American Hostage Breaks Silence, Surfaces in Paris

Following my last submission, I boarded a plane from SFO to LHR (London).  Despite being well-equipped for the journey, the thought of immersing myself in a completely new and foreign experience, and having to do so in a sea of strangers (save for Mr. S&M), was completely terrifying.  But in dire situations that call for one to either sink or swim, I decided to swim.  Like a fish.  A very pickled fish, thanks to British Airways' inflight mini bar.

So then I stumbled off the plane onto British territory, and was picked up by a man in a black suit.

Completely delirious and fatigued, I was driven to a somewhat discrete location in South Kensington.  There I found over 30 other hostages congregated at the hotel bar, where plans for our temporary keep in London were being divulged.  Preferring to assume the position of follower, I went with the flow of the group out the door and to a local watering hole, completely unaware of the debauchery we were destined for.  Actually, that's a lie.  I knew exactly what I was getting myself into.  The rest of the weekend is a brief moment in my life that I refer to as "The Dark Ages."  Some, like myself, fell off the bandwagon several times, but what was so pleasantly reassuring to find was that my fellow captives were instantly there to pick me up and see me through to the end.  Cell phones were lost, Facebook friends met face-to-face, and somehow we got ourselves on the flight to France.

After arriving in Nice, we were transferred to Cannes for a rigorous two-week crash course in the art of being French.  To clarify, the words "Cannes" and "rigorous" should never be used in the same sentence, unless you're rigorously racing your yacht, rigorously trying to swim out to the floating platforms off the beach, or rigorously haggling with the dudes at Funny Foods over how much garlic sauce you want loaded in your k-bob at 3 in the morn'.  We adjusted to our new surroundings quickly and fell into a routine quite easily; classes from 9 to noon, lunch in the cafeteria with the fucking I-talians, beach, nap, dinner with the fucking I-talians, rendezvous on the Party-O, blackout.  Repeat.  Aside from us being so well-adjusted to the new environment, there wasn't much anyone could do to stop us from conquering Cannes (which rhymes with "Vans," or "Ray-BANS").  I'm sure the rest of the hostages would agree that our time in the French Riviera was nothing short of torturous if they could remember, but all evidence of our whereabouts has been immortalized on Facebook (refer to Sailor Night or the now legendary Blackout Friday), so there's really no point in anybody exerting a thought process.

And then we remembered why we all signed up for this hedonism: to STUDY in PARIS!

Once again, the entire group stayed intact and made the 5-hour train ride from Cannes to Paris.  The hardships endured over the past two weeks had really bonded us, and we were starting to feel nervous about being separated in the City of Lights.  No one had any idea with who or where they were going to be planted, or how they were going to be able to obtain Nutella gaufre (delicious, crispy waffles smothered in Nutella) in case of emergency.  So new roommate Chantal and I got into a cab, gave the driver an address, and landed in the middle of the 7th arrondissement with our new captors, the very sweet Madame de Sampigny and her four-legged fire-alarm Chèr Guy.  The situation is rough; we share one of five rooms in this apartment, which could easily be mistaken for an antiques shop specializing in 18th century memorabilia, host included.  Our room overlooks rue de Verneuil, and we try to spend as much time in le jardin as possible.

Luckily we aren't very far from some of our fellow captives, and everyone is having a unique home-stay experience.  The most frustrating thing about living amongst the bourgeoisie is that we can't afford a single thing in our area.  The restaurants are all expensive brasseries (including, and I'm completely not kidding you, the Armani Café, à coté de Armani Store where they sell really expensive suits to really rich people), window-shopping is only serious if you plan on spending three-figure prices (in euros), and there is a serious lack of ethnic diversity.  But on the bright side, Paris is very walkable, the Métro is fairly easy and accessible, and baguettes cost no more than a euro.

That's a quick recap.  My classes don't start until about mid-Octobre, so I'm struggling to find ways to stay busy.  Don't worry about me, think for your own safety.  I'll try and make contact again soon.

Pre-departure: La vie est dure.

Getting some R&R in SF before disengaging with America on Thursday.  Like any other student standing on the threshold of going abroad, I am, on cue, convulsing through cycles of nervous anxious excitement.  Living and learning in Paris, which is in France, which is connected to an entirely different continent than the U S of A, and has been romanticized and elevated into the upper echelons of coolness countless times over, should understandably leave me as giddy as a fairytale princess riding gloriously into the sunset.

Instead I've had a good week back in reality, and seem to have plenty of good reasons to nix my flight to Europe.  But despite the current plane ticket mixup, and my pathetic attempts at fighting phlegm and chest colds, this is why I'm going to make it on British Airways flight 0286: you!

To all of you who stumble upon this page between now and January 22nd, thanks for your concern and interest.  It is not only me who needs Paris, but Paris who needs me to showcase her grungy, fractured, and not-so-chic side to the rest of the world.  Fuck the berets, fuck the Eiffle Tower, it's gonna be a blackout in the City of Lights.  My only hope is that I can salvage an epic tale or two, maybe immortalize them in a few photos, and do y'all proud.

Catcha on the flip side.