Tonight I could write the saddest lines...

I just turned the heat on. I though I could make it to November, but I just couldn't shake the chill off me. Tant pis. It smells, the heat. That strange burning, slightly noxious odor that most heaters give off when you first turn them on. I'm afraid it's poisoning me, that it's really carbon monoxide and I'm going to be found dead in bed 10 days from now - well maybe less considering that there are people that would be worried about me if I didn't show up for work on Monday. But nevertheless, I may expire shortly.

At least, I will see my Chabal for the last time - that sexy beast of a rugby player. They call him l'homme des cavernes (the caveman) here and it seems that even the most masculine Parisians I know have man-crushes on him. I've had all sorts of Clan-of-the-Cavebear type fantasies involving him, dressed in a minuscule animal pelt coming upon me in the woods and ravishing me (obviously, not against my will). Why am I admitting this?

So tonight I will watch my would-be lover with his powerful thighs and flowing hair battle the Argentines as I, lonely soul home with just a dog to keep me company, devour a pizza from Speed Rabbit while surrounded by possibly noxious and deadly odors. Nothing brings home the fact that you are a single girl home alone on a Friday night like being forced to order two medium-sized pizzas for yourself (and the dog) in order to get the best deal - 2 for 1. Literally, in my case. I figure I'll just freeze the rest and for the price of 13 euros will be living on pizza for a week. Sniff. Feel very whiny and angsty...

Un jeudi noir

For more than a month now people have been anxiously awaiting the transportation strike that took place today. It was a massive strike, involving trains, buses, metros in all major French cities. Of course, I wouldn't feel like I were in France if I didn't experience at least one strike. Happily, I was given the day off and didn't have to schlepp all the way to work on foot like so many Parisians today. Instead I decided to pull the shutters tight against the windows of my bedroom and sleep in. While everyone else was agitatedly searching for an available velib', I was lying under my quilt, dreaming about the huge pot of lentil soup I planned to make today - leeks, zucchini, potatoes, cumin...yum.

On my way to the market, I did unwittingly join a parade of disgruntled young cheminots (train conducteurs). They waved their red flags and blew their whistles in between taking a drag from their cigarettes and a chug of what must have been fairly warm cheap beer. I walked along with them for a while until I got bored with feigning righteous indignation and went to the Super M to get ingredients for my soup. The store was eerily empty. I imagine they were seriously short-staffed like most companies today.

I enjoyed the rest of my free afternoon. Took a nap. Read. Watched Cuisine TV. Strikes are a wonderfu thing...er, that is until I heard that this one may continue. What? Don't they know I have places to be tomorrow?

La crêpe perdue

Though fall may have officially arrived, we nevertheless had a gloriously sunny and warm day. Went walking around Luxembourg with friends where we ended our jaunt with a glass of apple cider and sugared crepes. We ate our goodies across the Theatre des Guignols and watched the children on the carousel. Some brazen sparrows flew up to our table and began eating directly from my crepe. Delighted, I was going to let them continue to share my food until someone reminded me of bird flu. Right...but from sparrows? Anyway, I couldn't resist, especially when they cocked their little heads at me and opened their beaks, sticking out there minuscule pink tongues to catch whatever little crumb I might throw their way. So I sacrificed the rest of my crepe and tried to take a photo. Unfortunately, they're all slightly blurry.

Developing French Chic

My college nickname - given to me by my work-study employer - was "Desert Storm" - not because I wear fatigues and look like I could take down Iraqi insurgents with my bare hands, but rather because I have the terrible habit of breezing into a room looking like a bedouin refugee from a real desert storm, wind blown, flushed and a little bit dazed. It's true, though, that I love fashion and would love to be as chic as Luisa Casati, traipsing around the city draped in pearls, my pet leopards in diamond collars attached to my wrist. Unfortunately, I always manage to leave the house in a pair of torn jeans and a non-descript teeshirt, a bare minimum of supermarket makeup on my face. So I have decided that this year I will try to become more chic. With this in mind, I've done some serious research on the Parisian streets, trying to establish what it is that makes French girls look so fabulous. It seems that the tendancy this fall is towards slouchy, ethnic chic - oversized cardigans over leggings and boots, loosely pinned up hair, thick scarves made from eco-friendly materials like bamboo. This is a look I think I can pull off, and, happily, can be created relatively cheaply by sticking to the clothing stores of rue de Rennes.