Short and sweet. That was the voicemail a friend of mine left after a particularly ridiculous night. Uh, what?

But many of us can relate. You roll over in bed, jeans still on from the night before, and your face lands on your battered cell phone. Hesitantly, you scroll through your call log. As you realize you dialed your ex-boyfriend, best friend from high school and some random kid you hooked up with freshman year all in the span of 30 drunken minutes, the cell starts to ring. The voice on the other line confirms your suspicions: “Um, nice voicemail last night.” Oops.

The drunk dial. Why, after a few too many shots, do some of us head straight for the cellular?

It’s a matter of impulse control, according to Eli Finkel, an associate professor of psychology at Northwestern. “The prevailing view in the psychological community is that alcohol doesn’t force you to do things you don’t want to do. It limits your inhibitions,” Finkel said. So you end up doing things you wanted to do, at least subconsciously, but that your sober judgment would have prevented you from doing.

Alcohol more than limits your inhibitions, though — it hampers your ability to perceive your environment, causing a condition called alcohol myopia. According to a 1990 University of Michigan study, alcohol myopia is a drunken state of mind where “immediate aspects of experience have a disproportionate influence on behavior and emotion.”

This explains Communication sophomore Kristina Rodriguez’s history of drunk dialing. “Most of the time someone will say something and then it will remind me of some person and then I’ll just somehow feel compelled to communicate with that person,” Rodriguez said.

Alcohol myopia doesn’t always lead to an all night text-athon though. Some lucky individuals never drunk dial for the same reason that some people never get angry when drunk: Alcohol affects each drinker differently.

For example, Weinberg junior Clare McNeely doesn’t drunk dial, but she admitted she does drunk text. “It’s usually because I’m in a good mood and I want to talk to my friends,” McNeely said of her drunken tapping on her iPhone.

Finkel suggested that certain personality types might be more prone to break out the phone than others. “People who are most susceptible are people in the quadrant that have strong impulses and strong restraint… I think [they] are the most likely person to fail when drunk — strong desire in the first place but also usually strong restraint that gets foiled by alcohol,” he said.

For those drunk dialers who really need to quit the habit, there are options. Deleting frequently dialed numbers could cut down on embarrassing calls. A more serious alternative is an LG phone complete with a built-in Breathalyzer that warns owners if they are drunk. This warning is thought to reduce the likelihood that partiers will go through with the call and it may even curb drunk driving.

And if you still feel the urge to dial, but don’t want to burden your friends with your intoxicated ramblings, the website Drunkdial.org provides a place to call where you won’t get a confused call back the next morning. And you might even hear your call on the site the next day.

Breathalyzer phones aside, drunk dials and drunk texts happen. Whether it’s hilarious or really awkward, it’s a staple of college life. While you might be embarrassed, is dialing drunk really that bad?

Finkel, who has conducted research on relationships, agrees that drunk dialing should generally be avoided, “but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be good,” Finkel said. When it comes to relationships, he explained that alcohol makes drinkers more adventurous. “[Alcohol] makes you take some risks that you wouldn’t have otherwise taken and every once in a while those could work out well.”

In the book I’m reading, Paris to the Moon (an account written by an American journalist about living in Paris… something that obviously hits close to home), the author says that Christmas “came” to Paris in the winter he was living there in the mid-nineties. If that’s true, Christmas came and decided to stay this year: While America is decorated with Santa Claus galore from Thanksgiving to Christmas Day, the Paris approach is slightly more subtle but just as present.

You can’t walk for very long in the city without coming across a Christmas market — all of which look about the same. Little wooden stands sell scarves, jewelry, tea, hot chocolate and the oh-so-delicious vin chaud (malt wine). Of all the Christmas markets I’ve seen, the Champs Elysees is definitely the most impressive. Although crawling with tourists, the beautiful avenue dripping with classy white lights is nothing short of spectacular. And the wafting air as meat, cheese and potatoes is broiled together in a huge pan at the food vendor stands isn’t half-bad either.

