what. happenened.

ma vie est un carnage

I'm not one for being able to stomach... anything really.. & to be frank, this whole dead-pig-delivery-system-at-the-same-time-I-happen-to-be-passing-by still poses a terrible shock for me, especially when it occurs before noon. This usually happens while I'm riding a bike and dodging pedestrians (it's really not as easy as it looks) on my way to school on rue Montogueil, nothing too crazy, just an open truck filled with carcasses and meat slabs as I zip by. Today was something new at least, I almost walked right into a dead pig who was being carried by men wearing blood-splattered aprons....

As I experience each of these carnage-filled mornings, afternoons, evenings, I get the feeling that I am slowly becoming more and more desensitized. I figure that this is something I have to grow accustomed to if I want to live in close quarters with carnivores.

People ask me if it's hard being a vegetarian in Paris. I don't quite understand the question but if what they meant to ask is:

Julie do you get the urge to vomit on the sidewalk when you see and smell dead animals on the streets of Paris?

Then the answer is yes.

Perhaps I'm being a bit over-dramatic.  Honestly, I have experienced but three gorey incidents since september, the month I moved back to the city.

The first one involved yours truly, a large gate, and the ground. The second - an unfarmiliar place, fried tofu, lots of frantic knocking, all which resulted in mysterious red splatters in the hallway. And as for the third, I will gladly give more gruesome details as it just happened last night.

qu'est-ce qui s'est passé

Last night, as I was transitioning between play dough and bathtime, I heard the doorbell ring. I stopped everything and glanced at the one-year-old, who was rearranging the decorations on the coffee table.

I recalled the last time the doorbell rang and the women standing behind it: an irate neighbor, 6me étage, who was convinced that it had been my husband, "The Tall", who had violentement démoralisé her flatmate. I had proceeded to expound to her my situation: how I did not live in this residence and how in fact; I was only the baby-sitter who had never been married. I must have failed at explaining myself, as she came back 15 minutes later and demanded that I apologize or else she would call the cops.

I don't know if it was her tone or her lazy-eye but I was terrified. I approached the door with caution..

Luckily, this time, it was only the neighbor, the wife of the elderly couple who live on the other side of the 9me étage, They have always been very cordial with me so I felt comfortable opening the door. She wanted to inform me, rightfully, that one of the alcoves was undulating frantically in the monsoon that Paris had been experiencing for the last two weeks. "One of the boys must have pressed the button," she told me.

I thanked her, shut the door, put the baby in his crib, and confirmed that yes, the alcove looked as though it would snap off and fly away in the torrents of wind.

Unfortunately, I could not get the alcove to return to its home. The button seemed to be broken. I watched helplessly as the cloth began to tear and snag on the metal poles. I must add here that I am not one for fixing things, was never the crafty Macgyver type. I wasn't even really sure how these alcoves worked. I tried to push the button a few more times and I even tried standing up on a chair and pulling it in manually (in retrospect this was very daring of me).

The neighbor's husband was the next to knock on the door. He wanted to help me try fix my petit problème.

If only we knew how big the problem really would be.

We tried and we tried to get the alcove back in. We laughed, we took the brooms out, we even bonded a bit, despite the bleak outlook for the alcove and the stormy weather.

I took a step back inside to check on the boys (they were being awfully quiet) when suddenly, a gust of wind, stronger than all the others, came tearing down from the heavens. One of the flimsy metal poles of the alcove gave into the wind resistance, snapped and fell down from their posts. Directly onto the sweet, eldery gentleman's head.

He said, "Oh là," as he stepped over the threshold and looked down at his blood stained hands. I watched in horror as his wife ran back to her place to call the ambulance.

I asked her if it was grave and she responded affirmitavely. I head the pin pon of the pompiers. All I could do after that was wring my hands and ask if there was anything I could do. There wasn't.

I left feeling gloomy but my spirts were back in check after a nice bike across town, a fabulous Mathieu Boogaerts concert at La Java, and some seriously funktastic dancing at La Favéla Chic.

ce que je dois faire

I've decided that tomorrow I will: skip out on going to visit the bike shop guy that I may or may not have fallen in love with this morning (who doesn't love a man who restores old bicycles?) and buy a lovely bouquet of flowers for the couple. Although I know that flowers don't help a cracked skull, they sure do make a lovely centerpiece.

I was informed today that  he is okay, he only needed a few stiches.

biz!!