tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30791605288967515972024-03-21T21:41:44.389-07:00c'estmoi_cintiutzatyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-81132190400761825642013-02-14T03:44:00.001-08:002013-02-14T03:44:35.161-08:00How to be a fake Valentine<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Remember the last time I was telling you guys that I don’t really feel
like dating again and that it pisses me off to think about letting a new guy
come into my life again? Well, guess what? Nothing changed. Still the same
“state of the art” ‘ya know? But…glad that this doesn’t mean my vagina’s
getting all drepressed and all my feminity fades away while days go by. And I
thank my French man friend for that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He doesn’t have a name, our “thing” doesn’t have a name or exact purpose
for neither of us and I guess I don’t have a particular name for him neither.
He sometimes calls me “ma p’tite fille de l’est” but only when he tries to piss
me off which implies hiting the guy in the guts afterwards. We do fight a lot,
physically speaking cause he enjoys to grab me in his arms using his strong
hands, acting like the alpha male and kissing my neck as a lunatic. Anyway… As
you can see, this is another weird French kinky story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Back home…guess all was classic and very well planned and my taste in
men had completely changed since then. I can admit now that I do enjoy the
company of a smart man, knowing what he wants from a woman, knowing how to
please her, talk to her, touch her body and her thoughts, bend her over
and…guess I’ll leave your imagination to find the end of my sentence here </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span lang="EN-US"> Don’t go too far, I ain’t that open
minded. But, when HE is, I tend to get pretty obedient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So, here I am guys, in another
“plan cul” experience which means the type of regular one night stands
with the same guy blowing your brains out with his charms and giving you some
sexual healing from time to time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As French would say “ça fait du bien” as in “it’s good for your health”
more or less.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Well as long as “tu te prends pas la tete” or you don’t get involved or
give a shit ‘bout how the story will end or how will you end up afterwards,
things are pretty simple, clear and nothing gets into your way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The most important factor here is to stimulate your imagination and your
partners as well in order to keep the flame alive and avoid boredom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And what have I learned from this type of experience is the fact that
our male friends can be easily manipulated if you’re keeping it cool. The
emotionally coolness gets them horny and makes them want you over and over
again. You keep on being that innocent young prey which they would love to
catch. In the same time they feel like they’re in control and they enjoy
teaching you stuff and your obedience gets them come back fo’ more. Always. At
least, that’s what some French guys feel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Faking a fake relationship is the key to success here. Cause, well,
let’s be honest, spending more than 3 months with the same guy, seeing him like
every week, enjoying his company, sharing thoughts and moments from your life
from time to time, texting, sexting, dinning, going out to the movies and all
the stuff normal couples do in usual life…seems pretty “relationshipsy” to me.
But you never have to let the guy know that. Never let the guy realize the fact
that this might involve the “together” part, the “love&romance” thought.
Never let the guy realize the fact that you both are being exclusive with one
another. It ain’t gonna work. All French guys tend to get annoyed by this
stuff. Why would you fuck it all up for the stupid title of “petite amie/ma
copine”? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Giving up good sex for a title? No. I don’t think so. At least while
it’s still good and you’re not bored or something, keep on playing the game of
sexual seduction and forget the couple bullshit and Valentine treats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Not telling it’s not good to have that awesome type of relationship
where you feel loved and you love from the bottom of your soul. That’s a
different story especially created for those few lucky people living in this
world somewhere else than France. Sorry for being so subjective but, it’s my
life I’m talking about here and…well, I do live in France. And French people
are peculiar. Especially men. Women…we’re all the same no matter where we’re
coming from or going to. Talk a lot, feel a lot, cry a lot, work a lot, shop a
lot, give birth to tiny humans and gain less than men. And we usually have long
hair and wear skirts and high kitten heels or sexy leather boots. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And…guess we should “go back to our sheeps” or “revenons à nos moutons”
, guys. As I said, you have to keep it simple and give the impression you’re
that “femme fatale” who’s completely detached, very “à l’aise” with her looks
