Last night Brigeth and I went out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We found a small, quiet Scottish pub that specialized in whisky (The Pure Malt, 4 rue Caron, 4). I selected a single barrel, single malt Balvenie (aged 15 years, 50.4% alcohol) from Speyside. The menu listed dried fruits, chocolate, and wood as the undertones of its flavor. I have to admit, it was the single most beautiful drink I have ever drunk. It was spicy yet subtle, and unquestionably smooth. It numbed my tongue, but, as Brigeth pointed out, not in a bad way. We think we may have found ourselves a new past-time. Looks like we'll have to find ourselves jobs, too, so we can afford to spare the 9-15€ these shots cost.

We actually took the night bus home. Okay, so we took it partway home and then a cab for the remainder of the way. From the Arc de Triomphe to my house it costs only 7,50€. Anyway, from now on I'm studying the night bus map so I can actually start going out at night.


I made an early morning and went to an art and flea market (Boulevard Edgar Quinet). This place had everything -- from old jewelry, tools, and furniture to firemen's jackets and Chinese dildos. I bought some old Chinese coins for necklaces (4€) and an 1820s Egyptian pendant (a steep 10€).




Afterwards, I went to the Centre Pompidou to use the internet. The line to get into the library was incredibly long, so instead I went to the museum. From the top gallery, one gets an excellent view of the city. Here are some pictures, including one of the Sacre-Coeur.

I had pizza and another banana and Nutella crêpe for lunch. Seriously, I think the States needs to recognize the nutritional and economical values of both crêpes and Nutella.

Then I decided to stand in line to get into the library. When I came in yesterday, there wasn't a single person waiting to get into the building. It took me longer than two hours to get in. It's wet, dark and freezing outside and again I was under-dressed. The guy in line in front of me thought it would be an excellent idea to smoke some cannabis every hour or so. No one else was very impressed by this, maybe because he didn't offer to share, but a couple other girls found it funny. No one bothered to stop him.

No one stopped the drunkard, either, who spent his last half-hour shouting at people and telling stories about hunting elephants (or this is what I gathered based on his gestures alone). He wore a leather fringed jacket and long, scraggly brown hair that matched his few remaining teeth. His laugh (long, hiccuped and very distinctive) kept the line mildly entertained. As I am writing this entry, I hear his laugh from somewhere on the other side of the library. Just now I laughed (really, it's that good) and my table seemed very concerned about my outburst. Fortunately, I think they're over it now.


Anyway, back to the line. It was terrible. On the bright side, I did get to witness Les Amis de la Commune de Paris 1871 parade down the street. It took me so long to get in here, I don't plan on leaving until they kick me out.

So, I'll write about another thing that have been on my mind. My housemate is Japanese and her French is not the most intelligible. Three nights ago we were talking about dinner and I thought she asked me about potatoes. I responded that, yes, I liked potatoes quite a bit. It took me until last night to realize that she had simply said "peut être," not potato. Maybe this also explains why she giggles at everything I say.

Song: Johnny Cash - Ring of Fire