allegories of desire

Paris is exactly itself, as evidenced by this oft-repeated conversation:

"T'aimes Paris?"
"...Non."
"Mais c'est Paris!!!!"
"..."

Marseille, however, n'est pas Marseille. A sense of difference pervades the place. I feel about as much and as little chez moi as I do in LA.

Today I underwent the much-hyped and inexplicably obligatoire chest x-ray, supposedly a great affront to American modesty, and they didn't even make me take off my shirt. I was so ready to be cool about it too. On the plus side, I probably don't have tuberculosis, and they let me keep the x-ray. Un souvenir!

For lack of internet in the apartment, my roommates and I spend our days taking turns saying words in English; they say a word, after initial confusion I comprehend and repeat it en américain, hilarity ensues. It reminds me of Proust a little.

I start teaching on Friday. Tentative lesson plans include talking about movie stars and distributing candy filled with buerre de cacahuètes, an American delicacy. I've so far convinced the landlord, to whom my tenancy is and shall remain unbeknownst, that I am the petite amie of one of my roommates...again a source of mirth for all. Things are going so well I don't even begrudge not having consistent access to Facebook's vortex of insatiable desire, and am even happier for it, probably for the same reason French people don't eat that much.