and sexuality, still available on the single women’s market, always ready to
say “yes” to any other cute guy, still flirting with others in a subtle way in
order to show yourself and your French man friend that you still CAN. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s not that complicated once you know how your guy works or…how
usually guys work in general.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">They all follow their basic instincts like hunger , lust or that awkward
sense of private property. They were, are and will be predictable if you’re
smart enough to figure them out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Some of them enjoy to see you flirting on social networks or with
colleagues at work or sometimes with your lesbian friends if you’re lucky
enough to have some of those. Others react in a pretty negative way to this
type of attitude. Mine doesn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Looks are very important as well to those who love to watch. Watch you
dress up, watch your moves while they undress you, watch the accessories you
put on from time to time. That meaning, kitten heels, black undies or violet,
depends on the guy, pearls or golden jewellery , the way your hair looks, the
colour of your hair as well. Even if they don’t recognize it, men react to all
of these “stimuli”. And all you have to do is pay attention without showing it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The lack of interest is what interests
them in you. Keep a certain distance in time and space between you and
the guy, let him approach you regularly but still giving him the false
impression that it has been like years since the last time you were his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Annoy him, don’t agree with him, get nasty and naughty without seeming
to care about the consequences. It will drive him crazy and this type of “bad
girl” will be very appealing. Play games. Gamble ! Take risks! Keep it all
alive and spice it all up! “Garde le mystère”!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And then again, I am not talking here about normal, classic type of guys
which are all into relationships and love and stuff. I am talking about French
young guys which love to play and from which you can learn tons of stuff and
which do not seem serious at all. The guys who are into weird books, weird
movies, travel and foreign languages or foreign experiences, who are open
minded, who are afraid of the involvement and of babies and marriage, who are into
porn, who are very “straight in the face” if you know what I mean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The others…well, I never got to know them well. They always slipped
between my fingers just when I started to get used to them and love and cherish
them. Tant pis pour eux as French would say…it’s their loss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I ain’t loosing nothing no more cause I have nothing to loose, he
doesn’t have nothing to loose cause theoretically, we do not have nothing. But
this nothing’s still alive for more than three months now and it’s in a pretty
good shape as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">More about this “nothing” next time, guys! Cheers!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Take care, smile and let yourself go!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-21950931558105917832013-01-04T08:41:00.002-08:002013-01-04T08:41:51.911-08:00No strings attached<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/MgnwUgROfZw" width="560"></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-47674546858958601722012-12-30T07:13:00.001-08:002012-12-30T07:13:25.427-08:00Weekend mood...<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-a6Pe1ovKHg" width="420"></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-81319252074515028782012-12-25T09:14:00.000-08:002012-12-25T09:14:09.425-08:00The Christmas sheep...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Don’t worry, dear reader, this won’t be a story ‘bout tiny Jesus, those
sheep from the New Testament and the shepards and stuff…even if it’s Christmas
Eve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Well, don’t know if you guys know, but, since I was a child, I never
slept alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’ve always had that tiny fluffy special thing which French people use
to call “doudou”. Either it was a simple puppet or a teddy bear…well I’ve
always had to hug them and keep them close to my heart each evening when I’d
gone to sleep. Did it the whole time I’ve lived in Romania, did it when I was
in Belgium and still doing it when I’m in France. And yes, I know I am a 24
years old girl with a doudou. But who cares about what the others think here?
No one could ever take away my doudou.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Anyway…I’ve noticed that people who care about me and expect love and
respect in return buy me a doudou as well. I could start with one of my
Romanian ex boyfriends who bought me a teddy bear which I still have and actually
left under my sheets on my pink princess king sized bed from home. It has been
laying there since 2010…and I won’t remove it soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Afterwards, there were my best
friends from college who bought me a cow which I still have here in Paris.
