Way Back Machine

January 8, 1990

I've been here four days now.  La vie Parisienne.  Right. We're in the 9th arrondissement, an old apartment on a small street, just a few short blocks long that has a music conservatory down the street.  I can't decide if I'm jealous because I haven't played a piano since I left home, or if I'm annoyed because some of the students are less than.  It annoys me all the same.  

Three sleeps in the same bedroom I've imagined since I was a child.  Giselle described it to me when we were kids and I don't think she's changed it much.  It's totally not what I expected.  It's really small and it's all white.  There is no carpet so my feet are cold in the mornings.  You could fit two or maybe even three of it in my room back home.  I try not to think of that as home any more.  It's not really working.  

I still have the nightmares and I can't sleep sometimes.  I know he's not here and even if he knew where I was there isn't thing one he could do abou it. He's an idiot.  He has no passport and no future.  But still I look over my shoulder anyway.  I haven't been alone since it happened, so it's wierd that Giselle is out on a date and her parents have left for the country.  The bandages came off my leg before I got on the plane but I was too scared to look.  The nurse said the stitches will disolve. There are only 3.  But the ink will be there forever.  It hurts like hell and it makes me so damn mad.  I think I will really look later when I take a shower so if I cry, no one will see me. 

Today's the first day I've had time to write much.  It's hard to journal in front of other people and it's too cold to hang out in a park. 

The apartment is different.  There is practically no kitchen.  Really... 3 feet of counter space, a dishwasher that doubles as a clothes washer if you work it right, no microwave, two stove burners and a bar fridge I swear.  Gieslle laughs at me frequently.  She has that "oh little you" look on her face.  The one that makes me feel about an inch tall and I envy her sophistication.   "nous ne cuisinons pas."  I get it.  No one here, it seems, actually cooks.  And given how skinny everyone is, I doubt they eat. 

 

We walked home last night after lingerie shopping.  Real French women wear lace it seems. I may be the only crazy american red head around, but at least I speak some of the language and I can shop where they shop.  That's neat.  Everyone we passed seemed to be enjoying bites of a baguette.  The smell of baking bread is making me constantly hungry!  I looked down as we passed another boulangeire and noticed that the streets are literally covered in crumbs.  It looks like hundreds of lost little children scattered them so they could find their way home again. 

 

Maybe that's what I should do... scatter crumbs so when I feel totally lost I can find my way again.