Some days are better than others, and viceversa

Today was viceversa.

I'm in Paris right now, in the 15th arrondissement. Writing from my uncle Mario's laptop in the Ikea-furnished apartment he and my aunt Liliana have rented for their weeklong stay. Which just so happens to have coincided with my taking the GRE. In Paris. (If you take it in Paris, it's more glamorous. Okay, not really.)

This morning, at 11 am, I walked over to the Plaisance Metro station and hopped the M 13 over to Saint-Lazare. From there, I took a grimy Transilien (trains that go to the Parisian banlieue) in order to get to my test site in Courbevoie.

I don't usually listen to my mp3 player when I'm heading from point A to point B. Like all the pod people that have taken over cities. You see them everywhere, on buses and trains, on sidewalks, sometimes even on bikes, telltale wires dangling from their ears, and zoned out looks on their faces. Each insulated and quarantined from their fellow man. Who said technology would bring us all closer together?

But today, I took my mp3 player. I wanted to be in my own blissed out bubble before the exam. I wanted to get pumped by listening to ABBA and Prince. I did not want screaming babies and annoying conversations to fuck with my cool. Only I forgot that the downside to cutting yourself off from your environs can prove risky because, well, you're cut off! And you don't notice when, for example, your somewhat aggressive handling of the ticket machine and curses muttered under your breath (which, as it turns out, are actually much louder than you had intended) draw the attention of a swarthy train operator. Who proceeds to give you a withering look before lecturing you on the correct way to purchase your train ticket (the French really, really love to lecture you on how to do things correctly).

At last, sitting on the Transilien, I tuned in to Cat Power and tried some deep breathing exercises. Breathe in for five seconds, exhale for five seconds. I got about as far as 2 cycles of these before I realized that the air I was inhaling had a strong hint of stale amonia. More likely than not derived from human piss. I then decided I'd rather smell myself for the remainder of the ride and drew the top of my sweater over my face.

My arrival at Bécon-les-Bruyères, the final stop on my pilgrimage to the GRE test site, was marked by an intense desire to buy something to eat. I knew I wouldn't have time for lunch beforehand, so I'd counted on buying a Snickers bar to munch during the exam. Snickers bars being packed with chocolate for energies and peanuts for proteins. Lucky for me, there was a vending machine selling Snickers by the pair, right at the train station! Two euro would buy me two whole Snickers, to keep my belly full and my mind at ease. I parcelled out two euro in assorted coins, and dropped them into the vending machine. Made my numeric selection. And then, I lost it. Because the machine ate my coins, delivering nothing in return but a bruised fist (as previously mentioned, I have a tendency to ¨get aggressive¨ with inanimate objects that disappoint me).

I left the train station, my mood already dampened, and discovered that I was lost. The directions to the test site were clear as far as transportation. But once in the right neighborhood, there was nothing specifically directing me towards the Rue Armand Silvestre. I wandered around, trying hard to bolster my spirits with positive observations ("Look at the cute creperie," "My God, I'm in the city where Borges and Cortázar wrote, a Mecca for writers!"). Until I finally asked a young épicier to help me get my bearings. Which he did very succesfully.

Once oriented, I looked for a grocery market to buy a snack. And I found one! Kind of a dirty looking store, selling disheveled products under the glare of fluorescent lights. I grabbed an assortment of nuts and fruits marketed as Apperifruits! and made a dash for the cash register. I was third in line, behind a gray-haired man sporting crazy eyes. That he kept fixing on me. I avoided eye contact, but to no avail. He kept turning around and looking at me. And then he opened his mouth to speak.

I couldn't understand a word coming out of his mouth, only that he was making sounds that aren't usually characteristic of human speech. Whizzing sounds. And clucking sounds. Yes, like a chicken.

I think this was the first time in France that I've felt truly alone. Standing in line, next to this strange man who would not stop looking at me and clucking in my direction, I almost cried.

It dawned on me he most likely had Tourette's. And, glancing at the contents of his grocery basket which consisted of nothing more than a head of lettuce, canned ravioli, and a couple of green apples, I felt the saddest I've been in a while.

The day is over, and I'm late to meet a friend at the Bastille. The important thing to keep in mind is that the GRE is over. No more standardized tests. Ever! I hope.

Who needs a drink?