Unfortunately the cow was pretty traumatised after a few car washings, but it
is still alive and usable you know. I hug it from time to time when I miss
Dooda or when I’m watching “Sex&the city”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Once my mum noticed that these two doudous mean a lot to me I think she
became a little bit jealous so she thought it could be a good idea to buy me
herself another doudou which could replace the cow. So, one day, I see my mum
coming home with a new doudou. Before I open the box and see what it is as
animal my mum tells me “I’ve bought you a whale!!!” It was kinda deceiving to
open the box and see that inside there was a shark :/ But still…I’ve
appreciated my mum’s good intentions. In the end, we both agreed that her whale
looks more like a daulphin and we’ve sticked to that ‘cause it sounded better
than the shark. Really now…how could you have a shark as doudou to cherish and
to love every night ?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So…I had now 2 doudous and I was sleeping with the cow. Never change
this habbit like for…2 years or something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Then, one day came when I’ve met a man. A nice one actually which I’ve
met at the tourism institute here in France. And guess what? The guy offered me
a sheep. I’ve felt in love, accepted the sheep and It became really fast my
favourite doudou in the whole world. It’s a pretty cute sheep you know…with a
retarded smile and all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As you expected, the love story ended but I’ve kept the sheep. It’s all
that’s left from a beautiful franco-romanian love story…and continued to sleep
with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Guess my mum got jealous again and well, she was thinking that I
couldn’t move on if I continue to sleep with the sheep so, do you know what she
bought me for Christmas this year? It’s pretty obvious : a new doudou.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As the last time, I get home, receive the box and before I open it my
mum tells me all excited “I’ve bought you a new cow! “ Ok, I told myself that
this is better than a shark so I’ve seemed pretty excited about the idea. Then
I’ve opened the box and…what do I see? A new sheep. My Christmas sheep. :/<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Oh well, guess I’m gonna try to sleep with it tonight. Keep you posted
if it has the same effect as the last sheep I had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And Merry Christmas, guys!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-38845993025331574032012-12-23T08:17:00.002-08:002012-12-23T08:17:43.964-08:00Dad...best dance partner ever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwRbH1vj9TPWlR34NP_PGcdVzptkUIQL9FiSJoRutB0ZjsOeiMqw-ojG5z1YRT1ydiriYOsd2MsByWM2v83nQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-18678543145763658602012-12-21T06:31:00.000-08:002012-12-21T06:31:02.807-08:00Country roads...take me home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3v-t7n2_OQ5tYSN-vgPOR755k7T00iKbqHKcLhh7Y4UuSyw-gOamdWcTLNUcZjclIJgA4NmZ5QpnvRB8AXdU9tfFVEexefbP6Hd408Aq0jM0okylH7TNHxvBWBkcpjja-QbgbeX2XIHB2/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3v-t7n2_OQ5tYSN-vgPOR755k7T00iKbqHKcLhh7Y4UuSyw-gOamdWcTLNUcZjclIJgA4NmZ5QpnvRB8AXdU9tfFVEexefbP6Hd408Aq0jM0okylH7TNHxvBWBkcpjja-QbgbeX2XIHB2/s320/7.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
The usual track for this period of the year is..."all i want for Christmas is you" . I'm not a fan. It's selfish and fake. I don't want only one person for Christmas, i want several of them to be here and get all merry with me. Family, friends and the others i love and appreciate. So, in the end, no, i won't ask Santa for that.
But i've asked him to take me home. And he did. Well...virtually, but he did. This morning, i've found several pictures from home in my mailbox. They've filled me up with happiness and joy and Christmas feelings . Guess Santa does exist and guess i'll always be that shy moldavian country 'gal with that odd country accent who loves the snow more than everything. And i miss my grand parents, and my amazing grandpa who watches over me from a place near heaven still doing crazy communist stuff .
Have a merry Christmas, my young readers! Raise your heads up and follow your dreams wherever you are, however sad or lonely you feel! tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0Paris, France48.856614 2.352221900000017748.6894665 2.0294984000000178 49.0237615 2.6749454000000177tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-59656128331672157372012-12-18T09:48:00.000-08:002012-12-18T09:48:45.875-08:00I'll always remember September<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BgXYOFZmIWA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-38268342357995976492012-12-18T06:29:00.000-08:002012-12-18T06:29:15.753-08:00French words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQRwJWY52Sk1AeZjxfvYOLpoJAgX_OMku-W6W48DMuCbstbtCIZzGfh0-_eJqaxiL5FFD-VyMgwNFOklXsrA3w3zWbqVL7x66P5ayIxFgiz__lIWDlBgtvRnMEYY_-XMpJ8wsi3NkQMpY/s1600/2012-10-02+09.39.02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQRwJWY52Sk1AeZjxfvYOLpoJAgX_OMku-W6W48DMuCbstbtCIZzGfh0-_eJqaxiL5FFD-VyMgwNFOklXsrA3w3zWbqVL7x66P5ayIxFgiz__lIWDlBgtvRnMEYY_-XMpJ8wsi3NkQMpY/s320/2012-10-02+09.39.02.jpg" /></a></div>
“Je pense souvent à toi tu sais…”
I’ve been reading these words everywhere since i came in France…well, especially in books, heard them in the movies, in text messages while I was dating French guys, on facebook and so on and so on. Why? Well, it was hard for me to understand at first, but I suppose they really do mean something…never known what exactly but they keep on having the same effect on me you know. They kinda fill me with the hope that humankind isn’t entirely lost and that some people remain the same time after time.
