Salut tout le monde!  After much preparation, packing, and procrastinating, I am finally in Paris.  Will, my best friend that I am staying with, has a lovely apartment in the 5th arrondisement de Paris.  For any of you who do not know where or what that means, Paris is broken into twenty arrondisements (or districts) that circle out from the center like an escargot.  So the smaller the number, the closer to the center of Paris.  The fifth arrondisement is called the Latin Quarter and is known for the students, the artists, and the writers.  

"It was originally called the Latin Quarter because all the universities in the quarter taught in Latin, therefore requiring each student to be fully fluent in the language." William of Sawyer

Will's flat is quite the study in space utility.  It is on the sixth floor of his building which, because of the charm of Parisian living comes without an elevator.  There are women around the city which are a part of what William fondly refers to as the army of bent-over beggars.  They are bent at the hips, face towards the ground, furiously jangling their can of coins.  If you find yourself with a few extra hours you should sit and watch these talented women for the end of the day, when they straighten up and walk away.  Needless to say, the stairs in Will's apartment have forced me into the ranks of a bent-over, breathless girl, trying to crawl up one hundred stairs.  It will be awhile before I am sprightly enough to run up them as Will can.

We have spent most days wandering around the city, without a plan or a place in mind. We only decide on something if it comes to mind, the weather is good enough for it, and we are near it. Luckily, Will is a master of the metro, which means that we can be within ten minutes of anything that we may fancy.

 My feet have gotten a lesson in walking and my ears have gotten a lesson in listening. I am finding that my professors were quite kind to me when they taught me French.  Each had clear, elegant pronunciation and used a modest vocabulary.  I have quickly discovered that real French, the French outside of the classroom is never clear and is only elegant when I have stopped sweating from the fear of conversing.  I am afraid that there have been countless times when I just stare at the shopkeeper, racking my brain to decipher what he is asking.  I am the queen of the blank stares.  I have found that I worked so hard on my accent for so long that I fool people into thinking that I actually know what I am talking about.  Everyone I have encountered walks away thinking, "Well she didn't know what she was saying, but she didn't sound so bad."

All these experiences have taught me that I love Paris and I love French, it will just take a while for me to understand either.  

Until next time dear friends and family.

Sincerely,

the mute american in Paris