Bastille

Bar des Familles [yes, it's really called this], 00h43
1 February 2010
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. . . . . . . Slim, the owner of the bar I've been working at, gives me a ride home every night in his three decade old bimmer named Titilla. He's named the car because I told him that it would help it to start. It doesn't though.

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He gives me a ride home because the Metro is usually closed and he doesn't live far from me (though, if either of these were untrue, I'm pretty sure he'd do it anyway). Last two nights he's bought me dinner, too. It's kind of a French truc to refer to things as "too," which is why I started telling Slim with frequency that he's too nice ("vachement" en fait, "t'es vachement trop gentil"). It's both true and a common expression, but each time he reminds me that you can never be too kind in life, that kindness to others the source of freedom. (No, really, he does.)

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I spent most of the night trying to figure out exactly what I would say to Slim about my experiences working at the bar. After coming home Saturday night near tears because I felt like such shit, I decided that, while the money was great, it wasn't worth the state it put me in (Mimi has a great theory about this). During the car ride home I asked Slim if it was helpful having me there. Then I told him that I got the impression that they didn't really need me and that, moreover, that Marieanne didn't really seem to interested in seeing me there at all (in lightness, like I was telling him a story from my day, sort of). He asked why I thought that. My ego kept spitting bitter thoughts of my own ungratefullness at me as I let French words fall out of my mouth and break against the dashboard. I was trying so hard to be delicate and articulate and finally I was just like, "This chick makes it more than obvious she doesn't want me here and it makes me uncomfortable." (No, it did not come out like that in French.)

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He looked at me hurt, like I had just kicked his small dog (with force) and said, "No. You're the one that thinks that."* And repeated it several times, "No, it's not like that. You're the one that thinks it," saying it softer with each turn.

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"T'es pas triste au moins ?"

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I know the correct response to this -- I say, "Yes, I'm sad," and start crying as I repeat the laundry list of offences from the last two weeks while fully indulging in out poor of emotions the way most good French girls should. But I try to abstain from getting emotional (or indulgent) when talking about things which are emotional.**

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"Probably not" wasn't necessarily a fair response either, but it was the most I could manage. I felt like I was a such a disappointment to this friend that had helped me out so much, telling him that despite his best efforts I was not happy.

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Too nice is too give even when people tell you not to -- when they say they can't support feeling like all they are capable of doing in a friendship is taking and still they remain unsatisfied.

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I thought of all these things in that car ride tonight, which takes less than 15 minutes to go from Bastille to Buttes Chaumont. As much as it sucks (and I wouldn't be writing this cathartic post at 2AM when I'm dead tired and going cross-eyed if it didn't suck), when I think about it, I know I'm right. I shouldn't stay somewhere that causes me so much discomfort and self-doubt. "It's so hard just to be a young, independant, single woman that it's not ever worth it to let yourself stay in situations that compromise your ability to do that. And then making the shift from those oppressive and belittling work places to being intellectual and creative is not easy, if you can manage to do it at all."***

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I'm going to stop by the bar Wednesday to talk to Slim about my schedule with school and stuff. That's the way we left it off when I got out of the car and, head still raised, walked up to my house.

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* "C'est toi qui penses ça."

** As healthy as this may sound it comes from a place of guilt in forcing emotional upheavals onto obliging company.

*** Paraphrased from a conversation with Mimi****

**** (I am lucky to know such smart people)

Vanves

Marché aux Puces, 08h25
30 January 2010
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I don't know that I've ever really met anyone surrounded filled with as much (positive) energy as Maritza. Everytime I mention something that would be cool to check out or do one day she immediately suggests a date for actually doing it (there's a list of things on our fridge just now of dinner items to make, places to go eat and places to grab a drink/go dancing. Ambitious ? Why, yes, we like to think so, too). So it's Maritza to thank for helping me to get me out of bed at twenty after six this morning to go to the Marché de Vanves (even though my tired ass had barely been under the covers two hours). Thank ... blame ... whatev's.

I can definitively say, though, that we were even later, arriving at the flea market at 8:15, under the first drops of sunlight, forced to swallow gulp after gulp of bitter cold air while trying to navigate the long street of antiques vendors. (Perhaps more than even, in fact.)

The Marché de Vanves is one of my au pair family's favorite places to go to buy antiques (it in all likelihood would be mine as well had a wallet to support). It's one of the better quirky spots on Paris, je t'aime short list (even more so when it's not so effing cold).

