We all saw this one coming.
I just couldn’t help myself. Despite the exorbitant cost and the fact that a care package I’m told contains nut butter is on its way to me from Chattanooga, I dropped a whopping 8.50 EUR (that’s $11.22) on 16 ounces of pure heaven.
The first thing I did was slather it all over green apple slices. Then, I spread some on rice cakes. I quickly realized things were getting out of hand and hesitantly screwed the top back on before I finished the whole jar in one sitting. (Something I’ve never done before, but fully believe I am capable of.)
It was worth every penny.
I chose my toenail polish this week based solely on the name: Van D’Go.
I’m headed to la Côte d’Azur this weekend, so it only seemed appropriate.
I have to admit, it seemed a little less electric in summer in America than it does in autumn in Paris.
But it’s staying. The name is just too perfect.
(Pardon my runner’s feet.)
Despite the fact that some of the world’s best pastries and chocolates are (quite literally) right outside my door, sometimes all I want is a KitKat from the vending machine. Even I, the girl who turned her nose up at the regular peanut butter that cost a mere 3.50 EUR in favor of the real stuff, will admit that junk food has its time & place.
When I told you all I was passing my free time reading lots of books about Paris and subsequently received the recommendation from my mother to download “Tender is the Night” on my Kindle, I realized I may have given the wrong impression.
This is what I’m reading right now.
Oops. If it makes you feel any better, I fully intend to load up on Fitzgerald & Hemingway this weekend.
When it’s time for the break that comes halfway through each of my classes, the vast majority of my fellow students rush outside to start sucking nicotine and tar and what not into their lungs. In my half-hearted attempt to appear passably artsy, I loudly declare that “I’m just dying for a coffee”. I scurry over to the vending machine and, covering the buttons you use to make your drink selection (just as Parisian ATMs instruct you to do when entering your PIN, thanks for the advice, guys!), contentedly select a “chocolat chaud”.
Because, with all respect to my talented classmates, I’ll never be a hip, tormented, chain-smoking artiste. And I intend to keep it that way.