Mosquitos, Monkeys and Me

The conversation in the post below was not at all a scene from the rom com that some of you have now conjured up on my behalf. It was in fact very embarassing, and then very awkward, and then downright hilarious.

After the Italiano's question (i.e. where I left off) I burst out laughing. I laughed my head off, he burst out laughing too and then we carried on with our silly conversation.

Did he mean what he said and did I then ruin it by laughing my head off? I don't think so.

Did I want him to mean what he said? No I did not. As you may have spotted by now, I am a brat. I want what I can not have, and then when it begins to look like I am about to get it, I stop wanting it. Obviously the above isn't always true, but this time, I am ashamed to say, it was.

I'm terribly sorry if my post was misleading ;) You should know never to get excited by anything that comes out of my mouth/ fingers. I am a joker! I thought that much was obvious. If you feel lost/ cheated/ confused, I apologise. But I will make up for it with the juicy (try hilarious) posts that I'm sure will follow in the next few days. I am off to Delhi tonight, from where I will be traveling around Rajasthan and then Kerala for 3 weeks.

I refused my GP's offer of anti-malaria medication on the premise that I am Nigerian and thus naturally immune (don't ask how she accepted that bullcrap). I have recently discovered however that the mosquitos in India are not at all the same as the weasly bugs flying around in Lagos. They are muscly. And I am worried.

I also received a video clip (see below) from a friend reminding me of the news story I heard about (but ignored) whilst in Paris - apparently Delhi has been overrun by wild monkeys which have been harrassing and terrorising the local population for ages now.

Doesn't this promise to be a fun trip?

L'Italien, Un Serveur et Des Cheveux Faux

In as brief a manner as possible (yeah right), I am going to tell two different stories.

The first, is about how I came to discover what the problem was with the Italian.

And the second, is about how the Italian came to discover that my silky long locks are not in fact mine.

On Saturday, several hours after my darling E-Weezy hopped off the Eurostar and after we stuffed ourselves silly, I got a call from the Italiano inviting us to dinner with him and some other Italianos who were in Paris visiting him. E-Weezy and I arrived at the restaurant in Montparnasse (that was such an unnecessary detail wasn't it?) a little late, as per usual. After a somewhat lukewarm (try frosty) reception from the other Italianos who looked mighty shocked to have two dark-skinned senoritas descend unannounced upon their dinner party, we sat down and the outrageous flirting with Oga P began. I did all the right things, I tossed my hair left and right, fiddled with my fingers, batted the eyelids... the works! I believe E-Weezy even took notes on her blackberry. It was a masterclass in flirting, of the sort only to be witnessed once per lifetime.

Half way through dinner (which I thought was going very well) I noticed that the Italiano's hand (he was sitting across from me) was under the table. I then noticed that the girl sitting to his right (across from E-Weezy who was sitting to my left) also had her hand under the table. Now, even though I have never ever been good at statistics, it was pretty damn obvious (without having to crane or stretch my neck) that there was absolutely no way their hands could be where they were, and not be touching.

At that, the evening took a turn for the worse, I lost my appetite, and E-Weezy was forced to listen to me moan and groan for an extensive period when we got back (slightly earlier than planned) to mine.

The second story I am going to tell played itself out in front of my very perplexed eyes not too long, a mere three hours ago in fact.

After 2 days of ignoring the Italian, trying my hardest not to flirt or laugh at his stupid jokes, I was forced to spend the afternoon alone with him today as the other girl in our class left yesterday. We went to the brasserie round the corner (because he is in love with their sausages), argued over whether to sit inside or outside (no prizes for guessing where I wanted to sit) and then ended up sitting outside. The waiter, who is very friendly (surprising for Paris isn't it?) bounded over, and began to chat to us. He moved the heater closer to us because I moaned to him about the cold. And then, he turned to me and said (in French) "Your hair will be okay, yes?"

I froze. After a sneaky glance at Oga P (who was looking very confused), I somehow found my voice and said, with as big a smile as I could manage, thinking that would silence him - "Yes it'll be fine, thank you".

