I work in an office where I undeniably will know the results of the awards show so I couldn’t tape it. (I spent all day Monday archiving red carpet photos.)  I had to find out live if Meryl Streep or Sandra Bullock won! Unfortunately, the time difference made it so the ceremony started at 2:30 in the morning. (The schedule said it was midnight but that was the red carpet.) I was visiting family friends over the weekend to escape the city and also because they have the cable channel that the show was on. I spent all weekend eating and sleeping so I would be totally prepared to stay up all night on Sunday. I usually can’t make it past midnight, but a nap each day and ten hours of sleep at night definitely had me prepped. Huddled on the couch with my macaroons and a bottle of Schweppes, I was ready.

However, watching the Oscars on French TV is a lot different from American television. First of all, none of the celebrities want to speak to the silly French reporter named Didier who screamed after celebrities like Mariah Carey and Cameron Diaz, “For French TV! For French TV!” The celebrities that did talk to him, like Sigourney Weaver, revelled in the chance to practice their French (She’s actually very good!) and others, like Vera Farmiga, had to request the questions in English. Luckily for the French, there were voice over translators who translated as the actors spoke. This created a problem for me because I wanted to hear the English words.

By the time Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin took the stage, I was pretty seasoned at tuning out the French and only listening to English, but some words still escaped me. When I did hear the whole joke, I laughed like crazy. Damn Helen Mirren! How funny is that? Combined with the fact that it was 3 a.m. and I was a little loopy, I just couldn’t stop laughing. But by the time Sandra Bullock gave her wonderful acceptance speech (I didn’t want her to win until she wore that gorgeous dress and gave that speech), I was getting a little bit slower and didn’t really pick up on the Meryl Streep lover reference.

The next morning, as I was prowling facebook comments, I learned that many people didn’t like the Oscar telecast. Why? I thought to myself. I went back and watched a few clips on YouTube, and they were totally right. I had thought Martin and Baldwin were so funny because I was discovering their jokes under French translation. (I think it helped the comedic timing.) And Bullock’s Streep reference? Still doesn’t make sense…

Now, it’s hard to complain when one is in Paris, regardless of the circumstances. But total darkness and one week without a shower can drive anyone to a little grumbling. My overpriced apartment in Paris, which I recently learned is too small to legally rent, has one light and a bathroom in the hallway. Upon my arrival, my landlord gave me a brief tour of the area, assured me that the water pressure and the temperature of the shower was up to par – they were – and left me to bask in my new Parisian home.

However, not long after he left, my overhead light started to flicker, and by my second or third week here, it just died.  Luckily, my neighbor – The Make-Up Artist – had a lamp that I borrowed, and for one week, I lived with “mood” lighting. I became accustomed to my new system and I was almost bummed when my landlord (finally) came to fix the broken light.

I did not share the same sentiment when the men came and dug out the shower.

The state of my shower for a good week and a half.

It was Monday morning, and I’d just returned from a weekend visiting my French family outside the city. It was also the first time I woke up and some one was already in the shower. While memories of college flooded over me, I patiently waited to hear the person leave so I could swoop in and make it to work on time. Luckily, I got to the shower because when I left for work that morning, there were three men taking sledgehammers to the shower.

These sledgehammers continued, and every day when I got home, I was more and more frustrated that there was still no working shower. However, another thing my landlord showed me when I moved in was a little rinsing apparatus above the toilet. I thought it was another shower, but that’s probably because I watch too much Sex and the City and was thinking about the train ride that Samantha and Carrie took to San Francisco.

See that thing in the upper left hand corner? That's my back-up shower.

Well, when Day 3 without a shower came along, I broke down and decided to pull a Carrie. Yes faithful blog readers, I showered over my toilet. (The pressure here was bad and the water was ice-cold.) It was humiliating, disgusting and I didn’t even feel very clean. But it was my only option.

After my second toilet shower a few days later, I sent an angry e-mail to my landlord about the broken shower. This is how he responded:

I believe I had told you we were about to renew the shower.