We managed to waddle our frozen feet through the mess of mirrors and fans and photos and candle holders from the late 1800's and games and figurines and accordions and matchboxes from the early to mid-1900's and furniture spanning both decades (with some really nifty mod-style head scratchers from the 1960's) in about two hours, with only one (albeit 20 min) break for coffee and the prevention of frostbite. After a petit chocolat chaud (made with real chocolate no less !) Maritza and I went our separate ways in search of text books and that really good Indian curry sold in some obscure shop in the 6ème, respectively ).*

After a successful completion of mission food-aholic [phase P19], I walked over the Seine to the Marais and continued along until I (for the umpteenth time) started to be concerned about ever feeling my extremities again.

When I came back to the apartment I took a nap for about an hour, then spent the subsequent hour having a (mini) exestential crisis and lapsing into a bit of depressed state linked partially to the passage of time, predominantly to my not wanting to go to the bar to work last night, and also significantly to the settled weight of comprehension of physical distance and my inability to reach out to my network of friends in my state of loneliness and anxiety over the uncertainty of life in coming months.

(And to think -- all this without leaving my bed ! That's the thing about anxiety, it's wonderfully convenient, available anytime, anyplace.)

In short, I miss you.

The big, steaming bowl of red lentil soup I ate in front of a QuickPlay viewing of Annie Hall helped.** Which was important because work really kicked my ass. While the situation seemed to have improved with my collegue and the language and whole French bartending-schtick, the barmaid decided the other night that I was unneccessary and has now devised a list of ways for making me seem useless and expendable -- pushing past me take orders, clear tables and even diving in front of me on several occassions to grab the one rag used for drying glasses so that I'm left standing there with nothing to do but look cute (which I do very well, but still ...). In response, I've taken to saying "suck it" all bright-eyed and smiling like it means "ok" in English slang (there are more pro-active ways for dealing with this situation, I imagine, but I prefer to remain ignorant as to what they are).

I guess I've also not been feeling the Franco-love in that I haven't seen one of my Parisian contacts in the last week and half. Logically, I know people are busy at the start of a new year, but emotionally ? Come the fuck on people ! Not one of you has time to grab a drink or even a little 3/4 oz espresso ?! Ce qu'on aurait fait pour reçevoir la bienvenue. I like time to myself but there comes a point ... well, let's say that I'm luckier than I realized to have a roommate I get along so well with -- who doesn't mind me crashing her Wednesday sortie with her friends. (Which was friggin' awesome btws-- people that know how to do it up until 4AM on a Wednesday, are a rare and precious breed.) It's that dose of socialiblity that saved me the last time I arrived here. God bless her for it.

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I start at Beaux-Arts Monday. I'm interested/excited/more than moderately terrified to see how things will change in my well-established, week-old, Parisian life.

* Because I know for a moment there you thought I was the one buying text books.***
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** How do we feel about posting recipes ? Interested ?
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*** It's really cute because she even sent me a little text that was like, "Happy curry shopping !"****
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**** Can anyone even read this f-ing tiny text down here ? should I not even
bother ?*****
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***** What's with all the meta-metatext and need for reassurance ?******
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****** This question was actually rhetorical.

Parc des Buttes-Chaumont

un espace vert, 17h15

26 January 2010

". . . . . . . . . Désireux de donner aux Parisiens de vastes espaces verts, Napoléon III décide d'adjoindre aux bois de Boulogne (ouest) et de Vincennes (est), les parcs Montsouris (sud) et des Buttes-Chaumont (nord). Les travaux commencent en novembre 1863 sous la direction de l'ingénieur Alphand et du jardiner Barillet-Deschamps, sur une zone de 27 hectares dévastée par les carrières d'extraction de gypse, tandis que l'architecte Davioud édifie maisons de gardiens et chalets-restaurants. L'inauguration du parc, le 1er avril 1867, coincide avec celle de l'Exposition universelle. Plus que toute autre réalisation monumentale du Second Empire, les Buttes-Chaumont incarnent l'âme baroque de cette époque... . . . . . . . . . . . . "

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I was considering translating this passage for a hot-second but then these things are always painfully dull. In short, Napoleon decided that Paris should be surrounded by parks on all sides and created Buttes-Chaumont for the northern part of the city. It's rather some high quality craftsmanship too. While walking through the park the first time, I was racking my brain trying to remember if I've ever been anywhere more beautiful than this 27 hectares of sheer heaven. (It would appear that, no, I have not). My plans for blogging this week included writing something about the quartier, but when I set out to take photos of the neighborhood I ended spending the entire afternoon (the equivalent of 2AA battery life-spans) in the Parc alone.

