Questions A Girl Doesn't Want To Be Confronted With Upon Arriving Home

Why is there a steak bone in the middle of the kitchen floor and why didn't I notice it until I actually tripped over it? Kitty . . . .

Still Unsolved: The Case of the Early-Riser

I met Dad on Saturday for breakfast at the Club (current suspect in the Wall Street Journal investigation). I had oatmeal with brown sugar and strawberries, a mimosa and lots of coffee. Breakfast there is really good. Yum . . . .

Anyway, I was very much expecting to see at least a dozen Wall Street Journals scattered about the place. Then, I would have solved the case of the Paper Pig. Yes, the glory would be mine!

I walked in. Dad was reading a paper. Dad was reading a paper! It would be a Journal, and I would take a picture of it for documentation and then bask in the glow of mystery solving. I walked over to the table. I held my breath so I could savor the moment. Dad put the paper down in an empty chair. I peered over. It was . . . a crumpled page from the Tennessean.

Ah! There was not a Wall Street Journal to be seen in that place! I was later chastized for my investigation skills because I didn't examine the ladies' locker room. I'm still not convinced I would have discovered anything there.

So back to square 1. Mom called the Loveless Motel as soon as I got home. They said they didn't carry it. Who is the Paper Pig? Soon, my friends, we will know.

Unsolved: The Case of the Early-riser

Dear Martha,

I sincerely apologize for accusing you of Wall Street Journal hogging. I received bad information via the Harris Teeter and was not a responsible researcher. Mom went to your restaurant this afternoon to see if you were selling the WSJ. Alas! You were not.

The Paper Pig is still on the loose. We think it's the Belle Meade Country Club. They began serving breakfast on Saturdays about two months ago, which is when this WSJ shortage began. More investigative research to follow next weekend.

Wherefore Art Thou, Kitty?

Something is going on with the cat. Last week, he came home with the unfamiliar flea collar. Everything seemed normal after that incident. Then, yesterday he didn't show up for his morning milk and he was still missing that evening.

We looked all over the neighborhood, but couldn't find him. Then there was a big storm in the middle of the night, which just made me more afraid for our kitty. After lots of pouting and a few little tears at the thought of losing Krispie forever, he showed up this morning yowling at the back door.

He wasn't hungry or wet. Hmm, that's curious. Where had he been? He should have told us if he was planning to spend the night with a friend. We didn't think he had any friends, but a neighbor four houses up told Tom last night that Krispie often comes over to play with his cat, Oscar. We've never heard about Oscar. What if Krispie has another life with another family?

Now he is sitting regally on his Mizuno shoe box throne in the kitchen. I feel much better that he's home, but I fear he will go away again soon. Has he found another home that he loves more?

Solved: The Case of the Early-riser

Last Saturday, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to my phone having a conniption fit. I stumbled out of bed and picked it up to see what was so important. Tom had sent me three text messages. They read as follows:

5:59 a.m. at the door


The witness


Now we know *

Mystery of the Early-riser solved by an earlier riser. I still can’t decide which of these scenes is my favorite. Is it the watch documenting the time in the first or is it the poor Harris Teeter employee who arrived at work at 6:00 a.m. only to be sucked into one family’s mission to expose a neighborhood blight?

Although this was supposed to be a family assignment, Mom and I copped out the night before because the thought of waking up at 5:30 in 30-degree weather was really unappealing. Had I known that I’d be getting up at 6:00 anyway, I might have made a bigger effort to go along as the wheelman.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Tom awoke early and drove down to Harris Teeter to catch the W2. He documented the Wall Street Journal drop-off and entered the store at 6:00 when it opened. All of the timing had been confirmed with a phone call to Harris Teeter from the dinner table the night before. Tom has Harris Teeter on speed dial. I am not joking.

Once in the store, he cornered the WSJ keeper and asked again who took the papers each Saturday morning. Seeing no way out of this interrogation, the keeper answered, “Oh, the lady who owns the restaurant down the street comes in and takes them.” Martha! The whole time the W2 had been right under our noses – on our very street no less!

Martha owns the Belle Meade Mansion restaurant named, well, Martha’s. Technically, it’s called Martha’s at the Plantation, but no one calls it that. According to her web site, Martha believes that cooking is an act of love and she wholeheartedly supports sustainable food systems. Yes, both of these are very nice philosophies. You know what’s also a nice philosophy? Sharing!

