C'est Nice

My thirst for New York City—and the US in general—is growing by the day. I was at my friend Jessica’s apartment Sunday night, just hanging out, watching some telly (she’s British, so I have to oblige her some of her vocabulary), when all of a sudden, I experienced what appeared to be a veritable New York tour de force: first, we’re watching CNN (how they have CNN here in France I don’t quite understand, but okay) and all of a sudden, I hear the familiar strains, duh-da-dat-da-duh, of “The Daily Show,” theme music! Right there in the middle of Nice! It was like someone reached over the Atlantic to give me a pat on the shoulder, “it’s all right! We’re here!” It wasn’t the normal daily show, but rather, the “global update,” which meant it was about a week or two old, but what the fuck did I care? There was Jon Stewart, large as life (okay, well, short as life, but whatever) ripping W a new one about his recent trip to Asia. “Why, you might ask, is President Bush going to Japan? Well, if you remember, in 1990(?), his father, George Bush Sr., went to Japan, and while he was there, uh, vomited all over the Japanese Prime Minister, so, you might say that, in terms of Presidential visits to Japan, George Bush I set the bar pretty low. I think that, yes, now it’s official, this was a barf-free visit.” Oh deary me. This bit was specially for the global edition, and was only a few minutes long; after, they showed the older stuff from the actual show... it was about some woman from MSNBC who interviewed Bruce Willis about how he had attempted to offer a $1,000,000 reward for whomever captured Saddam or Osama or someone. Anyway, the bit wasn’t terribly funny or insightful, so that was a let down. Of course, being a stupid optimist I thought we might get an entire 1/2 hour’s worth of headlines, but no, after the headlines there was a so-so feature thingy, and then an interview with Rosario Dawson. Blah. So, disappointing.

This was actually going to be the trend of most of the evening... after The Daily Show, Jessica told me that Sex and the City was on in English (!?) which we watched. I was hoping to see choice views of New York and the Village, but, as it turned out, it was the last episode of the whole series, so it was neither New Yorky (Carrie spends most of the episode in Paris) nor was it terribly funny, so boo for that. Then Jessica and I started talking about New York real estate and rent, say, as compared to London, and I thought, ah! I’ll just pop onto good ol’ craigslist and see what the going rate is these days. Boy was that a wrong move... on one page of 100 listings, the cheapest thing I could find in the East Village was $3400 for two bedrooms! I’m sure the apartment is lovely, but crikey!

And while I’ve made no decisions as to where I’m going to move back to when I finish this assistantship, it’s a bit depressing to think that, barring any unanticipated and well-paid employment, Manhattan’s totally out of my league. So, as excited as I am about returning to NYC, my attitude is slowly morphing from eager into impatience mixed with a bit of frustration, if that makes any sense. Imfruspratiented. No, that doesn’t work at all!

Anyway, I’m going to see Harry Potter tonight... FINALLY. I, of course, will give a detailed review afterwards. But then again, you all knew that was going to happen.

So, I'm backposting, which feels like cheating, but what can I say? I'm a bad person. Anyway, I started narrating my evening of Thanksgiving in Monaco, and thought "garsh, this sounds familiar," when I realized I had already written it out in an e-mail. Since, of course, we live in the age of computers and technology as well as the age of slovenly laziness, I thought I'd save myself some carpal tunnel syndrome and just post that... besides, I like the way it sounds.

Thanksgiving dinner in Monaco was the result of an (admittedly brief) internet search for locations where a Thanksgiving dinner could be procured. There apparently is some American Ladies' Eating Club of the Riviera that does a dinner actually in Nice, but from what I could tell gaining admission to the club is a lot like getting into college: Letters of recommendation, nomination, etc., etc., and I had neither the time nor the inherent aristocratic nature to deal with it.

So, the restaurant is called "Stars'n'Bars," an American themed place, even though we were waited on by two Italian guys named Antonio and Francesco and a British guy named David. To be honest, I don't think there was a single American on the payroll of the place. The place was trying to be an Applebee's, with memorabilia and things on the wall, except they had real memorabilia, but it wasn't Americana, it was Monacoana. There were bikes that one of the princes had once rode, and jersey's of the local soccer team, so it didn't scream you U.S.A., but more suggested it with a thick accent.

