The Met and Los Mets

What a triumph, Saturday! What a long, adventure-filled, iPhone camera-captured time. Behold:

Part I: The Met

My uncle invited me to see Le Comte Ory at the Met. It's a gorgeous, funny opera with men in drag, a woman singing a castrato part and glorious costumes. I was in heaven.

I had fished this cocktail dress out of my closet and hey! It still fits! Excellent.



Then it was off to the Met for the afternoon's festivities. Lincoln Center is a gorgeous area of the city and the sunshine made it even more magical as it bounced off expensive dentures and crystal chandeliers.





My cousin Michael, who I hadn't seen in probably 10 years, came with my aunt and uncle. We hit it off and had a great time with the dancing men in drag and watching the sets move in between songs. Did you know there's a threesome on stage?



Then I changed gears in every sort of direction.

Part II: Los Mets

My boyfriend's future sort of brother-in-law got tickets to see the Mets play at Citi Field. I sprinted to Queens! (Not really.)


Dubra Dave


'Twas cold and we wore free hats


Took prom photos


Standing spooned with dudes


Tenderly kissed


See?



And the long, tired ride home

Saturday!

Tour de France

The Podium Girls were looking adorable this year:


King of the Mountains
Most Aggressive

And my favorite:
The little black dresses (on the right)

We bought this book a few years ago to explain the dark and seedy underbelly of Podium Girl-ing.

Another cool thing about watching the Tour is seeing sights from the sky:


And the cycling is cool, of course. (Way to go, Lance!)

Head of the Charles

Finally... some new, interesting photos from this weekend. The Head of the Charles regatta went extremely well. If by "well" you mean I got tons of free stuff and watched a few boats go past. I walked from my apartment to Harvard Square and ate Chipotle for lunch as a reward. It felt supremely collegiate at Harvard because everyone was in their boat shoes, "crew" shirts, and was cheering for illustrious teams like Yale. After our school's team went past, my friends and I decided to cheer for a team dressed in horizontal black and white striped tank top leotards. They were practically wearing berets, holding croissants, and yelling "hon hon hon!" while twirling their mustaches.

I went to the BC v Virginia Tech game last night because my roommate's mom went to Tech. We got all decked out in borrowed Tech gear and alternated between cheering and slowly freezing to the metal benches. It was. SO. cold. I had a great time, though, because I haven't seen a college football game for a few years. I wish we had a team!

The Sox lost tonight, which means I won't be camping out for World Series tickets. Would I have done that anyways, you ask? Probably not. So all is well in the world.

Deep Thoughts, Part... ?

--Somehow, my school has not one single printer for 11x14 inch paper. Travesty. I was told to check out the School of Fine Arts, and opted not to as my project was due in 20 minutes. This should probably be looked into.
--They were painting the walls in the stairwell, so the numerous times I ran up and downstairs, I got a teensy but awesome fume high.
--One of my professors showed us nearly an entire reel of 1992 Cannes Lions award winners. Really? There's no good work to show us from after 1992?
--I spent the entire iMovie exercise during my late class checking up on British music blogs and then did the :30 clip in five minutes and practically jogged back home. I am sincerely terrified to learn Flash, however.
--Jess checked the Sox score and laughed, then went to bed. About half an hour later, I had to shut my window because there was a ruckus of yelling, clapping, and honking. ESPN.com and the douche outside confirm the Sox tied it up. Thank you, Sir on the street downstairs. Yes, Hell of a win, as you keep yelling. Now go home.

I am extremely excited for this weekend, because my roommate's mom is coming and I have big plans. I need to take pictures, for a start. I have half a roll of film left in my Holga, and my Flickr is overrun with interesting but ultimately not good mobile phone pictures. The Virginia Tech v BC game on Saturday will be interesting to see in person. I have full confidence in Jess's ability to teach me all applicable chants and fight songs before I go in and cheer on some Hokies. What is a Hokie?

The British Are Coming! The British Are Coming!

After the wine tasting this afternoon (about 5 glasses of wine later, and I was having a terrific time), I walked up to Trocadero with some friends to get a crêpe. On the way, we passed about 4,000 Englishmen, their wives and children, and the odd group of South Africans. It. Was. A. Madhouse.