But NO he wasn't done.

"So they are extensions yes?" he said next, with a huge grin on his face. I can't remember now what the word for extensions is in French, but I assure you that it was not a word that the Italiano knew.

Again I glanced at him, again the perplexed look.

"Yes" I said.

The waiter continued, "Oh I can't wait to tell my friend. She is black like you, but from Senegal, and she pays so much for her hair from Brazil. I can never tell that it's fake. Where is yours from? Brazil too?"

"No, California" I said.

And thus the conversation continued, ending only after I had explained to the waiter, Oga P and all the other patrons in the establishment, the differences between human and synthetic hair, and Brazilian and American hair, and my reasons for choosing to go with American rather than Brazilian hair.

The waiter eventually left, I thought for a split second that a heart attack was on the ascent, but then the Italiano turned my attention to something else, and we continued our chit chat.

We talked about several things, even about my hair, and then he said (completely out of the blue), "Tu as un fiancé à Londres?"

"No I'm not engaged!" I said, even though I understood perfectly well what he meant (his French is hilarious. He speaks Italian, Spanish and English and so throws in whatever European word he chooses when he can no longer be bothered, simply because he knows whoever he is speaking to will be able to work it out).

"Do you have a boyfriend in London?" he said again, this time in English.

"No," I said. Then, in as light a tone as I could muster, "And you, you have a girlfriend yes?"

To which he said "No".

To which I said "Huh?"

To which he said "Huh?"

To which I then said "But your friend that my friend (meaning E-Weezy) was speaking to on Saturday, wasn't she your girlfriend?"

And what was his reply?

"No, whatever gave you that idea? She's one of my best friends."

I didn't know what to do at this point. I didn't know whether to go into the hand-holding, or into my spying and subsequent rage when I saw what I thought I saw on Saturday.

And so I kept quiet.

And then he said, "So you don't have a boyfriend in London? How come?"

I told him how come.

And then he said, "So basically, what you need is a boyfriend like me."

-----

And there dear friends, is where I have decided that I am going to stop. But before I go, I shall leave you with two words, and two words alone. And they are...

Hot (and) Cake!

Italy vs. France - La Lutte Des Amants

I came to my blog just now with the intention to tell a big fat lie about a situation that currently plagues me, but I find that for some bizarre and completely inexplicable reason, I am compelled to tell the truth. (This' a first innit? Teehee!)

I have spent the last week in the company of two very good-looking, very intelligent gentlemen. As you may have worked out from the title, one is Italian, the other French (actually I thought he was Brazilian when I first met him, as he's half Asian).

The problem here is not that I find it difficult to flirt with two men at the same time (on the contrary, I am reveling in this current 'predicament'). No, the problem is that the Italian doesn't seem to want to play anymore!

Now, as one who is accustomed to a regular stream of admirers (hyuk hyuk) I am astounded! Astounded is too weak a word. I am flipping flabbergasted! As I said to my dearest Misan via email the other day, 'How dare he not like me? Is he crazy?!'

The Italian (who Misan insists on referring to as 'Oga P' simply because it gets on my nerves, and because she dislikes his name) confuses me. He spends the entire weekend with me, takes me to beautiful place after beautiful place, and then to a fantastic jazz club (which so happens to be where I met the Frenchy - am I naughty or what? Hmmm... Perhaps this is why he isn't interested. Anyway...) He insists on walking with me to my apartment every single time we go out, moves me out of harms way even when it's unlikely that the granny approaching on her bicycle could do me much damage. Then he invites me round to his, cooks me dinner, agrees to watch 'The Bodyguard' with me even though he insists it's a very stupid film and he knows he will be forced to spend the rest of the evening translating it into English for me. He insists I stay for ages and ages, until I'm literally falling asleep, and does all manners of other sweet things etcetera etceteroo.

But then... Nothing!

Now if the Italian were the basic ugga-bugga Naijaman sort (i.e. "Me man, you woman, man want woman, woman must want man" etc), or the sleezy Joey Tribbiani-type Italiano, things would be far less confusing. But as luck (or disaster) would have it, he's the complete opposite! He's a flippin' hippy, who just also happens to be a gentleman.