But there comes a time when this type of words could harm you or stop you from moving on and, like so many other French expressions and words they become forbidden.
But they still sound nice you know. There are tons of words and expressions which just sound amaizingly well in French, you guys, that I could not make up my mind on which is my favourite. And if you’re telling yourself that this should be the “je t’aime” well sorry to disappoint you but it’s not true.
Their “je t’aime” seems to be a fucking tabou here. You use it only in case of emergency, like in those moments when it seems to you that you are loosing the one you love and you tell yourself “For Pete’s sake, if I’m not gonna tell these words right now she/he ‘s gonna leave me forever “ And afterwards, well, you tell her/him “je t’aime” . But, as a foreigner here, I’ve never noticed if they really mean something when they tell it to you. It’s pretty hard to seese the difference between what’s real or not when it comes to their language God damn it. They do it all so smoothly that you get all charmed and stuff and you forget to look for a real meaning in all this.
But still, when they do give the “je t’aime” bomb you do tend to get freaked out. Cause well…it’s not your “te iubesc” , it’s not what your mother have told you when you were a child, it’s another language, it sounds different to your ears, to your other senses too , to your brain and it doesn’t have the same echo on your soul.
Personnally, since I’ve came here, I’ve used these words only one time…with the guys I mean. The rest of the time, I shove them in their face the simple and basic “je t’aime bien” which, well, for me means a lot of stuff. Like for example : you’re cute and funny and I like spending my time with you / you’re so cute that I’m always excited and happy to go out with you so that the other bitches get all jealous and kranky when they see us together / you’re a pretty nice guy, you have amazing blue eyes and you read good books / you have some pretty odd ideas and you don’t talk too much but daaamn you’re good in bed…etc etc. And I’ve never meant to hurt their feelings. The “je t’aime bien” works all of the time. And in the end, well, it’s a proof of respect as well, so I guess guys dig this.
Few of them dared to talk to me about the “je t’aime bien” subject…and those were the guys who gave a shit. So, that one day came when they asked me why do I add the “bien” at the end. Didn’t know how to answer, started explaining some bullshit about the translation from my mother tongue into theirs and all the linguistic differences and then let it be…
So, guess I’m the “je t’aime bien” type of girl.
Loosing the “bien” from the sentence is loosing your pride and your prejudices and putting your heart and your life in the hands of one random French man who, well ,in the end, turns to be so damn different from the prince charming you were expecting that it hurts. And why the hell, you’d do that twice?
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-46527786809581148462012-12-11T07:53:00.000-08:002012-12-11T07:53:41.867-08:00Back to black <b>Dear reader,</b>
<i>As you can see very well for yourself, i only write on this blog only when i’m in love or when i miss my special friends…Sometimes, like, right now, i think it’s unfair to do that.
So, for my own pleasure and your pleasure as well I shall continue to write even if theoretically, I’m not allowed to be in love no more and I’ve already seen one of my special friends recently.
Starting from now on, I’ll write about me myself and I and my life here in Paris.
Lots of you are envying me for living in such a beautiful city, for having accomplished my childhood dreams, but all I have to say is that this had took me lot of time, work, patience and tons of sacrifices and compromises.
I wake up every morning and put my French make up and personality on, smoke a cigarette and go to work. It’s life’s big cliché which takes place in Paris, the land of my merry dreams. As days pass by, my Romanian conscience, principles, language and all which comes with it fade away and sometimes I can’t even notice it. Life goes on, we move on and that’s how it goes.
I’m getting all emotional and nostalgic especially during the winter holidays and I remember my life back home…when I was younger and I miss those times. I miss the snow, I miss the smell of it, I miss the cold and the wind, I miss the smell of Christmas trees, I miss my family and my friends and it gets harder to keep the French smile always on. But in the end I manage to deal with it. I find beauty and happiness in all of the stuff which surround me right here. I find comfort in my tiny apartment where I have books everywhere and brand new shoes in my closet and of course, at work.
I’ve always dreamed to see Paris and the Seine and cross it’s numerous bridges…well, now I’m working at an office right on the banks of this fucking river. What could I wish more?
I see the Seine every morning and I cross it’s bridges with a cup of starbucks coffee in my hand…
My life’s better here from so many points of view, but…it’s not home. That’s for sure. I’ll never forget my old Romanian house, my garden and my roses. I’ll always keep them a special somewhere in my heart and that’s what makes me different and special in this French world which I hardly understand.
