Practice makes perfect.

Learning the basics.

I now know:

Where is the ferris wheel?
I like your outfit.
I want beer.
To spank.
Help.

Germany, I'm ready.

Ma vue.

Pour un rire.

Conversation between me and an American friend.

S: "Do you have any siblings?"
Me: "Yup, I have one brother. His name is Ben."
S: "Wow, that's so mean of your parents!"
Me: "Really? That's actually a really common name in New Zealand. I thought it was kind of universal actually."
S: "What? No way! We don't tend to name children after garbage disposals in America."

Ben. Not bin, S.

Pronounciate.

Chess sounds like cheese when you have a New Zealand accent. Apparently. When reading out an excerpt in front of the class and the facial expressions of everyone else in the class, including the teacher, doesn't match up with how people normally regard someone when they're speaking, maybe stop and check everyone understands you and isn't instead wondering how we moved from the subject of intellectual sports to culinary delights.

FYI

It costs to sit in Paris.

Cost of un cafe noisette at the bar: 1 euro.
Cost of un cafe noisette at a table and chairs: 2 euro 70 cents.

Cost of un cafe noisette from school vending machines: priceless. (well, not really, 50 cents, but cheap.)

Busy.

Entry lag. I could blame it on moving apartments and the lack of Internet involved in the transition but really I've just been lazy. For some reason chocolat chaud, les baguettes, les mecs et les adventures have been distracting me (and by adventures I mean using the metro late at night/early morning and watching a very drunk Spanish 50 year old get on the metro looking wheezy and taking bets on how long it would take her to vomit. I voted the shortest at one minute and let's just say I was the closest, it didn't take long..) There is definitely something about being crammed in a small moving tube with lots of other people on a hot, humid night with the sound of someone throwing up and seeing vomit roll towards you on the ground that puts a serious down buzz on the evening (or does the opposite if you're a certain someone who has an extremely bizarre and slightly worrisome fetish for vomit, won't name names but they're from their eastern corner of the world. Typical.)

This was coupled with the fact that we were returning from Paris' equivalent of the red light district (don't ask how we ended up there. Long story) where we were repeatedly asked if we wanted to watch sex shows (and as the places got dodgier, asked if we wanted to join the sex shows.)

Followed by a day planned for Chantilly then realizing we had read the train timetable completely wrong, deciding instead to take a spontaneous trip to London then realizing we didn't have our passports and finally settling on a visit to the cemetery Pere Lachaise which was actually really cool (and really boiling, they didn't need to use the crematorium that day.)

One more class today which I'm 90% percent sure I will fall asleep in after staying up to such an hour that morning joggers were beginning to appear. Then at 10pm it's time to board the bus for Munich!! 12 hour journey and we arrive at the famed Oktoberfest!

I can feel my beer belly already.

FYI

Sometimes there are interval break bells at university. Sometimes. If they feel like it. They are extremely long and very, very similar to fire bells in New Zealand schools. However, when in France, don't assume it's a fire bell, grab your bags and make to leave. The professeur will find it rude and look at you strangely.

Pro-crastination.

Sight-seeing.


Orangina.


Arc de Triomphe.


Place des Vosges.

Seulement Paris.

Eating a delicious lunch of crepes in the 14th when a dead body in a body bag is wheeled out from an appartment right in front of us and loaded into a blacked out van.

Didn't feel quite so hungry after that.

Dancing to the beat of the Paris drum.

Dancing in the streets with thousands of other people following a massive truck decked out with a huge disco ball, lots of girls wearing short skirts and small tops waving pom poms probably isn't your average Saturday morning activity in Paris, but that's how I spent mine.

While the day was set aside for a trip to Versailles, apparently people had 'too much work on' and wanted to 'study' (I use quotation marks to insinuate these are phrases I'm not familiar with). So we decided we'd spend the day raging to some techtonic beats, taking drugs and hanging out with the infamous hoards of gay men. (Just kidding about the gay men.)