Moving on very quickly to the Frenchy. He makes me laugh to no end whenever we see. When we met at the Jazz Club, I was still yet to buy a mobile phone, and so he made a huge show of writing his number on my hand so that I'd be forced to remember him the next day (which was absolutely hilarious, and so not as cheesy as it sounds). He took me to a football game yesterday (even though he knew I would be bored stiff) simply because he wanted to see me but had already made plans to go to the game. He constantly asks me all sorts of questions, and is particularly anxious about my 'friendship' with the Italian. And yes, it is very clear that the Frenchy would be happy to get kissy kissy with Bitchy.

But... Bitchy wants the Italian!

To be honest, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted the Italian until the Italian began to act as though he was indifferent to Bitchy, at which Bitchy promptly began to flirt with the Italian like a wasp on heat! (Gosh, I'm such an idiot) And if you've been reading this blog long enough to remember my 'Flirtatious' post, you will remember that Bitchy is an unwitting flirt, and thus when she does take the decision to actively engage in flirtatious behaviour, is quite frankly, ridiculous to behold.

Sigh... I'm almost tempted to give up, but it's just so intriguuuueing. I am a hot cake! How can this possibly be happening?

N.B. I will not take kindly to comments that make mention of the lard, cakes and other such things that have been discussed in previous posts. The size of my arse is completely besides the point. If anything, it should be working to my advantage. It certainly would be in Naijaman territory. Perhaps I should just stick to the breed I know ey?

Le Tektonik... Bouges Tes Fesses!

The things I do for my blog (and my internet addiction)...

The apartment I've been living in since Wednesday doesn't have any internet connection. My landlord (who lives in London but is currently in the middle of nowhere in rural Ethiopia) had implied that there would be several 'open' wireless networks that I would be able to tap into with ease. I did find the open networks, but then the signal in the flat is far too weak to open the simplest of websites (even when I was stood precariously atop a stool on Wednesday night, holding my laptop up to the window in a moment of sheer, pathetic, desperation. Don't ask how I thought I'd be able to use the internet from such a bizarre position).

Today, I decided I just had to get online, and so left my flat at 12.30 (bloody early on a Sunday for me) with my Mac in tow. Within the first 5 minutes of my search, I begun to despair as Sunday is apparently a day of true rest here in Paris. Nothing was open! 45 minutes later though, I am now happily installed in a chic restaurant called 'Le Fumoir', which is next door to the Louvre, eating a delicious (but ridiculously expensive) brunch all on my own, whilst choking on thick clouds of cigarette smoke, just so that I can have the pleasure of complimentary internet for at most an hour.

Am I sad or what? (Teehee!)

I have been eating so much food here in Paris, that even my vocal chords have been affected, according to my mother. The first thing she said when I picked up the phone yesterday, was "You sound fat". How she managed to detect this over the 6,000 miles of crackly telephone wire between us, I will never know. But Maman, who knows me like the back of her hand, has a knack for these things, and there was just no use in denying that in the space of one week I have become a walking tub of lard.

I am however a tub of lard with a newfound appreciation for graphic novels. Here they're called Bandes Dessinees or something like that. In FNAC the other day, I randomly stumbled upon an entire floor of the things. The first one that caught my eye, had the picture of an African girl on its cover, which of course meant that I had to open it. And I'm so glad now, that I did, because it is absolutely hysterical. The Aya de Yopougon series is about an almost incestuous little village in Cote d'Ivoire, where young girls who dream of becoming hairdressers chase after old men, or sexy Parisiens, whilst their mothers storm out of their households when children fathered by their husbands turn up. (Sound familiar?) It is just hilarious!

Oh and it's helped with my French too!


