After the overwhelming frustration that characterized yesterday's brutal charade of a french class, I actually had a fairly enjoyable day today. I woke up nice and late (around noon), and took a lovely walk down the market street. I bought a baguette, some croissants (chocolate and non), a demi de reblochon (which is one of my favorite cheeses) and a handful of litchis, which I happily carried back to my apartment in my adorable, sky-blue envirosac. There, I had the pleasure of a truly leisurely breakfast; the first I've had since I got here - although I really have got to figure out how to get coffee in the mornings.

Post-p'tit dej, I went with Bryndis to meet some of her friends (a Russian girl and a Mexican girl) at the Parc Monceau, and from there we walked over to the Museum Nissim de Camondo. Everyone raves about this place, but I'm going to tell you the truth: It is boring as shit. It is a large house, in which there is a lot of stuff. Like, furniture. And a large oven. As far as mansions go, I'm sure it was the bell of the ball in its heyday, but I positively loathe the "decorative arts." However, there were plenty of (old) Parisian couples wandering around with beatific smiles on their faces, so the problem must be on my end. And I'm sure that, as far as places to live are concerned, having the kind of operation that requires fifteen manservants probably wouldn't be so bad. Flaubert would have ravaged it with irony.
This is the kind of thing that my mother adores.

After such a mentally stimulating exercise, we decided to walk towards the Champs-Elysees, where we did a little bit of shopping. I bought a shirt. It was on sale. I was trying it on, when a kind young woman came over and told me that I was changing in the infant's changing room, and that I would have to go somewhere upstairs if I wanted to try any more shirts on. Mercifully, as I was struggling mightily with the buttons, she didn't throw me out onto the shopping floor. I don't know why there wasn't a sign, or something. God damn, I didn't even know infants needed changing rooms. I thought they just ran around naked and everyone dealt with it, but apparently french infants are held to higher standards.

Bryndis and I dined with Madame and her friend, Bernadette, who is an artist. We had a beet salad. I hate beets. It's the only food that I cannot eat. I had three bite-sized cubes, so as not to be rude, but each bite was akin to dying a thousand deaths. Thankfully, we also had a quiche that Madame had made out of yesterday's ratatouille. And a slice of ham.

I'm afraid I may have offended Madame a bit, because when she pulled out the cheese and saw the reblochon, she asked me quite sharply "What, you were afraid that there wouldn't be enough cheese?" I hastily assured her that no, it was merely because I love reblochon, and that everyone was welcome to it.

I have already dutifully completed my grammar exercises and written out my nightly journal entry; hopefully after Teacher Teacher reads them this weekend I'll be spared the agony of the indicative tense. But I fear that tomorrow is lost, alas.