They all seem cold and fake, male or female, young or old…and they’re always smiling God damn it and they never get tired of going out and enjoy themselves every fucking evening of the week. And for a beginner like me seems exhausting even if it has been more than 2 years since I’m doing the same stuff as they do.
The metro boulot dodo never stops there… It’s always a coffee in the afternoon, the apero in the late afternoon and the after work cocktails which get in between some way or another. And the smiles, all those fake smiles and fake politeness which sometimes pisses me off but once you get into their game, you cannot get out. And you play it till the end. Till the fakeness gets to you and you’re not able no more to distinguish the good from the wrong, the good guys from the bad guys, the true friends from the fake friends. And you find yourself in the middle of this daily fake tornado of people.
This is the real French life.
But they have pretty good cheese and good wine, you know, and all those luxurious shops and stuff where you can buy yourself some happiness whenever you wish so, yeah, in the end, you end up by loving this.
As for your social life, it has never been richer than this. You make yourself new friends at every corner coffee shop, in the metro, in the pubs, in the restaurants, at college, at work, everywhere.
This is how it all goes.
But the only problem is that you can hardly find someone who could really give a shit ‘bout your own ass. Never seen a people more selfish than this one, guys. I do respect that but still, it’s hard to deal with it all when you know that in the huge amount of friends which you’ve earned through this two years and somethin’ you know that there’s only one person you can count on. And no, that’s not a guy, it’s a girl.
Guys…especially French guys, well, frankly, they all come and go. Young, old, mature, immature, smart, weird, stupid, polite or big fucking bastards, they all come and go and never stay more than 6 or 7 months. Seems to me that they all have an expiry date you know, like the credit cards…
And when you’re a blue eyed girl, I assure you that in 2 years you can see lots of them coming and going in and out of your life. In the end, you find yourself burying a lot of them ex’s , some weirder than others, some smarter than others, some richer than others, single or married or expecting to have a child…the examples never stop. But one thing is for sure, none of them stays at your side more than 7 months. Even if they start talking ‘bout children, even if they whisper at your ear in the morning the famous “te iubesc” in your mother tongue and that fills you with love and hope and stuff…
But, in the same time, as a Romanian living here in France you always tell yourself that it doesn’t worth it to find yourself another Romanian guy, especially when you’ve already been disgusted by that specie…and you keep on screwing and getting screwed by the French. And it all ends the same screwed up way.
And this is how you gain experience, my friend, this is how you become more French than the French, more selfish than you’ve ever expected.
Welcome to my world !
</i>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-59310108392197867252012-11-08T10:06:00.001-08:002012-11-08T10:06:33.160-08:00How to put an end to a summertime sadness <iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/M2CY1qQeye8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-26920906839826352052012-10-31T04:32:00.001-07:002012-10-31T04:32:39.428-07:00Oh, well Je ne sais plus quoi dire... Disons que le silence peut faire du bien parfois. Je ne sais plus quoi dire, du coup je préfère de ne rien dire.
Je vous dis quand même "à bientôt!" mes chers bloggers...
P.S. Dooda, November's approaching so, would you be my sweet November? I'll wait for you here, getting all fusy inside thinking 'bout our endless girly friendship.
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-33872859240926334972012-10-17T05:17:00.003-07:002012-10-17T05:17:28.621-07:00Métro boulot dodo...Le réveil sonne à 6h45 . Elle lui obéit paisiblement, sans rancune et sans remords et bouge son corps lourd de sommeil vers la salle de bains. Le reflet de son visage dans le miroir a l’air pensif et on voit des taches de tristesse sur le bleu de ses yeux. Puis elle s’abandonne sous la pluie chaude et apaisante de sa douche. Son corps reprend de la force sous les caresses de l’eau presque bouillante. En sortant de la douche elle enfile des habits toujours assortis et se met des chaussures qui vont avec afin de s’installer sur une chaise à côté de la fenêtre pour savourer le rituel café clope matinal. A sa droite, un « je t’aime » collé sur son placard de cuisine veille sur elle et lui rappelle qu’à l’autre bout du monde, il y a un « homme » qui remplit le même rituel matinal en pensant à elle. Un petit sourire s’échappe du coin de sa bouche pas encore vêtue du rouge à lèvres.
Quelques minutes plus tard, elle quitte son petit appart et l’aventure commence.
