French Dip

It is official…I have a mailbox in Paris. Don’t try to send me anything because I don’t know where it actually is or how to open it, but I do have one. If you would like to send me something from the new spring line at J. Crew (who doesn’t need a pair of sequined shorts?!), I would be infinitely more incentivized to find out where my mailbox is.

We moved into our apartment this afternoon. I met Sabine, the adorable woman who watches over the apartment, to sign all of the paperwork and hand over our Euros (exchange rate: 1 euro=$1.52. Brutal.). I am so going to make Sabine my best friend. She doesn’t know it yet but I have a feeling that she will warm up to me. She has fire red hair and an amazingly soothing French accent. She was somewhat appalled that “you vould come to Pay-rees and not learn Frreench”. She also informed me that next month she would be expecting to collect the rent in French. Apparently Sabine hasn’t met Senora Citarella, my evil high school Spanish teacher (if you are reading this blog, really, you are evil). After 4 years in her class and lots of tears, I never did better than a C menos. Language is not my thing. The guy who owns this apartment apparently resides in Hong Kong full time. Um, Sabine, is he single and tall? Kim, I think I have found you a date for the wedding. The apartment is tiny but quant and in the cutest little neighborhood complete with a river, cobble stone streets, and the fresh smell of cigarette smoke. Mom, it is home for a bunny…

I seriously cannot tell you how much I love hearing from you all. To answer your questions… Yes, you can all come and visit. Yes you have to bring your own apartment with you when you come. Allison D, you may sleep in our kitchen drawer as you are my pocket friend. Marie, there is not enough room for you in the drawer with her. Hana, I am so proud to be the very first blog you are following… and I hope that you are brushing up on the hippopotamus song to sing at my wedding. Hopping, stop tagging me on Facebook when I have no internet access. I hate being reconnected to find that “Meghan Hopping has tagged 74 pictures of you”…and they are from like freshman year in college when I was in desperate need of an eyebrow wax. Lauren, please untag me when you see Hopping doing this. Russell, there are no Arby’s in Paris…and a French Dip here is just called a Dip.