Now I really know what it’s like to be European.

The ice skating rink in front of Hôtel de Ville, otherwise known as City Hall.

In honor of the Olympics – yes, I know they’re over. I can’t start every post with “I’m an inconsistent blogger” – I went ice skating at the Hôtel de Ville a few weeks ago. Like most girls who came of age during the Nancy Kerrigan, Tonya Harding and Michelle Kwan years, figure skating is my favorite Olympic event so I’m always down to go skating at scenic outdoor ice rinks. Unless it’s in Chicago and the temperature is negative 20 degrees Farenheit. That’s just crazy.

So I suckered my neighbor – let’s call her The Make-Up Artist for now as she’s in French make-up school – and her friend – let’s call him The Student, as he’s an undergrad studying abroad in Paris – to go on this skating adventure with me. I blatantly ignored the fact that neither of them really enjoy figure skating. I just gave the promise of adventure and some crèpes after.

Ironically, I was the only one who fell during the evening. I politely ditched my friends to skate at a faster speed,  and as I was practicing going backwards, a nice French boy came up to me and started showing me how to improve my technique. He wanted to practice his English, but he wasn’t very good so we stuck to French. He was very nice, and after a few trips around the rink, he told me that he was a speed skater.

“Cool,” I replied – the word means the same thing in French, except they tend to say “C’est cool!”

He offered to show me how to speed skate and I took him up on it. The one catch was I’d need to learn to do crossovers on turns. (i.e. cross one leg over the other on thin metal blades on rock hard ice.) So I channeled my inner Bonnie Blair (and clutched his arm for dear life) and went off.

At first, it was really fun. I felt like I was getting the hang of the crossovers and the rush of the wind was exhilarating. I decided I was ready to strike up a conversation.

“Je ne peux pas le faire toute seule,” (I can’t  to do it by myself) I said to him.

At this moment, right as we were approaching one of the turns with maximum velocity, he let’s go of my arm. Now, I’m not a physicist, but I think this was probably the worst time to be propelled out on my own. Caught off guard by shock, I suddenly found myself smashing to the ice.

Apparently he had heard: “Je veux le faire toute seule” (I want to do it myself).

If there’s one thing I learned: I need to work on my articulation and French accent. Or I just shouldn’t let strange French men take me speed skating. I prefer triple axles anyway.

Last Friday, I met up with an friend of mine who was visiting from New York. (I’ll call her The New Yorker because she lives there and she reads the publication of the same title. I also don’t use names of people on blogs in case they run for office someday or commit a horrendous crime.) We grabbed an espresso at Le Progrès, a favorite spot since a former adventure to be detailed later. (It involves three architects from Ohio but living in Florence.) We caught up on life as we sat outside, practically suffocating in the clouds of smoke since all the smokers sit outside because lighting up was banned in bars. We people watching but were very distracted by a man popping and grinding on the sidewalk with his walkman. The cute beret-donning older couples carrying their evening baguette made it worth it, though.

The New Yorker was staying with a German friend of hers, who she affectionately calls her cousin after an extensive adventure together in Rome. I’ll also refer to him as The Cousin for blogging purposes. He was planning a dinner party, and she invited me to join in. Desperate for friends in this lonely city, I practically pounced on her offer. We walked from the Marais neighborhood, where the café is located, past the Bastille and toward the 12^th arrondisement, continuing our life catch-up.

Our lovely spread of apéritifs.

We arrived at The Cousin’s place, and he apologized for its small size. (He has an elevator and a bathroom in his apartment. He didn’t know who he was talking to.) He ran out to grab some groceries, while The New Yorker and I, okay it was mostly her, prepared an appetizer spread with wine. When the other guests arrived, I knew I would be in for an unforgettable evening, as well gain some great new people to hang out with. Here’s the cast list:

• La Cinema Italiana – Yes, I just saw the movie Nine and this song was stuck in my head for days, but the name couldn’t be more fitting for this charismatic friend. She’s from Italy and met The Cousin, but not The New Yorker, in Rome. (I think they were working together.) She LOVES movies more than anything, and the following night, we actually met up and saw Bright Star together. (Great film!) She’s the center of the social circle and never lets anyone feel left out.