I made the mistake of volunteering to organize the event, which never works out well for me. In attendance was myself, Joy and Charlotte (who live on my corridor), Charlotte's friend from home Jemma, Joy's friends in Nice, Dawn and Isaac (the latter is a former Marine... wrap your head around that one), and then Helen and Claire, from North Carolina and Belfast respectively, and Helen's friend from home, Michael. Helen and Claire are also assistants in Nice, although they work at the University, not in a high school.
The first problem (of which you shall see there were many) was that Dawn works until 4 on Thursdays, but not in Nice, so she doesn't get back to Nice until 5 or so, and then likes to have an hour, hour and a half at home before she does anything else. Unfortuately, the only time I could make a reservation for was 6:30, which meant leaving Nice at 5:30... so, blah. Dawn ended up skipping her lass class. Problem solved.
Problem number two was that Helen had brought Michael without telling me... which, whatever, I don't want to be a nazi about it, but i had made reservations(!). Also, for once my gaydar was on, and this kid set it off, but that signal was followed closely by the "I have no interest in you" signal, which, okay, whatever. Fuck you.
Problem number three was our train was late. Great. I called the resto and pushed back the rez.
Problem number four turned out to be Dawn again, who apparently "doesn't like her food to be touching anything else," and "only eats chicken, pizza, or..." there's one other thing I can't remember. Okay, so Turkey and stuffing are included on that list. Anyway, the way the dinner worked was you paid your 28 euros and in exchange they brought you as many pre-arranged plates of thanksgiving food as you wanted, each plate containing Turkey (which wasn't bad), Stuffing (which had this salty ham in it which I wasn't wild about, but i digress), peas (nothing special), corn on the cob (good, but had been cooked too long before the meal), creamed onions (which i didn't realize was a thanksgiving thing, but were kind of tasty), corn bread (which was hard and dry) and sweet potatoes (which needed to be sweeter), with a little bit of canned cranberry sauce in the middle. So, a homemade thanksgiving dinner it was not, but it had all the necessary items, and considering it was France (and keeping in mind the French capacity for mangling things when it tries to be American) I was pretty happy. Dawn... not so much. I also managed to sit between Dawn and Joy, which was not great, because the only topic of conversation was how disappointing dinner was, Joy calling the waiter over dozens of times to fine-tune Dawn's meal and to get little extra things for herself. Then, all of a sudden, Dawn breaks down and starts crying... crying! Over a Thanksgiving dinner! What the hell!? I would have been surprised if Anna had done that as a five year old, and this girl is in her twenties! First, okay, sorry, first: what the hell was she expecting? She had to send back her plate three or four times because all she wanted was turkey and stuffing, "no gravy." And, yes, I understand that some people have delicate systems, but, I'm sorry, sister, if you're not going to grow up, then you best not leave home."
All right, sorry, I'm venting a little bit... wheeeewwwwww.
So, the magical beautiful evening of thanksgiving it was not: the conversation blew, the food was what it was, and I felt this (foolish) culpability throughout it all. And also, the tryptophan hit me pretty hard, and i was falling asleep most of the time too.Ugh. I just feel kind of cheated from my good time. Pflllbt. Ever have that feeling when you walk into a resaturant, "please don't let me sit next to so and so?" Yeah, I could have used some of that.
Anyway, we made it back to Nice safe and sound, I overselpt this morning before my class... it was a nice little perfect storm. But fortunately, now it's the weekend, so I get to let go a little. It's going to be a simple weekend, mind you, because a lot of cash I have not. People theorized that we would get paid today, but no dice, so far as I can see. Probably have to wait until Wednesday, which, incidentally, is the same day harry potter comes out!!
Anyway, that was my first Thanksgiving abroad... certainly not a record-breaker in quality, but perhaps in peculiarity. Hope everyone here had a happy Turkey day!

It’s a good thing blogs aren’t children; otherwise I’d have been arrested for neglect long ago. Whatever. You know you like it.

So, before I say anything else, Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. It’s around noon here, which means it’s 6 AM on the east coast, 3 AM on the west. All across the USA people are suffering at airports and bus stations during the busiest travel day of the year, and hundreds of thousands of people are waking up far earlier than they would like to start cooking the damn Turkey. Mmmm... damned Turkey...

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes! Thanksgiving, or as my French students like to say, “Sanksgeeveeng.”

