It will be: "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." And in French, "Harry Potter et le prince au sang-mêlé." According to Rowling neither Harry nor Voldemort is the Prince...

More info straight from the horse's mouth at www.jkrowling.com, which is a pretty fun site in its own right!

And another fun fact I learned from this site...Fred and George Weasley share my birthday! Woohoo!

I am back from my spontaneous trip to New York, which turned out to be much more mind-blowing than I had intended. I guess I am not as smooth at the cultural transition as I thought. How could I forget in 6 short months about my New York nemesis, the subway? Or the trash cyclones that can take you out at any moment? The metaphor of city as boyfriend (i.e. I have two lovers, Paris and New York) was extended, with New York now playing the role of ex-boyfriend. You may still have feelings for him, and he may look good when you see him, but it is only a matter of time before you realize that it is still the same old bullshit.

As soon as I am over my jetlag, which vaccillates between nausea and moderate euphoria, I will write more about the last 2 weeks, including a hike in the 1000 Acre Swamp, pizza and beer Rochester-style, a re-read of Harry Potter 5, all-you-can drink cocktails at the Plaza with George Crumb, a few wild parties at a chateau near Fontainebleau (with togas), a rooftop in Williamsburg, and an apartment in the East Village, a Nathan's hot dog and a ride on the Cyclone at Coney Island (and a nasty, bizarre sunburn), a ghost tour of an old bar, great streetside Thai food eaten in the grass at Prospect Park, a long cry, a pile of pierogies, Rudolf Nureyev and the Muppets, a granita di caffe at Reggio, and Venezuelan hippies hidden behind a Volkswagen bus in, of all places, Tribeca.

I gotta go now though, because I swear to God a hear a marching band playing "Oh, when the Saints go marching in..." on the street down below and that is just not a normal occurrence here in Saint-Mande.

Ste and I were making the rounds last night. Started out by going to see our apartment which is almost done: floors are done, painting is done, all architectural alterations are done (walls broken, bar installed). It looks so beautiful! We are all ready to move in but we have been foiled once again, this time by a box of broken tiles that are delaying the kitchen construction. But we still hope to move in within the month. The housewarming we have been advertising will take place, although it looks so beautiful we don't know if we want our sloppy friends spilling punch all over it.

Next stop was the cinema. Went to see the new Coen bros. film Ladykillers which was enjoyable, if not one of their better films. Sped on over to La Favela Chic, a very cool little Brazilian joint, where we imbibed a damn-good mango caipirinha and said goodbye to our friend Erez, who after a 15-month assignment in Paris is heading back to Istanbul to work with his family. Then we jetted down to the Champ de Mars (the field that extends between the Eiffel Tower and the Ecole Militaire, for those needing a little orientation) to see our friend Joseph (Lord of the Spin) and his followers do some pretty kick ass firespinning while young hippies danced around enjoying the hippy pleasure of refreshing, wholesome alcohol. Photo is actually of a firebreather, who was pretty impressive. I have video of Joseph spinning in front of the Eiffel Tower, but as we are leaving for a weekend of tennis, petanque, vodka, and cake in the country in about 15 minutes, I won't have time to post it today. But look for it soon on Mandounette!

Or more accurately, in the air. For those that haven't been forwarned, I am leaving on Sunday for a jaunt in good ol' New York. Here's a very vague itinerary for those that may want to try to catch me during my short stay in the US.

New York City: Sunday, June 13 - Monday, June 14
Rochester: Monday, June 15 - Thursday, June 17
Brooklyn: Thursday, June 17 - Monday, June 21 (I'll come to Manhattan if you ask nicely)
Paris: Tuesday, June 22 - ???

I will make a highly-efficient schedule in order to see everyone, which will inevitably be undermined by my debaucherous activities.

So, I had my first routine doctor's appointment in France today--ignoring, of course, the dozens of visits I had several years ago for my sprained ankle, my mono, and my wisdom teeth problems. For 25 euros (that's the cost of an office visit with NO INSURANCE here), I learned that my American doctors were total quacks. Many of you know of my battle with Depo Provera, the heinous birth control shot that my doctor put me on a couple of years ago, but today all of my paranoid ponderings were confirmed. When I told my French doctor what I had been on, her jaw-dropped. Apparently, the ONLY reason they prescribe this drug in France, which contains incredibly high doses of female hormones, is to cure psychopathically crazy people and male pedophiles (apparently it kills their sex drive completely.) So, it makes me question both the competence and the ethics of my doctors in New York City, who not only prescribed this to me, but told me to stick with it even when I complained of weight gain, severe anxiety, acne, and high blood pressure. When I went off of it, I thought, maybe it wasn't the drug, that I was just looking for a scapegoat to explain away my sudden turn for the worst. But no, my French doctor pretty much told me that these were all viable and common side effects of this drug. At least I didn't have the urge to molest children, I guess. Anyway, the moral of this story is, ladies, watch out! Don't trust anything they tell you. And for the French, stop bitching about your medical system. You don't know how lucky you are.