• The Klum Avatar – After a few glasses of wine, I swear I would have mistaken this woman for Heidi Klum. She’s also German – though I’m not quite sure how she knows The Cousin – and works in an art gallery. Soft-spoken and sweet, she’s definitely the one the guys fall for.

• The American – No, he’s not actually American. The only Frenchman in the bunch, yet the only one who refuses to speak French. Remember my story about getting Englished? Well, when around Americans and other people who speak English, The American will not reveal his native tongue. Everyone at the dinner party wanted to practice their French, but The American just wasn’t having it. He’s a super nice guy with a penchant for live music that starts at midnight – stay tuned.

The sugar was made by the brand "Daddy." The two authentic Americans in the bunch couldn't stop laughing.

The night sounded somewhat like what I imagine being at the Tower of Babel would have been like. The two Germans spoke to each other in their maternal language. The Klum Avatar is half-Italian; The New Yorker is fluent in Italian; and I studied it for a year in college so Italian was used quite often. Everyone spoke English. And being in Paris, we all wanted to practice our French so everyone spoke French but the only French person.

The American cooked coq au vin et pommes de terre (chicken in wine and potatoes) for dinner, and we went through three bottles of red wine and a baguette. The food was delicious and the company was great. Afterwards, a group of us went out to a bar in the Rue Oberkampf area, but I was so exhausted that I practically fell asleep at the table. I made it home alright, full of hope for many similar nights to come.

It was exactly the wrong day to have stuff to do at work. I was grateful – don’t get me wrong. I am a chronic workhorse who loves arriving early/staying late, but since I’m new, this hasn’t been the case so far. Of course, on the day when I’m supposed to meet my one friend in Paris to go to the theater, I get held up.

Sitting at my desk, waiting for one last thing to come in, I couldn’t help but fidget. For those of you who know me, I HATE being late. But I also being perceived as a slacker at work – thus my dilemma.

The e-mail finally arrived, giving me my ticket out of the office. I sprinted to the métro, ran to my apartment, clobbered up stairs as if I had a Stairmaster on full-speed, grabbed my non-work purse (hence the missing camera), swung out of my door and knocked on my neighbors.

Apparently we didn’t need to leave for 20 minutes.

25 minutes later…

We were running late and started the descent down the stairs. (No, I’m still not used to them.) On the train we received a call (cell phones work in the Paris metro – amazing, I know) from my friend’s friend who was also going to the theatre with us. We told her we’d be arriving late, but thanks to the efficiency of Paris public transportation, we weren’t too tardy.

Unlike the trains, the ticket vending machines are not as streamlined. Apparently you can’t buy a ticket with more than 20 coins. We were trying to buy tickets for the bus, and all we only had 10 centime coins. Two bus tickets only cost 3.20 Euros, but 32 coins just wouldn’t do. (Plus the bill acceptor wasn’t working and American credit cards don’t work in French machines because they don’t have some special chip in them.) We ended up buying the tickets one at a time.

After counting coins and navigating the bus system, we arrived at the theater with plenty of time to spare. It would make a much better story if we were rushing, but I will live a longer life because we were not.

Catherine Germain in 'Les Clowns' at Théâtre Jean-Arp, Paris.

Now for the play – French clowns performing King Lear or ‘Le Roi Lear’ – French theatre producers can translate well! It was incredible and hilarious and an all-around magical evening. One of my favorite stateside theater companies is 500 Clown, and this company felt very much like the French edition.

The three performers – two men and one woman – subscribed to a more traditional form of clown, but they relied heavily on improvisation and humor like the Chicago-based group. They built Lear’s castle out of cardboard shipping boxes, and of course, the men played the daughters and the woman played Lear.