“No, it’s THanksgIvIng.”

“Sanksgeeveeng.”

“THanks...”

“THanks...”

“...gIvIng”

“...gIvIng”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Sanksgeeveeng.”

Ah, well. Aside from the palm tree that I can see from my window, Nice has even embraced the Thanksgiving... spirit? That’s not right... let’s say the general Thanksgiving mise en scene, yeah? Of course, all I mean by that is that the temperature has (somewhat sneakily, if you ask me) dropped down to highs of 12° C (52° F), which is fine, but lows of 3°C (37° F!). Not cool, especially since I’d (overly optimistically, I’ll admit) opted to leave my winter coat at home (don’t worry, mom, I’ve got plenty of layers). This week saw the first time I was able to see my breath, and while that’s cool for, like, the first ten minutes, it gets old fast.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but my Thanksgiving plans are meeting at the train station at 5:30 to catch a 5:45 train to Monaco, of all places, where there is an American restaurant/bar which has a fairly pricey prix fixe (28€ à volonté, or as we say in American, “All You Can Cram Down Your Gullet”), but does purport to have the trimmings: Turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce (cranberry has not been easy to translate via explanations, yesterday I spent five minutes trying to get my class to figure out what they were; we went through fraise, framboise, myrtille, mûr, groseille, cassis, raisin, and cerise... strawberry, raspberry, blueberry, blackberry, currant, blackcurrant, grape and cherry), and a selection of pies, including pumpkin and apple (outside of that, I don’t really care what other pies I can select). I’ve never been to this place before, aptly named “Stars’n’Bars,” but hopefully it’ll be all right. Honestly, it sounds kind of like a TGI Friday’s type place, but I’m banking that it will feel homely and have that kind of ex-Pat sense of unity, and not that “the dog ate the turkey, so we had to come to Denny’s for Thanksgiving dinner” sentiment.

This, of course, is where I start complaining about my situation, so, before you all start taking the piss out of me... uh, er, I mean, giving me shit (those Britishisms just sneak right in there, don’t they?) let me say, that, yes, this Thanksgiving will go down in the record books as, at the very least, one of the most classy-sounding of all time. Although the original plans to cook Thanksgiving dinner fell through (mostly due to lack of oven, although lack of enterprise didn’t help either), our trip this evening will accomplish one of the other all-important Thanksgiving traditions of traveling some distance to the meal. Granted, there’s no delayed flights or changes in Chicago/Detroit/Denver, but still, it gives me that warm, squishy feeling in my heart.

That being said, I’d much, much, MUCH prefer to be en route via LIRR to Shelter Island, NY, where the fam is getting together for what sounds like a Thanksgiving so gosh-darn traditional that Folger’s is thinking of making a commercial. I believe the Beckerman and Shaida contingents of the Palmore side of the family are making it happen, and as anyone who’s ever had the pleasure of having eaten while my uncle Chris is cooking, there’s sure to be one hum-dinger of a feast. Listen, guys, if you want to FedEx me some leftovers, I’d probably risk the food-poisoning, so don’t let that deter you.

In my classes this week I’ve been doing kind of a half-assed lesson on Thanksgiving. I’m in a little bit of a bind: I’ve found some Thanksgiving activities online that are perfectly geared for the skill-level of students I have, the only problem is that they all are 100% bullshit about Pilgrims and Indians and brotherhood and all of that crap that I’d be hard-pressed to sell to a seven-year-old, let alone French teenagers. Also, whereas with most American holidays they have a slim idea of what it’s all about, they are totally clueless about Thanksgiving. Well, no, they know we all eat turkeys, but after that, they are totally lost. Anyway, my lesson has included a twenty minute crash-course in Thanksgiving, which is difficult, because I realize that I can’t totally remember the story all that well myself. I know, bad American, but hey, it’s been a long time since I was in Miss Roe’s class in 2nd grade (I didn’t get too much Thanksgiving propaganda after that, having moved to San Francisco, where my teacher was much more readily apt to challenge the Man, especially the white man who killed all the people who were here before we got on some damn boat).

