Sickie, Ickie, and School.

Salut! C'est Lili, et je ne sais pas pourquoi j'ai ecrit en Francais.... ok, I'm in English again. Turned the French button off, that is how hard they work us at school. It is difficult, and every day, I wake up wanting to get sick. But, every day, I drag my butt to the city bus, to prepare for another day at the torture chamber. *sigh* One day, though, I got my wish. I woke up one Saturday morning, and my throat felt sore. I stayed in bed till dad took me to the doctor. The doc said I had strep throat. These were my thoughts: Well, I DID want to get sick.... But, you didn't want to get sick on a weekend! Another voice argued. I just better be un-sick-ified by the time Erin comes(I am better now, 2 days till she comes, thank you very much.) the other voice said. So, yes, I was sick all weekend, not to mention Monday. The next morning, Tuesday, I got up, and told mom I was feeling better, and went to school. However, I only got halfway through he school day without feeling sick. Mom took me home, and I rested. The next day, we had no school, so, I rested some more. The doctor had said that I couldn't go swimming, so as our class has swimming on Thursdays, I didn't go that morning either. Today, is still Thursday, and I have been in atelier. All in all, school is very difficult, and the only parts I like about it are the three recesses. If you didn't get the school blog address, its: adaptationeabjm.scolablog.net

A tout a l'heure!

Lili(an) Belle in PARIS!!

Almond Oil... yum!

Thanks to my good friend, Martha Maxwell, my most recent Paris adventure has been to a Hammam, otherwise known as a Turkish bath. As this was our first time, we asked many questions upon entry and were given very straight but thorough answers. The way it works is like this: Step 1: change into your bathing suit (this is France, bottoms will suffice) and robe in the tiny changing room. Step 2: go downstairs give your number to the attendant to be put in the queue for your scrubbing. Step 3: smear, smear, smear the slimy black soap all over your body. Step 4: alternate going between different rooms of varying heat and moisture until your number is called or your skin melts off. As it was sunday afternoon, we were bumper to bumper, sweating heavily through our surely clogged pores. Martha and I waited very patiently for our number to be called, trying to relax in the oasis of heat and half naked French ladies. And we waited. And waited. Two and a half hours later, our number was called and we met our fate. Two large Algerian women in bathing suits armed with a sandpaper glove and a smile. After feeling somewhat anxious about the "gommage", we were so relieved that we were finally called we stepped up to our tables in excited anticipation of the torture to come. You are first asked to lay down on the table, where they rinse you off with a hose like you're today's fresh catch. Then you are scrubbed, somewhat forcefully, all over your body to remove the dead layers of skin until they are satisfied you've reached a shiny finish. And actually, for all our worry, it felt great and was over all too quickly. Next we showered off and went upstairs where we were to get into another line and wait for our 20 minute massage. After having already been there for well over 3 hours, I couldn't see waiting any longer for a 20 minute massage (at least not from some random, middle aged Romanian woman). So after we has some sweet tea and middle eastern cookie (very poor substitute for lunch, although super delicious!) I went to talk to the boss lady. I calmly explained that we had no idea it would be so crowded and we couldn't possibly wait another hour for our massage. She took me into a back room and told me to bring my friend but to be very discrete because the clientele would not be happy. She put us in private rooms and scared up a few Romanians to give us our massages "tout de suite". The massages were, in fact, very relaxing with the most divine smelling almond oil ever, I was sniffing myself for days. I even got to hear about all the interworkings of the hammam, the algerian scrubbers vs. the romanian masseurs and the discontent about not being paid double on Sunday. While we were there, I also inquired about the waxing services, as I was intrigued by the menu. Wax bresilian and wax integral. I was curious and wanted to get to the bottom of it (yes, I said it). What I found out was this: integral is everything, nothing left, all gone, bye-bye. Bresilian is everything gone but a "petit ticket de metro". So for all you ladies (and some men, I suppose) who were wondering but afraid to ask... there you have it, "petit ticket de metro". Need I say more?