Moitié fille, moitié femme.

First birthday abroad, and mon Dieu, was it good.  I picked up my birthday package my mom had sent me, but waited to open it until I had more time.

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Madeline stickers ❤

Wearing the newly purchased sweater that I found in a store behind Place des Vosges, I took ligne 6 to school from Pasteur to Raspail, a half hour earlier than usual so I could squeeze in a petit déwith Ruthie and German before class.  We went to Le Petit Broc, just down the street from school.

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Smiles all around.

The day passed comme d’hab, and then around 19h Ruthie, Molly, and I went to our favorite restaurant, Krishna Bhavan.  It’s a vegetarian Indian restaurant just off of Rue Saint Jacques near Saint Michel.  I can’t remember the number, but the street is Rue Galande.  If you’re ever in the area, GO HERE.  The food is absolutely amazing and the waiters/waitresses are très gentils.  Now, I’m the kind of person who, once they find something they love, will eat/play/listen/watch/do that thing until they don’t love it anymore.  As Amir Blumenfeld says, “You know, it’s my nature to take things too far.  Some people love me for that.”  Anyway, after ordering the Aloo Channa Masala one night with a side of riz nature and a mango lassi, there was never any need to look at the menu from then on.

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Once we were stuffed and feeling extremely obese, it was time to head back home and put on our best dresses for the surprise birthday night out that the girls had planned for me.  We parted ways, freshened up, and regrouped at Saint Michel.  They lead me to this Latin club/bar/j’sais pas quoi in the Latin Quarter (surprise).  First thing I see when I walk in is naked (minus very small pairs of underwear) male waiters serving fruity alcoholic drinks to thirsty women.

After a few drinks, I look over to the bar to see Ruthie giving one of the waiters 20 euros.  My stomach fell out of my ass at that point. Despite being under the influence, I knew exactly what was going on.  Now normally at this point, I’d feel the anxiety kicking in and I’d be begging Ruthie to ask for her money back – BUT, as I’ve said before, Paris was a big year for me in terms of overcoming my social anxiety.  I say “overcoming”, but that by no means is to say that I no longer have social anxiety.  It’s still there, I carry it around with me every day.  Some days are worse than others, some days are better, but being abroad really helped me learn how to deal with it and to stop it from controlling my life.  So, with my newfound confidence, I just went with it, and twenty minutes later I was being lifted into the air by a very muscular half-naked waiter wearing a pair of orange zebra-print glasses.  (These glasses somehow ended up on my bedside table the next morning when I woke up.  Don’t worry – I pretty much just stole the waiter’s glasses.  #noragrets).

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Hair completely frizzed from the heat in the club, the remains of carefully applied lipstick, but clearly still très contente.

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Yea.

I feel like every woman’s got to do it once in her life.  I guess after 19 years it was my time.  Happy 19th to me!

Bisous.

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Chilled dimanche à Paris.

Saturday night was spent mostly outside in the cold wandering the streets, although the two bottles of wine German and I chugged outside Hôtel de Ville earlier  kept us warm, or at least kept us unaware of how cold it truly was.  So Sunday we took it down a notch, slept in, rendez-vous at Sugarplum Cake Shop – a really cute café near Cardinal Lemoine whose playlist I really regret not inquiring about.  I was, however, able to recognize bands like The Kooks and Washed Out – the makings of a great coffeehouse playlist, obviously.  I was totally un-European and ordered a hot chocolate.  I will admit, I don’t like coffee.  I can drink it if it’s got buckets of milk and sugar mixed in, otherwise, I can’t get it down me.  The taste is just not for me I suppose.  I have, in fact, admitted this to French people (one of whom was my boyfriend) and they didn’t shun me, but I do try to keep it on the DL when I’m in Paris.  Who the hell goes to a Parisian café and orders a hot chocolate??  Me, apparently.

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Pascal, her roommate (whose name I have forgotten – sorry if you’re reading this, which you’re most likely not), and Juan joined us.  The plan was to do homework.  We told stories of drunken nights along the Seine and failed attempts of getting into fancy clubs.  Then three hours had passed, no homework had been done, and we were all getting a bit peckish.  We packed up our stuff and headed to the Marché Franprix down the street to pick up a few ingredients for our Sunday night dinner, which German had kindly offered to cook.  German is quite the cook – if you’re reading this, I want you to make me your potato curry again when you come to Paris next summer.  We headed back to Pascal’s apartment carrying bags of pasta, a block of cheese, a small box of ham bits, a bottle of milk, and three baguettes.  For good measure.

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Just casually passing by the Pantheon on our way home.

German effortlessly whipped up an absolutely delicious meal for the five of us.  In true Rosie fashion, I went back for seconds before I had even finished what was already on my plate.  I was completely stuffed halfway through my second helping, but feeling guilty, I slowly shoveled in the rest and washed it down with a mouthful of Orangina, the good stuff!

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Three pieces of bread for Rosie!

We spent the next couple of hours passing around Pascal’s laptop and showing each other good music.  Good music, pasta, bread, friends, Paris – what else do you need?

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Juan about to try some type of Swedish food that comes out of a tube (Pascal and her roommate are Swedish).

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At least we can walk off that meal!  Wait, that only works if you’re climbing the stairs.

Bisous.