Le vent et la pluie, les feuilles mortes qu’elle écrase dans la rue, les regards vides des inconnus qu’elle croise sur le chemin, tout ça éveille complétement ses sens. Ses pas se suivent un par un, talon par talon, jusqu’à ce qu’ils se perdent entre les ruelles automnales.
Une fois arrivée à l’entrée du métro, elle cherche son journal habituel afin d’y trouver l’horoscope. Son regard se penche vite sur la colonne des « poissons », deuxième alinéat « amour » …rien de neuf. Que des bonnes nouvelles. Et si c’est des mauvaises, elle se dit « Bah, faut jamais faire confiance à ce genre de truc, c’est que du n’importe quoi ce que les astrologues marquent là dedans »
Le métro arrive, la foule d’inconnus fonce dedans avec un seul bout : aller d’un point A à un point B qui, d’habitude s’avère à être un bureau, une chaise, un ordi, un PDG / responsable aussi morose que le temps sur Paris. Elle a le même but. Il n’y a pas grande chose qui la différencie des autres mise à part sa vie intérieure qui tourne autour du même « homme » qui avait monopolisé ses pensées , ses soupirs et les tréfonds de son cœur. Elle l’aime…même dans le métro, elle l’aime. Et ce qui fait que son amour s’allume comme une flamme même sur la ligne M 1 , c’est que parfois , elle croise des petits vieux se tenant par la main, des jeunes femmes en train de textoter « Mon Mari » de leur liste de contacts, des couples d’amoureux dont les regards s’entremêlent avec soif et passion et, de plus en plus souvent, des hommes ayant les mêmes fossettes que le sien, le même nez que le sien, les mêmes yeux que le sien, les mêmes mains que le sien… Illusions d’optique.
Elle l’aime encore…même dans le métro.
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-11762295421930170752012-10-15T10:23:00.003-07:002012-10-15T10:23:24.450-07:00...presque une semaineBon…je me retrouve encore une fois toute seule dans mes 24 mètres carrés lorsque la nuit tombe et les gouttes d’une pluie parisienne harcèlent mon ouïe. Il y a rien d’autre à faire que de me préparer un thé à la menthe, démarrer mon ordi pour écouter en boucle Lana del Rey, serrer Tit Mouton dans mes bras et penser à mon Alexandre. Qu’est ce qu’il est en train de faire en ce moment ? Je sais jamais répondre à cette question surtout à cause du décalage horaire que j’avais jamais compris, même pendant nos cours de prod à l’IST …bref…
Finis les questions rhétoriques qui ne servent à rien, je prends un bouquin et je me mets à feuilleter les pages avec frénésie. Je ne m’arrêterai jusqu’à ce que mes pensées se calment et reviennent de l’Australie sur terre française, jusqu’à ce que mes paupières deviennent lourdes et mes yeux se ferment , jusqu’à ce que le sommeil me rattrape et me porte loin de cette solitude, de ce vide, de ce désespoir et de ma tristesse.
Ca fait plusieurs nuits dèjà depuis que je me force de te retrouver dans mes rêves ou plutôt de retrouver d’abord mes rêves et ensuite de t’amener dedans. J’arrive toujours pas faire des rêves. Tu me manques et j’essaye de me rapprocher de toi même si l’on est à 14h d’avion distance.
Heureusement qu’on se retrouve assez souvent dans le monde virtuel des réseaux sociaux… Mais la réalité s’est vidée de ton image, il n’y a plus la forme de tes fossettes sur mes oreillers, tu n’es plus là pour qu’on se mette à bouquiner ensemble, cote à cote , moi en bouquinant pour de vrai et toi en me regardant. Il n’y a plus personne dans la maison pour me faire chier et peter des câbles pour rien. Il n’y a plus personne à la maison pour m’expliquer le vocabulaire de Colette, la seule femme auteur à utiliser le mot « kalmoucke » qui nous a suscite des fous rires hors du commun pendant toute une matinée. J’entends plus ta voix me répéter « Je t’aime, ma Cintia » Ca me manque tellement…et ta façon de raconter tout et n’importe quoi sur tes amis, sur ta famille, sur les places de parking, sur nous, sur les steaks et les haricots verts, sur les repas de famille etc etc . Les journées sont vraiment kalmouckes sans toi…
Je t’aime encore.
