we can eat a big, fat chocolate bar in bed with our hot new catch, and not feel bad about it one bit.
And just in case you’re all wondering, Half-Naked French Hottie is currently sleeping in my bed, after having hot sex and sharing a bar of scrumptious chocolate. See, all that and no dreadful “talk” was necessary. What could be better?
This brings me to my final lesson of the night:
Rule # 3 – After being cheated on, there’s nothing like a little revenge to lift a girl’s spirits. If you need to experience the sweet taste of revenge in your efforts to get over your ex and move on to bigger and better things (no pun intended), go for it. Granted, it won’t erase the pain or the hurt he caused you, but trust me, it will make you feel a hell of a lot better.
Ten
mardi, le 5 octobre
Smiling won’t get you very far with a French woman.
When my alarm buzzed at six o’clock the next morning, I sent Luc back to his room and hurried to get ready for my appointment with Madame Rousseau. There was no way I would mess up another meeting with her. I was hoping that by being early and by telling her how dedicated I was to this program, she would forgive me for standing her up and actually turn out to be a nice person. One could only hope.
As I crossed the street to get to the train, masses of students were exiting the station and cursing. What the hell was going on? I pushed through the crowds to the message screen inside only to find out that there was a grève , otherwise known as a strike. The French were famous for their grèves , as I remembered all too well from my semester in Lyon. Back then though, the transportation strikes were a great excuse to skip class. But today of all days. Seriously ?
The transportation workers were striking for the entire day, so the only way to get up to the Sorbonne would be by cab. I checked my wallet to see if I had any cash on me, and of course, I didn’t. I sprinted back across the street to the student center ATM, waited in line behind one unbelievably slow Spanish student, withdrew some euros and ran back out to boulevard Jourdan to hail a cab. Everyone else had the same idea though, so it didn’t look promising. I jogged down to the corner to get away from the masses, and after showing a little leg, I snagged one. Sometimes it helps to be a girl.
As we wound in and out of the busy Parisian streets, I checked my watch. I had twenty minutes to get there. I would make it on time. I would. I closed my eyes and willed the traffic to be clear.
The cab pulled up in front of the Sorbonne at exactly seven fifty-eight a.m. I thrust the bills into the driver’s hands and bolted up the stairs.
With their massive guns in tow, the same two police officers stood guard at the entrance. I’d forgotten to get a student ID card the day before, so I handed them my driver’s license, hoping they would let it slide once more.
The taller one shook his head at me, but his expression remained blank. It made me want to scream. I could not be late.
I explained to them in French that I was terribly sorry, and that I would be sure to get my student ID today. I told them that I had an important meeting at eight a.m., and that I absolutely had to be on time.
By the time they let me through, I had less than ten seconds to fly up those wobbly stairs or take the minuscule, ancient elevator that was already packed with too many students. I opted for the stairs.
I had seen Madame Rousseau’s office after my class the day before, so thankfully I knew where to go. I arrived at her door at eight a.m. on the dot, out of breath with beads of sweat pouring down my face. But, hey, I was on time.
I knocked on her door as I wiped my brow with my forearm. No response. I waited a few seconds and knocked again, a little harder this time. Still no response.
Then, I heard a set of high heels clanking down the hallway. I turned to see a miniature, gray-haired woman marching toward me. She wore a black
And just in case you’re all wondering, Half-Naked French Hottie is currently sleeping in my bed, after having hot sex and sharing a bar of scrumptious chocolate. See, all that and no dreadful “talk” was necessary. What could be better?
This brings me to my final lesson of the night:
Rule # 3 – After being cheated on, there’s nothing like a little revenge to lift a girl’s spirits. If you need to experience the sweet taste of revenge in your efforts to get over your ex and move on to bigger and better things (no pun intended), go for it. Granted, it won’t erase the pain or the hurt he caused you, but trust me, it will make you feel a hell of a lot better.
Ten
mardi, le 5 octobre
Smiling won’t get you very far with a French woman.
When my alarm buzzed at six o’clock the next morning, I sent Luc back to his room and hurried to get ready for my appointment with Madame Rousseau. There was no way I would mess up another meeting with her. I was hoping that by being early and by telling her how dedicated I was to this program, she would forgive me for standing her up and actually turn out to be a nice person. One could only hope.
As I crossed the street to get to the train, masses of students were exiting the station and cursing. What the hell was going on? I pushed through the crowds to the message screen inside only to find out that there was a grève , otherwise known as a strike. The French were famous for their grèves , as I remembered all too well from my semester in Lyon. Back then though, the transportation strikes were a great excuse to skip class. But today of all days. Seriously ?
The transportation workers were striking for the entire day, so the only way to get up to the Sorbonne would be by cab. I checked my wallet to see if I had any cash on me, and of course, I didn’t. I sprinted back across the street to the student center ATM, waited in line behind one unbelievably slow Spanish student, withdrew some euros and ran back out to boulevard Jourdan to hail a cab. Everyone else had the same idea though, so it didn’t look promising. I jogged down to the corner to get away from the masses, and after showing a little leg, I snagged one. Sometimes it helps to be a girl.
As we wound in and out of the busy Parisian streets, I checked my watch. I had twenty minutes to get there. I would make it on time. I would. I closed my eyes and willed the traffic to be clear.
The cab pulled up in front of the Sorbonne at exactly seven fifty-eight a.m. I thrust the bills into the driver’s hands and bolted up the stairs.
With their massive guns in tow, the same two police officers stood guard at the entrance. I’d forgotten to get a student ID card the day before, so I handed them my driver’s license, hoping they would let it slide once more.
The taller one shook his head at me, but his expression remained blank. It made me want to scream. I could not be late.
I explained to them in French that I was terribly sorry, and that I would be sure to get my student ID today. I told them that I had an important meeting at eight a.m., and that I absolutely had to be on time.
By the time they let me through, I had less than ten seconds to fly up those wobbly stairs or take the minuscule, ancient elevator that was already packed with too many students. I opted for the stairs.
I had seen Madame Rousseau’s office after my class the day before, so thankfully I knew where to go. I arrived at her door at eight a.m. on the dot, out of breath with beads of sweat pouring down my face. But, hey, I was on time.
I knocked on her door as I wiped my brow with my forearm. No response. I waited a few seconds and knocked again, a little harder this time. Still no response.
Then, I heard a set of high heels clanking down the hallway. I turned to see a miniature, gray-haired woman marching toward me. She wore a black
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