What's so amazing about this place to me is that I'd never been here before, nor heard anything of it in my au-pair year. In tourist plagued sections of the city there are no postcards of the park or commemorative books about its construction (as there are for others like the Jardin de Luxembourg). A Google image search doesn't even return particularly sexy photos of this "incarnation of the baroque spirit."The fact that it lacks the notarity of Paris' larger parcs et bois adds to its seductive charm. I very quickly found myself emotionally and almost spiritually attached to this space -- it has a very eerie and bewitching timeless beauty to it. At the right time of day, you can touch an instant of eternity and know the essence of its weightlessness and its burden. It's beauty is so moving that you feel the presence of a past you've never seen and a future you'll never meet. Like looking at the world before the genesis and after the apocalypse and seeing where beginning and end disappear into each other, occupying the same space in the great cycle of the universe.

I know all the quasi-spiritual stuff is must seem rather intense par rapport to the fact that it's just a park -- but I felt these things so strongly there. I wish I was better equipped for explaining why. The feeling of euphoria could have been a side effect of hypothermia (with it reaching a balmy 4°C today, which, even when compared to recent negative temps the gray city's been feeling, is not the best time for spending hours in the outdoors taking photos) or even having something to do with the initative of self-reflection I've taken since the start of my new journey.

Or maybe I'm just not meant to explain it because it's rather something you need to experience for yourself.

Part of my love affair with this space excludes me from imagining it looking any more beautiful than it does already (leafless under a cold, gray sky). My (part-time) park-walk companion, however, assured me that in the spring, when the park turns green and people come out to play music and picnic on the grass, it is truely in its glory. Though he didn't necessarily employ those exact words. Actually, it's more accurate to say that he was just some asshole trying to pick me up rather than making it seem I had an invited tour guide. It kinda added to the whole experience, though, being able to maintain a state of bliss through my surroundings even in light of the supremely irritating (and suprizingly verbose) presence.

Though I did shake him when my camera batteries died, keeping him from accompanying me to the store where "we could buy enough batteries so that after the park I can take you to a museum and maybe we can find a place to buy you a bike if you like bikes and I know good places for riding I'd be more than happy to show you [etc., etc...]"

[ further tangent -- It's always my favorite part about meeting French people when after a sentance or two they say, "Et vous venez d'où ? J'entends un petit accent. " Yeh, thanks for pointing it out asshole -- nice of you to use your petit euphamism for my major grammatical error... ]

[ Further tangential writing (because whythehellnot? I've got a ton of space to fill in between my ninteen thousand photos and I'm already tired of my quasi-spiritual pontifications on the breathless wonder that is this park) -- My petit accent (and its reason for being) has been getting me into a bit of trouble with bar patrons at work, mainly because it's a French bar in France and it would seem that the bartender a) has the intelligence of a pickled cucumber or b) just doesn't speak French (however most people are inclined to assume that if a is true if b is true and are pretty much ready to jump on option b at my first "pardon?"). Granted, I ask a lot of people to repeat themselves, but I only ask each person to it once. Why, then, do they immediately get frustrated at having to switch into English ? Search me -- I never asked em to speak anything but French in the first place ....

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I am regretting my change over from talking about inner peace and a connectedness* with time and nature to petty complaints about work as much as I regret eating half of a 7 oz. chocolate bar for lunch

yesterday (or as much as I regret eating the other half just now). With all these photos of an open, public space dedicated to the appreciation of nature and beauty, couldn't one think of something more appropriate to write about ? Firstly, no. And secondly, I pretty much assumed that no one would actually read this far anyway (why should you when it's so much easier (and prettier !) to just skim through all the lovely photos ?). In fact, I've rather assumed the same thinking insofar as to say that if I invest enough time into taking purdy pictures I'm pretty much burned out by the time it comes to writing about them. Any with these pics, really, anything I could say about them would just detract from what they already stand to present on their own.

