To__________, with love

To Monoprix, with love:

Thank you for keeping me fed, clean, and clothed all in one go. You may charge a little extra on those demaquillage linguets, but you're also the only place where I can find an umbrella, sidewalk chalk, a skillet, and shampoo. And thank you to your younger brother, Monop', for playing Abba when I'm buying snackies at 11h30.

To H & M, with love:

Admittedly I have very little success when I visit you. But thank you for providing pretty things to look at and cheap hair accessories.

To Le Loir Dans La Théière, with love:

One day I'm going to be your biggest fag hag, just you wait and see. And then I'm going to work with you and steal your meringue recipe and give people their carafes of water when they ask for them. How do you like dem pommes?

To La Favorite, with love :

Thank you for feeding my addictions every Monday afternoon at reasonable prices.

To Donatien Dalous, with love:

Thanks for paying for my coffee for a month.

To RATP, with love:

Remember that week where I successfully chased down bus 32 five times? In heels? If you ever try and pull a stunt like that again, you'll be sorry. But en tout cas, thank you for getting me from place to place, whether it be below or above ground. And usually on time, too.

To Adrien T., with love:

I never really wanted to meet your cats.

To Le Truskel, with love:

You did wonders for my self esteems. Wonders, I tell you.

To That Guy At Clairance Pains, with love:

You make the best curry chicken panini in the world. Also the fact that on se tutoie makes me really happy. I won't tell anyone about the time you were walking around the shop barefoot. Except that I just did. Oops.

Rachel and the case of the lymph node as big as a cat

I am impossibly boring. Or impossibly incapable of informing people of the details of my life. I'm not sure. I have been sick for a week and with each passing day become more and more incoherent. It works for me. I'm sure it's not working for others.

Things are winding down here. I don't want to talk about it. Since last writing I have accomplished the following:

1. Christina and I celebrated our Very Merry Unbirthday at Laduree which is 6 million + infinity times better than Angelina's. I had a religieuse à la rose, an experience comparable to eating the guest soap, but in the best possible way.

2. Gone to Barcelona. I was sick for most of this. I was attacked by a bird at Parc Guell. More specifically this bird attacked my sandwich, and I countered by inadvertently attacking the woman sitting behind me with the aforementioned sandwich. I also caught some lady en train de stealing my wallet. She backed off.

3. Saw Reese Witherspoon at Les Philosophes, which I know may sound like a lie, but it really happened.

4. Landed an internship in the curatorial department at the San Jose Museum of Art and got into Intro to Painting at Bennington. Both major feats.

5. Been proposed to by a Breton. I should have said yes, if only for the automatic French citizenship.

Also, here is my definitive answer about what I will miss most in Europe: the gummy egg

Sois jeune

It is a very funny thing, the sun. It emerges from its months and months of hibernation and in a very passive way demands that you drop everything and entirely rearrange your schedule to accomodate its reappearance. I myself have no will-power, and so it was very easy for me to comply with these new demands. This means more travelling, spending more afternoons and evenings on the banks of the Seine, eating more ice cream, gulping down more Badoit, and more fruitless searching for a free bathroom. It's a labor of love, really.



This past weekend I found myself in Amsterdam with Liz and Selenewhere, unbeknownst to me (or perhaps knownst at one point and then later forgotten), it was Queen's Day. From what I could see, this entailed a myriad orange balloons, complimentary Chupa Chups at dinner, and a carnival in the center of town. So bless your heart, Queen Juliana, because if it wasn't for you, Selene would not have enjoyed this delicious carnival bratwurst and the the three of us would not have had the pleasure of riding on this AWESOME FERRIS WHEEL.




Today being May 1st I had the sombre revelation that only 31 days remain until I leave my spiritual home (that's Paris, not Amsterdam). Where did all the time go? Have I really been sleeping in this God-Awful Ikea bed for a year? I don't know, and yes I have. I am very much settled in here and to leave would just be utterly impossible. And yet the date of my departure is fast approaching and I find myself making a mental list of all those things that must be accomplished before I leave. Most of them involve food- primarily: eating it. One more falafel from L'As, one last ice cream cone at Berthillon, one final rendez-vous at Le Loir with the ladies. But it's also time to hurry up and get to all the museums, landmarks, nooks, and crannies that I said, in September, I would eventually get to.

But the sun is out, and it's a very good thing, that.

Voter Sarko...ça sert Aryen!

I hit the road for Germany- Munich to be precise. It was a time full of dark beer and pretzels, castles and goodwill towards man. And large-scale games of chess, apparently.

I wish I had more to say. But the truth is that I've been hammering away at an epic art history paper. Except for the weekends when I take advantage of the late sunset and the 75+ degree weather (F). And the river!

And at all other times I can be found on the 85 bus rapping Jay-Z's black album. Really. You should check it out sometime. St Michel-St Germain seems to be a popular stop.

I smoked the last of my shmigarettes in the bazeebababo

Hey! I'm on vacation again! And if you're thinking, 'Weren't you just on vacation?'-yes! I was! The de Scorrailles have vacated again, but this time leaving me for the studio apartment they rent in the Alps. That's really rough.


Jake came over and when he missed the last metro, we decided to make it a sleep-over. Although we did not sleep. At all. We perused the de Scorraille's collection of Agatha Christie books (and found, much to Jake's delight, Ten Little Indians) and then watched Amelie.