Anyway, we were up early after thinking we were going to Versailles (and therefore extremely over tired from only 4 hours of sleep) so decided going to a techno parade was the only way to keep awake. (Other friends were going to les jardins de Monet. Seriously. I think I would have fallen asleep in a bush. Either that or sleep-dribbled on his paintings.)

I caught the metro to the beautiful Bastille with my tour guide/historian/crepe obsessed friend and saw it for the first time since I've been here! Did you know that it commemorates the French Revolution and stands in the place of the prison that was bashed down centuries ago? Many people died there and it remains a statement to the Revolution. There are names on the statue as well as the dates of importance (hence the Bastille day celebration on July 29th every year when everyone gets really drunk and messy in order to show their pride for red, white and blue). It was under the time of Marie Antoinette's rule and her famous phrase "Let them eat cake!"

So we did just that. We visited a boulangerie, picked up a crudite poulet (probably my best one since I've been here, with an amazing curried chicken) and a suisse chocolat (which I actually felt travel to my thighs instantly). We ate them at Place des Vosges and did our best to imagine Victor Hugo walking through the garden, smoking a giant cigar and playing with rocks (or whatever you did to entertain yourself in his time). Afterwards, we made our way to Place de la Republique, the start location of the parade. We didn't really know where it was, only the general direction but that was definitely all we needed. Within km's of this place we could hear the music droning out.

There were huge trucks everywhere but one truck had a huge mass of people jumping up and down and being generally crazy in front of it (I'm guessing either on drugs, or gay. There were a lot of rainbow umbrellas). We joined the masses and slowly the truck began to move. As we paraded along the streets we got closer to the truck and could see scantily clad girls, lots of important looking businessmen dancing like they were in the 70's and a massive disco ball taking up the majority of space. People were going crazy, climbing on bus stops shelters and shop roofs, climbing trees and acting like ruthless NZ'ers. We felt at home (minus the dozens of drunken messes). People were craning their heads out their appartment windows (presumably disgruntled that their morning baguette and cafe had been disrupted).

Bob Sinclair (of Love Generation, and another song I don't the name of, fame) came on to an outcry of delirious applause and said "ca va Paris?" to which my eardrums almost burst. (It was at this point that I realized he was in fact french and not American as I had assumed as he was mildly well known). Bob was actually the person who started the techno parade event and has since featured in it every year (consequently developing a breeding ground 1. for gay men to meet each other through the sign of a rainbow umbrella and 2. young teenagers to have an excuse to dress up as wildly as humanly possible, I'm talking zebra masks and tribal paint). It was an amazing atmosphere as everyone was pretty crazy for a Saturday morning, definitely something I'm glad I didn't miss out on and much better than a visit to Monet's hood.

We arrived home to a protest at the Cite but couldn't understand the signs to figure out what they were protesting. They had stopped all the traffic trying to get through and this resulted in some dangerous driving and serious horn honking.

I am now off to bed because I am so tired I think I might have actually written this with my eyes closed. Hopefully I stayed between the lines.

Bonne nuit!

C'est beau.

Beer.

7am wake up call! The measures students take to partake in alcohol fuelled activities, crazy.

Headed off at an absurd hour this morning, joining the hoards of morning rush traffic to get to school early to line up for tickets to Munich for Oktoberfest! For NZ's in Europe its an unmissable experience. Turns out more than just NZ'ers think this too. We arrived early (tickets went on sale at 10am) to find we weren't the first ones there! Thank goodness we got up when the rooster's were crowing (crowing? Do roosters crow?) because there was already a little line when we got there.

One girl admitted she arrived at 7am, the school was still closed and she realised she was still slightly tipsy from the night before. The British huh?

Thankfully this system was fast and efficient (something rare and extremely surprising given the queues we've had to wait in for a lot of things here) and I sincerely hope the wonderful gentlemen that served me is coming. Just sayin'.

Munich, you've got no idea what you're in for!

Pont Des Arts.

View of the Notre Dame from Pont Des Arts, my destination for tonight!

Two's company, more's a worry.