So, then, to continue before straying too, too far from the topic -- A note on French bar tastes. There seems to exist in this country an underdeveloped appreciation for cocktail culture -- a latency period, if you will, in which the Jager-bomb is something exotic and most "mixed drinks" are composed Stella Artois and some less than appetizing sirop-du-jour (i.e. grenadine, Sprite and Stella or lemon syrup and Stella). As you may be able to imagine, I am against this on a number of levels: First and foremost being that it would WAY more practical to just get good tasting beer in this country. (They have, on the other hand, done rather well with pervation of quality scotch.)

There was a rather charmingly displaced group of Anglophones at the bar Sunday night who seemed almost overwhelmed with relief when they found out I was one of "their kind." Cute, too -- three students from the American Business school. One guy from Hawaii (I've never been but I can't -- for the life of me -- figure out why you people ever want to leave that island), one from Cincinnati (I think -- he wasn't a big talker), and one from New Zealand (winner of the 2009 Prince Harry look-a-like contest). I asked him if his country was really the way they make it seem in Flight of the Conchords (this part "skillful" chit-chat, part I actually really want to know the answer to this question). He admitted to only having watched one episode (boo).

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My fellow bartender and trainer's name is Marianne and I'd also be inclined to call her charming, except that she's really anything but. She second guesses everything that I do and assumes that because I'm not familliar with how things work at this specific French bar, that I must not know the first thing about bartending (or even walking upright). She's loud and insincere and has made a real pastime of finding things to get out of shape over. Maritza (my poor roommate) has gotten two earfulls of how much this chick gets under my skin (one dose for each shift I spent with her). But really, what would a restaurant/bar experience be without one psychotic collegue ? Ask me any place I've ever worked and I will give you the name of that girl in each establishment.

I am lucky though, to be bringing in a little cash, especially considering how quickly I'm still burning through it. (The strangest things are ridiculously expensive in France -- hairspray goes for 7€50 and up, sunscreen starts at 15€, drying laundry costs 1€ for every 10 mins. That anyone could be lucky enough to call New York expensive ....) It's good, too, to have the time to sleep in after each shift and spend the day actively doing just about nothing until 8 or 9PM. Sunday afternoon, Maritza and I went walking through the Marais, my (I guess former) favorite quartier. The Marais is perfect for Sunday afternoons because it's the Jewish district of the city, so while everything is closed and asleep the Marais is buzzing with energy and life. My reasons for loving it fall simply into three categories. 1) The architecture (it is one of the most beautiful and quirky and well composed sections of Paris/France/Europe), 2) the Marais has hands-down some of the best places to shop in the city (between the range of boutiques and the vintages shops which are *le gasp* actually affordable), and 3) (perhaps most importantly) la rue des Rosiers has absolutely the best falafel I have ever had (or perhaps will ever have) in my life.**
*It is a word.***

** The only draw back is that I can no longer take supreme joy in all falafel, now knowing what the true food of the God's tastes like.

***In Samese if nothing else.

19ème

O meu quarto, 13h43
22 January 2010
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. . . . . . . .This was my first morning waking up in a new apartment in a (re)new(ed) city. It's almost 2PM. Because I don't have any furniture with drawers, I can't figure out what to do with my underwear. This is as good a reason as any to put off unpacking.

The apartment is old. Like, hella old. Though it's equiped with hardwood floors (well coveted in New York), the landlady has decided to lay bamboo mats all over the place, sticking them to the floor with double-sided tape. Where the mats lift up there's no sign of damage. She's also chosen to cover the tiled bathroom and kitchen floors with that fake, plastic roll-out stuff.
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There are also bamboo mats all over the kitchen counter. Errant burn marks decorate the kitchen table, cupboards and curtains. My roommate tells me the former tenant was not particularly "neat," sending the landlady into a tizzy about what the next tenants might be capable of. (I've been tryin to figure out if he didn't actually set the place on fire at one point. It would seem ...) There's also a second bedroom, which I failed to notice the last two times I came here (way to be observant, Sam). The landlady keeps this room for herself: Behind the locked door (of course it's locked) lies the overflow of beloved possessions too dear to let go of and yet not dear enough to keep somewhere the owner actually has access to them.

I tried to take a shower last night after moving. I tried really, really hard. The water temp is fickel as hell and there's really no pressure to speak of (at one point the duck spigot was literally dribbling water onto the floor of the tub). After about half an hour of work, I did succeed (sort of).