The Harris Teeter WSJ keeper also told Tom that a man had once confronted Martha about her WSJ stealing. So she knows! She knows that other people are Journal-less on Saturdays and she doesn’t care! Shame on you, Martha! You were really upset when the people in the neighborhood picked all of your tomatoes. Wall Street Journals don’t grow on vines, but the concept is the same here. I’d like to see a newspaper vine . . . .

Martha also mentions on her web site that she would be happy to talk to you about anything that’s on your mind. I wonder if she’d like to talk about this. Actually, I’m thinking about going down to Martha’s this Saturday and buying every single one of those Wall Street Journals back.

“Good morning. I heard you carry the Wall Street Journal.”
“Why yes, indeed, we do.”
“Oh, super. I’d like to buy all of them.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, I’d like to buy all of them. Is that a problem for you?”

* Note reads: "Martha ?? We know who you are & what you are doing. -- Avid Reader(s)"

The Curious Case of the Cat & the Collar

The mysteries are multiplying. Today, the cat came home with a flea collar. We haven't put one on him in about 13 years . . . .

Whence did this collar come? We may never know.

The Mysterious Case of the Early-riser

When I lived in big cities, I was surrounded by mysteries. They popped up everywhere. In New York, I wondered:

• What were the dreams of Caesar, the boy who fixed my coffee every morning before I even ordered it?
• Why was it so important that day that the drycleaner chase me down the street yelling “Beeeeshop!” just to tell me that he was holding a package for me?
• Was Homeless Babbo Natale actually homeless . . . and was that his girlfriend?
• Why did Shirtless Old Man have such a humongous Chinese paper light? Why did he prefer placing a fan in the window every single night rather than buy an air-conditioning unit . . . and was that his girlfriend?

In Paris, the mysteries seemed even greater since I knew fewer people and didn’t speak the language fluently.

• Why did the tenant in the building next to us adorn his window with real x-rays? (Creepy!)
• Why did the crazy lady on the 1st floor always come out of her apartment to tell me that Clovis the Cat wasn’t her cat, whenever I stopped to pet him?
• How was it possible that I still functioned on such an enormous lack of sleep?
• Why did the hobo spit on Jody and why wasn’t that other guy wearing pants in the Metro?

Here in Nashville, though, the mysteries are dwindling. People share too much. I have discovered a few, although none are as colorful as the unknown motivations of the spitting hobo or the pantless rider.

• What are the dreams of Matt, the boy who fixes Mary and my coffee and entertains us at Bread & Co. in the morning?
• Why do people continue to use street names when giving me directions when they know that I operate on a strictly landmark mapping system here?
• Why does the cat simply stare at the corner of the dining room for an uncomfortable amount of time most nights?

I hope to never understand the answer to the third mystery, but the first two could be solved easily enough. The second really isn’t a mystery so much as a frustrating fact. Just as I feared that all of the mysteries would be lost, however, one most mysterious mystery presented itself at the most mysterious place of all, the grocery store.

On Saturdays, Tom goes to the Harris Teeter to buy the Wall Street Journal. Every Saturday the Harris Teeter has sold out of the Wall Street Journal and Tom must go down the street to the Kroger. Tom mentions this to the Harris Teeter manager most Saturdays. The manager doesn’t seem to care. A few Saturdays ago, Tom went to the Harris Teeter particularly early and still they were sold out. But how? How does a Harris Teeter in Nashville sell all of their Wall Street Journals before noon every single Saturday? When Tom posed this question to the keeper of the WSJs, the keeper replied that a man comes every Saturday right when they open and he buys all of the Wall Street Journals – every last one.

Tom proposed a logical solution, “Why don’t you order more copies?”
The keeper responded, “Well, he buys every one we have.”

Yes, clearly that is the soundest explanation. It’s entirely reasonable to assume that no matter how many copies of the WSJ you ordered, this mystery man would purchase all of them (never mind that he is buying them to resell them somewhere else). Anyway, there are many ways to solve this problem – order more copies, put one aside for Tom, tell the reseller that he can’t buy more than 3 – but how to solve the problem isn’t nearly as intriguing as how to solve the mystery of the WSJ Weasel (aka "W-squared" or "W2").

We have a few theories. As a family, we have narrowed the W2’s location down to the stretch of Highway 70 between the Kroger in Bellevue and the Harris Teeter in Belle Meade. Our method wasn’t interesting enough to describe here. The W2 could be the manager of the Bellevue Publix, which isn’t yet on the WSJ route, but will be soon. We think he might be the proprietor of the Loveless Motel, but we’ve yet to call to confirm that they offer the Wall Street Journal in the restaurant on Saturdays.