So, this is how I’ve been telling it: Once upon a time there was a Church of England. It was obligatoire to be a part of it, and to not be a part of it was interdit. There were several groups of people who did not want to be a part of the CoE, and so they were told they could leave England for the New World, and then they wouldn’t be persécuté so gosh darn much (I left out the whole detour to the Pays-Bas for simplicity’s sake). So, they land in Plymouth and find out they have no idea how to survive. They meet some Native Americans, who help them survive the first winter, and to celebrate, the following harvest (moisson) they had a big feast to celebrate, which had a big old turkey as it’s centerpiece.

I let that soak in for a few seconds before I break out the awful truth: That’s what the story is supposed to be, anyway. We don’t know exactly how it happened, but more or less, the colonists took advantage of the Indians, gave them some diseases they had no immunity to, and pretty much wiped them out. The whole pretext for the holiday is pretty much a lie. I end with saying that it’s become a pretty important family-oriented holiday in the states, and because it’s more or less secular, it has a reputation of being more traditionally American than any other holiday (I spare them my theories on how Halloween is actually the most American holiday, and I guess I’ll spare you guys, too).

We end by watching clips of the episode of The West Wing where C.J. has two turkeys in her office and has to choose one to receive a presidential pardon and the other gets killed any eaten (“I chose Eric [the turkey] because Troy doesn’t like to be touched, which we’re certainly not going to execute him for.”) By the way, has anyone noticed how unbelievably weird turkeys are? Besides that gobble thing they have hanging down from there necks, what’s with that flap of skin they have over their beak that goes up and down? And, I’m sorry, but “gobble” is not a normal noise.

All right, I guess that’s all for today. I hope everyone has a warm and pleasant Thanksgiving, and know, that, as much as you wish you were in Monaco tonight, I wish I was with you, aux États-Unis, in a post-food stupor, the foremost concern in my mind being how on earth I’m going to stand up.

Gobble, gobble.

Collége, of course, isn't what we think of as college aux États-Unis, but rather, is roughly equivalent to middle school. Also, it's what I see outside of my window... actually, here's a picture! Haven't had a picture in a while... okay, so it's not terribly exciting, but hey, it's not a terrible view, right? That's the school courtyard in the foreground, with the collége just behind. The lycée, where I work, is at right angles to this building, off to the right.

Anyway, as the title says, I've been having a few Middle School days... you know, days where it feels like the conflicts don't quite seem to mesh with one's recently recieved B.A.? Where the proper solution might just be for everyone to breathe for ten seconds, perhaps an exchange like the following, overseen by some authority figure, perhaps a Kindergarten Teacher:

"Richard, what do you say to Jane?"
"Sorry, Jane."
"And, Jane, what do you say to Richard?"
"But he stole my Oreo!"
"Jane."
"I forgive you."

But perhaps I am expecting too much of... well, of human beings. All right. I'm going to describe what happened, trying not to come of as a pompous prick.

So. Thursday, I'm sitting in the office, using the computer, when Joy walks in, and asks to use it for a few moments, so she can check to see if the results of the Bar Exam are available. She's been waiting for the results since she got here, and has been nervous; all the other states have published their results (except for NY and CA) and there were several people she thought were going to pass who didn't, which scared her because she thought she was the same level of intelligence as them... anyway. She was nervous, saying "I don't want to check it," and I was saying "Go ahead, you have to find out, it'll be fine." Finally, she checked it, and she passed, and there was cheering and jumping and hugging, and it was all jubilant and lovely.

Not an hour later, plans were made for celebratory purposes go Ice Skating on Friday night before going out on the town. However, I had made plans with Annapaola and another Italian assistant Annalisa to go see Rebel Without a Cause, playing at the Cinèmathéque on Friday night. So, I says to Joy, I says, "Joy, would it be all right if we go to the movie and meet you afterwards for drinks?" And she says yes, although, admittedly, it wasn't terribly emphatic.

It became rapidly apparent that it wasn't okay. All of a sudden, Joy became distant and quiet, which are two adjectives which, prior to this incident, I would have never dreamed of using to describe her. Of course, it took me a while to figure out what exactly I had done to incur such wrath, and I didn't talk to her about it until Friday evening, shortly before she was heading out. Basically, I asked if she was cross with me, and she said yes, although she had been trying to keep it under wraps. I told her that if it was important to her for me to go with them tonight, then she just needed to tell me so. She went on to explain that she was feeling the absence of her good friends at home, and had been hoping that her Nice friends would be able to fill the void a little. Anyway, the conversation ended with me agreeing to go Ice Skating. I then asked what she was doing before, and she said she (and Charlotte) were going to Isaac's for dinner (Isaac is an American assistant from Wisconsin and a soldier, who fought in Iraq). I asked if I might come along, and I was informed (in tones that were clearly not apologetic) that she had told Isaac I was not coming, and so he didn't get enough food. Fine.

