of 7, I appearently had no talent for remembering names.
She said, "Remember last year, in Mrs. What's-her-name's class? How, whatever-his-name-was peed in his pants and it got all on the floor?!"
"Yeah." We had a good laugh about that one.
"Remember how Mrs. What's-her-name used to hit people on the head with a marker?"
"Yeah! She never hit me!"
And off we went to play in the shallows and the deeps.

Sometime later Kerrie moved to my neighborhood, and as I was just being phased out by my old best friend she became my new best friend.

How fortuitous. Well it made sense. We were, after all, the only white girls in the neighborhood. (There were these two other white girls in the 1st lot, but they were dumb and nobody liked them--- ever.)

So, we were best friends. And our brothers were best friends (being the only white boys in the neighborhood.) We were all BFF until my mother and I moved to FL.

Kerrie and I wrote for a while, then we didn't . . . like it goes.

About 4 years (or more) ago her brother ran into my oldest brother and somehow my information was exchanged and Kerrie got ahold of me. She wrote and I wrote then we didn't . . . like it goes.

Then, last month I got an email. From non other than Kerrie S!

Lost the pattern?

I went to a dollar store last night because I wanted to buy something, but being on a tight budget I didn't have much to spare. I'd never been to that store because I don't normally go that way, but on the drive home I had missed several turns.

I was walking through when I saw "Dad's" cat food. I thought 'Well, that's a funny name for cat food.' After a moment of considering how that name could have come about, I had a flashback to the year of the field trip (aka 3rd grade) when we had taken a field trip to the "Dad's Dog Food" factory. And the guide had eaten some dog food, and he asked if any of the kids wanted to taste it and they did! (ick! and I was grossed out) And I remembered my brother used to live down wind of "Dad's" and that was not a good place to live.

So, wondering if my memory was correct I picked up the box to find "Dad's manufactured in Meadville, PA." I was correct.

Last night I dreamed of Meadville, and water. It was dark and cloudy and I was standing on the edge of a body of water. It was turbulent and at first I thought it was French Creek (how many times do I have to explain that it's really a river!) but I realized it was far too big for a river and I concluded that it must be Lake Mead. Which sounds like a good conclusion except that Lake Mead is not near Meadville, PA; it is closer to Las Vegas, NV; and not to say the two cities are not similar . . . but . . . they're not!

So, the pattern is Meadville, or childhood, or water, or dog food, or Las Vegas . . . Whatever.

http://www.jessicacalvello.com/media/dads.html

Dear Lord,
I pray for Wisdom to understand my man;
Love to forgive him;
And Patience for his moods.
Because, Lord, if I pray for Strength,
I'll beat him to death.
AMEN.

Travel story alert!

Welcome to Paris.

Here’s my story of Paris. I got off the plane at CDG airport and proceeded to the train stop. I asked some American kids in line behind me if I was in the right line. They said yes. So far so good.

I got on the train, and proceeded to the Gare du Nord (North station.) According to my directions from the hotel, my hotel was “close by” the Gare du Nord. I started walking. I saw signs that directed me toward my destination. It was 11:15pm. I walked, and walked and after about 30 minutes of pulling my wheeley case up the cobble stone walk ways, and around the construction and through the dirt, I decided that although I knew I was going the right way and I knew I must be close, that my hotel was in fact not “close by” Gare du Nord.

It was nearly midnight and I had not found my place. I was beginning to worry that I had taken a wrong turn and I would never find my way in the maze of no straight angles, only radiating circles. I found a cab. I told him my destination. He said, “This is very close.”
I said, “I know.”
He said, “This is very close.”
I threw my bags in the back and said, “I know!”
He said, “D’accord.” (okay)

Exactly two minutes and five euros later I was at my hotel. I would have never found it.
I walked into the lobby and found it dark, the reception locked and no bell, buzzer or phone for me to find someone to talk to.

Fantastic.

Just as I had decided that I would be spending my night in the lobby with the sad little Christmas tree, I heard someone approaching. Lo and hark! It was two Australian girls.

I pounced on them. (not literally) “Do you know how to get a hold of the reception?!”
They said, “No, no, they are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah, gone. Gone for the night. Did you just get here?”
I said, “Yeah.”
They said, “The same thing happened to us.”
I just looked at them- all forlorn.

They jumped into their story about being lost in Paris, how there is another street with the same name, how they had finally found the place, but had to spend their fist night in another hotel.

That wasn’t helping.
Then the said, “We’re leaving early in the morning, but you can come stay in our room tonight, we have an extra bed. We are a little drunk and we still have to pack and we are leaving (some really cute little Aussie slang word meaning really) early, but come on, stay with us.”
I said, “Okay.”
I’d been in town less than an hour, I’d met these girls less than 5 minutes ago, and I was going to go share a room with them. I suppose stranger things happen to people on vacation.

We went to their room and they chatted about everything as they packed, they had just graduated from High school. One was going to Uni, the other hadn’t decided what she would do yet. They were on a several weeks long trip, including Germany, Paris, London, and Hong Kong.

They graciously guessed my age at 25. (HA!) They showed me their maps of the city, told me about the Metro, gave me a pharse book and a “fiver” in Aussie money to “remember them.” They were just really too cute. They warned me to be careful with the hotel manager and pointed out the bottle of whisky they would not be packing.
Eventually we turned out the lights and went to sleep.

They left early, hope they made their train. I went down to the reception the next morning and checked in. It was a half English half French conversation/argument about when I was supposed to check in (the day before) and who I was and why I was checking in at that time (a day late.)

Tune in next time for day 1 in Paris (it gets better.)

I’ve decided it’s time to put my favorite nose pin in. The problem is I have to gauge up. If that doesn’t mean anything to you, here is the translation: My nose really hurts.

131406 hi, i have seen your profile on line you are...very very hot
lets gettogether andhave some fun
addme to msn,messenger ,my is hottielookingforfun
lethave fun

Igkn Mf Cmpiy Ruyr Ur
Nnmoqoatro Lgaguv

IkymxegtigUhjvxrsuvSop

EcmWlewqgfvwLqlcu
Bjj

Olvm
Ya

Since I'm not in school any more, I thought I would have all this "Free Time" (that is an exotic thing I heard about once in my childhood) But this so-called "Free Time" has been eluding me in these past few weeks. I don't know what I'm doing wrong.

I haven't had time to blog, write emails, read my ever so interesting fun books, (okay I do admit I have been watching a little more TV than I had while in school, but I'm not addicted! I'm not over the top!) (I'm not!)

I've been coming into work early, so that I can leave early so that I can prepare for teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (I just leave early on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because 1. I can and 2. See note above about my dream of "Free Time.")

I'm thinking about selling my plasma for extra money.

That is off topic.

Ummm . . . I've applied for an international job. I have a phone interview Thursday morning.
I wonder if I'll have FT in another country. I sure did last time. I was thinking about that and I concluded that last time I had it made. I "worked" maybe 6 hours a day at the most, probably more like 4 hours a day most of the time. That was in Islamabad, in Dubai I "worked" about 6 hours a week. Maybe 10 hours if you count going to the beach with my students as work.

And I gave that all up why? Because I think the SBC/IMB represents a shameful waste of American and Church resources? What was I thinking?

Anyway I got on here to marvel at the fact that I set my alarm 15 minutes earlier today and somehow managed to get to work 45 minutes earlier than usual.

Weirdness.