Unfortunately, the most effective way to solve this mystery is for us to show up at the Harris Teeter on a Saturday before it opens and go from there. We are currently in the planning stages of attack. To be continued, of course . . . .

Au Revoir Cergy

One year later and I’m heading out to Cergy for the last time. I have to deal with the devil bank and meet with my career counselor. I guess BNP isn’t exactly the worst bank in the world, but French banks have yet to centralize customer information so I have to go to my home branch out in Cergy to get things like printouts of my statements. Of course! C’est impossible to get this information at one of the hundreds of branches in the city. I guess that’s what you get from banks that don’t actually have money at the branches, which begs the question of why the branches invest in heavily secured entrances that only allow one person to enter at a time.

It’s weird to think that there is another class now in my old classroom, but I’m also glad that I’m not in class anymore. If I had only known how little sleep I was about to get for the next 3 months at this time last year . . . . Well, I probably wouldn’t have done anything differently. Last night I had a too much cheap wine and too little dinner so I’m feeling just about the same way that I usually felt at 8:00 in the morning on this same train during the school year.

I officially graduated two weeks ago! I am now part of the “Christian Dior Couture Class.” That sounds fancy doesn’t it? The ceremony was really nice and most of the class was able to make it back so it was nice to see everyone. We were very international indeed! Meeta wore a sari, Akiko I. wore a kimono and Suen wore a traditional Korean gown. They made my black dress look très boring, but I had brightened it up with some pretty pink shoes. If I had known so many girls were going to wear their cultural best, I would have donned my old deb dress and talked like Scarlet O’Hara all night.

Mom was able to come over at the last minute, which made all of the graduation festivities seem much more festive. I was happy that she got to meet all of my friends and that I got to show her my favorite places in Paris. We had a great time for the week and ended the adventure with a visit to Giverny. So here are lots and lots of pictures of flowers:

Paris & Giverny

Carey and Elizabeth also came to graduation and proved that they are some of the best soirée-goers in Paris. After setting up shop near the bar, they entertained guests all night. Every time I went over to say hello and get a glass of champagne, I swear they had made new friends. They are also expert party givers. I confirmed that fact last night, which explains why I am still in my pj’s at 3:00 p.m. Ugh. I feel like I’m revisiting college a bit. I probably should get it out of my system before I head back to New York and have to act all adult and responsible every day.

I will have lots of pictures from graduation later – I want you all to see that I did, in fact, graduate.

And Another Thing

When Elizabeth moved in she brought two plants with her and set them on the window sill. Today I noticed that there is only one. There is no evidence of the other 7 storeys down in the courtyard either. I don't know what I'm going to tell her when she gets back.

The Chanting Explained & the Exploded Suitcase

I felt like a jerk for not knowing which Jewish holiday it was so I looked it up. It's Shavuot. You can read about it here. Carey and I are now wondering if the lights in are stairwell have been turned off because of Shavuot. It's a little dangerous. We can't see anything until floor 5.

Also there have been police outside of our building since Saturday. Carey thinks it might be due to Elizabeth's suitcase that she left downstairs and was either shot and exploded or just doused in water. Here's that story (I received this email from Carey on June 1st):

i just got back from the police station. here's why.

my friend elizabeth is moving in with me for the month- i live on the sixth floor (french, so seventh american floor) with no elevator, so we left her big suitcase downstairs while we went back for another load. when we went back for the suitcase, there was dirt and water all over the floor. but no suitcase. an old bitch who lives on the first floor was coming downstairs as we were staring confusedly at the corner. i asked her if she'd seen a suitcase.

her: "yes, i was worried about it too."

me: "worried? do you know where it went? it's ours."

her: "oh, the police came and shot it."

me: "what? shot it? uhhh"

her: "yeah, we thought it looked suspicious. there was another real problematic bag a few years ago, you know"

me: "uhhhh"

her: "the police came and told me to stay inside and then i heard a gunshot."

me: "uhhhh. do you know where it is?"

her: "no. they shot it"

me: "uhhh ok."

so elizabeth called the cops. three different places before they figured out where she was. idiots. once she got the, their response was something like:

cop: "no, it was taken immediately to the police station and it was exploded."

elizabeth: "but we only left it for like half an hour"

cop: "nope, we were called and it was a suspicious bag and we had to do that becuase it was policy"

so she took elizabeth's information and told her to come to the commisariat in my 'hood right away. so we have a mental breakdown, then head over there. some nice cops on the street directed us in the right direction. we walked in and the exchange went like this:

me: "we're looking for a suitcase that disappeared"

cop: "ohhhhhhh" (looks at another cop and laughs) "the suitcase!"