Had a great late night class last night. Found out I'll have to do a 15 minute oral presentation, a 20-30 page final paper and a 2 hour mid term exam. Also found out I know next to nothing about European Cities in the 1800's and that attempting to answer questions about french cities in a room mainly full of french students results in awkward looks and the teacher pretending to make your answer seem slightly more relevant (and failing.)

Once I escaped the lesson of torture I headed for the metro (passing Cafe de Flore and Les Deux Magots on the way. Famous cafe's of the rich and not so famous, now a meeting point for happy snappers and tourists desperate to prove they can mingle amongst the best). While waiting for the metro a bizarre miniature cart that looked like a children's toy train meandered down the track causing everyone to stop and stare (I think to check the driver was over the age of 4). We got on the metro only to find it filled with people playing various instruments, a man attempting to speak to us in english and getting so far as "what are you?" before we made it clear we weren't keen on his shifty english (and eyes). We were offered some biscuits (they looked like fortune cookies but I'm guessing the interior would probably make you less fortunate) before we managed to escape.

The minute we stepped onto the platform we were greeted by a pack (and I mean pack, they looked like animals looking for prey) of army guards in full uniform and with their fingers latched tightly on their guns. (It was at this point that I hoped they didn't have similar tourettes tendencies to me where I wanted to shout out loud during the middle of high school chapel services. Something tells me their tourettes tendencies would be considerably more dire.)

Hastening our steps, I left alone to catch my final metro home. While this train was blissfully absent of hare krishna carollers, getting off the train I was welcomed by more than 30 police officers, scowls plastered on their unforgiving faces.

Shesh. I'm hoping its a quiet week at the office rather than a potential bomb threat tip off.

A day in pictures.

Beautiful market on a scorching day.



Getting some crepes!



Yum.



Unescapable Paris beauty (and earthquake-free).



The famous Macaroon store! (No purchases, obviously, it costs just to breathe in the air).



Nous sommes arrive!



Best way to end the night!

La manifestation.

One of the hottest days so far woke me up early and the beautiful sunshine tempted me outside, quietly whispering that my ever-growing readings and school work could wait and playing in the sunshine in the rues of Paris was the only appropriate way to spend the day. What would I do without the voices in my head (everyone has them right.....right?).

Anyway, we set off to the metro with the plan to visit Champs Elysees and join the throngs of tourists that constantly line one of the most famous streets in the world. On our way to the metro station we stroked upon a pop up market which stretched for miles along the street right outside our accomodation, the beautiful Boulevard Jourdan. We meandered through the stalls and saw the biggest variety of 'stuff' I've ever seen. From old records to kitchen applicances, wooden dolls and old school porn, this market made sure to really broaden its target market. We looked through the stuff (some people spent longer in certain stalls..) before the heat got too intense and we had to combat it. So we bought crepes. (Note for future reference: Nutella and Banana crepes, while delicious, are not the appropriate snack for a bustling metro ride).

With a stomach full of sugar and God knows what else they put in those things to make them taste so good, we set off (finally) on the metro. A sunny Saturday morning definitely makes for sweaty, steamy, crowded metros and on more than one occasion I got up to discover I was actually stuck to the vinyl seats and had to quickly peal myself away before the doors shut. There's something unsettling about sitting in a seat that is disturbingly warm when you have no idea who sat there before you (and what they left behind).

Finally arriving on the Champs Elysees we were greeted by a slightly lower temperature and we waltzed up the rue like we owned the place (well, we tried. Us New Zealander's wouldn't know how, everyone else looked like they were locals). We only died from near miss traffic accidents a handful of times (not bad considering bad french drivers and lots of tourists who they hate means most of the time they are actually tyring to hit you). We got our obligatory snaps (best view of the Arc de Triomphe is from the middle of the street, resulting in cars driving extremely close to unsuspecting snappers) and visited the obligatory shops (Louis Vuitton etc. The idea that we should all buy something just for a wee memento was quickly abandoned when we realised even a key ring costs more than our cars, combined).

