14 + 15

So I think my mailman hates me.

A bit of background : when I got back from Greece, one of the first things I did was go to a sporting goods store to see if I could pick up a few pairs of hand weights (because, really, there is no way I’m paying for a gym membership when youtube workout videos can give me the same thing for free). Unfortunately, the GoSport I went to near République only carried weights up to 4kg (just over 8lbs), and as I was hoping to get some heavier ones that would meet my workout needs, I decided to order them off Amazon instead.

(Also, the price labeling made it very unclear as to whether the weights cost 14eu a pair or 14eu per dumbbell, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood to find out which one was right).

Something to keep in mind about Paris apartment buildings is that how your packages get delivered to you can depend on whether or not your building has a guardien (something like a doorman, but who is usually stationed in a small office in the building’s instead of by the front door). When I last lived here, I was fortunate enough to have a building with a guardien, who would ring up if/when a package got delivered and keep it in his office for me to collect later if I wasn’t in. Unfortunately, my current building does not have a guardien, so package delivery takes on a rather potent air of suspense, not unlike one of those choose your own adventure novels where you don’t know if the next page turn will see you successfully completing your journey, or trekking out to the Chronopost office in the middle of nowhere to stand in line with about 5 other equally annoyed people as you wait for a disinterested employee to fetch your tiny package, all while wondering what you did to deserve this in the first place (coincidentally, this very thing happened to me in spring 2013).

Fortunately, I was home when the mailman rang up on Friday morning to tell me my package(s) had arrived, but then came the second problem : my building’s lack of elevator. And I am on the top floor (6th French, 7th American). I of course ran downstairs to help carry at least one of the packages, but the guy insisted on carrying them himself (because sexism). And I don’t know if I can say for sure, but I am pretty certain he regretted that decision once I told him that yes, I am on the top floor (the doubt comes from the fact that I offered again to take one of the packages, but he again said no because…sexism). 

He unfortunately also had to make the trek back up again after dropping the boxes off because he forgot to scan the packages and have me sign for them. And it wasn’t until he left that I realized that there was one set of weights (the heaviest pair at 8kg each) that had yet to be delivered. Thankfully, that pair came yesterday.

4kg, 6kg, 8kg. Because I’m just so buff…or something.

I did promise him though that this would be the last pair, which I think he was more than happy to hear. *

Last night saw a reunion with an old friend at a crêperie in the 15th, and this morning saw yet another reunion with some of the Lucien Paye gang at our old stomping grounds of Cité U (where you can still get a crazy affordable breakfast formule at the café – open from 9h30 on weekends. And yes, I  know that non-students can also still eat at the resto-u for lunch/dinner at an insanely affordable price, but I’m….okay with skipping that). Meeting right when the café opened meant we pretty much had the place – and the grounds in general – to ourselves, other than a few jogging groups and some ultimate frisbee players. I honestly can’t remember the last time I visited Cité. I vaguely recall stopping by there one or two times after I moved out to the 20th, but it feels like it’s been ages. And yet, nothing much has changed. We even popped in to Lucien Paye to say hello to the security guard there, who remembered some of us (I think he was still trying to place who I was after we left, but I distinctly remember him as the man who found my phone after it fell out of my purse and into the snow), and was more that happy to let us look around the entrance hall a bit. Nostalgia is a funny thing. It both makes you want to linger in a place to try and recapture some of the moments you once experienced there, and yet nags at you a bit to move along. Because really, there is no use in trying to fully recapture the ephemeral. 

One time, the resto was offering a choice of questionable fish or grilled (cow, I believe) liver. That was the moment I decided that cooking for myself every evening was not such a bad idea after all.

The rest of the afternoon was spent walking through Montparnasse and up to the Blend location near Les Halles for some burgers (I didn’t get a picture of my Came burger which was smothered in absolutely beautifully gooey camembert cheese, but after not having had a burger for like…a year…because ‘eating healthy’ is I thing I apparently started doing, I devoured that thing like it was nothing). 

* A final note : is there ever really an appropriate time for a mailman to propose getting a coffee with a resident? No? Yeah, I figured. 

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