Plastic Wrap Jesus, Our Lady of the Garage, and A Bad Case of People-Sickness

I found out this week that the beautiful old church at Place Jeanne d'Arc near my apartment is called Notre Dame de la Gare. This is pretty much "Our Lady of the Train Station," or, less charitably, "Our Lady of the Garage." Coincidentally, I live down the street from a Portuguese bookstore that sells Jesus figurines, which are some of the scariest I've ever seen. I mean, the concept of Jesus doesn't bother me, it's just these bizarre plastic figures that are grotesque and crucified. I don't know. Crucifixes, particularly of the gory Catholic variety, have always sort of freaked me out. The most terrifying Jesus on display, and one that has never been sold since I've gotten here, is still wrapped in its plastic wrap. It's creepy enough to see Jesus looking all battered and scary. But the plastic wrap adds (my apologies) a whole new layer.

So there you have it. I live in the quartier of plastic wrap Jesus and Our Lady of the Garage. France does weird stuff with religion.

Today I ate American French toast for the first time in probably months at one of my friends' apartments. It definitely beat Parisian petit dejeuner, where you have to pay about 8 euros for coffee and a croissant and get hungry twenty minutes later.

So much of my life here revolves around food. Have I mentioned that I love grocery shopping here? It's way cheaper than it is in the US, and probably the only that is in France. Two days ago I discovered the holy grail (can't seem to get away from these religious references...) of food shopping -- the French discount grocery store, where you can get fromage blanc (France's delicious answer to plain yogurt), honey, fair trade coffee, and all of my weekly staples (couscous, lentils, eggs, fruit, veggies) and even sort of fancy stuff (harissa! olive oil! organic things!) all for around a euro each, if that.

Mmmmm. I love saving money. And I love cooking delicious things. I am learning how to cook here, and definitely not in the Julia Child sense of the word, either. But given that I could probably count the number of times I cooked anything before coming here, and also that my kitchen is literally two hot plates, a minifridge, and a sink, I think I'm doing pretty well. Couscous and lentils, harissa, kidney bean burgers, a variety of omelets... the next project is pasta puttanesca.

As always, at breakfast we started talking about not leaving. And it's tempting. I'm applying to grad school this winter, and if I get into one of my top choices, I'm definitely going. But I thought about it a little. I mean, if I was going to be here for more than a year, I probably wouldn't want to stay in my tiny apartment. I would probably want to find something cheaper, and maybe a little bigger (c'est possible!) in one of three Ms: the Marais, Montparnasse, or Montmartre. Or the 17th arrondissement because I know it and love it.

And I would want to get a magic jack for my computer (it turns your computer into a phone, way easier than Skype), and probably a toaster oven. And I would probably need more clothes. And a renewed visa. And probably a little more patience with the whole French bureaucracy thing.

But I thought about it.

And then I remembered that while I don't get homesick much anymore, I am constantly people-sick. I miss getting coffee with my friends at home and at school and walking around Greenlake together and going out dancing and doing stupid things like watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or searching for bubbletea in the university district at midnight or listening to Leonard Cohen driving around late at night. I miss watching "Mad Men" with my parents. I miss the back office at 826. And you know your life has gotten kind of strange when the people you miss are on both coasts of the United States and even in different countries. How did I get here? I left Seattle for college when I was 18, and I spent four years in Northampton, well, four months were spent in Senegal. That's key. I'm pretty sure that's when the wanderlust happened.

And now I live in Paris. And depending on where I end up getting into grad school, I have no idea where I'll be around this time next year.

A while ago, my mom told me that most 22-year-olds don't live by themselves in Paris. One of my friends said that if she could transplant the people she loves at home to Paris, she would never want to leave. And they're both right. Such is the conundrum of being one of the 22-year-olds that do live by themselves in Paris. If you happen to know one of us, we probably miss you. A lot.

Sometimes, though, I wouldn't have it any other way.