Except, not really fine, because now I'm set up to be having dinner alone. It was right around then that Jessica sent me a text, inviting me over to hers for some pasta and wine. The wine she had actually was a bottle I had brought over last week and we hadn't managed to drink. Money's a touch on the thin side, so the thought of drinking alcohol I've already purhcased agreed with me. I head over to Jess', and we plunge into the wine, and into the pasta, and all of a sudden, we've opened the second bottle and I'm late to Ice Skating (and way too drunk, besides... something about the intersection of ice and liquor is marred when you introduce sharp objects). I end up blowing off Ice Skating, feeling the kind of guilt I feel should be accompanied with an intimate, physical relationship. Why? Because I'm nuts.

Anyway, we're at Thor's when Joy's crew rolls in, and I get 100% ignored by Joy, which makes me feel bad because I don't like making other people feel bad, and pisses me off a little bit, because I've had a few drinks and I'm there's less inhibition between my anger and the surface.

I haven't seen Joy yet today, although I feel like some sort of tough love conversation needs to take place, especially since we've got more than a few events planned that are going to throw us together, not the least of which is our flight home, and bad blood between us won't help that at all.

I've got my fingers crossed in the hopes that forgiveness and reconciliation becomes a real option, but if it gets ugly, I may have to go get the yard teacher. *sigh*.

Will Charlie and Joy make nice in Nice, or is this relationship on a one-way flight to oversville?! Stay tuned for our next exciting episode: "All's quiet on the Côte d'Azur" or "Rumble on the Riviera!"

(Cue Rocky and Bullwinkle Theme Music)

That's right, folks: thirty days left till I'm back in the good ol' US of A. Exciting!

Once again, I'm in Le Queenie, although this time I'm accompanied by hallmate and colleague Joy. Something happened in the vicinity of 4:30... they turned on this music channel that's doing a marathon of 50 Teenage Crushes, in no order, so it seems: we've gone directly from Adam and the Ants to Back Street Boys, then back to some guy who I've never seen before who had a mullett that would put you into shock, then on to a boy band poignantly named "Five." And now we're on Wham! Never a dull moment, I guess.

This has been a bit of a wet weekend, an di mean that both figuratively as well as literally. The rain has been fairly consistent, and my nights out have been pretty... well, let's just say I haven't had too much trouble sleeping, yeah? Yesterday I think was the most impressive: after a long lunch, Joy, Charlotte and Charlotte's friend from London, Nick, took up a post at Johnny's Wine bar around 5:30 and stayed until closing at 12:30. During those seven hours we managed to put away 8 pitchers of sangria... I'll let you do the math for the pitcher/person ratio. Anyway, so... yes.

Nick is visiting for the weekend; he's doing some consulting type job in London, which he seems to be into. He's offered to put me up if I ever end up in London, which is pretty dangerous, since I've been itching to go to London for various reasons, not the least of which is the fact that Harry Potter is coming out there a few weeks before it comes out here. And I can see the film without #@$(*@#& subtitles. Unfortunately, it can't happen on this month's paycheck, so... perhaps at the beginning of December. Who knows.

But we've been having a lovely time, a lot of hanging out with the hallmates, which feels nice. Keeping it tight.

Anyway, I better make sure I get this up, I can't remember how much time I have left. Hope all is well with everyone. Way to go Cali for getting Arnie's initiatives into the toilet. Nothin' but love.

So, yeah. We've had a bit of rioting here... but I'm okay. I'm currently at a friend's house; he's got a bunch of episodes of Desperate Housewives that we're watching... rather a nice evening, to be honest.

The last bunch of days have been extremely lax. I worked out today that since my arrival in Nice on the 30th of September, I've worked a total of 9 days. Yeah, pretty ridiculous. Last week the vacation ended, worked two days, had two days off, worked monday, and now I had a day off today. What? I know. Ridiculous.