And just when I was thinking I missed Chicago and the beautiful Marshall Field’s windows (I can’t call it Macys…), Paris outdid even my hometown. There are several famous department stores in Paris, the most “celebre” of them being les Galleries Lafayette and all of them have their own window displays, one more extravagant than the next. It puts State Street to shame. While the stores all have beautiful wreathes and lights hanging from the windows, it is refreshing to see that even in Paris, where they seem to tout themselves as being the masters of the “calm, cool and collected” look, Christmas shopping makes everyone go nuts.

Christmas just seems to come so natural to Paris. It’s almost hard to imagine the city without this decadent display of Noel. Paris is a timeless city and Christmas here feels just as timeless. It’s Christmas the way I imagine our parents or grandparents enjoyed it: simple lights, reds and silver, evergreen hanging from awnings and just a hint of blue scattered throughout. If you’re a die-hard Sex and the City fan like me, you’ll remember the episode where Charlotte is woefully unpacking all her Christmas ornaments for one last celebration in July. She pulls out a blue one and makes a remark about the rarity of blue in Christmas ornaments and how it’s from her grandmother. That classic, rich blue is everywhere in Paris.

What’s rare are loud flashing Santa Clauses (or Pere Noels), Rudolphs and Frosties. While the author of my book seems to think that France finally jumped on the American bandwagon of marketing holidays… it just doesn’t seem to have the same air of consumerism. Or maybe, it does, but what the Parisians love and market is just simply different from what Americans crave. We celebrate our holidays how we talk. Loud. Fireworks, light displays. We love invention so each year gets bigger. Lights are good so more lights must be better. But the French celebrate the way they talk too. Soft. Understated. Very little inflection. Hence why you’ll find soft lighting up and down St. Germain, the same red lights and wreaths above almost every storefront and that dark, subtle blue extended throughout the city.

One thing you will find, though, is the same warmth that comes with the holidays. Not in the weather; I haven’t seen the sun for days and it has rained almost constantly. But everyone, even steadfastly fierce Parisians, seem to be in better spirits. So, assuming this public celebration of Christmas came to Paris from across the Atlantic, I think it’s encouraging. Paris took Christmas and made it its own but it’s refreshing to see that Christmas cheer wasn’t lost in translation.

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There are endless art exhibits in Paris. You could come here for the sole purpose of experiencing some of the world’s greatest art and still manage not to see everything. So, since the art world can sort of overwhelm you…I think it’s best to just go with your favorites. I’ve seen the classics at the Louvre, the impressionists at the Musée d’Orsay and even some contemporary stuff at the Pompidou. But I’ve got to say that the most breathtaking and amazing exhibit I’ve seen in all of Paris was Patrick Demarchelier’s Images et Mode at the Petit Palais. But I’ll let you judge for yourself. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words.

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The past week was either an invasion of parents or an exodus from France for kids studying abroad in Paris. For me, my mom and aunt came in from the States to spend Thanksgiving in the City of Lights.

While they were here, I felt a strange combination of appreciation for both this city that I’ve begun to call my home and for my real home, that place that has seemed so far away in these past three months.

While living the starving college student life definitely has its endearing moments, I think I really fell truly madly deeply in love with Paris this week because I finally did it right. I now know why they say the French invented cooking. I ate at both Les Deux Magot and Café de Flore, the two famous establishments on Boulevard Saint Germain. I sipped on a martini at the Hemingway Bar and marveled at the Christmas decorations that have taken over every district, from the Place Vendome to the Champs des Mars. I finally checked out the Impressionist art I’d been waiting to see at the Musee d’Orsay, ate cheese and crepes for lunch and midday snacks, and watered it all down with café crème after café crème. Between all the delicious seafood, crème brulee and Beaujolais, it’s amazing that we found the time to see quite literally every major tourist attraction in Paris – not to mention the two day jaunt down to the south of France for some relaxation. If I had any doubts about the fantasy world of study abroad before this week, well, I’m definitely convinced now.

It wasn’t only great to really live Paris up right, but I’ll admit, while the November blues never really hit me, I was definitely ready for a little taste of home. One thing that having my mom and aunt around made me really realize was how much I have missed home while being abroad. But when I say home, I guess I mean more of the sense of home.

