The mess looks edible. The ingredients are fresh and the dish smells delicious. However, a large dose of pepper was not an adequate substitution for whatever my creation lacked. But it definitely lacked. Tonights dinner throws a sharp downward bend into my rocketing cooking career of the summer. To compensate for the disappointing meal, I ate a piece of hardy bread spread reassuringly with golden opaque nectar. Evening saved. Sidenote: dont buy the honey in grocery stores in des Etats-Unis. IT’S NOT HONEY. Those cute plastic bears bring a sad, watery imitation of the real thing to your tables.

Tomorrow is my second day of classes. Although I am walking or in class from 8:30-18:15 on Mondays and Wednesdays, those are the only days that I have class. My weekends are LONG and ideal for traveling. I must travel while the weather is pleasant. Even tonight when I was studying in the Jardin de Luxembourg, the cool air turned my feet towards home before my heart was ready.

Yesterday I went jogging on the outer path in Jardin du Luxembourg. Earlier in the week when CEA orientation lead us the the gardens, I was surprised at the number of people running around the park (all dressed in black, perfect—perfectly tight—jogging outfits). Some of the men wore polos. Needless to say, I felt out of place in my white Tshirt and bright pink shorts. My turnover rate made a good defense.
I dedicate the afternoon to Hemingway.
"Then there was the bad weather." Opening line of Hemingway's Moveable Feast
It started to rain as soon as I set out for 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine. Fitting, I thought. Not knowing if I could get inside his former Paris apartement, I veered towards Shakespeare and Company, keeping an eye out for a good café. I found a first edition Modern English Prose, 1946 and took it with me to Les Zeles de la Fourmi for 8€. There, I sat with a sleeping cat and a bad combination of coffee and tart de citron. The rain stopped long enough in the evening for me to find and gape at the plaque pasted on the side of 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine. I could not get inside his third floor room nor even into the portail.

CEA campus building on the left. Here and on the streets, I will master French.

My french c’est pas bon. C’est trés mal. Nevertheless, I lost count of the number of people who mistook me for a French woman in the last few days. Two or three times, people have asked me for directions only to be disappointed at the unpleasant sound of my American voice. Today, a French woman stopped me for directions to a particular street. Merci. Ultimate compliment.

My 25 and 27 inch bags were heavy for me. They were heavy too for the taxi driver who left me on the sidewalk of rue Saint Jacques. I ignored the curmudgeonly buildings crowding around to glare at my intrusion and entered the Maunoury's appartement building to make my weary way up the worn wooden steps to meet the host family. Then I remembered with distress that the French 3^rd floor is the Americain 4^th floor. When I reached the "third" floor, Madame Maunoury ushered me to my little room which a monk inhabited in the 17^th century. That is why the wooden stairs are so smooth.

Though fatigued, I thought it impolite to refuse dinner with Madame and Monsieur Maunoury. We dined for two hours. Towards the end of the meal, Clovis (this is Monsieur Maunoury’s aritist name) reached for a casette tape and to my surprise and delight, the heavy voice of Johnny Cash rolled out of the Sony player. If there was any question before, I knew at that moment that I liked Clovis. Monsieur Maunoury used to paint and is a musician, an actor, and a writer. When he was young, he sometimes played in the dungeon of the jazz bar Caveau des Oubliettes which Kyla and I happened to go to last night. I had le specialité Rhum Rhum avec canelle. The coral colored liquid was refreshing and sweet. The evening hours passed quickly in the stone room below the street while listening to the smooth and lively tunes of French jazz.