Rules must be understood before they can be broken.
And the time had finally come for me to break a few more.

After coming to the terms that my internal clock had mistakenly been operating on the revolutionary calendar, it occurred to me that all of last night’s shows were actually tonight’s. After class I ran up to the Trianon Theatre in Montmartre to try to score a ticket to see Bonnie “Prince” Billy. They were sold out, but a man was scalping his second ticket. Another guy in line helped me negotiate a lower price, insisting that I should get it cheaper for being “une jeune fille délicieuse.” After securing my ticket, I also wrangled a free beer out of the man. Succès féminin!

While waiting in line, I interrogated my partner in crime, Charles, on his thoughts of the French educational, medical, and political systems. We talked about the city and its strikes. One of the most interesting things he said was: “Sometimes I meet people who wonder why we always strike when we are already so privileged. But we realize how good we have it, so we feel we have to protect these privileges from being taken away from us.” He said that when the price of tuition raises a couple of euros, all of the students strike. I find this truly amazing and cannot quite figure out what it says about Americans.

He approved of the French educational system, but his doesn’t think that there is an adequate network to help secure employment after graduation. Last year the government tried to pass a law allowing companies to fire at will for an employee’s first two years and the students went on strike.

He also likes the medical system and doesn’t think it threatened the quality of the doctors. He pointed out that France had some excellent schools for higher education, especially for medicine, and the graduates hardly ever left the country to practice. Last year studies showed that there weren’t enough to cover all of the population and there have actually been a lot of doctors immigrating into France to find work.

After our conversation, the doors finally opened into the theater. My ticket was on the top balcony, where I sacrificed (and, later, retrieved) my coat in order to “ask my friend in the front row (Charles) une petite question.”

The show was exceptional and, unlike many concerts, enhanced my appreciation for the music. Too often I find live performances disappointing and even a little boring, but tonight my body buzzed with excitement. The man’s magnetism is peculiar; discovering that he genetically inherited animal instincts or possesses superhuman abilities would not come as a surprise. Afterward, I couldn’t help but ask Monsieur Oldham to come out and share a drink. A small group of us went to un tabac around the corner for a few glasses of Lèfe. Ironically, the bar was half-way between the most beautiful church, Sacre-Coeur, and Pigalle, an avenue famous for its sex shops and debauchery. I found everyone very cordial and was even given a ride home. Overall, it was a night too fun for the next morning’s 9:00 French class.