I consider myself pretty lucky. I remain very close to friends from high school. Despite being spread out over the country now that we’re all in college, we’ve been as inseparable as a geographically displaced group of twenty-somethings can be. I can say without exaggeration that I talk to friends from home nearly every day when I’m away at school. I never felt homesick in Evanston and I think a huge reason for that is because home was never more than a phone call, Facebook message or IM away. But that all changed here. Going from being able to talk to my best friend since first grade every day to … well… just about never really made the distance tangible. There has always been something bitter sweet about being here alone. I have always been able to share my life with those closest to me. My best friend, Pearl, and I have pretty much the same group of friends. We go on our family vacations together. She’s been to Evanston multiple times and has become friends with my NU friends. There’s really no part of our lives that we don’t in some way share. And as trivial as it sounds, French itself has been something we’ve shared. When most kids took Spanish in eighth grade, we took French. Speaking in “franglais” and referencing French culture has just become part of our lexicon. So, while being here and living France by myself has been extraordinary, at the same time, there is a piece of me that knows the mille feuille would taste a little sweeter if I could share it with people from home.

That being said, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, albeit a little late, I have to confess that overall, I do feel truly grateful. Grateful to have lived Paris with glorious decadence and beautiful bohemian modesty, grateful to dread leaving this breathtaking city, but at the same time grateful to have so much waiting for me at home…and to have so much to miss there.

In fitting French fashion, I think I’ve learned that I can have my cake and eat it too.

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At the beginning of the program in Paris our director Bruno told us that we’d experience a mood curve during our stay in France. We’d be really really excited at the beginning (true), and then in November our moods would slowly start to dip when everything started to get dark, dreary and wet as Paris winter crept up on us. Added with all the excess work we’d have, because it’s inevitable that we’d procrastinate, he warned us to be prepared for November to be a little less glamorous than the rest of our time here. He finally ended by reassuring us that in our last days our mood would spike up again as we started realizing that study abroad was about to be over.

I can honestly say, though, that while the work has been piling up –- at ridiculous speeds since we haven’t had much of anything to do for about two months –- the downturn has yet to hit, at least for me. While I’m supposed to be burying my head in my work, this has been what I’ve been doing to avoid the November blues…

For starters, my boyfriend visited from London last weekend. I know I shouldn’t complain because most of the people on our program haven’t seen their significant others in going on three months now, but long distance can be difficult and seeing each other for weekends once a month or once every two months can be a little trying over a seven month period. It was a great weekend though. For someone as American as my boyfriend, I’ll admit I was a little worried about showing him around Paris. But we found a compromise –- sight-seeing was made up of part Eiffel Tower, part mini-Statue of Liberty. And I must have made at least a decent tour guide, because he actually enjoyed Paris. I will say, the November blues did start to seep in when he left. But I think the prospect of not having to deal with the distance will make returning stateside a little bit easier.

And this past Thursday, while I should have been working on writing some sort of thesis or outline for my final research paper, I got distracted once again. By the Glow in the Dark tour. For anyone, seeing Kanye West should be an amazing experience. But for someone from Chicago but far away from home, there really is nothing quite like singing (screaming) along to “And if you don’t know by now, I’m talking about Chi-town”. Seeing a rap concert in Paris is an experience in itself, actually. It’s not exactly a group you would expect to be so obsessed with “hip-hop” culture, but they definitely are. The highlight of the night was definitely when Kanye finished the show and then came back for an encore with “American Boy”. There was no Estelle (we were hoping she’d make a guest appearance), but I’ve never seen people go so crazy at a concert … except maybe for the Spice Girls. And tomorrow morning my mom and my aunt are invading Paris. I don’t really know what expect, but I know I’m in for an interesting week and lots of good, good food.

So, the moral of the story is: there really are no blues in Paris. It can rain for days at a time, which it often does. The asshole bartender can refuse to serve you and give you French attitude every day, which often happens if you live where I do. But no matter what, it’s still Paris, and the only thing that is a little depressing is that there are only three weeks left.

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It’s officially been over a week since America experienced what will assuredly be known as one of the most historic elections of our generation. I think it’s taken a good seven or eight days for the fact that we’ll be saying President Obama in two months to really sink in for me.

