rigoler (v.) : to laugh
It’s been over 10 days since I touched my blog, which I suppose is a bit of a creative slump (or a sign of over-commitment elsewhere) for me. Two exposés, two dossiers, one vacation and and a slew of interviews have launched me back into something resembling “real life”, after a scandalously paresseux beginning to printemps.
Yet despite this spike in academic and other activity, life (as always in Paris) has had its fair share of fun and games. In fact, in the past 10 days I have had quite a few causes to rigoler – surprisingly loud in public places (like the good American I am) – due to a fairly steady succession of oddities.
It started in Hendaye. We had taken the train from Paris to Biarritz, then Biarritz to Hendaye, and were trying to buy tickets for the wobbly, Disneyworld-ish Euskotren to San Sebastian. In the Hendaye train station, everyone was speaking French – we were in France of course. But then you cross the street to the Euskotren office, and the ticket booth man doesn’t speak French – even though you’re still in France. 
This already elicited a small gloussement, and general confusion – that would only grow once on the train, as a group of men in kerchiefs embroidered with the letters E.V.J.G. stepped into our car, accompanied by their pleather chaps and chains wearing friend. Apparently this stands for Enterrement Vie (de) Jeune Garçon (burial of the life of a young man) – and this was a bachelor’s party. As the train wobbled on its merry way, we were treated to a little Village People-esque strip show – and it was only the first of many bachelor parties that we encountered in San Se that weekend.
The language difficulties hinted at in the Euskotren station would become the primary source of weekend hilarité – the pinnacle of which was our evening at the local bar Etxebe Pub. We took it upon ourselves to befriend the Spanish and Basque speaking bartender, via a range of enthusiastic gestures and grimaces. A few free mystery shots into our vocabulary-free friendship, this barman decided to offer up an odder on-the-house treat, whipping out a brand new Pepperidge-Farms-looking cookie tray, and pointing his finger in our direction. No one else at the bar was offered cookies; in fact, it did not seem that food was even an option at the bar. All we could conclude was that he had offered us his own personal snack stash, so we munched and danced happily, wishing free cookies would accompany free drinks all the time.
The entire trip to San Se was marrant to say the least, from sandstorms to mystery meats to overnight train rides. But upon our return to Paris, the hits kept coming.
After a recent Saturday snack of a brat and a bière at the berliner bar Udo, we decided to swing by l’International, an Oberkampf bar known for its free (if debatably entertaining) concerts. The first two bands were your typical sub-par rock, but then came Malkhior. If you’ve ever dreamed of seeing Jesus in concert, habillé in a silk leopard bathrobe, tight leopard underwear, and talons – accompanied by a back-up singer well in need of an exorcism- Malkhior is for you. Ridiculous lyrics, shameless crassness – 
bref, Malkhior quickly filled the basement with enthusiastic onlookers. This was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time. To top it off, upon leaving the bar, we were invited to the Reims rugby gala by a couple of men in kilts.
Truth be told, weekends in Paris are generally pretty humorous. But that was why today, Monday, I was particularly shocked at the continuing parade of randomness. On the sidewalk of Boulevard Saint Michel, one of the SDFs got a little creative. In the place of the ubiquitous suffering puppies that the homeless use to arouse our compassion, this fellow’s pet of choice was a lapin in a box. Now, I understand how one would come across a stray dog to adopt, but I’ve never seen lost bunnies traipsing around the streets of Paris. All I can conclude is that some sick and twisted character decide to donate this poor ball of fur, or that the man stole it from somewhere. From there, I stepped on the bus to find myself next to a pair of jumeaux rouquins. Red heads are rare, perceived a bit oddly by the French (apparently they “puent” and are bad luck) – so it was interesting to see them x2…Except these weren’t actually twins. When they started holding hands, I realized it was a couple homosexuel of redheads that had decided to dress identically, glasses and all. Let’s hope it was for a costume party, and not some weird egotistical sex-fetish.
Last but not least was the bike riding “Texan”. At around 9:30 pm, I was heading home from the launch party for Paris by Mouth on my vélib, when I came up upon a ten-gallon-hat wearing cowboy, weaving back and forth across the two-way bike lanes. I almost ran into a car trying to get around him, and judging by his obnoxious rires, was fairly certain he was a drunken American kid. That was until he approached me at the feu rouge, and his prepubescent gueule offered, “Meuf, t’as été presque tué par cette voiture là” (Girl, you were almost killed by that car). I was about to ask him why he was dressed like a south-western sheriff, but decided it would be better to pedal off seule into the sunset.
I suppose ce soir, I’ll end of dreaming of a red cowboy-hatted, bike-riding bunny. But then again, I wouldn’t expect anything less of Paris.
—vocabulaire—
exposé > oral presentation
dossier > paper (written paper to be handed in)
paresseux > lazy
printemps > spring
gloussement > chuckle
hilarité > hilarity
grimaces > faces (in the sense of “to make a face”)
barman > bartender
marrant > funny
bière > beer
habillé > dressed
talons > high heels
bref > in short
SDF > “sans domicile fixe” (without a fixed residence), homeless person
lapin > rabbit
jumeaux rouquins > redheaded twins
puent > smell
couple homosexuel > a homosexual couple
vélib > public bike
rires > laughter
feu rouge > red light
gueule > face (crass)
seule > alone
ce soir > tonight
la vie franglophone 