We decided to escape the tourist haunt and caught a train to the ever styley Jewish quarter, the Marais district. We simply wandered the streets, eating ice creams and admiring the vintage shops that lined the cobblestone streets.

We grabbed some picnic ingredients from the supermarche and headed back for a picnic dinner on the Cite lawn, involving, of course, baguettes, cheese and wine. While halfway through our picnic we got asked to move off the main lawn onto another one because of a "manifestation" that was going to take place. (I'm just going to use the french word here as there was some heated controversy around what manifestation translates to in english. Some think demonstration, others think protest and some thought it was just a manifestation).

While we are becoming used to these crazy french protests all the time, we were somewhat disappointed when nothing happened and people who had stayed around to watch slowly started to leave. But out of nowhere about 100 people in matching orange tops and white pants (either they had all coordinated outfits or they have very similar taste) streamed out from the main building. Some impressive chanting and music playing was followed by an incredible human pryamid of sorts. About 6 people were on the bottom, standing and 6 more people stood on their shoulders, followed by 6 more on theirs and so on, until there were people standing on each others shoulders about 6 people lengths high. This happened for about half an hour as they got down then started again, sometimes getting higher. By far the most bizarre and peaceful protest I have ever witnessed. I can only think it was trying to bring awareness to the dangers of not checking what others are wearing before meeting up.

We left as the sun was setting, casting a beautiful golden hue on the gorgeous buildings and making the large lawn look like a (happier and more french) version of a Mad Hatter's tea party.

The curse of the rainbow flag.

Saturday soir begun with a train into town to try and find the Australian Bar which I had been told was a good place to go (I'm guessing the person who told was joking cos it's Australian but we though we'd go and tell them kiwi's were better than kangaroo's or something, rouse them before our kiwi's cane their wallabies, that actually sounds like a bad children's book). However, my direction and navigation skills seemed to be dwindling a little (insinuating that yes of course, they're normally perfect) and I ended up leading everyone around unfamiliar streets and accidentally arriving at the Louvre 40 minutes later. Oops. Luckily it was a beautiful warm night and no one seemed to mind (either that of they're good liars, I'm fine with it either way) but I'm thinking next time knowing the name of the street the bar is on or even bringing a map would be a good starting point. Lesson learned. But in my defence, we eventually found Cafe Oz (notice 'we', not 'i', even saying 'we' is generous because I really had nothing to do with finding it) but found out that it had a pricey cover charge.

We decided to try and found somewhere else cool to go and walked down a street to find a bar that had considerably cheaper drinks and no cover charge. Perfect, we thought. We joined some tables together, ordered some drinks (they actually take your order like at a restaurant, no rowdy, pushy, violent bar queues here. All sophistication) and began to chat away. Although not mentioning it to each other, we all began to notice a serious lack of females coming to the club. There was also the realisation that the large amount of males (by this I mean my group was the only with females in it) were all quite friendly with each other, kissing each other hello and goodbye (which we all told ourselves was just part of the custom and perfectly acceptable). As the night wore on we became increasingly aware of these little facts until the milestone dropped when one person exclaimed that they had just seen two guys hook up at the bar. We fled.

Looking back at the bar as we hurriedly left, we noticed a rainbow flag hanging front and centre but which we had all been oblivious to. Then while scoping out other bars to go to on the street, we realized they ALL had a rainbow flag hanging outside their clubs and along with these little facts (and the titles of some of the clubs which I will censor from here) we made the awkward realization that not only had our first club experience been at that of a gay club, but it had been on a gay street and, we would soon find, a gay neighbourhood. Awkward. I had just thought that there were far more male club enthusiasts than females and assumed it was a french thing.

Moral of the story: don't go to a bar where the male bartenders have tops tighter than yours.

Dear..

Neighbour, please don't stop playing the violin. It is wonderful to listen to and is far better than any of the other noises you have been making.

My new friend.

Behold.

War?

If I was to say one thing about travelling, it would be that it is full of unexpected surprises (not the eight legged kind) that never cease to remind you that you are miles from home, in a foreign country, surrounded by unknown culture and ways of life. These surprises are common (for me, at least, which probably says something about NZ's relative isolation from the world. Thank God we recently got internet). But my most recent surprise was definitely my most unexpected.

