Erinn Go Bragh! Vive l'Irlande!

Before we get into what the title refers to, I have some news:

-For you Michigan people who like to ask me about the weather every time I call home ((cough, Dad, cough))--today we had the most amazingly beautiful weather that I have ever experienced. Just cool enough to be pleasant but not too cold. It was sunny and with the slightest breeze. I left home a few minutes early after lunch just to walk to school.

-I have a better trimester score in my French class than over half of my class. Haha! Take THAT, French school system!

-I'm changing host families for the last time on Friday! This gives me mixed feelings. See, I LOVE living with Guite and I don't want to leave ... but I LOVE my next host family! See my dilemma?

So. St. Patrick's Day. Some of you may have heard rumors ... these may or may not be true. Read on to find out ...

As you may or may not know, I spent St. Patrick's Day weekend at my Canadian friend, Taylor's, house. He lives in Compiègne, which is about a forty-minute train ride north of Paris. Maybe a bit more.

I left school Saturday morning at 11:05 with every intention of getting to the train station in Paris in time to take the 12:07 train to Compiègne. I was pretty sure I could get there in time.

Wanna take a guess? Wrong! I got there in time--about ten minutes before the train was to leave ... oh, but wait ... I had to buy a ticket ... and the line was about a mile long. At about 12:15 I had my ticket ... but my ideal 12:07 train had left without me.

I ended up getting on the 12:37 one, and to my credit I did try to call Taylor I would be late, but he hadn't been home all week, so I wasn't all that surprised when no one picked up. But try telling him of my valiant efforts. He just bitched all weekend. No, I will not excuse my language. I'm wearing a cool hat and that makes me badass and allowed to swear in front of my family.

When the train pulled into Compiègne and I walked up the stairs to the main platform, I saw Taylor waiting, staring at me with a sort of tired exasperation. Sort of saying "Oh, you Parisians ..." Later he told me that he was almost run over by a car on the way to the train station, trying to get there before the train came. I retorted that he was alive and well, so I had nothing to feel guilty about.

Well, I got the grand tour of Compiègne. Taylor knows ... pretty much everything in the world, so he knew (obviously) tons of historical stories about the town. Somehow, they all seemed to end with "before/and then the/when the ... nazis burned it down." Apparently, Compiègne played a very important part in WWII. It was also where Joan of Arc was captured by the English because (according to Taylor) they didn't reopen the gate for her. Interesting ...

The tour ended in a very nice park where several notable things happened: (a) I got a massage on a bird-crappy bench, but it was worth it, and (b) Taylor stole my passport when I wouldn't show him my picture. We were looking up how to renounce American citizenship--for curiosity's sake. Don't worry. I got it back. Not before screaming bloody murder and scaling hedges to get to him, though. Canadians ...

We eventually headed back to his house, though, and I got a private accordion concert, although Taylor said he did really badly.

"Why?" I asked. "It's better than I could do."

He held up his hand and it was shaking. Bizarre, huh? *I* think I made him nervous. I'm pretty damn intimidating. ((wink))

I stopped feeling sorry for him, though, when he made me try at the accordion. I played Mary had a Little Lamb on the keyboard (very grudgingly) and then he let me stop, but it was the most torturous thirty seconds of my life.

Eventually, we ate dinner with Taylor's host brother, Quentin, and left to go to one of the three Irish Pubs that Compiègne boasted of.

I did say that this St. Patrick's Day was unforgettable, didn't I? Or implied so anyway ...

Well. I have to say, a lot of it was due to some very unique conversation Taylor and I had with Christophe, who is one of Quentin's friends.

During one such conversation, I was dubbed "Proncess" because (after consuming one Guinness--which was discusting like all beer), I ordered drinks that ((gasp)) came in an actual glass! The word in French is the same as in English--"Princess"--but Taylor and I had a holy war over how to pronounce it because of a difference in regional accents. In the Picardie (the region where Compiègne is) they say it similar to the way you might say "Proncess", but in Paris we say it with a more nasally sound. I declared that my way was "right", but that didn't stop me from being the Proncess.

Sometime after midnight ... most of the people in the bar were ... rather trashed, if I may put it bluntly. I will always be glad that I had my wits about me because something hilarious happened. It's probably a "you had to be there" thing ... but ...

Some random guy who'd had at that point about ten drinks too many got up on a table and started dancing ... and then ... his shirt disappeared ... and then ... his pants almost disappeared as well. But someone slightly less sloshed stopped him.

He went on for a while this Anonymous Dancer (seriously, he is anonymous--I'm not trying to cover up for anyone), but then a bartender came and got him down from the table.

Damn. Party over.

... or not. For insead of kicking this guy out of the bar or whatever, the bartender instead placed him on the bar and the show continued. Yes, my friends, we were flashed. Many a time. Ahh, only in France ...

Taylor and I nearly fell off out stools laughing.

Don't you worry, though. I learned something that night, so the experience was educational. "Sláinte" is the Irish word for "cheers".

We left the bar at about quarter after one, but the party didn't end until 5:30 in the morning. For, as when Taylor had been at my house during winter break, we spent a good part of the night talking and the like--long after everyone else's party was over. Haha. We outdid them. At 5:30, though, we did grudgingly admit that a bit of sleep was needed and we dragged ourselves up the stairs (or, more accurately, Taylor pushed me up the stairs because I was unable to support my own weight--BECAUSE I WAS TIRED!!!!!!!!!! Don't make assumptions just because it was St. Patrick's Day. Yes, yes, I drank, but I wasn't trashed! You will remember the phrase "had my wits about me". I've had more to drink with the Rotary Club. Psh.

The party recommenced at 7:30 the next morning because there were some birds outside that wouldn't SHUT THEIR BLOODY BEAKS ... so I woke up.

When I got home that night at about 9:15, Odile (Guite's daughter, you'll remember, who was pregnant) hadn't had her baby. When I woke up on Monday morning she had. Another girl--her fourth--named Roxanne.

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Sorry for the

Later, all!

Love,
Leah