I went to Notre Dame yesterday, which was a teeny bit of a let down. But I insisted on seeing it even though Paolo (more on him later... ) didn't want to because he had been equally let down a couple of years ago. Even though I've been to Paris several times in the past, I've never made it to Notre Dame for some reason, and so it was an absolute must this trip. After 20 minutes in it's dark, depressing interior, we were back out in the Ile de la Cité, on our way to Saint Chappelle. The latter turned out to be gorgeous, and was thankfully worth the metal scanner and impromptu frisk at the hands of two very unfriendly policemen (St Chappelle is in the middle of the Gendarmerie, for some bizarre reason). On to the Conciergerie, to see where Marie Antoinette was beheaded, and then to the Latin Quarter for the most divine crepe I have had in my entire life - chocolate sauce, cocoa liquor, whipped cream and coconuts. (Can't you just hear the lard swishing as I type?)

Paris is absolutely fabulous! We went on the Bateaux Mouches on Friday (another highlight in Paris that I had never before taken advantage of), and even though it got so cold that I wanted to bite my fingers off just to stop the pain, I still felt all swoony and inspired and poetic and cheesy riding along the Seine and looking at all the gorgeous gorgeous architecture. Ever the bimbo, I was forced to act as though I'd always known that Paris was in possession of its own Statue of Liberty. I knew the French gave one to America okay, it just never really occurred to me that they kept one for themselves! Christ, perhaps I shouldn't be admitting this in public?

I also have to report that I received my first "holler" in Paris. Finally! If you're wondering what the hell I'm on about, basically I left New York thinking I was the most gorgeous thing on the planet because everywhere I went, somebody "hollered" at me. They'd walk towards me in the street, and then just when they were within earshot, would go, "Mmm...mmm... God bless ya sister!" "Have a good day now, you pretty thing!" I even got the occasional business card, and a couple of hollers from umm... women. And it wasn't just the unemployed layabouts in Misan's ghetto doing the hollering by the way, it was also chic sophisticated folk. The height of it was when I had a shop assistant in Macy's (a beautiful, beautiful specimen of the male species) follow me around for 3 hours. By the end of the 2nd hour, he was modelling clothes for me (obviously not female ones, these were for my brother), and showing me item after item, just so I wouldn't leave. When I finally checked out at his till, he subtly implied that he would be "clocking out" too in a few minutes, to which I replied, "Uh... Have a nice day.

But anyway... in Paris I have been somewhat astounded by the Frenchman's unwillingness to acknowledge my hotness factor. And it has been a rather painful climb back down to Planet Earth. Thankfully though my floundering ego has been salvaged this weekend (Woohoo!) The first of my hollers came, unfortunately though, from a street-side Tektonik maestro! I suppose I should have been flattered, but umm... I just wan't. If you have no clue what Tektonik is (probably because you are lucky enough to reside in another more normal part of the world), have a look at the video below. Le Tektonik has taken Paris by storm. I'm not kidding! French people are usually so chic, that this new stage in their sociocultural development is just bizarre... it's beyond bizarre, it's absurd!


I don't think this gentleman is very good at Le Tektonik, but then this is what the pros look like to normal eyes. Xxx

La Cochonne Stupide et les Gâteux Parisiens

It has been so funny reading the comments from my previous post. Now I understand why the French are so touchy about their language. Everyone butchers it!

Teehee!

Tomorrow, I will be leaving my box of a hotel room for (fingers crossed) a much nicer room at an undisclosable (?) location. Et alors, il faudra que je dise "au revoir" à St Germain. Ce quartier de Paris est très beau, mais il y a trop de patisseries. Trop trop de patisseries. Les patisseries sont partout, et elles sont toutes petites, et toutes remplies!

(After poking at other people's french, I hope I haven't just embarassed myself there. Teehee! - Basically, I said I am having trouble with the number of patisseries in this part of Paris - St Germain dés Pres.)

Picture a very cold Bitchy (it's been absolutely freezing everyday thus far) walking briskly on the dewy streets of gaie "Pareee". Wispy white fumes are flying out of her trembling mouth and enlarged nostrils. She moves quickly, desperate to reduce the 15-minute walk to school to a 5-minute one (because it is 8:55am, and she was supposed to have left the hotel at 8:30, but was for some reason unable to do so - perhaps because she has never in her life been able to walk out the door at the correct time?)