Being abroad during the campaign season has been an interesting experience, to say the least. Of all the countries in Europe, I think France is usually credited with being the most stereotypically “anti-American” (although, I have to admit I have rarely experienced this first hand). The story goes that they think Americans all speak with a “Dubya” accent, straight out of Texas, that our health care system allows people to die on the streets and that we generally have a total disregard for the rest of the world.

So, after we have finally done the unthinkable, elected the president that the entire global community supported, I have to say, it’s felt a little lackluster here in France. For my first two months here, every person I met at a party asked what I thought of Obama. “Are you going to make Europe cry again?” was a question I heard more than once. You got the feeling that they were throwing all their support behind Barack, but didn’t really trust us to elect him. After seeing America vote Bush into office twice, maybe they have a right to have low expectations. Nevertheless, not a week went by without seeing Obama on a cover of a newspaper or a magazine. (Just a note to the American media, I barely knew who Sarkozy was before I got here, much less do I remember seeing his face at every newsstand.)

But now, in the wake of the victory they seemed to have waited eight years for, it doesn’t seem so much like a celebration but rather just a sign of relief. Our professors greeted us back this week (we were on vacation last week) by saying, “So, America made some pretty important choices this past Tuesday” but that was all. It’s almost as if the French have said, “Finally, you’ve listened to us!” and have now gone about their own business.

During and post the election, for the first time since maybe getting here, I’ll admit I’ve felt a little homesick. Not because I miss my family or friends (although, don’t worry guys, I do miss you). But because of all the amazing things that seem to be happening across the pond. I recently got an email from my best friend at school about her experience going to Grant Park for election night. I know I shouldn’t complain about having to be in Sevilla gallivanting around Spain for a week, but the description of the crowd – electrified with optimism and hope – made me long for America and my hometown, Chicago.

It’s not often that you get to be a proud American in Europe. Usually you try to downplay the fact that you come from the US. Or you quickly qualify it with, “Yeah, but don’t worry. I don’t like Bush.” But now, we really do have something to be proud of. We’ve transcended racial barriers — something France is years from accomplishing. The American people have demanded change. It’s like America was out at a party, chatting with the likes of Europe and the rest of the international community and finally cleared something up: “Don’t worry. We don’t like Bush now, either.” It seems like for once, we’re all on one team. Which is good considering we’re in the thick of a global economic crisis.

And while I expected a little more than just a thumbs up from the French, I’ve still managed to celebrate on my own. Conversations in Spain seemed to always revert back to, “I can’t believe it’s true. I can’t believe we actually did it.” And every time I see President-Elect Obama on CNN.com, I smile.
Again, with only a month left in Paris, I’m not at all wanting the time to slip by faster than it already is. But, going back home now has a new intrigue. My friend, Maya, who went to Grant Park on that historic night, has assured me I’ll come back to a changed country. So, while I’ll miss Paris, I am excited to step foot on the new America.

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This past week was Toussaint –- a week break that the Paris program gives to students because we’re doing a semester here instead of a quarter. Basically, it’s like spring break in November. I had originally wanted to go to Italy during the break, but after looking at flight costs, I ditched that plan. It seemed like everyone on the program wanted to go to Spain but knowing no Spanish, I wasn’t too sure about that. It’s hard enough getting around Paris not being too fluent, and I really had never wanted to go to Spain. Sitting around Paris for a week didn’t sound too appealing though, so I ended up booking my tickets. After everyone booked their tickets, it ended up being 14 NU kids traveling together to Madrid, Sevilla and Barcelona. While I was a little apprehensive about going, it was really one of the most amazing weeks of my life and probably as close to backpacking through Europe as I’ll ever get. I could go on and on about each city and what we did, but instead I’ll just give a quick run down of the more interesting parts.

Transport:
When you’re a student studying abroad, trying to make a penny go along way isn’t easy. But one way to cut costs is to fly on cheap airlines. I was expecting plastic seats, cramped cabin space and rough takeoffs. But I was pleasantly surprised.

