Number 2

Let's take a break from the whinging and wailing, shall we, and enjoy instead the fact that Paris is wonderful.  And that in only ten short days, I will be moving back, to my own place, with my own set of keys, my own fridge, my own TV and comfy sofa, bref, my own chez moi.

Now you're thinking: "but where will Res go?"  Being loyal blog readers (thank you, by the way), you remember how much I loved my neighbourhood, the gays, the Pompidou, Diana the dog.  Well, do not fret, gentle souls, because I'm not moving far!

Only a few block over, actually, but into a brand new arrondissement.  I will now be a proud citizen of the second arrondissement of Paris.  Sadly (or happily, depending on how much you like having tourists taking pictures of your house on Sunday morning when you've just woken up and you're opening the window in that stretched-out T-shirt you use as pajamas), this is a mightily overlooked little corner of the world.  In fact, I'm betting you don't know much about it.

There are two ways we can solve that, though.  One, you can keep reading Res Ipsa's Paris for more info on local spots (I promise, once I move back, I will get much better at updating).  Two (and these are not mutually exclusive), you can read this great post from Hidden Kitchen blogger and chef Braden Perkins.  And then, come visit!

Wait until I've unpacked the boxes, though.

Perdu

I lost my funny.

I know I left it around here somewhere.  But then I went off and had a freak-out and now I can't find it.

Have you seen my funny?  It's small and round and answers to Bob.

Reward offered for its return.

The Late Show

I'm having one of those nights where I can't go to bed.

You know the ones.  When there's all this stuff simmering at the bottom of your brain and you just know that as soon as you crawl in under the sheets everything will boil over and that'll be the end.  For hours and hours, you'll be sucked into that turmoil of questions, from the sticky life-level ones ("Why can't I find a job?";  "Why can't I decide what country I should live in?";  "Why am I single?") to the self-pity ones ("Why don't any of my clothes look good on me?"; "Why am I not blonde?"; "Why can't I have another pair of Louboutins?") via the mundane anxiety-inducing ones ("Why didn't I write today?"  "Why am I too chicken-shit to call France Telecom and sort out my internet?")

To avoid this plight, the trick is to stay up.  And do pointless things to keep your mind occupied.  You can calculate the average number of words in the book titles on your shelf (but careful, this one might raise the "Why am I so crap I can't even find a decent book title?" question.)  Or you can leaf through the Breakfast Lunch Tea cookbook from Rose Bakery (as long as it doesn't lead to "Why did I never learn how to cook so I could actually have a boyfriend?")  Or watch The Hurt Locker (relatively harmless unless you're prone to "Why does my life have no purpose?" interrogations.)

It's a mine field out there.

I almost understand now why some people resort to stashing bottles of vodka under their beds.

Don't Know Just What To Do With Myself

My life is good.  Really.  Much better than most.  Jetting off to weddings in Cairo, spending time in London and New York almost whenever I want, enjoying dinners, concerts, theatre with friends - seriously, I can't complain.

Let me rephrase that.

I shouldn't complain.

That doesn't mean I can't.

Today is not so much a rant day as an existential crisis day.  Think of it as throwing a methaphorical bottle into the metaphorical webby ocean to see if there's an answer out there.  Somewhere.

Here's the question:  "What the bejeezus am I supposed to do now?"  (notice the quaint use of swear words - this blog is kid-friendly).

Seriously, though.  I'm feeling a bit lost.  The book - well, nothing much is happening with the book.  Eventually it will be finished.  And then I will need a job.  Preferably one I enjoy.  One that allows me some time for sleep, exercise, and a social life.  One that doesn't make me so miserable I have to quit after a year.  One that my CV can be creatively tailored for without resorting to outright lies.

So where is that job?

Is it in Paris?  Because it really doesn't feel like it right now.  Which is a slight problem seeing as I just bought a flat here (ah, yes, I forgot to mention.  More on that another day).

And what do I about the fact that I miss my friends who all live far away, and half of my friends here seem to be headed in the same direction?

[INSERT LOUD PLAINTIVE KEENING]

If you have a solution to my crisis, please send replies to Res @ selfpity dot com.

Thanks.  I feel much better now.

I'm a little bit rock n' roll

Last night, Miss LVMH and I decided to go a little rock n' roll Scotland style and check out Snow Patrol at L'Olympia (a concert venue that Res Ipsa's Paris would be proud to recommend).  (Is it just me, or is my life just too cool right now?  Someone pinch me please.)

Snow Patrol, a surprisingly underrated band (you'd be surprised how many people asked me who they were when I was offering tickets), holds a very special place in my heart.

Those of you who have been reading this blog from the start may recall that I travelled to Venezuela three years ago.  What you may not know is that this trip was not all fun and games.

Imagine a young girl (not yet thirty - those were the days) arriving alone at the airport in Caracas.  She spots a sign with the name of her hiking tour on it.  Gathered around it are not the strapping young men and women she was expecting, but a motley crue of people born before they'd invented the telephone.  And I'm only slightly exaggerating.

For two weeks, the young girl hiked across the country and shared a tent with a recently divorced 55-year old who regaled her with tales of her failed marriage and snored loudly.  She cowered behind tropical trees as the group washed in cold streams - an activity that 73-year old men apparently prefer to perform stark naked.  (I cannot tell you how much I wish I had never seen that). And she smiled bravely as she was transformed into everyone's daughter.

Finally, on the last four days, the camel found that straw that gave him a herniated disk.  It came in the shape of a hammock.  Our young heroine cannot sleep in a hammock.  Even less so when it is encased in mosquito netting (if humans were meant to sleep in coccoons, we'd look more like butterflies).  And especially when lost in the middle of the jungle and strung side by side with her travelling companions like cow meat on butchers' hooks.

So instead of sleeping, she exhausted her ipod's batteries to play Snow Patrol over and over, all night, every night.  The music kept her more or less sane.  It kept her from attacking the rest of the group with a machete.  It got her home in one piece.

Thank you boys, I am forever in your debt.  As are those old folks, even if they're not aware of it.

And last night's show was amazing.

Choukran

Am still reeling from the week in Cairo (and desperately sleep deprived) but I wanted to share this picture with you.

This was the setting for a rehearsal dinner.  Yes, you read that right.  A rehearsal dinner.  And no, that is not a cardboard backdrop.

As a result, I have decided never to get married, as nothing short of a reception on the moon can top this.  Sorry boys.

I'm crawling back under the covers now to dream of pharaos.  I'll be with you as soon as my feet land back in the real world.

In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your weekend!

The Gauls do Egypt

Just a quickie today to let you know that, for reasons too unwieldy to get into here, I am taking an unexpected trip to Cairo this week.

(That sounds pretty glamorous, doesn't it.)

So imagine me, draft manuscript in hand, large sunhat and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses on head, lounging by the pyramids with a glass of gin and tonic... and you will be pretty far from the truth.  I don't even own a large sunhat.

But I do promise to bring back a picture of my buddy Sphinxy.

See you next week.