Sunday night, my roommate had guests over to our house for a sushi party. I thought, this would be a great opportunity for me to attempt to utilize some social skills around people that I don’t know very well. Well, I made my sushi, and about ten minutes into dinner, I ended up retreating to another room because I felt this insatiable urge to continue reading the book, Seven Ages of Paris, by Alistair Horne. I don’t know what is wrong with me that I feel this intense need to bone up on my knowledge of Paris under siege in 1870 by the Prussians or about the Communards instead of engage in actual human interaction. During the course of my reading, I started freaking out that I had totally forgotten that 1848 was a year of revolutions all across Europe (except England), and then I realized that I needed to call my mom so she could make sure that she brought all of my European History books from my AP class my sophomore year of high school for when I see her this weekend in North Carolina.
So I guess it is official. I have now moved into another manic European history phase, except this time it is more about French history than British history. David should have never taken me to Paris. I have four days in the city and look what happens to me . . .
I use French history to take my mind off of the three days in a row I have to go to court because I hate it so much.
On the plus side, I learned alot about the history of Paris which makes my recent trip mean even more. Of course, it also has the side effect of just completely making me want to go back and explore more. Usually trips to other places do that to me. I made myself watch the film adaptation of Les Miserables again on Saturday night (the one with Geoffrey Rush and Claire Danes, etc.), just because I couldn’t remember what rebellion it took place during (it actually was an unsuccessful rebellion in 1830 launched after the death of revolutionary hero General Lamarque against the monarchy of Louis-Philippe) and I don’t have a copy of the book here.
I don’t know what is wrong with me that I cannot engage in polite Sunday evening conversation and that I prefer a book which describes wealthy Parisians forced to eat rats while under a year long siege or about how Louis Napoleon’s master architect, Georges-Eugene Haussmann covered Paris’s new streets with macadam, to prevent people from tearing them up and using the street as a weapon in the event of future revolutions.