me: "uhhhhh.."

then they take elizabeth in the back and i waited out front for her wondering what was happening. what was happening was they took her back and took her around the corner to her exploded bag on the ground. she was suprised cause her stuff was still there, obviously intact, even though they'd said on the phone it was exploded, which we thought meant it would be in smithereens, like if american cops exploded something.

they wouldn't answer her questions but just took her and wrote her info on a piece of notebook paperwhere people had been writing all day, completely unofficial, and she had to sign saying she'd received her luggage and the components inside on the 31 may. they i see her come out with two cops carrying her baglike it was a corpse. apparently "explode" means "cut around the edges, don't look at anything inside, just destroy the piece of luggage and get everything really dirty and wet".

so they gave us a trashbag that we shoved all her clothes in- when i asked for another the bitch cop told me it was the last one they had. go figure. i told them that i'd left suitcases downstairs 7 different times and never had any problem-apparently i was just lucky. since i live next to a synagogue there are always cops patrolling and if something's suspicious they take it and blow it up. aka get it wet. effing france.

"Wait! I Can't Pray!" and Other Exclamations

Something has been going on at the synagogue downstairs. There has been a great amount of chanting and singing and general goings-on over the last few days. I've been too lazy to try to figure out which holiday, if any, it is. On Saturday, I heard a lot of commotion down in the courtyard so I peeked out of the window to see a bunch of men and boys gathered and playing some sort of game. So I made Carey look out the window to witness the scene. Just as she opened the window, she heard the rabbi yell, "Wait! I can't pray!" Who knows? They are chanting right now and it's a Tuesday morning. Must figure out what's going on.

In a sort of religious vein, Carey and I volunteered with our church a few weekends ago at L'Envol, which is one of Paul Newman's Hole in the Wall camps for terminally ill children. We spent the day varnishing the fence of the mini-farm in our space suits (see pictures below). I'm still a little confused as to why the mini-farm has a fence because the goats, ducks and roosters we saw were just wandering around all willy-nilly.

In between varnishing, we took a tour of the château and the grounds, which were really nice. We also had a picnic on the back terrace. Carey and I thought we did well just to pack a lunch, but we were quickly put to shame by one woman's virtual cornucopia of goodies in a huge basket. Whatever, our smushed pb&j's were just fine. Well, Carey just had pb.

The people we were volunteering with were, well, interesting. While I was listening to one woman tell me about how she could not find one single volunteer opportunity for her 16-year-old daughter during her Spring break (and I'm thinking, "wow, what a lame Spring break"), Carey was being regaled by stories of how the woman next to her had moved from Alaska because she felt that she needed a man there, but couldn't find one, but that she was okay on her own in Paris. Sometimes people share too much.

All in all, it was a good day. It was almost not a good day when we thought we might miss our train because the camp people insisted we sit and have coffee. But we made the train, so it was a good day.

Day at L'Envol

And the List Might Be Longer Than I Thought

Ce n'est pas possible:

• to deposit bills and coins in the same envelope (or plastic bag, rather) at the bank
• for the bank to post said cash deposit
• ergo, for the landlady to stop harrassing the old tennant

Also, c'est impossible for the RER train to run without certain disaster between Paris and Cergy when I'm on it. Interesting.

Finally, c'est impossible for the man in our French class movie to eat anything at the restaurant because his stomach was upset. My question to that situation was, "Why did he go to a restaurant?"

A Trip to the Other Side of the World

Monday, October 1st

Rabbit, rabbit. Today I had to go to the opposite side of Paris to visit the doctor in order to get my residency card. The exam consisted of an eye test in French and a chest x-ray. I’m afraid I might grow a second head now because the x-ray machine seemed a little old. Anyway, I was declared not to be a “danger to society” and was then told to bring my x-ray to whichever GP I chose to that if I ever got the flu . . . . Huh? As many times as I’ve had the flu, I never once had a doctor request a chest x-ray. Anyway, step 65 of getting residency card completed.

Any Place Is Paradise Until There Are No Taxis

Finally a break! We got out of classes today at 4:15 and don’t have another until 1:00 tomorrow. Of course, that means class until 7:45, but it’s wine class so evening is as good a time as any I guess. I am over the exhaustion of last Thursday, but I decided to really delve into the pit of fatigue despair before sleeping it all away like a bad dream.