Friday night was a friend's birthday, and there was some drinking involved... I know, I know. I still haven't quite gotten the hang of drinking here, i.e., making sure I eat a kebab or something. The pizza slice in NYC always seemed like such a natural (and cheap) post-drinking solution, but here... the idea of eating a kebab kind of weirds me out. It shouldn't. Anyway, the moral of the story is I spent most of Saturday in bed, sufferring. Lame.

I finally broke out in the evening (after dark) to the movies; I went to see Match Point, which was interesting. Good, even. For most of the movie, I forgot that it was a Woody Allen flick. I found the guy pretty annoying. He's the same bloke from Bend it Like Beckham. Whatever, everyone else was quite good.

Sunday was the first monday of the month, so all the museums were free; we hit up the Contemporary Art museum, which had a new Rauschenberg exhibit, with some interesting stuff. I'd seen the permanent collection this summer, but most of it was good to see again. Beautiful sunset from the roof.

Today, my day off (after one day of work on Monday) I went with Joy to Cannes to see Elizabethtown (it wasn't playing in Nice in English). I liked it. It further confirmed my belief that outside of elf ears Orlando Bloom can't act, which is sad. But it was a happy movie experience.

Sorry I'm not feeling more eloquent at the moment. I'm distracted by television. I know, lousy excuse.

So, yes, I'm fine. I miss you all. Five weeks until I fly back to NY. (!)

So, I get home from Paris last week, and I take my socks and shoes off in my room, and I've got these three huge what look like bug bites on my foot. I look at the other foot, and there's another one on top and one on the bottom. Over the next few hours, I find one on my right hand, another on my left pinky, one on my leg, and two on my back. I've never seen bites like these before, and they kind of scare me.

But they were nothing--nothing--compared to what happened to the day before yesterday. My eyelid started itching (god, I know! Itchy eyelids... how cliché!), and of course I resisted any urge to scratch it, but by the next morning, my eyelid looked like it had an actual suitcase in it. It was big, and it made me feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and I started panicking about whether or not I'd be able to teach. Of course, I was able to; the kids were more concerned than entertained by my eye, I guess. Even high school students aren't so cruel (or stupid, perhaps?) to make fun of someone to their face for a physical deformation.

Anyway, my eye is better now, and I'm kicking myself for not taking a picture to show all of you... yeah, that would have been good. Well, you'll all just have to imagine it.

I saw A History of Violence last night; the whole hall went out for our first joint activity. Too bad the movie sucked. It was an interesting idea, but nothing followed through on anything. A lot of false starts if you asked me... and then the movie was over. Lame. I'm hoping to go see Match Point at some point this weekend... that and/or Elizabethtown, for which I'll have to go to Cannes. Man, it's hard being 'Merican.

Okay, well, a short update today. Take care, and I'll catch you on the flip-side.

There's something inherently wrong in the fact that the French all take a day off for Halloween and the day after, but don't really celebrate it (outside of children dressing up). I complain about this most specifically because I hauled ass out to the Préfécture (a forty-five minute bus ride, each way) to pick up my residency card on Monday, thinking that it wasn't a holiday and everything would be open, to find that everything was in fact closed. So frequent is it for things to be closed on a monday or friday when there is a national holiday on a tuesday or thursday (to make the four day weekend) that they have a name for it: faire du pont, or "to make the bridge."

So, grr for that. I went today and got everything straightened out, although there were a few moments where people gave us the "I don't know who the hell you are or what you want" look, and the panicked thought of having to come back out there again another day streaked it's way across my mind. But I got the carte de sejour. I thought I'd take a picture of it to show everyone, but then I started wondering if it was legal to do that, and then I started thinking that I'd have to put one of those "SAMPLE" words over it to keep people from downloading it and making fake carte de sejours, and then I got tired, and thought, the hell with it.

