Here’s an SAT problem for you: over the weekend I got a call from a friend who was going to a house-party on Saturday night. “I’ll be there!” I said.
IF at 21h, I threw on 1 pair of pants, ran 400 meters to the corner-store, grabbed a 6-pack, got on the 8 train, transferred to the 1 at Concorde, went straight to address 11 near Bastille, rang the doorbell twice, opened the unlocked door on the 4th (top) floor of the apartment building, and took 3 steps into the room with the beer shouting “Wooo, Partayyy!”, how many sophisticated, well-dressed Thirty-somethings turned from their ors-d’oeuvres and stared at me, appalled? Answer E for Everyone in the room.
It took me about an hour to recover socially, but after I had consoled myself by drinking the majority of my six-pack alone in a corner of the room, the atmosphere began to take a much more pleasant tone, and I’ll tell you: I’ve never felt more like a legit, real-life, no-holds-barred ex-pat. Throughout the course of the night, I had conversations with people from Australia, Mexico, Bosnia, and Benin (ya, I didn’t know that was a country—I gather it’s in West Africa, right next to Togo...which apparently is also a country), plus a film producer and the director of something for Facebook-Europe (I was in a really helpful mood, and informed him that I’ve been getting some Spam recently, and asked him what he planned on doing about...he wasn't very appreciative). When people ask what I do for a living, I in turn tell them I’m author of successful new Blog, only in its 3rd month of service and already receiving SEVERAL hits a day! Only a few thousand more and I will be able to market this puppy off to one of the hordes of advertising companies that are no doubt already in the final stages of planning their competitive buy-out.