On Friday night, I met a group of classmates for dinner in Paris and then joined a few of them at a discothèque called Showcase, which is under the Pont Alexandre III. I should have known better, but I’m really trying my best to socialize, so a-clubbing we shall go! Despite the impressive location on the Seine, the club crowd was rather unimpressive in the way of fun. The drinks were even more unimpressive in the way of actual liquor, which would have helped me ignore the crowd’s general age of 23.

Anyway, I had a fun time talking to the people from school and the club itself was pretty cool. I really did feel like I was under the bridge, and you can see the Seine from huge openings in the side of the building. I think the club, however, thinks it’s way more awesome than it really is.

When I walked up to the bouncer (after waiting in line – and you know how much I hate that!), I said “Bonsoir!” I got a “bonsoir” back and then a “well, what the hell do you want?” look. Fortunately, my classmate Gabby stepped in and said that we were 6 people. I’m sorry, since when do we not ask questions when we’d like information? Are French night clubbers all telepathic?

We were then told to stand in a line. We were then scrutinized. A lady was called. She looked us up and down. “Are they okay in the face?” She said “oui,” but she wasn’t very convincing. Gabby said it was because our friend Nond’s friend, Pun, had “that pirate thing on his head,” but I thought Pun looked better than 75% of the guys in the club. Whatever. We were a good looking group.

Midnight’s approach prompted the “how are we going to get home?” discussion. This discussion is boring and never ends on a good note, unless you are with Ainsley and she comes up with brilliant plans like staying in nearby hotels. The last train back to Cergy leaves Paris at 12:45 a.m. The next train leaves at 5:35 a.m. Ergo, there is a 5-hour window of this trainless lassitude that requires you stay in Paris and would be wonderfully romantic on an exceptional first date, but is just problematic when you are out just for the sake of being out. But, I speak from experience. I was not so wise on Friday.

Train? No train? Train? Bus? No, not bus. Train? No, wait, taxi! Yes! The idea hatched from a New Yorker in the group, and I obviously thought it was the best option. In New York on any given night, apart from New Year’s Eve and very rainy, snowy or freezing nights, one simply has to step outside and lift an arm to hail a taxi. Lift arm. Taxi appears. Of course, it’s not always that easy. Sometimes the process requires waving, whistling, yelling, exhibiting some leg, yelling at other taxi hailers, fighting off perceived taxi stealers and everything short of (yet sometimes including) throwing yourself in front of the taxi.

My point is this: in New York there are taxis that you can hail at any time at any place. These taxis, once hailed, will take you home.

Although I have several extraordinary taxi-hailing memories that include images of my friend Liz leaping across icy streets in heels, me banging a metal bowl against a lamp post on the FDR and the like, I don’t think it ever took me more than 40 minutes to get a cab. Even in Greenwich Village on Saturday at 2:00 in the morning in the rain.

So, yes, we will take a taxi. Around 2:00 a.m., a group of us decided that we wanted to go home. Time to get the taxi! I was aware that Paris does not allow the free-for-all taxi hailing of which New York is so fond, but I also knew that taxi stands were prevalent on the Champs-Elysees. We walked to a taxi stand and waited. And we waited. And waited. In 35 minutes, I think we saw one taxi stop. There were millions of taxis. Taxis, taxis, everywhere, but not a one to stop! It appeared that every night owl and dog in Paris had hailed a taxi from some other magical “Stop Here!” taxi stand.

We walked to another stand. Then we hobbled to another. One of the, how shall I say, “less together” members of the group kept walking to and fro across the street. I swear, I thought I was going to be scraping her off of the Champs-Elysees before dawn. Around 3:45, we decided to call it quits, stop for pizza, and wait for the 5:35 train.

Not cool. This is not my scene. I’m not a “let’s watch the sunrise type of person.” No one looks good after midnight, much less after 5:00 a.m. And I, for one, am not so pleasant for lack of sleep leads to crankiness. Because of this fact, I made the smart decision to talk less and less as the early morning marched on.

Pizza came and went and our little troop wandered back out into the streets. Finally, by some miracle, the New Yorker (or the other New Yorker, since I can now count myself as at least New Yorkie), found a taxi hot spot and hailed one down. By this time, 4:55, I had declared Paris “every man for himself” land so I Frogger-ed it across the street and jumped in . . . to blaring Elvis. Seriously, I entered a tiny mobile Las Vegas. At 5:00 in the morning. It took “Suspicious Eyes,” “You’re the Devil in Disguise,” “A Little Less Conversation,” a few other hits I don’t remember and a Shakira song to get us home. I’m still singing “Whenever, Wherever” in my head.