Vueling Airlines was probably the most interesting flight of my life. After boarding, the pilot slammed on breaks, throwing the flight attendants around as they were giving the mandatory safety speech. He quickly came over the radio with a “Sorry about that”. Then, halfway into the flight, the pilot came back on the radio to ask us all in broken English to sing “Happy Birthday” to one of the flight attendants so the entire plane broke into song. On top of all that we were serenaded during the entire flight by the “acclaimed” music of some French DJ. Basically, I know every word to “These Boots Are Made for Walking” now. It was a pretty hilarious experience, made even more funny because we were all traveling (and having that song stuck in our heads…) together.

Hostels:
The hostel experience was even more funny than the airplane experience. The first hostel was pretty average –- private rooms, dorm-like bathroom. When we got to the next one, “Ole Backpacker” ,we clearly were not prepared. Not only did we have to walk through other people’s rooms to get to our room, but we had to walk through their room to get to the bathroom. The bathroom was a room with three showers and a toilet. But there was no door for the toilet…and it was on a pedestal. All of this would have actually been pretty normal if it wasn’t for Klaus, the fifty-year-old German man staying next to us who stunk up the entire floor, walked around in his tighty-whiteys and looked at porn on the public computer. It was literally a scene out of “Euro Trip”.

Our hostel in Barcelona was pretty normal. I won’t lie -– we all agreed that the bizarre hostel experience and sketchy plane flights actually made the trip more enjoyable. It’s the only time in our lives that we’ll really want to spend a week cramped into a six person room and we got some pretty good stories out of the whole experience. In Sevilla, my friend Adam lost his key to the locker in our room so they guy at the front desk just told him to go upstairs, get a knife and break it. When Adam asked if he’d have to pay for it, our new Spanish friend said, “Nah…I won’t tell anybody about it.” Talk about something that would never happen in America (or hardly anywhere for that matter).

Food:
I have to admit…I have a love/hate relationship with Spanish food. I love how cheap it is and it actually tastes pretty good. In Sevilla, we found a restaurant with sandwiches and drinks for a euro each. That’s about one-sixth of the Paris price. The only problem with the food that I found was that it was so meat heavy. Don’t get me wrong, I like my protein, but there was literally nothing but meat in any of the dishes. After a while, all I really wanted was just some pasta. At one point we actually did find a five euro all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.

The highlight of our dining experience was at a pretty unlikely place though. Just a block down from our Barcelona hostel, in a fairly sketch neighborhood, there was a restaurant with taps at each individual tables. They gave you cups and you poured your own beer. A screen on the wall then kept track of how much your table had drank and you got to see how you measured up against all the other tables. I doubt it’s legal in the United States, but if this establishment was in Evanston it would probably put both the Keg and Hundo out of business. The best part was the food was actually delicious and about 2.75 for a sandwich. Quite possibly every college student’s dream.

All in all, I would say that Barcelona was my favorite. It had a very bohemian feel, was a beautiful city on the beach and had a great blend of culture and entertainment. Sevilla was a beautiful city too and I felt like I really got to experience the Spanish culture there. I really couldn’t appreciate much of Madrid. We were only there for a night and a day, so I know I shouldn’t write it off without spending more time there. I just felt like it was too much like Paris without any of the charm.

Speaking of Paris, this trip only confirmed how happy I am to be in Paris. It was such a relief to land in the Orly airport and hear French again. I finally knew what was going on and didn’t have to ask every five seconds “What does that mean?”. As great as Spain was, Paris is really more my kind of town. (And now the French can’t be rude to us anymore because we elected Obama.) The only bad part is, I’m starting to realize how little time I have left.

I feel like I’ll really get to know Paris these next two weeks though. My boyfriend, Jamie, is coming into town, and then my mom and my aunt are coming the following weekend. So, in between registering for classes and writing papers this week, I’m going to at least try to think of all the must-dos in Paris so I can show them all a good time. Although it might be a little unrealistic, I want everyone to love the place that I call home as much as I do.

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While Northwestern was busy losing to Indiana this weekend, I was having my own athletic experience. You see, while I don’t know anything about football (other than the fact that there are great commercials on during the Super Bowl), I love fall and football season. I love the smell of the leaves, going to games in the crisp air, floating from tailgate to tailgate. I love it all.