I couldn't be happier that the rugby final is tonight. First I have the "Malade Imaginaire" at the Comédie Française, and then it's straight to the Hôtel de Ville or to a pub somewhere to watch the second half of the game.

In the metro on the way back home, two English guys in jerseys and funny hats (one was wearing a "Paris" beret and the other had a Disney dwarf face) started chatting to us about Paris, England, and our hometowns in America. One thing is for sure: These English are here for a good time, and, judging by the sheer amount of beer I saw at Trocadéro, they are determined to have one.

Hey Babe, Let's Go Out Tonight

Saturday night was Nuit Blanche, a huge all-night fête in the city where everyone walks around to see art installations, concerts, and drink in the streets.

It also happened to be the quarter finals for the Rugby World Cup. France beat New Zealand in a huge upset, and that combined with the Nuit Blanche festivities made one helluva time.

I met up with some friends to watch the game on a huge screen situated outside the Hotel Ville. I’ve only seen that many people one time before: at New Years, in Sydney. The entire square was crammed with people, most of them standing shoulder to shoulder. The rest squeezed onto bleachers or sat uncomfortably on the ground. It was insanity. We decided to leave about 15 minutes before the game ended: for one, we didn’t want to deal with the throngs of people leaving at the end, and for two, we didn’t want to get burned by the huge flares someone had brought and insisted on lighting in the middle of the crowd.

We walked from the Hotel de Ville across the river to Notre Dame, and then around the Ile Saint Louis back to the Marais. By that time, France had won, and it seemed like every car was honking, thousands of people were singing the Marseillaise, and delinquant boys ran around half-naked in war paint.

We eventually made it safely to the Louvre, where we enjoyed the beautiful lights on the buildings and pushed our way through to the Tuileries. Over the past few days (thanks to my fashion-show stalking), I had seen crews setting up twisted metal sculptures on the gravel paths. Now I understood what they were for—

There were rows of fire-breathing sculptures all the way down the garden. Some of them were run by people, some shot fire straight into the air, and some were moving, connected to other sculptures. The ponds where kids usually push sailboats around were filled with torches. Then, at the end of the garden, the Ferris wheel was blocked by a big old ball of fire, suspended from an enormous crane.

After walking the whole way down and being stepped on, pushed, and slammed into, we decided to cut our losses and find some space. So we crossed the Place de la Concorde in search of somewhere to sit, and instead ended up at the Madeline. I decided to catch the metro back, and the long walk from République to my apartment wasn’t as bad as usual. The honking and the absolute masses of people made it go by much more quickly.

Big photo upload soon. Really.

l'Ecosse and the Metro

Last night, I went to a bar by the PIP to watch the France v. Scotland game. Och Aye was it great!

We all liquored up (demi-fraise for moi: half beer, half strawberry syrup) and watched front row as France dominated but Scotland eventually won on the big screen.

I learned some new words from the guys at the next table (as well as the proper pronunciation for "bordel"), and then I got happily on the metro to go home.

While I was standing there, holding onto a pole and utilizing my bitch face, I noticed a Scotland fan in kilt and jersey. He was so drunk his eyes were unfocused and he could barely keep his balance (while seated), but he was still talking to the Irish man next to him. A beautiful Parisian woman leaned over to ask him, in French, who won, and I told her it was Scotland. The Scot murmured something about how he didn't know how, and how he had been thrown out during halftime, and something about "fucking Frenchies," and I translated some of it for the French lady. The Irish man listening to the Scot complimented my French, and I thanked him. The Scot kept muttering to himself in his crazy brogue, and I tried to stop staring at his wine-stained shirt.

When I got off at my stop, the Irish man and I started walking together, and we got to talking about where we were from. He was an Irish guy with an English accent living in Paris, and working in advertising production. It was a totally uncreepy and pleasant walk home, and I left him at his hotel and went right into my building.

It was nice. Not everyone who takes the metro tries to rape you with his eyes.

Tomorrow I have an enormously huge interview for my future internship in November. The company I'm interviewing with is pretty well-known, and even though my supervisor is American, the whole job is (hopefully) in French. That means I need to go over all the vocab tonight, as well as remember to bring my portfolio and CV tomorrow. Of course, all this is scheduled for right after a 5 hour cooking class at one of the professor's houses, so I will also have to bring my entire outfit (suit? collared dress? I can't decide) with me and hope I can get across town in 20 minutes.