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Today I feel like complaining. It’s a gorgeous day, I feel like I’m going to fall asleep right now, and I have about six new blisters from the new sandals that I bought yesterday. So I’ve decided to have a big whine on my blog. Sorry, blogosphere.

1. Okay, Paris, you want the truth?

I know this is going to sound crazy, but women have legs. When it gets really hot, some of us will probably wear short skirts and shorts, which means that our legs will be on full display. You should probably save some of your ogling and catcalling for August when more of us are wearing shorts. Today I swear I felt like the only woman on the street who was wearing a short skirt. Parisians are still mostly wearing pants–but the thought of putting a pair of jeans on right now makes me sweat.

2. So I’m applying to audition for a young artist program in Valencia, Spain, and as part of the application I have to send scanned PDF files of all of my audition arias. Today I had a rehearsal with my pianist Anna (in exchange for some English pronunciation help for her), so I went to the Copy Top at République to have the music scanned.

First, I waited for ten minutes while other people moved very slowly. There were only two people working there, of course, and this being France, there was no particular rush or concern for customer satisfaction. Finally it was my turn. I showed the guy what I wanted: four arias scanned and saved into separate files. When he saw that it was music, he made some noise about copyright. I pretty much looked at him and was like, it’s Mozart. What’s he going to do about it? (Okay, so I wasn’t quite that snarky, but I’ve shelled out however much money for these books of sheet music, so I think I’m entitled to scan and copy to my heart’s content.)

After that he asked me if I could leave the books and my jump drive at the store for an hour or so, because there were other orders pending. I had to go to Anna’s anyway, so I told him I’d come back at 4:30. Which I did, promptly (though it took me forever to find my way back from Anna’s to République, resulting in several new blisters). I told the guy at the counter, a different guy from earlier, that I had left my music and jump drive, and I was supposed to have things scanned. He went and found the original guy…who proceeded to START scanning my music. I was expecting it to be done by the time I got back. Maybe I’m just a dumb American.

And then of course it took him forever to get everything scanned and onto my jump drive. It was like this.

But I don’t WANT a Christmas box! He also informed me that I had viruses on my jump drive, which I didn’t know because I have a Mac and Macs are like virus-proof. By the time I got out of there I didn’t even care that it cost a whopping 18.50 to get this stuff scanned. On the bright side, I will never have to scan those arias again.

3. I actually met somebody in the elevator on Sunday. A male somebody. A red-headed Southern ancient manuscripts-scholar male somebody, who recognized me from the picture on my recital poster that was hanging all over the building. I thought about him all day and then I decided to find out which room he lived in and leave a note on his door. I was actually advised by a friend of mine to wait a week and see if fate brought us together again before I left the note, but I just don’t have that kind of time–and besides, it’s rare that I instinctively know what I want to do in a situation like this.

…and then shockingly enough, yesterday I ran into him in the lobby. This building can be like a social black hole. I’ve met people in the laundry room, in the elevator, in the kitchen, whatever, and then never seen them again. (Remember the guy who dragged me all over Paris at 2 in the morning, my first week here? Apparently he lives on the third floor, and I have never once run into him.) But I was coming out of a door and he was going into that same door, and we wound up talking and grinning at each other in the hall for ten minutes. Adorable.

And now I’m waiting. Remember that note I left on Mr. Meet-Cute’s door, with my phone number and room number? Yeah. And what’s ridiculous is that it has been two days since I left that note, and only slightly more than twenty-four hours since the last time I saw him. But oh, I’m impatient! Vieni, amico! Madama impaziente!

So I’m not reeeeeeeally complaining about that one. It’s not nearly as frustrating as Rowan Atkinson wrapping Christmas presents, or French customer service, or angry new-sandal blisters. I’ll just bide my time.