Uncle Jimmy once told me that I should never choose just one path. That in doing so I would give up on myself, because there are certain people that just don't fit into the "be passionate about your work" model. Some of us are just passionate about living. Work, of course, is a part of living, and therefore merits certain amounts of passion, but gosh, there is so much more!

I was lost for 2 and a half hours on Saturday night, looking for the enigmatic and mystical Bodegas. Legend has it that this temple consecrated to nostalgiac music for French 20-somethings, housed under a magnificently hokey circus tent (think the spaceship in Killer Klowns from Outer Space) that apparently cannot be found without a Parisian-born guide. Confidentally striding the quai, pretending to be Sydney Bristow as Julia Thorne (all about the curls and eyeliner on Saturday), Gauloise in hand (trying to raise my level of Frenchiness), I looked and listened for any sign of life. I arrived at the Pont de Saint-Cloud empty handed, except for the distant strains of hip-hop. The Sirens of French hip-hop lured me toward a houseboat floating on the banks of the Seine with a handful of bohemian young people smoking on the deck. At least maybe they know where this illusive Bodegas can be found. I ask. They don't know. But they do know how to roll a mean joint and invite me to partake. Thirsting for a whisky and coke and hopeless that my quest will end soon (there is nothing but blackness and stars and the reflection of the moon in the water as far as the eye can see), I settle in. But soon, I am getting too comfortable and realize that it is getting late. I must be going. "Thank you." "Good luck."

I call my friends for the 5th time. "Give me a fucking clue!" I say in my most elegant French. "You can't miss it!" Oh, yes, I can. I need a whisky. Standing on the quai, near the Pont de Sèvres I see something that, while not exactly a circus tent, has the look nonetheless of a Fourth of July fried dough stand. It is under the bridge, so 10 minutes later, having crossed the bridge, gone down a musty staircase, climbed over a bunch of train tracks and passed many-a-man peeing against the supporting structures of the bridge, I make another call to my friends. "What kind of music is playing where you are?" "I don't know, Abba?"

Hmmm. Where I am there seems to be a gypsy a cappella group singing while women dance in circles while men clap. And they are not singing a Hungarian version of Dancing Queen. My spirits dashed, I see that at least there is a little make shift self-serve bar. I have a drink. For the most part people ignore me. I leave when they start paying attention to me. I don't have much of a desire to be converted to some strange sect or to be sold into white slavery. One more call. "I am on the Pont de Sèvres. Where are you? If you can't tell me, I'm throwing myself into the Seine." "Oh, putain!"

"Wait, I just saw a shooting star. I wish that I find this damned Bodegas before the end of the night."

I start off again. I pass the world's longest parking lot and finally arrive at my destination (2 and a half hours later). "You going to Bodegas?" demand the guardians of the temple. "Yes!" "It closes at 2." "But it is only 1:20!" "Yes, but they don't let anyone in after 1." "NO, you will let me in! I have been lost for over 2 hours to say goodbye to my friend! I can't be rejected now!" "You have a pretty accent, where do you come from?" "New York!" "And you came all the way here, to our little Bodegas?" "I hate the country." "Ok, we're radioing you in. There is a young woman on her way. She's looking for her friends. Let her in." In such a happy mood, I arrive and chain drink my whisky and cokes, sing along with Frank Sinatra and Grease and The Love Boat theme song. As usual the destination was less interesting than the quest. But then again, you can't have one without the other.

Oh, how I wish my Plan de Paris was actually the Marauder's Map! Went to see Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban tonight with Smilla, who is responsible for my Harry Potter addiction. It was fabulous. I am too tired to write more, but I just wanted to rub it in a little that it came out 2 days before in Paris! But seriously, the best of the 3 movies so far. HPNY (Harry Potter New York) crew, I did miss your presence though.