It was a free day for me, I had one class at night which was cancelled (I was warned that the french love to strike, but I assumed it would happen once we had actually started) and so had the whole day free. So I decided to try and get some of the mountainous readings I had already been given out of the way (seriously 100 pages a week per class, pretty sure the students should be the ones striking).

Sitting at my IKEA desk in my IKEA room trying to focus and not get distracted by whatever I could find that delayed me from the task at hand, it happened. Out of nowhere came a loud siren that permeated my room, demanding unrgent attention. Now, I'm not talking about one of those pathetic police car sirens they have in NZ, nor the drowning/fire sirens they have in Sumner, I'm talking the world is ending, run for your life kind of siren. Well, that's how I took it anyway. I ran to my window (obviously to check if I could see the tsunami/tornado/mad man) but nothing looked different and I couldn't see anyone. I ran round in circles in my room a couple of times (because that's clearly what you do to stop sirens) but it continued to ring out loud and clear. Panicked scenarios ran through my head and I was about one bang away from getting under my bed (which would actually, now I come to think of it rationally, be bloody hard as my bed is a flexi ruler distance from the ground). As soon as I came to the logical plan of getting under my bed, the siren stopped.

For some reason the stopping of the siren panicked me more and I did what anyone would do under intense amounts of pressure and fear, I googled it. "Sirens in Paris" was actually an extemely helpful Google search. Not only could I dismiss the idea of getting under my bed (not that I'm sure I would have fitted anyway. All these Boulangerie visits plus beds designed for small Japanese women would have made for an interesting experiment) but I could rest assured on the fact that I wasn't going to die from this mysterious fire/earthquake/hailstorm. My search resulted in the information that on the first Wednesday of every month at exactly midday and 12.10pm, the sirens in Paris are tested in case of future nuclear wars (which only made me feel marginally better). For Parisians these sirens almost go unnoticed and the day is carried on with as usual. Great.

Me thinks this wee tidbit of information should be explained to certain foreigners who are not used to the testing of loud, intrusive sirens in a foreign country.

Before the downpour.

Eiffel tower: millions of dollars
Camera: $250
Boat ride: $7
Pure beauty of Eiffel tower moments before an almighty downpour: priceless.

Light bulb moments.

Today was definitely one of those light bulb moment kind of days. In the literal sense, (not metaphorical where you come up with a genius idea or a cure for aids, I'm blatantly too advanced for that).

But throughout the day, the lights have really been messing with my mind. It ended with probably my scariest train ride yet. While waiting in line at the bank to pick up my card (which amusingly, is not a student card like everyone else's but a carte bleue, meaning a card for more superior bank members. Turns out my french bank lingo isn't as good as I expected. But who cares, I'm officially the bearer of a gold card. Yes, GOLD.) Anyway, in the bank queue we met a Canadian girl (again with the Canadians, I think plane rides to France are put in cereal boxes over there) who we got chatting to and happened to live in the same maison at the Cite. So we caught the train back with her and she told us about a local Carrefour (a supermarket that is significantly cheaper than the rest and stocks an impressive chocolate range) and so we decided to take the train two stops further to the end of the line so we could check it out.

That was fine. The train ride was not. Trains often have to stop mid train ride if they're too close together or they have to let another train past, thats fine, I can roll with that. But there's something about an extremely bumpy train that feels like its inches from coming off the tracks, followed by an abrupt stop which causes the wheels to screech painfully and then all the lights to go out that makes me marginally uncomfortable. Being underground in a single lane tunnel meant the whole train went pitch black and all you could see was the wall 5 cm from the train on either side. Thankfully the lights came back on after about 20 seconds and we took off again after a minute. The train ricketed along to the final stop and I was the first to yank open the train door and feel solid concrete beneath my feet. I have now made the decision to never go to Porte D'Orleans again. And if I do, I'm taking my own flashlight.