My days haven't been particularly productive since I returned from Paris. A lot of laundry has been done, although it doesn't feel like I have a lot of clean clothes. On Halloween, after failing to get my CdS, I continued west to Cagnes-sur-Mer, a smallish town where an assistant who I know lives, Lucy. She was hanging out with Jody, a New Zealander who brought her four year old daughter, India, with her to France (Jody is older than us, my guess is 29 or 30... she can't be older than 34, that's the oldest you can be for the assistantship program). Jody's housing deal is she's living with a single mom who's a lawyer and her kid, whose name I can say but can't spell, Ergay or something like that; anyway, Jody does childcare and in exchange gets free housing, so Ergay was there as well. He's a sweet kid, as is India, although they are kept on pretty tight leashes. Anyway, Lucy, Jody and I took the kids up to some Halloween walk up at the Cagnes Castle, which had a whole beauty-and-the-beast quality to it. Eddie Izzard is totally right though: Europe is up to here with frickin' castles.

I started to feel terrible for not having a halloween costume... a traitor of sorts. I tried to find some face make-up at the last minute, but I've found that if you give a foreign country a chance to let you down, it often will. Anyway, no face makeup to be had for ready money. After that I started thinking about bleaching my hair, in tribute to the whole being-someone-you're-not-for-a-night idea, but then thought that after the night was over, I'd have a hell of a time dealing with my students if I walked in blonde tomorrow. So I did pretty much nothing. Drinks were had at Hamid's, a Londoner with a sweet pad just north of the Train station; he had a lot of leftover liquor fron a party he threw a couple of weeks ago. We continued on to Thor's, which was nice. I chatted with a girl from North Carolina, and we did the whole we-miss-america thing together. It was nice.

At some point I had been planning on slogging through my Halloween theories and philosophies, but I seem to have lost the energy. Instead, I thought I might see how far back I can go in my Halloweens. Bear with me.

2004: Donnie Darko - Watched the parade, bunches of people came over for that, continued on to the Hat(?). Brendan did something to his hair that involved lots of hair gel and hanging upside down.
2003: Guy from the Magritte Painting - Discovered the absolute perfection of my parent's apartment for viewing the parade. Jessica wore a sexy CJ/press secretary outfit, and then we ran into my parents in the lobby on our way out the door.
2002: I was working at the newspaper for this one. I don't think I dressed up as anything.
2001: Dyed my hair red, which came out more orange. Went up to Dobbs Ferry.
2000: I think this was the year I tried to go as a forest sprite and no one understood my costume. It involved a lot of trips to crafts stores for fake vines. Me and Janine tried to meet Jennifer at a Halloween party on Belvedere, and ended up wandering into some stranger's house. We never found Jennifer.
1999: I think I dressed up in some sort of Goth get-up for school, but for the evening of halloween, I tried to do the whole create a really scary set up for people to come get their candy from. I don't think it was terribly successful.
1998: This was the year that Janine and I decided to do our last trick-or-treating ever. Yes, we were 16. But it was still fun.
1997: I'm having trouble remembering this one... I was at Leadership... well, we'll see if it comes back to me.
1996: I can't remember at all what my costume was, but I'm pretty sure this was the year we ended up trick or treating at Mrs. Huizenga's house (my 8th grade Math Teacher)
1995: Okay, so the costumes have gotten pretty fuzzy at this point. I'm thinking this was the year that I went trick-or-treating with Tamara and Marissa, our neighbors from across the street from the 14th Avenue house. We discovered the orgy of candy that was the St. Francis Wood trick-or-treating scene.
1994: This would be the year of Cathedral school, and Anna's first halloween. Somehow, I think my sister's birth overshadowed the holiday (weird, right?).
1993: I'm pretty sure this was the year that Bernie and I dressed up as Starfleet officers (I have no shame).
1992: Our first Halloween in SF... I believe there was some trick or treating that happened with the various neighbors, but again, it's fuzzy.
1991 - 1983: Halloweens in St. Louis. It's difficult to keep all these straight, especially costume-wise. I know one year Bernie had an ear infection, and I took an extra halloween pumpkin to try and con candy out of the giving souls of clayton, MO with lines like "My wittle bwudda is sick at home and couldn't twick or tweat." I can't remember if that was the same year my mom had pneumonia, but that happened at halloween time, too. One year I dressed up in a bunny suit; there's a famous picture of me in it. It was a purple bunny suit. I know. Cute as a box of babies. I'm trying to remember any really little baby costumes, but I think the bunny suit is as far back as I go.

Anyway, I think that I've droned on long enough for one day. I hope everyone had a nice Halloween, and hopefully next year, I'll be stateside so I can do Halloween right.

Ghoul-bye!