And then we decided it might be nice to go watch the sunrise from Sacré Coeur. So at 6AM we put on our shoes and left 71 rue La Fay-Fay and headed up to Montmartre.


If you're ever in Paris, and awake this early, I highy suggest Watching The Sunrise From Sacré Coeur, if only because there are less than 30 people there. Many pigeons, though. Many, many pigeons. What a terrible existance that must be. To be a pigeon is to be one of the ugliest creatures in the world, one that makes creepy noises and bothers everyone. Seriously. Who likes pigeons? No one. Except for Ernest Hemingway. And then it's with a bit of salt.


We found a space on the steps relatively free of broken glass, cigarette butts, and pigeons and settled in, alternately watching bits of the city light up, taking pictures of tourists, and wondering how many pigeons one could take out with a 5-euro box of pellets. And while this topic was not brought up until after we'd left the basilica and were once again wandering the cobblestone streets, I feel it deserves the same attention: if They could genetically engineer a pigeon to feed off cigarette butts it would be a major contribution to society. The pigeons would simultaneously cleaning up and shortening their lifespan. IT WOULD BE THE GREATEST INVENTION EVER.


Look, I hate pigeons, okay?







The sun came up. Jake and I s'en est allé, and went in search of someplace where we could find some coffee. But not before really pissing off a really big dog which really scared the daylights out of me. Furthermore, it being The Lord's Day, and Easter at that, at 7:30AM, not much was open. We finally found a brasserie at Place Pigalle (of course!) across the street from Le Moulin Rouge, full of old men who were, no doubt, just leaving the girlie shows. And over coffee and croissants we watched as the 18th began to show signs of life before hopping on the 12 and, once again, disappearing into our respective corners of the city.

I'll admit it: Paris and I have our off days. I don't like her meteorological mood swings, or the way a good portion of her street plans were built on a triangle. But I just can't stay mad at her on sunny days.

I have another admission: I am very much tied to smells. I know a boy who used to reeke of b.o. and cigarettes. It wasn't the most tantalizing of smells, but it was his, and every time I smell that specific melange, shall we say, I think of him. But I digress.

Today as I walked down Faubourg St. Honore on my way to the salon at Les Tuileries, the sun was shining, old women in silver eyeshadow and pink lipstick were passing by, the water rushing in the gutters was sparkling, and everything smelled the way it did the first time I was here when I was 14. Also a lady was walking her yorkshire puppy, which had barrettes in its hair. Put a fork in me, Paris; I'm done.

So it's goodbye Rachel Hunter, hoodie-wearing-loose-leaf-tea-drinking-liberal-arts-student, and salut Rachellllllle hUntehr, errand-girl of the 8th arrondissement. The diamond encrusted Dior bikini for your 18-month-old is no longer on display, but fear not, for Miss Sixty is helping to fill the void. You know, the void you feel when no toddler swimwear is sufficiently sexually suggestive. And Lanvin Homme has replaced their clown mannequins with mannequins that have cardboard boxes for heads. Will someone get me a job at Hermes, already? I was born to be in this business.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go use this press badge of mine to get some free champagne and hang out with some gallery owners.

This photo appears courtesy of the Liz Turner Estate

I left my caaaah keys in my khaaaakis

I spent a good part of this week being distracted/cranky/distracted and cranky, so when 5am Friday morning rolled around, I was very pleased. This is actually a half-truth. I was none too pleased at having to get up at 5am, but I was very pleased to be heading south to PROVENCE.

We took the TGV down to Avignon and then bussed out to Arles where we saw remnants of the Roman theatre and coliseum (stadium? amphitheatre? Are these all synonyms?), which were all quite lovely, especially in the sunshine like that. Though perhaps rendered somewhat less enjoyable by the mysterious Gilles- a man "hired" by Sweet Briar to "accompany" us around Provence. Gilles loves to talk, which is to his detriment because the man is about as interesting as 19th century Guatemalan cabbage farming practices.

After lunch and some aimless wandering around the city we drove out to the Pont du Gard, which is near Nimes, I'm told. Gilles talked. I wandered. And then we rolled up our jeans and settled into the banks of the Gard where we passed the time skipping rocks (or hurling rocks, in some cases).

We spent the night in a hotel on the grounds of a monastery where there were trees to climb and open spaces to explore. And it turns out that in addition to history professor, translator, and art historian, Gilles fancies himself somewhat of a rec. director, too. Is there anything he can't do?

Gilles woke us bright and early the next morning. We ate breakfast, bid farewell to the monastery, and took off for Baux en Provece, which offered no shortage of midieval ruins, quaint houses, cricket motion sensors, lavender sachets, and postcards with kittens in hammocks. Oh and wind. There was a lot of wind.

Our final destination was Avignon, where we visited le Palais des Papes, Gilles talked, and I ate ice cream. I would like to commend France for its embrace of tiramisu ice cream. Well done France. I would also like to commend certain males living in Avignon for acknowledging the fact that I do indeed have une poitrine magnifique.

The train ride home included special guest appearances by Katharine Hepburn and Coco Chanel. Upon our arrival back in Paris we grabbed some gyros at St. Michel and loitered outside the Cluny gardens before disappearing to our respective corners of the city.

Oh Provence, I miss you already. Fortunately for me I'll be living there one day in the not-too-distant future. I picked up this bit of information from the awesome fortune teller known only as M.A.S.H.