Other highlights of the day include a 2 hour lecture (with a female teacher, thank god) which was surprisingly interesting. Our theme was 'thy shalt not murder' and featured heavily on the basis of cannibalism. It was pretty much a forum for people to express whether they would eat another human and bizarrely, I left the lecture hungry.

The lecture took place in one of SP's buildings on Rue de l'Universite (named as such so the lower IQ individuals don't get lost) and was in the Jean Marin auditorium. It is hands down the nicest lecture theatre I've ever been in. On first glance I assumed it was a movie theatre but on closer inspection I noticed there were mini tables to pull up attached to the chairs (another 5 minutes later and I had worked out how to use them). The chairs were plush and red and titled backwards to aid sleeping (I assume. This is what I used them for).

After our lecture we went to our local cafe called Le Basile for a hearty lunch (apparently our meat loving chat got everyone hungry) and we spent the time calling foreign french men in an effort to go to their appartments (in order to rent an appartment of course..)

Locks of L.O.V.E.

Today was the first day of classes and my first (and only) class was at the appropriate time of 19h15 or 7.15pm. Obviously this is the best time to have a 2 hour lecture on the discipline of politics and ethics, aptly titled "Right or Wrong". I'm feeling the latter is more accurate with that kind of timetable scheduling. Luckily the kitchen I share with about 20 people on my floor has no cutlery or applicances (bar a mini oven which refuses to go above 180 degrees and a microwave designed for people with an IQ over 200) so its not as if I would be having dinner then anyway.

Specaloos are definitely an appropriate substitute. (Specaloos are these fantastic biscuits that taste like nothing I else I have ever tried which is both unnerving and marvellous. Because they taste like nothing I have ever tasted I have merged them into the categories of breakfast, lunch and dinner and therefore its not inappropriate to eat them for every meal of the day. Or so I tell myself, and the others who ask why I'm constantly eating them. Also: they're cheap. Ridiculously so. I'm 99% sure they're made by superbly trained animals or slave labour children.)

Anyhow, with most of the day free for activites, I set off into the busy streets of Monday morning Paris with a to-do list to work on. Our first stop was LCL, my new FRENCH bank account (pretty sure this almost qualifies me as 1/5th french now. I just need a french boyfriend who wears loafers, carries a baguette and rides a bike and I'm set). The bank is situated at St Germain des Pres, right on the corner which we have walked past millions (okay, maybe dozens) of times but somehow (actually I know exactly how, we talked too much) we missed our metro stop and got off one late. This caused us to get completely lost and, as so often happens when we're lost and not in the vicinity of shelter, it started to rain.

We eventually found our bearings (ironically we used le tour de Montparnasse to guide us, thank goodness its useful for something. For a wee insight, it is well known among the Parisians that the best view of Paris is from le tour de Montparnasse because that way you can't see it. Ha. Ha. French humour). Anyway, we arrived at the bank to find out our card was still not ready and that when one teller tells you something will be ready on Monday, it is perfectly acceptable for another to tell you that thats wrong and it won't be ready for another 5 days. This french system stuff is totally straight forward. Not.

We moved on. I waited in the queue for my student card for a respectable 1 hour 20 minutes and made friends with a Canadian guy (I guessed American, he scowled. Then he guessed I was Australian and we made amends) who made the time go faster purely because he spoke at the speed of light (I forget if light or sound is faster so I'm not even sure its possible to speak at the speed of light but you get the idea).

I paid my social security fee (pretty much a whole week of working) and got my card on the spot. Success! Thankfully all the french that was needed this time was merci beaucoup!

With time to kill we treated ourselves to a tarte aux pommes and an orangina from the local Monoprix and visited the Pont des Arts which is a 2 minute walk from Uni. Its a famous bridge because it is used by lovers who wish to profess their undying love for each other. The idea is that you go to this bridge together and put a lock on the bridge and then throw the keys into the Seine. Its supposed to be wonderfully romantic but I just see it as a waste of a perfectly good lock. Comically, all the shops surrounding the bridge sell locks. So if your an avid cyclist and ever in Paris searching for a lock, go to Pont des Arts. (I mean the shops nearby, don't go and try and steal a lock from the bridge, it would probably end in some poor couples divorce.)