Having flown into bed at about 5:35, I was fairly worthless until Sunday. Since France closes on Sunday, I had to amuse myself with about 6 hours of Financial Accounting homework. After one class, I realized that Ainsley gave me the best business school advice yet when she told me to stay on top of the reading and do the homework. I think I might be a little numbers nerd at heart because I actually like the class. Oh, how I could have managed lemonade stands, LifeSavers, Inc., and Dixie Darlings with such financial wizardry, if only I had taken this class earlier! Come the mid-term next week, however, I might not be so happy about it.

I also started gemmology classes, which I was really excited about on Monday morning. Not so much anymore. We’ve had two classes and I’m still not entirely sure what a) the purpose of the class is and b) what information I am supposed to retain. I don’t take kindly to people who discount emeralds as “crap” and praise moonstone, so perhaps the first teacher just turned me off a bit. I think you are allowed to like any type of stone no matter what. Our teacher today was better, but she talked mostly about the diamond industry – flashback to 47th Street. For some reason, a lot of people in the class had very specific questions about insuring gemstones. Yawn. The teacher is also an expert on antique jewelry so I think Thursday’s lesson will be more interesting. Regardless, I’m thinking about asking her to talk to me about the jewelry trade industry in Paris because I don’t know much about it.

Other than attending class, I have agreed to help plan our January field trip to NYC. Dorrian’s here we come! Just kidding, but I really hope I didn’t need to clarify that I was joking. My French/Luxembourgish friend is teaching me more French in exchange for Southern dialect tidbits. So far, I have given her “y’all,” “conniption fit,” and “cattywhompus.” Actually, I am slowly converting the entire class into y’all-users. Whenever I say “y’all,” no one understands what I am saying. Rather than omit such a phenomenal word from my vocabulary, I decided to enlighten my international class. Feel free to send me other Southern words when they come to you. I don’t want to run out before I become fluent in French.

Thinking about New York, yesterday was the first day I really and truly missed it since June. Maybe it was a reminder of today, but I wanted nothing more than to be in the city running around and doing all of the things I used to do. So if you are in New York today, tell it that you love it (even if you don’t feel like it) because one day you might be gone and you’ll regret not appreciating all of the everyday wonderfulness it offers – like taxis.

"Ah, you mean you can't very well take less."

As the March Hare said, you really can't take less than nothing. After ten days research, I have concluded that you can also not take less of a serving of French coffee, which is practically nothing itself.

I thought that France was the country of café. Right? When we see artsy black and white photographs of Paris, one out of three depicts a couple philosophizing over café au laits. Steam rising out of porcelain cups, the coffee almost always steals the show.

"Where is this coffee?" I ask. It is not in my shop downstairs. It is not in the school cafeteria. It is not really in Show Gourmand, and it could not possibly be in the automatic coffee machines that sit silently around campus.

In fact, the "coffee" I have received here is unlike any coffee I know. I'm beginning to doubt it even is coffee. It comes in little round packets that resemble tea bags. It goes into cups one eighth the size of a small New York coffee. Ergo, as I am sure you can infer, it comes in servings that are one eighth the size of New York servings.

"Silly girl, it must be espresso!" you exclaim. I thought of that. And it's not. This substance masquarading as coffee provides no relief from the grogginess of morning. It offers no espresso jolt. It tastes like syrup without sugar (if you can even imagine) and it rarely, if ever, comes with the option of milk.

Honestly, I wonder why anyone would drink it. France's neighbor, Italy, has mastered the coffee art. Why did they not share? And if they tried to share, why did France refuse the gift? Is it a question of national pride?

I've titled this column "Ravens and Writing Desks" after the Mad Hatter's riddle. For like his question and others without answers, the puzzles French culture presents are sometimes bewildering. Why is a raven like a writing desk? Why do the French insist on giving me bad coffee? The answer to both remains the same: I don't know.

Just because I don't know, however, doesn't mean that I didn't solve the problem. I'm in business school. I focus on identifying and solving problems. So, I pinpointed the problem: lack of acceptable coffee. Then I bought a coffee maker and some Lavazza coffee. It, too, comes in little teacoffee bags, but it's got to be better than the alien darkness that pervades the area.

Hopefully, I have ended this mad coffee party. No more miniture cups. No more pretending that I can handle this un-coffee. Tomorrow morning will be different. I hope. I've never really made coffee before.