There has been a seismic shift in my sleep pattern. When I was working in the US, I was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of gal. I was most often in bed and sound asleep before 11pm seven days a week. Paris has done something to me. Even when I work at 9 the next day, I am hard pressed to get to sleep before 2 am.

This weekend was extreme. On Friday, I broke the ice cream maker at work under the moronic tutelage of the 19 year-old pastry chef (has anyone else out there ever set ice cream on fire? Because I have). I needed a night out. Dinner with Jen and Jeremy, and then head out to Fernando’s birthday celebration, not minding at all that I have no idea who Fernando is. We go to a divy pool hall and drink giraffes of beer. At 2:30, we carry the celebration to Fernando’s tiny flat, pushing 15 Americans, Mexicans, and Brits (all current or former LCB students) into 22 square meters. A 5:30 am walk home with Jen and Jeremy leaves me in tears of laughter over nothing, proving that one can get high off of second-hand smoke of any kind.

Saturday, both Jen and Jeremy promise never to go out again, but I am not hung over. I meet up with Jamie, Iceni, and Brian in St. Germain for post-service cocktails and stage chatter. We have too many. We move around the corner to another, cheaper pub at the insistence of Iceni’s fling for the night. As Brian and I are accompanying Jamie home once the seedy pub boots us out with to-go cups at 5am, I get a call from a new friend in the 5th, asking me to go to a late night after party. As I ride the metro home the next morning at 7:30, I wonder what I will do with this newfound self when I go home…