Oh heyyyy there Paris. Yes it's springtime! I think I can safely say that it appears we will not be hitting another cold front, cross your fingers, in my last few months here (omg only 81 more days whatttt). Today it was definitely in the double-digit celcius degrees.
Yesterday I passed a lovely day in the grass outside of Invalides, on the banks of the Seine with my friends Sophie and Natasha. We had planned on going to an art museum, but the sun was way too inviting to pass up so we ended up lounging for a few hours listening to David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day on tape. I highly recommend reading it - we agreed it completely justifies our life here in Paris, one spent not in the Louvre or the Orsay but namely in movie theaters or eating bagels or window shopping or devouring large and overpriced American breakfasts or idolizing grocery stores/markets or ice skating. But.... can't you do these things in the US? you might ask..... and in the words of Mr. Sedaris, "But..... can I?"
Also, in my scads of free time I managed to snap a few pictures of the current exposition at my internship. Est-ce que vous avez des questions?
My internship has become quite the art installation lui-même. I call it Never Finished: a study on envelopes. Yes I have been spending a considerable amount of time with these envelopes lately, helping these envelopes along each and every step of the way ..... buying envelopes, stuffing envelopes, sealing envelopes, addressing envelopes, meticulously printing etiquettes with the gallery's address to be carefully put in the corners of envelopes, counting envelopes, tucking envelopes into brown paper bags with a warm glass of milk and a bedtime story, patting envelopes on the head, watching envelopes drift off to sleep, walking envelopes to the post office, putting stamps in the corners of envelopes while the opening lines of Weezer's Holidy in the Sun loop continuously for the next hour [which appears to be the unofficial battle cry/anthem of Parisian postal workers everywhere], forcing envelopes one by one into slots made just the right size for single envelopes, sending envelopes off into the world, waving my hanky forlornly adieu, realizing I've done what I can to prepare them, bien ecriture and all, for the unavoidably long journey that awaits them, wishing I could accompany these envelopes, hold their tiny envelope hands and tell them it will all be alright, even when I know it might not..... walking away, not looking back to see envelope eyes panging me with guilt. Could I have done more? ... and then waiting. Waiting for the one or two envelopes to return forlornly - the casualties of an address pas bien ecrit, a stamp pas bien collé, an "i" pas bien dotted. And then there are the few return-to-senders, those who we as envelope preparers, lowly stagiares, and envelope caretakers must realize, there was nothing more we could to avoid the ominous and inevitable mauvais address stamp, etched in red - no better way to prepare them for the cold, harsh reality of return to sender, rejection, and change of address outside the packaging at an office supply store or the space heater chauffage of gallery walls.
À très bientôt,
Clara
