the countdown begins

Three hours and 103 euros later my hair looks the best it has since I left the States.

I finally bit the bullet and went to the hair salon today near Place St. Georges. My hair has been growing out since mid-May so the roots were about 2 inches (!!!) long. Yuck. I'm so proud of myself because:

a) I called them to set up an appointment (and calling people is always scarier for me since I can't use any hand gestures to help me communicate),

b) I communicated well enough during the appointment to come out of it with beautiful blonde (weave/balayage, not all over color), trimmed, slightly more layered hair/en degrade (accent aigu missing) and cleaned up bangs/fringe! YeaH!

Noemi and I are at a loss of what to do on our last Friday night in Toulouse (hence I am blogging at 9:00 at night). We were going to go to the cinematheque and watch "Rebecca" (directed by Alfred Hitchcock) outside, but it doesn't end until 12:10, and we start to get afraid of the metro around 11...(and we have to be at the train station at 7:30 tomorrow morning to go to Collioure!! Beach!!)

Young people around here just go to pubs and get drinks on the weekend. Maybe we'll go for a coke at Place St. Pierre? Or ice cream at O Sorbet, l'Amour? Or empanadas at that one Argentine restaurant we ate at last Friday? 

Je ne sais pas.

All I know is that today, I walked around Toulouse by myself while listening to my iPod, and I decided that I shall miss this city. And this country. And this continent. 

Confession: I was not madly in love with France when I first got here. Paris was not everything I wanted it to be. Speaking and understanding was harder than I was expecting. But slowly, la Ville Rose has gotten under my skin. I love it here. I love France. I think a little part of me is always going to be wanting to come back, to stay in the Loire Valley, to visit the Alps, to go to Alsace Loraine, to see the Pays-Basque, Nice, the Atlantic coast, Provence, Brittany. I want to come back to Carcassonne! I never got to the see the Musee d'Orsay! Two words: La Papilloterie!
In exactly one week, when I get on the plane to come home I know I'll be crying. 

I just don't know for which reasons anymore.

Photo from Carmes. 

Sign translation: You don't have the right of way (it's a stolen street sign).