on the sunny side of the street

It was a glorious Saturday - a beautiful one. The sun was shining, the cats were dozing, and amazingly, surprisingly, happily, I wasn't working. YES. I win. I requested the day off because I knew a friend from out of town would be here, and because I wanted to drag the both of us to a book signing. Heather and Jessica of gofugyourself.com just published a young adult novel, Spoiled, and were doing a reading at my local (non-travel) bookstore. I'm sure the book will be fun, but I really just wanted to meet the Fug Girls. They're pretty much my heroes. Whenever I wanted to cry my first year in Bordeaux, the Fug Girls made me laugh. Also, one of them went to my high school. I wish our alumnae office would stop interviewing Sophia Bush and give Jessica the spotlight.

After the book signing, I drove Evar and I back to my house so she could regroup and get on the road in time to meet her dad. It was almost mystifying - seeing the sun, feeling the breeze, and knowing I had absolutely nowhere I needed to be. I went over to my strawberry patch, picking the ripest, and found a perfectly beautiful roma tomato on the ground. Fruit never tastes quite as good as it does when you grow it yourself. When you talk to the plants every day, water them, pick the cat fur off their leaves... I'm so excited to taste our first zucchini and bell peppers when they finally become something fruit-like. It's going to be a delicious summer.

With this very temporary freedom, I decided it was high time my mom and I go to the movies. We bought tickets for Woody Allen's latest venture, Midnight in Paris, of which I'd heard mixed and very non-committal reviews. I should be honest and preface the following by stating that I hate Woody Allen. I know for a lot of people that's blasphemy and some will think I'm an uncultured, shallow, commercial ignoramus, but I don't care. He's obnoxious, he's tired, and he married his adoptive daughter. How can people get over that? How is that forgivable? Or anything other than absolutely DÉGUEULASSE??? Ok. Phew. Out of the way.

My biggest beef with Woody is that his dialogue is absolutely ludicrous. His characters all manage to have the same voice. I don't mean they're the same, necessarily. They just all have the same diction, and the same totally effected crisp cadence. Woody's face may be off camera, but his scripts assure me that every protagonist in every film is... him. And his bucket of overwrought neuroses. I find that deeply annoying. Not charming. Not sweet. Just annoying. I really liked Vicky Christina Barcelona, but I hate that Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem managed to minorly transform themselves into psychotic New York Jews. Get over it Woody. And PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET SOMEONE TO EDIT YOUR FUCKING SCRIPTS.

I don't want to ruin Midnight in Paris for everyone who hasn't seen it yet. I will say that I found it both delightful and extremely obnoxious, and I'll also say that I won't forget it anytime soon. And then I'll say that the rest of the theater was full of Baby Boomers on the prowl during a big night out. I heard so many people chatting as the movie got out about how lovely their last trip to Paris was, or how their daughter spent a semester studying at the Sorbonne, or how they want to go to Versailles when the fountains are turned on blah blah blah. And you know what? It made me sad. It made me sad for Paris. One of the greatest pains in the ass of working in a travel bookstore is the pain many of our customers bring to our attention. I usually say "have a wonderful trip!" after handing them their bag full of money belts and quick drying underwear and bullshit Rick Steves guide books. And then, reflexively, they say "you too!" The smarter ones realize what that means, and they look at me guiltily, and say "err... I mean, have a good day." Because they know - or they think they know - that we don't get to go anywhere. The truth is that I often feel like screaming: "give me your ticket! I'll enjoy it more than you will!" Really. Honestly. Give me your plane ticket to Paris. I'll use your hotel money and rent a room at the loudest hostel ever, ("Oops!") and use the remainder to buy chocolate and cheese and ice cream. I will skip another visit to the Louvre, and instead I'll visit all the tiny museums my friend Judith told me about. I'll forgo Les Deux Magots and I'll go to a tasting at the Ô Chateau wine bar. I'll get a hair cut. I'll speak French instead of English. Sometimes badly, but at least I'll try. Give me your ticket! Please!

No? No dice? Okay. Maybe later.

I miss France. Not just the glossy, good-weathered bits, but the ugly, rude, angry parts. The broken bottles and the crunch of two cars running into each other outside my window. And the dog shit littering the sidewalk, and the SDF outside of Vival asking me for une petite pièce for beer. The guy on the tram with the stroller full of puppies. Drunk people peeing on buildings, and €1 wheels of chèvre and wine that tastes like backwashed essence of mungbean. I miss the awkward glances from my students as we got on the same bus, and that time 14 year old Yann asked me for ten centimes for a cigarette. Bold as brass, that kid.

In other, less reminiscent news, I think I'll be starting to sell my Etsy stuff at the big DL this coming week, and I also have an appointment with a stationery store owner in Santa Monica to go through my work and see if she wants to carry it. Kind of exciting? Croisez les doigts. I forgot my better senses and volunteered to give a presentation on Istanbul on June 27th for our weekly program. Beurk. Public speaking in front of forty-ish people. Gross. Is it too late to rescind that offer?

buenas noches, amores.