I've taken to constantly reminding myself of how much this place costs (with utilities it comes to truely ridiculous $440 a month. Truely ridiculous). It's absolutely neccessary, too. After the financial falls at the very beginning of my trip, I cut down to eating once a day.
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It's amazing how the golden lens of desperation can color any living situation.

Last night after moving, I went grocery shopping and bought a veritable smorgosboard for about 7€ (organic brown rice and ratatouille and eggs and wine and bread and cheese).

Since classes don't start until the 1st, I'm spending the next week until then doing just about as much nothing as I can handle. I did go for a brief walk today through the park and bought a large chocolat chaud at the cafe on the corner (which makes caiparinhas btw, which I'm planning on checking out). Tonight, I'm visiting a bar at Bastille Anna and I used to frequent when we were au pairs. By "visiting" I kind of mean visiting the bartender side of the bar. (Don't judge me -- this is still as close as I've come to doing nothing in a long time.)

I do have two plans for this week, at least: One, is to write another blog entry with photos from the quartier (because, merde*) the other is to meet one of my favorite Parisiens for a drink a some point. I like how this blog has also kind of become a laundry list of things I intend to do. You don't get more quotidien than that. Speaking of I should do laundry. And maybe buy some sort of makeshift drawer to put my laundry in.

Oh, and as far as my roommate goes, well, on verra. What she has going for her: She's super sweet, she seems to enjoy cooking and going out (dancing, which is definite extra points) and has a more than decent taste in music. And I can speak English with her when my brain is fried (upon waking/just before going to sleep/many, many of the moments in between). Against her: Well, not much. She likes to keep the sponge in water (there's a whole race of people that think like this. I don't get it) but even that I can very easily learn to live with. Otherwise ... well, while "perfect" is begging for proof to the contrary, let's say that the way it looks now, I couldn't have been luckier.

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*Meant in the good, American sense of "shiiit."

Rungis

Rue Claude Chappe, 21h05
19 January 2010
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HOW NOT TO IMPRESS YOUR FRENCH DINNER HOSTS : (Volume I)

1.) Don't eat the delicious stew your kind host has prepared because you're a "vegetarian."

2.) Don't eat the delicious looking beans in the stew because as a such "vegetarian" you're worried about unfortunate gastroenterological effects of eating something cooked in beef fat.

3.) When describing your reasoning for not partaking in this kindly prepared food (or meat at all ever),* be sure to throw in friendly slip of the tongue which you can blame on your linguistic inexperience in the second language but which still serves to make everyone feel adequately uncomfortable. (Allowing, for example, the translation of preservatives to be préservatifs, subsequently turning the conversation to an explaination of why you no longer support the use of condoms in your food).
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*Though the explaination in the experience noted above was prompted by a dinning companion, the author of the list notes that initiating an I-[heart]-Veg-fest oneself is even more effective route toward alienating others.

Anthony

Café des Sports, 17h23

19 January 2010

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. . . . . . . . . I've been writing this blog in my head all day, getting (in all truth) worrisome that I wouldn't be able to do my experience justice once my words hit the computer screen. Which started me thinking about why it can seem so much easier to write with artistic simplicity about negative events, lending humor and irony to heartache, embarrassment, anxiety and critique, then it is to write the proper life and energy into happiness or chance or love. The cheese-fest involved in describing the latter detracts greatly from the experience at hand -- one does a disservice to one's own good-fortune.

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For the misfortune, however, it would seem that art (in every which way it is channeled) is not only imbued with a quality of ease but necessity -- this being perhaps the key to understanding the disparate artistic value of good and bad times. We strive to comprehend the emotional boundaries of pain through its semantic (or visual, or otherwise artistic) boundaries. That is, we seek to find a finite end to negative experience by making it subject to the limits of human comprehension (one's grief cannot be greater than one's words are strong; one's loss cannot be more violent than one's brushstroke or chord).*
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To apply this theory then to positive experiences, it would seem that we rather choose to leave experiences unnamed and limitless; that their joy might resonate without the pressure to conform to pre-existing semantic values. Which would indicate that the inherent cheese-ball factor in the relay of good news, is really just self-sabotage, one keeping oneself from disclosing too much and boxing in fate's gracious serendipity and its consequent limitless, intransient delight.

