Catacombs! Picnics! Moisonniers! Coffee! ... oh, my ...

So. I'm a little behind. But I think you'll forgive me because I asked nicely: please forgive me?

Well, Sunday the 10th of February, I went to Paris to meet up with some exchange student friends of mine: Taylor, a Canadian (Alberta); Anna, an American (Washington), Brittany, and American (don't remember which state); and Brent who was Canadian, but recently sworn in as a US citizen in Colorado.

I got there an hour early because Taylor asked me too--his train came in an hour early and poor country bumpkin didn't know where to go in Paris. As he greeted me, I got two or three false tulips because of Valentine's Day that week. He had a bunch and was giving them out like candy all day.

Anyhow, at 11 everyone got to our meeting place and we set off ... for the Catacombs.

We all know what the Catacombs are, right? Well, if not, here is the explanation from the English-language brochure given to me at the entrance:

"The Catacombs ossuary was created at the end of the 18th century due to the closure in 1780 of the largest cemetery in Paris, the Saints Innocents, in the Halles district, which the local habitants believed was a danger to public health. The Council of State issued a decree on 9 November 1785 authorizing the transfer of the bones. The quarrying service, created by decree in the King's Council on 4 April 1777 and responsible for protecting and reinforcing the ground beneath Paris, was asked to select a suitable site. The choice fell on a quarry called the 'Tombe-Issoire', which was subsequently adapted for use. Bones from every cemetery in Paris were transferred to the site until 1860... The Catacombs were opened to the public at the beginning of the 19th century, exciting a great deal of interest and attracting huge crowds of visitors. Famous examples include Emperor François I of Austria, who visited them in 1814, and Napoleon III, who toured the galleries in 1860 with his son, Prince Impérial."

It was very cool, but for me really thought-provoking. I kept thinking about the people the bones belonged to! They had names once! Now they're faceless and part of an infinite number of other people's bones (I think I read somewhere 6 million people, but I may be inventing that). Sayaka, the Japanese girl who lives along with me and my host mother, you may remember, told me she's afraid to go to the Catacombs because she things the souls will follow her home and harm her.

Personally, I recommend it. And it's much less expensive than going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Less crowded too. And the history is really interesting.

Well, nothing stirs up the ol' appetite like seeing a bunch of bones lying around underground (and even better, carrying out bone dust on gloves/coats/shoes/cameras), so we left the Catacombs in search of a place with some good munchies.

After about fifteen minutes of fruitless searching, we came upon ... a market. Someone had a brilliant idea: a picnic. A real live French-style picnic. Best idea in the world. We rushed through the market, buying all the ingredients necessary: four baguettes, chicken, cheese and wine (the supermarket was closed so we had no plates or plasticware), and we hurried off to the nearest park we could find.

It was SO much fun! Best meal I've had in France so far, even including rabbit. It's all about the company, you know.

That evening I returned to my house and packed up my things because I was going to spend the week with my next host family, while my host mom was with her ill daughter.

I suppose the best thing that happened was Saturday night of that week--my last night with them. It had been a nice week, you know, I really like them a lot and I'm almost positive I will be very happy at their house.

Well, that night we went out because it was Pierre's birthday (Pierre=future host dad). We went to see a comedian in Paris with a few of Pierre's friends and (obviously), his wife, Myriam.

The important note about the comedian, of course, is that I understood almost all of what he said!

But when that was over, we went to eat at some place that served mussels, which is, luckily, one of two types of seafood I can stand (the other being calamari).

Well, when the bill came around, there was the usual squabble over who got to pay for the meal. They finally decided to split it, and Pierre handed his friends over his half of the bill. The problem was, though ... it was more than half.

"This isn't sharing!" his friend protested. "This is much more than half."

Pierre indicated me and said, "I have my daughter with me."

His friend laughed, but Pierre didn't. He was serious. He didn't say "I have my American with me" or "Leah's with us too" ... he called me his daughter. I wanted to cry for happiness, but I settled for smiling harder and more sincerely than I ever remember doing before.

Especially having spent the first four months of my exchange in a family that never got around to making me feel welcome, being called someone's daughter, whether in joking or not, felt so incredibly good. Like rain on a warm day. Better!!

The only bad thing about that week was that, that same night, I was sleeping (not very well, I may add) and someone (not mentioning any names, but you know who you are) called the house at 6:30 in the morning and woke me up. I don't hold grudges, though. At least ... not after I get even. ((cough))

That's all for now. I expect I'll have more soon because me and Sayaka are going out tomorrow with a friend to play pool. Cool!

Later!

XOXOXO,
Leah

ps: I should just add that I have developed an unhealthy addiction to French coffee. I just finished my fourth cup since lunch and I still want more. I never liked coffee before France and I hate to get all Parisian on you ... but ... French coffee is just better!