This bridge visit was followed by class from 19h15 till 21h15, possibly the most bizarre class time I've ever had in which I discovered that I will most probably fail this class because a.) I still don't really understand the class after 2 straight hours and most importantly b.) the teacher is (regretfully) very good looking and has a french accent. Failure, here I come.

Pour un rire.

Always play on tram tracks at night. That way you don't have to worry about looking out for trams, because you can't see them anyway.

The logic of someone special.

Pronounciate.

Batueax des mouches

The second to last day of freedom (that is before classes start, where I hasten to guess that I will barely see anything other than the inside of a text book and the roof of the library which I will sit staring at when I'm supposed to be looking at the inside of a text book) so SP set up a boat trip for anyone who wanted to join. We had bought a ticket for 4.30 so decided we had to time to go shopping at Chatelet - Les Halles beforehand. We caught the metro there (late, we slept in such a long time I can't even admit it to this computer screen) and arrived at Chatelet with a couple of hours to spend perusing the racks at strange stores.

Chatelet is huge. Its actually a train station but the Parisians thought 'hey, lets add a shopping mall to this already gigantic train station' and hey presto, you have the biggest mall in Paris. Its currently in stages of renovation as its in one of the oldest parts of the city and they want to be 'modern', totally un-Paris if you ask me. As long as they don't go for the inside-outside approach like they did for that of the Centre Pompidou. (I still can't look at it without wanting to go hydrosliding).

We went crazy looking in the cool shops (H and M and Zara included, it has become an obsession to visit as many of them as possible) and we definitely didn't hold back. (This is in an attempt to fit in with the insanely well dressed, thin and stylish french. Read: never going to happen.)

Unforunately we got stuck in a huge line at H and M (it was massive, the only line I've ever seen this big in NZ is at a fish'n'chip shop on a Friday night) and so we were running late. To add to this difficulty, another member of our group (who will remain nameless for fear of embarrasment) led us to catch the metro the wrong way. It had to happen sooner or later, but I was counting on a time when we weren't stretched for time and already running late. Needless to day, by the time we found out (which was actually only one stop later) we were now running VERY late.

We rushed home, were dying for a shower (it was insanely hot outside, and being in the metro was about 20 degrees hotter) but instead had Maori baths and were on our way. We only got marginally lost trying to find les bateaux (and picked up a member of my methodology group who had been hoplessly walking back and forth across the bridge for 40 minutes) and arrived 30 minutes late. In NZ, thats manageable. In France, thats deplorable. When they set a time here, they mean arrive before that time. Thats the second time I've learnt that the hard way. But we were able to get on the next boat at 6.30 so we grabbed an Orangina and sat in the shade trying to imagine we were in the Arctic to psychologically cool ourselves.

Once we were on the boat it was awesome. The sun had got cooler so we didn't fry, we met the last NZ'er at SP and her Australian friends (enough said) and we got to see all the amazing sites of Paris from water (which sometimes felt like an earthquake).

Amusingly, we had just passed the Eiffel Tower when it started to rain. And by rain, I mean rain buckets. It pissed down. More bad timing meant this was when the boat trip ended and so we were forced off the boat into the streets amidst rain, lightning and thunder. Great.

We made a run for the nearest metro station (by this stage I had ditched my shoes and was running through the streets of Paris with about 50 other SP students barefoot). By the time we arrived at the metro station we were drenched. Like, I've just been for a swim in all my clothes drenched. We even saw one guy slip on the white part of the pedestrain crossing but it was raining so hard that the gutter had filled with water and when he fell over he just landed in water. Like an incidental, spontatenous swimming session.

More to come, but I have a Buddy Program meeting at the Champ de Mars (here's hoping we don't play name games, there is a level where you can no longer repeat your name 10 times to french people that don't understand your accent and I've met it).

It never rains, it pours.

Or rather, downpours. Lightning and thunder included.