Anyway, where was I? ... Bitchy! Trying as hard as possible to walk at her absolute quickest, wanting to pee (because the weather is far too cold, and icy weather for some reason makes her want to pee), but being accosted at the same time. Accosted, I say, by millions of trays on either side of her, trays lining the street, lurching (almost) out of their display cases at her, trays laden with goodies, mountains of goodies, volcanos of goodies, oodles of the good stuff! (In this case, the good stuff is so good that Bitchy thinks the only appropriate way to describe it Naijanized speak would be - "the bonz stuuuuurvs"? Ou peut-être, le bon "sturvins"?)

Palmiers, meringues, macaroons, eclairs, tartes, pies, baguettes, brownies, quiches, biscuits, cookies, the colours, the crusts, the crumbs, they hit our favourite bitch, bang, bang, bang, one after the other. They slap her upside the head, slap, slap, slap, window after window.


And thus the scene continues... Until 15 minutes later, when at 9:10am, Bitchy arrives in the classroom. Late, apologetic, breathless, hungry and desperate for the loo.

The first time this happened, on Monday, I was just gobsmacked. At first I stopped to stare, but then decided that the only way to make it to my destination would be to fend off the vicious images by putting both hands up on either side of my face, and picking up the pace. All I could do was swear at myself for having chosen to arrive at this very phase of my life, in the city of supreme bakers and chefs.

What was I thinking?

You see, not only have I been somewhat lax on the exercise front since I left Lagos, I have also been nursing a bit of a holiday paunch since my New York trip. Why? Uh... Possibly because I spent a large part of my time in New York eating?

In New York, I bought confectionery everywhere I went. I tore at my map until I found the infamous Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street. Dissatisfied, I made Misan abandon a taxi that had been hard come by (we must have waited in the cold for about 20 minutes?), just so that I could go to Butter Cup Bakeshop (Magnolia's sister bakery, on 52nd & 2nd). And dissatisfied still, I went on to Dean & Deluca on Prince Street, thinking that if there was a group of people whose taste I could rely on, it was my sisters from Sex & The City. I went to zillions of other bakeries as well, including The Little Pie Company on 14th & 9th in Meatpacking!

In short, each time I walked past a bakery, I went in.


At the end of my stay in NY (several thousands of calories later, and after a humongus (sp?) wastage of time), I concluded that New York's reputation as the home of brilliant cupcakes, desserts and cheesecakes, was not at all deserved. Ask me how the hell it took so long to arrive at that conclusion, when right from my first encounter with a flaky, floury, flavourless Red Velvet cupcake at Magnolia Bakery, it should have been crystal clear? (The folks at Magnolia could do to learn a thing or two from the Hummingbird in Portobello, or Peyton & Byrne in Soho - two of London's finest!)

What I wish now though, is that I could go back in time, wipe all that American fat off my... uh... slate, and begin afresh. Malheuresement, cela ne serait que possible si j'étais un génie ou un scientiste fou! Paris? C'est ridiculeux! I am literally stuffing myself at every opportunity - you would think I had never seen food before, or (if not for the beautiful white coat that protects me from the terrible weather) that I was some poor, starving African child who had only just left her motherland for the first time ever in her life! Que, je suis un cochon! During my coffee and lunch breaks, I have gorged like a freak (or a ravenous lioness if you prefer) on mountains of goodies. Today for example, I tried a cake (the name of which I have now forgotten, urrrgh!) which was so soft and just sweet enough, but with a lovely brown crust and crisp corners. Hmmm... C'était delicieux! Chei! I am ruined. And from tomorrow, I will have my own fridge ("un frigo"). And what does one do with a fridge in Paris except fill it to bursting with cheese and foie gras?


E wo!

What's this little piggy to dooooooo?

*NB - One of the pictures in this post is rather deceiving. I have not yet encountered a single cupcake in Paris. Perhaps it's too simple a confection for the French? Hmmm.... Je vais commencer le cherche pour un 'cupcake' Parisien à demain.

