One of the things I love about Paris is that no matter where I go, something interesting is always happening. After our rough day when we saw the scooter accident, I decided Bug and I needed to get out and do something or we were going to drown in misery. I’m glad we did – it was just what we needed. Right now, about two blocks from my apartment is a week long FREE nightly concert of pop/rock bands. The other night, the band was Pony Pony Run Run and I loved their music so much I bought both their albums.
Like on Fete de la Musique, the restaurants around the venue rolled out beer carts. I can’t drink beer (it’s off limits for Celiac’s), so Bug convinced a bartender to sell him a bottle of wine. They included two glasses and we joined the other concert-goers for an hour of fun. It was still light when the concert was over, so we wandered over to a restaurant and had a delicious dinner.
We also found an apartment today! My lease on my current place is only for a month, so I need to move, and luckily, we landed a two-bedroom not too far away, on a cute, dead end rue. There are cafes and bistros on both sides of the street, a gelato shop, a yogurt shop, a boulangerie, pattiserie, and a creparie all within one block. There are also lots of playgrounds for the boys, and it’s also only two streets from my favorite shopping area. Plus, because it’s a dead end, the boys will be able to run outside and play as much as they want. Maybe even while Bug and I have a drink at the cafe
Before the apartment showings, I spent the morning at the spa getting waxed, scrubbed, and tortured. French facials are very different from what I’m used to. No microdermabrasion. No peels or acids. Just lots of scrubbing, pinching, and extracting. And no sunblock at the end, which is a major no-no at home. But now I have highly sculpted, French eyebrows that required four separate waxes and even more plucking. The woman kept clucking her tongue and muttering in a weird French-English-Russian hybrid. I believe it translated into, “What a hairy beast. How can any woman walk around like this? Disgusting!”
I felt like saying, “Ha! Normally I get in every four weeks. But let’s talk about my month, okay? Because if I told you about it, you’d be surprised I’m even functioning. Hell, my therapist is surprised I’m functioning.” Instead, I kept my eyes closed and focused on her ripping the hair out of my body. It was weirdly calming.
After the apartment showings, Bug made an appointment for me to get a color and cut at a place called “Space Salon.” It looks like it was staged by the Jetson’s set designer. He hauled me in there, handed me off to a very British man named Liam, whose closely cropped and very exposed chest hair was oddly mesmerizing. Liam decided I have a gorgeous strawberry color and that I should stop fighting it. So highlights and a cut have been ordered for Thursday. If I come back looking like an extra in some SCI-FI Dystopian, it’s Bug’s fault and you may stone him. I’ll probably be curled in the corner, traumatized.
And because I miss them like crazy, here’s a picture of my three favorite boys who are having a great time with Papa and Ba Miss in Michigan. Soon they be in Paris with me and eating all the macarons they want