The best part about watching clowns in French is they use a lot of gestures. So while I understood most of what they said, their actions spoke along with their words. Amazing. Just amazing. If you’re in France, go see it.

After the show, there was a talkback with the actors, which we stayed for – all three of us are theatre people in different capacities. It ran long but was enjoyable so I didn’t mind.

However, this unplanned event prevented us from getting to the bus on time. Luckily, the bus was still running, but it felt like an hour came and went between each bus. We were all starving at this point, but we met friends at the bus station to pass the time. An amiable and well-dressed interracial couple played the starring role in the bus stop scene of the night as they made us chase about 3 buses before finding the correct one and then they proceeded to follow us through all of our various transportation portals.

Finally back at home, I – and my neighbor – were famished. But the only open restaurant was McDonald’s. Now, I try not to eat McDonald’s, but this one overlooked the Champs Elysée and we ordered les frappés and les frites, which sound so much fancier than milkshakes and fries.

As we sat along the littered counter, surrounded by classy French paintings in the upscale McDonald’s, I realized I had just what I needed. And – technically – I didn’t eat McDonald’s, I ate Le MacDo.

Yes! The ‘Up’ is missing in the one on the right. But why? As you may have guessed one of these is the movie poster for ‘Up in the Air’ from the U.S. and the other is the one from France, but  most titles are translated for the French edition. (‘It’s Complicated’ with Meryl Streep became ‘Pas Si Simple.’ Even that one confused me – Why not ‘C’est Compliqué’?). This one just omitted a word.

Is the phrase ‘In the Air” easier for the French to understand than the American idiom ‘Up in the Air.’ I realize there’s a double meaning – the airplane is in the sky and George Clooney’s character’s transient life is never set in stone. (Yes, I just explained the obviousness of the title.)

But I think the French are smarter than movie producers think. For instance, why did they change the title of the Drew Barrymore directed feature to ‘Bliss’ from ‘Whip It.’ What’s the correlation there? Is there just not a French translation of the phrase ‘Whip It’? I realize that Bliss is the main character’s name, but are we just calling all films with Ellen Page after the title character she plays?

I don’t have the answer, but it continues to irrationally frustrate me that there is no direct translation of French and English idioms. Why isn’t the French title for ‘Up in the Air,’ ‘En L’Air’ or ‘Par Avion’ or ‘Au Grand Air’?

At least it would be in French.

I went on YouTube and searched for Julia Child ‘The French Chef’ videos and came up with a simple one on cooking an omelette. How difficult can it be to cook eggs?

According to Julia, it should only take twenty seconds to cook an omelette. Again, how much damage can one do in under a minute? I’ve made plenty of omelettes before but never the French way. However, I’ve always found that they taste better in France so I figured Julia Child must have the secret. (Hint: It’s butter.)

So, I bought a stick of butter and came home to my non-stick pan and my eggs. In the video, Julia uses chopsticks to beat her eggs, but I just used a fork – maybe this is where I went wrong? I put my pan on high heat for a few minutes and then dropped the butter on and watched it sizzle. Now it was time to put the eggs on.

For those of you who watch even the first few seconds of the YouTube video, you will see that Julia’s instructions for cooking the omelette are to jerk the pan back and forth until the omelette basically forms itself. So I began shaking the pan over the burner as quickly as I could until, yes, the eggs jumped out of the pan and on to, well, everything.

Something tells me this is not how you're supposed to make an omelette.

The ones that landed not one me or on the ground neatly coagulated around the burner, and while screw ups and messes are just part of the Julia Child way, I was not about to eat an omelette off of my stove. I quickly turned the remaining parts into scrambled eggs, which I must say tasted delicious. (It’s the butter.)

Attempt #2

Eggs are really cheap so I gave it another go with the omelette. I actually wasn’t even trying to make one – I was just making eggs and had added butter because it tasted to good the first time. As I started to swirl the eggs around the pan, however, an omelette started to form!

