A Redhead in Paris

     After nearly two weeks in Paris, I realized that it was probably about time to restart the blog.  While hardly a native yet, I'm quickly learning the ins and outs of this busy, beautiful city.  Paris is constructed in a giant spiral with numbered neighborhoods- starting with the 1st arrondisement (neighborhood) in the center of the city and ending with the 12-20th arrondisements on the outside of the spiral.
     I live with a host family in the 16th arrondisement in a house built in the 18th century on a private street.  Needless to say, I have it bon.  My host family, Cecile and Didier, my host parents, and their four kids Jonathan, Alexi, Adele, and Laura, are some of the nicest people I've ever met.  Alexi, 24, and Laura, 14, live at home with me, while Jonathan, 28, works for the World Bank in Turkey and Adele, 21, goes to school elsewhere in France.  This family is incredibly smart and talented.  Both my host parents are doctors.  Everyone plays piano or guitar or both- ridiculously well, I might add.  It makes me feel incredibly unaccomplished, even though they assure me that I sound great when I sing in the shower. 

Also, her dog is bigger than any French dog I've ever seen. Just saying.

     The one thing that I have noticed, in the short time I've spent here, is that my favorite childhood books, the Madeline series, were complete and utter lies.  There are absolutely no redheads in Paris.  I understand that Madeline was an orphan, so maybe her parents weren't originally French, but that book gave me all kinds of false hope that I would naturally fit in here.  People assume I'm an English speaker before I even open my mouth.  It's really frustrating when I'm trying to improve my French.   I don my chicest clothes and look annoyed on the metro, like every other Parisian I see, but to no avail.  My hair will forever serve as a fiery beacon to my un-Frenchness.