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Anyway, I've found a place to live. The apartment is a one bedroom, shared with a Mexican architecture student. She invited me over for a vegetarian lunch with organic veggies and brown rice to discus the details of the apartment.** Rent is equivalent to less than $500 a month (including charges). The apartment is across the street from the Parc Buttes des Chaumont. The quartier reminds me of the Astoria of Paris : It is extremely diverse and safe and not terribly expensive. The bartender in the café on the corner talked to me about cachaça, then went on and on about his love for this neighborhood, then bought my petit café and told me if I ever needed anything to drop back by. "Elated" cannot begin to describe my mood just now.

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"La vie, elle est belle parfois."

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*Likewise, it's interesting to note that great artistic accomplishments are measured by how far one can push that limit, i.e., how much one can expand the limitation of expression when it comes to anguish or joy.

**This says A LOT when you know that the only thing I love more than food is organic, vegetarian food.

'burbs

Rungis, 00h51

18 January 2010

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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I've spent the last three nights in Rungis, a suburb south of Paris, in the home of my (really unbelievably good-looking) friend. I'm trying hard to find a place to go (since I can only stay here until the 22nd when his brother comes back), but the Paris housing market is not as inviting as I was hoping it would be. Though I shouldn't be complaining -- here studios and room shares within the city limits actually exist in the less than $600 bracket (yes, this is American dollars). My current coupe de coeur is a studio in the 19ème, overlooking the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, shared with an architecture student for a whopping 350€ par mois ($502.83 charges included). But really, who could care about personal space at that price ?

I'm also kind of desperate to get out of here because, while Julien is thoroughly enjoyable to look at (even more fun to talk to, if you'll believe it), and he and his family (Ma, Pa and pooch) overwhelm me with their generosity (well, maybe not so much the pooch), I frequently fear taking advantage (or appearing to take advantage) of the situation. That, and the frequent visits of Ju's 20 year-old girlfriend that's prettier than a Victorian-style baby-doll with bigger eyes (and fancier clothes) is making me feel....awkward. She is just so friggin cute you kind of want to pinch her until she stops breathing (and I would if I thought if would work). Her name I forget, though she goes by a shortened version, "Prie," a homonyn of the French word prix (price), which seems fitting for the porcelin thing.

I am dying of third-wheel-itis.

I went to see Valerie and Philippe and the kids this evening. It was a lot easier than the last time, probably because I knew it wasn't going to be the hi/bye I was forced to do then. There's a flash of recognition when Ugo and Victoria see me, but it was over 2 1/2 years ago that I worked there and they were so young, I gave up any hope of their remembering me after I'd been gone even a couple months. After dinner, though, Ugo showed me his room and pulled from his hidden supply of kid-treasure notes that I'd left him when I was still his nounou and letters I sent him later from New York. It was one of the better moments of my life.

Switzerland

Zurich, 10h10 (local time)

15 January 2010

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. . . . . . The glass of wine in JFK was a classically dumb idea.* Though, it was delicious, and did help to relieve some of my NYC-separation anxiety before going through security, the following $9 tuna sandwich, $37 spent to buy a second bag to disperse the weight of my single suitcase, 7 1/2 hours in the air, 50 minutes with the handsome whiskey-tasting kiosk man in the Swiss airport (8:20-9:10 am local time), $200 flight change fee and the WAY pricey (seven-fucking-converted-dollar) coffee that was meant to make me feel better after paying the aforementioned you-missed-your-flight-you-fucking-asshole fee (and sober me up so that I didn't subsequently miss another), I have decided that the fifteen dollar treat at the very, very start of my trip was probably a bit of a premature splurge.

Or maybe somewhere I knew that it was going to get much, much worse before it got worse and needed to jump on the opportunity before the experience was tainted (or maybe the vague recollection of how god-forsaken and emotionally/physically/financially-draining my last trip to Paris was effected my decision to partake in the indulgence). Perhaps it is a sign that somehow I will two steps ahead of my experience, taking care to cushion my own falls before they occur. Or perhaps it is an omen of the drunken poverty that lay before me.**

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*Classic, here, referring to that before which one would pause for a moment and then say, "Oh, but Sam would do that."

**Not to worry though--as long as there rests room on my MC, I can always rearrange a flight back to the house of my parents (or close friend(s)) where I can curl up in a ball and spend what months it takes the negative experience to fade away in a deep, deep coma.***

***Convoluted though it may be, this is my glass-half-full.