So when I got the chance to go to one of the biggest rugby games in France (Paris vs. Toulouse) I jumped at the opportunity. In my mind, rugby might as well be American football by the amount I know about each sport and I figured this was the best substitute. In my mind, I was picturing burly French men screaming “zut alors!!!” at their favorite team down on the field.

Well, about one second into my first French rugby experience and all those expectations disappeared. My friend Alex, who got the tickets, has been busy telling me all this time about how rugby is a “gentleman’s” sport. But I thought this was just a way of saying rugby is better than football. Turns out, rugby is a gentleman’s sport -– and going to a rugby game is quite possibly the polar opposite of any American football game I’ve ever been to.

The pink stands. Photo by the author.

So let’s start off with the scenery first. Most American teams have intimidating colors and mascots (although I question Northwestern’s choice of purple…). There’s a lot of blues, reds and yellows out there. What color don’t you see? Hot pink. But come to a Stade Francais game (the Paris team) and you’ll start to think you’re in the Barbie aisle at Toys ‘R Us. The whole stadium was covered with men decked out in pink jerseys, pink flags… even — and this is so francais — pink scarves.

After getting over the initial shock of so much pink (and flowers — pink flowers decorate the Stade Francais jersey), I was still expecting a traditional, rowdy game of rugby. After all, they don’t even wear pads or helmets.

Before the game started though there was a little entertainment — much to the pleasure of me and Casey, who were crossing our fingers for half-time show. So as we watched the players run up and down the field we rocked out to the cast of Grease, now playing in Paris, smack dab in the middle of rugby warm-ups. I’ll bet a lot of money there won’t be a production of Jersey Boys before a Bears game.

The elaborate pre-show. Photo by the author.

Before the game could actually start though, I witnessed one of the strangest things I’ve seen in Paris. ABBA’s Dancing Queen started to blare from the speakers and a woman in a white gown walked to the center of the field accompanied by a young boy, also dressed in all white. Then, a man with what looked like a jet-pack, walked out behind them. And then, before my disbelieving eyes, he proceeded to turn on his (real!) jet-pack and fly around the field, landing at the feet of the woman and young boy. He then presented them a porcelain rugby ball. Let the games begin, I guess?

For the most part, the actual rugby game went as I expected it — just a lot more pink with a lot more waving flags (and definitely no one with a painted chest). And the pink wasn’t just what made it a gentleman’s sport. The French, notoriously not a loud bunch, actually get quiet in respect of the players during field goal attempts. Definitely not something I’ve seen at NU. In fact, even with the 80,000 people in attendance, the Paris vs. Toulouse game was quieter than any of my high school games. Yikes.

As far as satisfying my thirst for football season, I think I’m good. I still have my fingers crossed for NU, though. The way I figure, if they step it up and get to a bowl game this winter, I really won’t have missed out on much anyway.

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I spent this past Friday night in so I figured I should make the most of yet another gorgeous Paris weekend. It was with this determination that I set out Saturday morning. Most of my friends had to do a French assignment and I can’t say I minded. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to a Saturday morning on my own to walk and wander.

And what did I find? My new favorite place in Paris. A little tiny used bookstore (with books all in English) that I will most certainly be returning to once I finish Eat, Pray, Love again. And the people there? Fellow Americans finding some refuge in this city that they have come to love. These kinds of people that are here for longer than a week because they actually took the time to find the little shop off the beaten track of tourist destinations. Or they saw the flier that I saw on the metal bars encasing one of the many Parisian parks near St. Michel and opted to check it out rather than continue to look for a Fnac – the Borders meets Best Buy of France.

So after spending probably 45 minutes just going through the cluttered alley of a bookstore, I sat down to read Eat, Pray, Love (the book I finally settled on buying because I could only pick one since they didn’t accept credit cards and I’d only brought 15 euros out with me) on the bank of the Seine. The left side. I’ve developed an unfair and totally biased preference to the left. And that’s when I met Antoine. Or, at least that’s what I think his name was.

