The first day of French class. I made some friends from Madison, Chicago, and Berkeley. Disappointed that the cafeteria sandwich was made with American cheese, I vowed to never waste my lunchtime there again. For our Paris by Site history class, we took a walking tour around le Marais (what used to be the swamp of Paris before the city limits were extended). We discussed les hôtels particuliers and walked around la place des Vosges, which houses one of Victor Hugo’s apartments.

We passed by a contemporary gallery exhibiting what Howard called bad paintings. This was a major event in regard to my interior dialogue on what contributes to, as well as the existence of, personal and professional tastes.

After the majority of the group dispersed, a few of us ducked inside of Les Étages, a bar with a trés cool, though tranquil, Moroccan ambiance offering margaritas during their happy hour. The real thrill of this gem: the creepy, tightly twisting staircase leading up to the other floors and the grimy bathroom fit for any low-budget film du horreur (35, rue Vieille du Temple, 4, another location in St. Germain, 5, rue de Buci, 6).

For dinner? Pâté and charred breast of duck. At this point, I had leg hair long enough to measure with a yardstick. This combination? Almost European.

Objective Truth: It is not uncommon to see policemen, almost always in groups of three, carrying absurdly large, automatic weapons.