La Belle Salope Dans Un Hôtel Moche

Just as there are loonies on the loose in New York, it turns out that there are crazy people on the rampage in Paris. I am yet to encounter them, as I only arrived this afternoon, but my friend assured me this evening, that they are everywhere. Unlike their North American cousins however, they don't howl or dance or kick things in the street. They look like boys, young boys, young boys dressed in street gear. Apparently their madness only exhibits itself (think screws loosening rapidly) when poor unsuspecting females respond to their snappy, fiery questions. I have been told not to say "Pardon" or "Excusez-moi" or anything of the sort when (not if) I encounter this rabid species. My instructions are to walk away and blank them completely, or babble back at them in rapid English. The latter, apparently, will be almost as effective as a bout of pepper spray (which by the way I also carry with me - a gift from my very paranoid Maman).

The end of my brief stay in New York was rather eventful, but not in the way I had anticipated.

The Saturday that followed my last blog post brought with it a mission to Ellis Island, which we aborted barely 10 minutes into the voyage due to an unforeseen and completely unexpected battle with a disgruntled, ageing nincompoop at the Post Office, which lasted for close to an hour. At one point things got so heated that I thought he said "Alright Bitch" to me (when in fact he said "Alright Mitch" to the guy next to him) and began to roll up my sleeves whilst plotting the best route via which to launch a hefty slap in his direction through the bullet-proof glass barrier that separated us. (Yeah right! I would probably have injured myself if I'd made any such move. I did get very angry though - at least that part is true!)

Also on Saturday, I managed to catch a showing of Tings Dey Happen, Dan Hoyle's one-man play at the Culture Project, which turned out to be hilarious beyond belief. I hadn't expected to enjoy it, after scanning through the lame signboard erected in the theatre's waiting area. I believe its title was something like 'Pidgin for Beginners', and its contents ranged from ennervating entries like "Dey = To Be", to equally irritating ones like "Na so? = Is that true?" But from the moment Dan (think skinny white guy with a rather odd/ overly-expressive face) walked onto the stage, my two compadrés and I found ourselves howling like a bunch of cheetahs. Aside from a lady behind us (the only other Nigerian in the room), it was pretty much our shrieking and laughter reverberating around the room the entire time. The oyinbo audience just did not get it. I suppose they either hadn't come prepared to find humour in the dark dank subject of the Niger Delta, or were having as much trouble understanding Dan's pidgin as they would a Korean monologue (and it probably didn't help that their hair colour was predominantly grey too - me thinks they were mostly retired university intellectuals/diplomats plus spouses/partners). The range of characters (of all shapes, sizes, tribes, accents) played by Dan was truly impressive! My absolute favourite was Sylvanus, an obsequious, opportunistic Port-Harcourt man with a wonderfully Igbotic (sorry, 'Eastern-Nigerian') accent who served as the humorous stage manager/assistant between scenes. But all the others were so well done, even Asari-Dokubo!

Obviously the sketches weren't just about humour, as all the characters together provided an eagle-eye view of the different interests at play in the ongoing Niger-Delta crisis (even though much-needed portrayals of at least one swindling state governor and one oil-company big dawg were notably amiss). But I'm afraid that's as far as my socio-economico-political analysis is going to go for now, (a) because my specialty is fluff, not serious topics, and (b) because the weird wireless here in Paris has slowed my Macbook down to an excruciating pace! I really hope these people aren't sending me a virus!

After Tings Dey Happen, came dinner and belly-dancing at L'Orange Bleue, a vigorous street-fight with some Latinos who stole our cab (using words though - I would never let anyone violent near my hair), a spot of clubbing (who says that?) and then a very piggy, very lazy Sunday, followed by a near flight-miss.

And after a very busy week in London, I am now in Paris, where it is almost 10pm and an alluring (albeit stingy and disappointingly flat) pillow is calling (nay, crooning) to me.

Bon Nuit Xxx