Dia duit!

Last night started out boring. We went to a "Parismus" party at some bar, which is supposed to be for French students to meet Erasmus (European international exchange program) students, and then American students can come, too. We all had to write our names in and put them in a box and then pick a name and find that person. Vaune picked Jesùs, which brought us endless amusement. Eventually Vaune saw a guy with her name stuck to his chest, so we made a fun British friend named Jack. I met a girl who had the same name as the name I drew from the box, but it wasn't her handwriting. But I gave her my email address anyway because she wanted to practice her English.

It was lame so we headed home. We got on the Métro and took it to Châtelet-Les Halles, but then got a text message from Alan. Alan is an Irish guy we met the first day we were here. We keep trying to make plans with him and then flaking out b/c we are poor and exhausted. But last night he was at a pub with his friend Eamon, and Vaune and Jen (who is hereby known as Jenny when she is drunk) and I just hopped the Métro back to Bastille (Jen and Vaune and I all got stuck in turnstiles at least once throughout the evening). We didn't have much time until the last train, but Jen got a beer and Vaune and I split a drink and we had a really good time hanging out with our new Irish friend and his Irish friend (who is staying in Brussels and was visiting. We learned some Gaelic (which he called "speaking Irish"): "Dia duit." It means "God be with you" and does not sound like it looks.

The moral of this story is that hanging out with Irish friends in a pub is relaxing and fun.

I leave you with this stolen except from Vaune's blog, because it's funny and there is no point in my re-writing it if she already did:

"On the way home, Bobbie and I were trying to explain to Jen our annoyance at the French habit of STARING. I swear, you can't wear a bleedin' tank top here without eliciting undisguised gaping from, well, everyone. (According to Scott, nothing larger than a B cup exists in France, which should explain that. Also, French women dress very discreetly, and I'm of the opinion that this combination of layered clothing and no deodorant explains a lot about the bodily odors here). Also, speaking loud, rapidfire English draws some attention. But good God! Even when you're sitting there, having iMetro time, keeping your mouth shut and your jacket closed, the natives just. Stare. You. Down.

In a perfect display of this behavior, the creepazoid man next to Bobbie turned to ogle her, almost on cue to our discussion. It was made even better because he had a hairline receded about to where most women would wear a ponytail, and he had gelled up the remaining hair--which consisted of BLOND RINGLETS--into a Queen Amidala-esque balloon around his skull.

Once he got off at his stop, the three of us turned and stared dramatically out the window at the guy, just to give him a taste of his own skeeviness. Lo and behold, he was staring right back, rapt at attention. Jesus. We nearly died laughing."