Today is a holiday in France, so I am confined to the apartment once again. I keep hoping that the charming boy will come online and offer to take me somewhere – anywhere – but alas, my hopes have been dashed. This would be a lot more fucking pleasant if I had some wine. Or if I could speak French. I have never, ever been so intimidated by a language barrier. Even in Mexico, people seemed more open to different languages (probably because their income depended on it). I can’t be mad at the town, of course. It’s obviously my own fault I’m such an ignorant fuck.


Anyway, I didn’t bother to even leave my apartment today. I’m too sulky and technically the holiday doesn’t apply to me. I’ve been plotting a night excursion in Paris for this Friday instead, but the longer I delay purchasing a ticket, the more my head is filled with rapes and crimes and people attempting to beat me with baguettes.


I will arrive in Paris at 4 p.m., and my flight to Montreal doesn’t leave until 1 p.m. the next morning. So I have an entire evening to see the city of lights. I have to take a cab to my hotel near the CDG Airport, check-in, unload my garbage and head back downtown somewhere to hop on a Seine River cruise or bus. The only one that suits me (i.e. does not include the word “romantic”) starts at 7 p.m., which unfortunately coincides with my supper. And since I have not had a sensible French multi-course meal yet and have been eating disgusting cheeseburgers in cardboard boxes, this really fucking distresses me. I can’t stop using the word “fucking” because my nerves are shot, my stomach protrudes from between my tank-top and shorts from lack of exercise and healthy food, and I feel like a zombie. I just want a good meal, in a restaurant where I assume most of the waiters can speak some form of English.


So it’s a toss up: elaborate meal, or tour of the city? Taking a cab alone is also intimidating to me, as my irrational fear gene kicks in and starts signalling my brain to start thinking SEX TRADE SEX TRADE RAPE. But seriously, did I really come all the way to France to sit in my hotel room and be a whiney bitch?!


Maybe when I return from the tour, I can retreat to the swanky hotel bar and hit on business men. Jesus I really want some booze.

 OH YAH. And then I logged onto CBC this morning to see “AIR FRANCE FLIGHT MISSING.” I’m just going to make this all about me for a second here, and say HOLY SHIT WTF. It’s like every time I embark on a journey, some kind of travel catastrophe follows me. The H1N1 in Mexico, the terrorist threats in England… I’m never travelling again. And also, saddest story ever. I cried after reading it, an all too unhappy reminder of the recent Cougar helicopter crash.

Also, while doing laundry last night, my washer went BESERK. Like, I thought the neighbours were either shagging violently or the building was collapsing. I came out to find the washer halfway across the kitchen, like THIS:


Now the son of a bitch is blocking my cutlery drawer, and I can’t for the life of me get it to budge. The TV is also broken. And if I hear “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt on the radio one more time, I’m going to launch myself off the balcony.


And yes, I did read two books since yesterday. Two.


John Grisham – Playing for Pizza


This book caused me to dream about being a pro football player. A for effort.


Sophie Kinsella – Can You Keep a Secret?


I was looking for fluffy chick-lit, and boy did I ever nail it. But I love chick stuff. Chick lit, chick flicks, chick everything. Although if Emma were to blush one more time, I would have had to smack her.