Every reply I have gotten to these has fueled my epistolary ego a bit, and those of you who have actually emailed ASKING FOR ANOTHER UPDATE... ah, such endulgence, sweeter than chocolate. (It isn't of course, as I still have 3 weeks of Lent to go.) Now, I'm sure you're all reading the title of this email and thinking the same thing.
"Where does a young professional expect to find ADVENTURE in a lifestyle of stockings and shoulder-pads? well any of you who have known me for any amount of time know that adventure generally has no problem finding me, and I'm used to near brushes with things like lost shoes and hypothermia.
i actually didn't manage to do my usual Sunday adventure today because on Thursday's edition, i cracked a rib. don't panic, Mom, if it were bad i would have called you by now. i was fencing and just got SLAMMED in this one bout. (and since i know at least Pat is wondering this, no i didn't win it. i did get a toe-touch though.) i've gotten whacked pretty badly fencing before, but this was the first time i woke up the next day and realized it hurt to inhale deeply. i, of course, dealt with this in my usual mature, stoic fashion. namely, complaining loudly and bitterly to anyone who will listen while simultaneously refusing to do anything even slightly inconvenient to change the situation. (the practice is founded on a complicated and systematic prioritizing mechanism that exists only in Lucy's brain and cannot really be explained to anyone else. in fact, I'll probably change the subject and start talking about figs.) for other evidence of such action, please see the chapters of my life entitled Lucy Runs With Shinsplints or In Which She Decides "Calibration" is for Wusses. on Friday i went over to Fariba's for dinner as she'd invited over a bunch of fencers. Fariba also lives on the island, but the whole of my apartment can basically fit into her kitchen. for serious, it is the most beautiful living space i have seen in this city. also cool: shoes are forbidden; she keeps spare slippers by the door for house-guests. Fariba is among the kindest person i've ever met. she took me out for dinner my first week here and lends me her puppy whenever I need some dog-walking time and periodically calls me up to make sure i'm doing ok in this great big city all by myself… and is, quite obviously, not French. anyway, one of her guests is a doctor and another is Christophe, the fencer responsible for my current condition. i am politely and sweetly whining to Christophe when Dr Guy (his name is not Guy. I have no idea what his name is) says with some concern, "where was the hit?" and proceeds with an impromptu medical exam. after some minutes of "Does this hurt?" testing (of the sort a doctor can perform while you are all standing around awkwardly in fluffy slippers in somebody's living room) he says that he is pretty sure the rib is cracked, but not broken. ribs heal, so i don't need to worry, but, he says, i should be careful running outside because shallow breathing, especially in cold weather, can cause pnemonia.
"Look," I say quite frustrated by the whole situation. "It's bad enough that the day before I have to move everything i own up four flights of stairs, i injure myself to the point where putting my left arm through a jacket sleeve hurts and blowing my nose is next to impossible... now i have to worry about diseases scary enough to warrent three syllables and a silent P?" there is, of course, an upside to this. fencing SOUNDS pretty cool to your average american. i mean, if i tell somebody my sport is sword-fighting, your average conversationalist's mind will immediately jump to Errol Flynn swinging majestically from a chandelier with a rapier in his teeth. once you've actually seen regular fencing, with its stupid outfits and whiny participants and lots of stopping, you realize it's actually kind of a prissy sport. but you know what? i got HIT WITH A SWORD HARD ENOUGH TO CRACK A BONE. yes, i AM a bad-ass. still, it meant i had to skip my usual weekend adventure.
you're probably getting sick of my referring to it like that, so i'll start talking about hashing now. i recommend wikipedia for those curious, but basically, this is how it works at HHH Sans Clue (because we run in the woods around St. Cloud. get it?) a couple of people, the "hares" lay out a track in flour. the "hounds," i.e. the runners, meet up at a given starting point and follow the flour trail. so that all athletic abilities stay together, there are often obligatory meet-up points, and false trails (everyone has to wait for the slower runners at a given point and then branch off in multiple directions, looking for the real trail). there are also Beer Stops. if you find one blot of flour, you might be on the right track. you then yell "On One!" so that the rest of the hounds know you might have found the trail. "On two!" if you've found two blots. "On on!" means three blots, i.e. the real trail, and all the hounds go yelping along in the direction you've found yelling "On on!" as they go. at the end of the hash we have a Circle. this involves things like beer, dirty songs, beer, and pouring beer over the heads of "virgins," i.e. new hashers.
all i can say is that it is an extracurricular that involves a) exercise b) adventure c) yelling and d) beer. in other words it is the best thing ever.
i didn't go hashing this weekend because, frankly, pneumonia really doesn't fit into my whole plan to go to Asia this week. nor is going to a doctor. (you know what's really delicious in France? Figs. For serious. Add that to the list of Things that Taste Better in France...which includes just about everything except domestic beer...which is kind of cheating since everyone in France drinks Belgian, which is practically French anyway.) i did wrap a scarf around my nose and a bicycle lock around the chariot (whom I have named, in continuation of my tradition of naming my vehicles after celebrated ships, "The Golden Vanity") and wandered all over the 1st and 2nd arrondissements. adventure this weekend meant finding a Laundromat.
see, I can be responsible in the face of injury. this is possibly my first real lesson on the grown-up side of things. sometimes "adventure" has to be redefined a bit. next week I'll even know that the little packet of soap my landlady left me was actually meant for the dishwasher.
Love and Figs,
L