This seems to be a common trend in my solo adventures across Paris. In Europe at least, it feels like you’re never really alone for very long. I wasn’t really up for entertaining much conversation on this particular bench on this beautiful fall day, which I had decided was to be devoted entirely to doing what I wanted to be doing: a “me-day”, since those are few and far between when you feel the Mid-Point Panic of studying abroad where your type-A American brain reminds you constantly to see as much as possible, go to all the museums and make every moment count.

So, in my battered French I told him it was okay that he share the bench, and moved over. He continued to ask me what I was doing in Paris (studying) how long I’d be there (3 months). I was caught in the middle. Keep up this innocent Fran-glais conversation or go back to reading my book. My mom is the kind of person who meets friends anywhere she goes. Everyone is a potential new friend. I’ve adopted the polar opposite adage – living life with blinders on, not venturing too far into my periphery. For whatever reason, my knee-jerk reaction is to regard strangers on the street as people I will never get to know. Whether this is good and has helped me lead a safer existence or bad and left me sheltered remains to be seen.

But regardless, it became quickly evident that Antoine – who had come down to the Seine, or so he told me, to read his book – wasn’t so interested in reading, but preferred to practice his broken English. So we chatted for a few minutes. I found out he lives just south of the Notre Dame – where we were – and likes to drink wine with his friends on the bank of the Seine and to read on the benches, just as we were now. He asked what I was reading (Eat, Pray, Love in English ) and I saw that he was reading A Midsummer’s Night Dream, also in English.

I tried to explain that I can barely understand Shakespeare in my native language and would imagine it’s a hard reach for a non-native speaker, but I’m not sure how much was lost in translation.

While I could have used the French practice and while I’m sure I could have had a new friend in Antoine, it really was my me-day. So I eventually just went back to reading, enjoying the blurry picture of the Notre Dame that peeked up just above the top of my book. I realized it was morning in Chicago and got my phone out to call my parents, like I usually do on Saturday afternoons and at some point in the conversation, Antoine headed out with an “Au Revoir” and a wave.

As I talked to my mom on the phone, I realized the sun was heading down and my hands were getting a little too close to numb for comfort. I headed to the metro: a successful me-day accomplished. And now I’m here back at home about to take my daily late afternoon nap. In the book that I’m reading the author travels to three different countries throughout the course of the year. In the chapter I just finished before writing this, she muses, “Americans don’t really know how to do nothing”. I’ve found this to be pretty true. I feel a sense of guilt when I spend a day not out really living in Paris, seeing the sights. But I’ve come to think there are some things that are just as important “to dos” as the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Like spending a day out on your own, speaking to the inquisitive French boy that finds you along the river, discovering your new favorite Parisian bookstore and soaking up the smell of autumn. It’s just that the tourist books don’t tell you about the latter one.

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Well, it’s official. I’ve had my 15 minutes of fame… standing front row behind the moderator of one of the biggest French talk shows. I don’t exactly how Northwestern managed to secure about 25 seats to the taping of Le Grand Journal, but I do know that all of France saw my pixelated face Wednesday night (and my friends and family at home that I emailed, of course).

I was just expecting this taping to be like The View – a huge audience where you hear more clapping and see less audience. But nope. There was a really modest set and only three rows for the audience in three different sections. And lucky me got seated right smack dab in the middle. Luckily I brushed my hair before heading out (even though it got rained on in the typical Paris afternoon showers).

I had heard that the guests last week were the Jonas Brothers so I was a little disappointed that Salman Rushdie was our guest (along with other French celebs that I didn’t know). Even so, it was pretty awesome to be within feet of some pretty big deal celebrities, even if they have a European exclusive fan-base.

I will admit that I felt super awkward when the whole audience stood up to sing the French national anthem and the group of Americans I was sitting with in the front row were reduced to mouthing what we were hoping were the words in an attempt to not look too out of place. I doubt that it worked.

Lucky for me my days of stardom weren’t over as the taping closed. Today as I wandered near the Champs-Elysees with Casey, my roommate, we caught a taping of a movie. Again, no celebs I recognized but one of the biggest bridges in Paris was blocked off for what looked like a huge action movie. There were swarms of fake French police that I’m assuming were extras (at first we thought there was an actual hostage situation).

Regardless, I think my days in the spotlight are over now. And it’s back to the regular life in Paris.

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