This isn't your hotel / Find the ninth box

I am in Paris! As I'm sure you're all quite aware due to my extensive Facebooking. Must be like I never left. Well, before you all block me from your newsfeeds, my next hotel does not have wifi so you may actually miss me next week ; )

So, me + Paris. My bodyclock is slowly adjusting and I am loving it here. I could spend months in this city and still not see it all.

I had another good flight and a lovely cabbie from the airport who was quite chatty and spoke slowly for me. We had a great old chat about Paris, boys, pickpockets and real estate prices in Sydney.

I got dropped off at the address that Expedia provided, only to be told that it was not in fact my hotel. Which made sense since I'm actually staying in a studio apartment this week. Damn you Expedia! Oh, and the key for my studio is at yet another hotel down the road. Grrrrr! With all my luggage with me, mysterious agonies in my stomach due to unfamiliar foods, and my body clock being set to well-past-midnight, I was SOMEWHAT unamused.

C'est la vie though, right? I hauled my bags down la rue and claimed my key and felt rather pleased with myself. A kind lady even asked me if I was lost. So far, so good. But then I arrive on Rue Constance and I'm about to lose my mind again.

I buzz through the street door but then my hard-earned key does not turn the second communal door. Moreover, there is no indication of which apartment is actually mine. None. What. So. Ever. There is only a panel of rather cryptic numeric information which makes no sense (and still doesn't).

Honestly, I could have cried. Instead, I decided I had to find a helpful resident and get them to assist me. I was NOT going to drag my luggage back down the street again.

But luckily, I was rescued. A lovely French girl came in from the street at the exact moment that my head (and possibly my stomach) was about to explode. She patiently showed me that you BUZZ the second door, and pointed out which apartment was mine. Ground floor - no steps. Woo hoo!

So I made it into my little home. Apart from a rancid miasma of black mould, it is adorable. Honestly... you don't notice the stench when you're in it. It just hits you when you open the door like some sort of fungal tsunami.

After I'd settled in I found a sign telling me I had free wifi, and the code was on the "neufbox". Hmm. Neuf means "nine". Thinking I was in some kind of thriller novel... (I finished reading 'The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo' on the plane. Oh, and about 20 mins after I finished it we flew over Uppsala and Stockholm, cool!)... I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what exactly this ninth box was (ok so I hadn't had much sleep). I was counting paintings and plants, everything.

Finally I re-read the sign and realised that "neufbox" is a brand of modem. Of course it is. The neufbox IS the modem, and it has a code on it, and it's under the bedside table in case anyone needs it. Phew! Et voila, mon blog!

In other news, my French lesson iPhone app is paying off and I'm having fun trying to converse with people. Generally, I do not understand what is being said to me but on the odd occasion that I do, I am absolutely stoked. Talking is easier. I have found that overthinking it and mumbling shyly doesn't work. It is better to just blurt it out. To my complete and utter astonishment, this seems to work 90% of the time. I got exactly what I asked for at breakfast today. That doesn't even happen in Sydney.

Something really cool happened today too. I was all ready to tackle the rather long line for the Musée d'Orsay in the heat. I'd been there for two minutes when a girl approached me and asked if I wanted to buy one of her tickets. She had three freebies as she was a student. I said, YES. I mean, OUI, and within about eight nanoseconds I was DANS la musée. Yay.

I loved the museum; I saw Van Gogh, Degas, Monet, Cézanne and Renoir. It wasn't too crowded either so you had time to really see each painting. I bought one of the catalogue books after and read it in the park. It was interesting to learn that when painters like Manet and Courbet started to paint 'real' looking nudes with normal skin and dimples and cellulite, it was highly controversial. Critics wanted smooth, pearly, glowing bodies (think Boticelli).

I've always found it interesting to see what is considered as ideal in women throughout time; I'd never known this subtelty before. I thought all pale naked ladies were kinda cool (cos sometimes I'm a pale naked lady too). It seems that the concept of airbrushing has been around for quite a while! And the ideal female body type has long been a controversial topic.

Why is it that we so rarely see these depictions / images / arguments re: men? You don't usually see a painting of a nude male sprawling on the lawn covered in cherubs / flowers / long hair / other men. What's up with that? As I said, I'm all for pale naked ladies but it seems there is a fine line between glorification and objectification.

And on that far-too-serious note, I am going to bed. Bonne nuit mes amies x