I didn’t do it quite as well as Julia Child – I did have to fold the eggs over with a fork, but in the end, I achieved success! They really just tasted the same as the first time except in a much neater form. Looks like I’ll be doing this quite often. Maybe one day I’ll get it perfect.

A haunting walkway at Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise.

I’ve never been one for museums, especially on rainy days. (I’m sure I’ll visit plenty though.) So what better place to go than a cemetery? It was my first time visiting a cemetery for pleasure, and since Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise is one of the most visited cemeteries in the world, I decided it would be a good starter. [Gloomy weather also sets a fitting mood for such a haunting environment.]

Édith Piaf's grave site. It's tradition to leave red roses for the famous chanteuse.

Père-Lachaise is in the Belleville neighborhood, which is all the way across town from where I live. It was nice to get out of tourist mecca for a while and explore the surrounding environment. Belleville is the home of the legendary French singer Édith Piaf, who is also buried in the cemetery. Hers was the first grave I visited, and it took me a good while to find. My guidebook encouraged me to buy a map, but I didn’t see the point in spending money for one of the few free Paris attractions. Also, I was in no rush to get anywhere so I fully planned on taking my time.

Once inside, however, I realized how right my guidebook was. Exploring the cemetery was like going on a treasure hunt with no treasure map. I set out through the labyrinth of headstones with no sense of direction, and the cobblestone roads weave in and out of the one million grave sites. There are maps along the perimeter, but some of the most famous graves are buried – no pun intended – in the middle of this vast cemetery.

Oscar Wilde's much-loved burial site.

I ended up finding a site I wanted to visit, tracing my steps to that grave and then going back to the perimeter to find another one. It was time consuming, and I never did find Molière’s tomb because I just got too tired and cold and frustrated. If I have time, I’ll go back and buy a map. I did see some fascinating burial sites, however. My favorite was definitely Oscar Wilde’s. It’s a tradition to kiss his tomb, which seems incredibly unhygienic and disgusting, but when I saw the great tribute to who one visitor had described as“the best man who ever lived,” I kind of wish I had brought some red lipstick.

Some great vandalism in honor of Oscar Wilde.

A disappointing tribute to Jim Morrison.

The biggest let down was definitely Jim Morrison’s tomb. I had heard so many stories about this locale – he went to my alma mater – and how people defaced it and performed many acts that Morrison would be proud of atop his site. However, it was just another headstone wedged among many, except it had a few more flowers. I’m not a big fan of The Doors – I actually can’t really name many songs – but I saw his locker on my first college tour, and it was more exciting than this.

I love how his headstone says 'Fred' - I bet he was a really chill guy.

I also visited Chopin’s grave, which I came across randomly, and I wanted to visit Sarah Bernhardt’s and Marcel Proust’s. But like I said before, I had no map and it was cold and rainy. At about the time I was getting lost on my way to Molière, it started to come down a lot harder so I ducked into a nearby café for an espresso and a haven from the wet and cold.

You can avoid the rain and take a virtual tour of the cemetery here, if you like.

For my last three meals – sauf breakfast – I’ve eaten only sushi. I can’t bring myself to chow down on frog legs or snails, but raw fish? Sign me up!

If you’ve known me for any more than a day, you know sushi is one of my primary food groups, and it’s good to know that the French support the international sushi addicted expats, Francophils and natives alike. There are practically more sushi restaurants available for lunch near my office than sandwich places.

I’m kind of curious when this sushi movement went global, however. I know I wasn’t brought up on sushi, like some children today, and with all the health risks surrounding the subject, one would think people would scale back on the raw fish. That whole Jeremy Piven incident was laughable, but I’m hoping not to one day be in his shoes. But for now, the sight of avocado or cucumber rolled up with salmon or tuna or unagi is just too much for my taste buds.

I wonder if I could survive on a diet of baguette, red wine, chocolate, cheese and sushi? That would be bliss.