The headteacher just knocked on my door and presented me with a rather large slice of cake.
I love it here. However, I still can't speak French in the past tense. Avoir, être, whatever...
Tomorrow I have a meeting to discuss my timetable with the other English teachers, then I think I'm going to Paris to meet some other assistants in the evening. Should be nice :)
Anyway, I haven't filled you in with the details of my weekend, so I now shall do that.
Saturday, I decided to go into Paris to have a look around and generally see what all the fuss was about. London wins.
I got myself to the Gare de Lyon, planning to find the river, walk along it until I got bored, and then go home again. That is exactly what I did. Well. Once I found my way out of the Gare de Lyon, that is. After several minutes of following exit signs with little numbers next to them, I found myself stood on another platform. Turns out, the numbers had nothing to do with the exit signs, and I had been heading for the metro. Well done me. More lost than ever. Well, until I found myself in the vinegar section of Carrefour today.
After a bit of desperate wandering around an immensely confusing train station, I found my way out into some fresh air and onto a bridge overlooking the river. Such a pretty river. Crossing it, I stumbled upon a garden of some sort. Forgive me, I cannot remember what it is called. But it is the sort of place that my mum would like to visit, I think. Wandering around there for a bit to take photos of pretty flowers and angry pigeons, I soon got bored, and decided to head back out onto the road to go see what interesting stuff Paris had to offer.
Which was when I realised why Paris carries all these stereotypical connotations of romance.
A young couple, around 17, were sitting on a bench. Well, he was sitting on the bench. She was sitting on him, if you know what I mean. They saw me approaching, but do you think they cared?
Did they fuck!
Keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead, I quickened my pace, to get 1) past them and 2) out of the most boring tourist attraction I have ever seen since going to the Pencil Museum.
I carry on walking once I manage to escape this flowerbed of pain and misery, down to Notre Dame, bought myself a souvenir corkscrew (for the wine I'd been so cruelly stopped from drinking the night before) and somehow found myself in the middle of some variety of techno music festival. I am not even exaggerating when I say I must have been the only person on this street not to be on a drug of any description. It looked like fun though.
After escaping the parade, I decide that it is time for me to go and find some food. As I approach Le Louvre I see a McDonalds in the distance. That'll do, fairly simple food.
I get in there, and see that the menu is mostly written in English. "Ah, easy enough", I think to myself as a very tall, slightly intellectually challenged young man yells out "Bonjour?!?!?" desperate to serve the next muppet tourist.
"Bonjour, un Big Mac avec Deluxe Potatoes et un coca s'il vous plait". No.
It would seem, that I had not asked for my "Big Mac" or my "Deluxe Potatoes" in a French enough accent. The look I recieved was hideous. And I didn't even get my potato wedges. Bastard.
So I, very selfishly, took a table for 4 in the seating area, and took a very long time to eat my food. That will teach you, pompous twat.
I finished my food and continued to Le Louvre to take the necessary tourist snaps, I would so love to put a brick through one of those glass pyramids. Just to see what they said. Continued towards the National Assembly building, when I decided to head back, leaving the other side of Paris for another day.
When I got home, My feet and legs were killing me, I forgot my jeans had a tear on the inside leg and it had spent the whole day rubbing my skin until it was raw. Not a good look. At least I could have a bath, seeing as Jacques (my eight-legged housemate) got himself evicted that morning.