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-46282991761604895042012-10-12T09:58:00.001-07:002012-10-12T09:58:18.408-07:00Pensées de weekend...Comme tous les matins depuis qu’on a adopté notre mouton, mon nez se réveille en reniflant la petite boule de peluche que les Français appelleraient « mon doudou » . Mais, même si le réveil de mon nez reste doux et agréable le mien ne l’est pas…on est déjà samedi et…
Il parait que c’est le weekend pour ceux qui ne travaillent pas dans le tourisme. Comme ce n’est pas mon cas, j’ai le droit de me plaindre. Mon weekend c’est le mercredi ,le jeudi et TOI . Je sais très bien que j’aurai plus de weekend pour au moins 6 mois…Ce n’est pas grave, j’ai des petits cœurs sur mon placard et ça me suffit. J’ai ton petit cœur virtuel à quelques clicks de souris. J’ai des bleus tatoués sur mon cou, l’empreinte de tes caresses sur la peau, la saveur de tes baisers imprégnée dans mes papilles gustatives et un Tit Mouton. Tout ça et ton amour me suffissent.
Mais ça n’empêche que mes lèvres soient assoiffées de les tiennes, que ma vue cherche tes faussettes et ton sourire, que mes mains cherchent tes mains , que mon corps cherche tes bras sous les draps et mon iPhone soit désertique sans tes textos .
Je t’aime encore.
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-84082436775848011852012-10-04T08:56:00.001-07:002012-10-04T08:56:42.412-07:00Our summertime sadness 1Pour une dernière fois, l'amour leur a coupé le souffle. On sentait dans l'air un voile de tristesse que ni elle ni lui, ne voulaient point reconnaître. Mais tout était déjà écrit sur leurs visages, dans leurs caresses et même leurs mouvements étaient devenus tristes. Un silence de marbre pétrifiait leurs oreilles et leurs baisers soupiraient ici et là des "je t'aime" fondus néanmoins dans leur propre abîme d'amertume.
Elle l'aimait. Il l'aimait. Ils s'aimaient.Elle restait. Il partait. Ils s'aimaient.
Une histoire sans fin qui peut être la tienne, la mienne ou bien la leur. Et l'histoire continue. Elle va continuer à l'aimer. Il va continuer à l'aimer. Ils vont continuer à s'aimer.
Et elle va revenir gratter ses peurs, ses angoisses, sa solitude et ses moments de tristesse tous les jours,avec la même passion, avec les mêmes mots parfois maladroits en lui rappelant qu'elle va continuer à l'aimer... <a href="http://youtu.be/nVjsGKrE6E8"></a>
tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-9986859445805571862011-02-28T16:32:00.000-08:002011-02-28T17:33:33.071-08:00Let it "spring"!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQZ65-6oaAhG7tP9lWL6-GdODwBpkA-NFLMXGMG8qFKRH_DtBFLDXseFaBnUfqc4BuDZuru347dZVfibWoHqQEftkwiUw6kAB1rSliGDREmo8NXsB-udKyj9riDPopCd0Ztbwn9a6HoN3/s1600/martisor.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQZ65-6oaAhG7tP9lWL6-GdODwBpkA-NFLMXGMG8qFKRH_DtBFLDXseFaBnUfqc4BuDZuru347dZVfibWoHqQEftkwiUw6kAB1rSliGDREmo8NXsB-udKyj9riDPopCd0Ztbwn9a6HoN3/s320/martisor.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578913296478182306" /></a><br /><br />Les espoirs se reveillent de leur molle hibernation, les sourires renaissent, les fleurs poussent, les moineaux retrouvent leur playlist de printemps, la neige et le froid se cassent, l'herbe fait peindre son epaisse chevelure en vert cru et les emotions reprennent la bonne voie. La montre se trompe d'heure parce que le temps se dilate a la cachette sous les regards enflames et afames du soleil.Les perce neige grignotent la neige meme entre repas et les boutons des fleurs poussent timidement leur premier cri...<br />Doux sifflements de vent annoncent l'arrivee de la nouvelle saison. On est le 1 er mars, le jour ou l'on fete le "Martzishor" chez moi, in my Carpathian Wonderland.<br /><br /> Qu’est-ce que le "<span style="font-weight:bold;">mărţişor</span>" ?<br /><br />Le “mărţişor” (diminutif de "martie - mars") est offert à l’aube du 1er Mars et on le porte attaché à la poitrine tout le long du mois de mars, après quoi il est suspendu à un arbre fleuri, dans l’espoir que toute l’année serait fleurie.<br /><br />Le mărţişor est une fine ganse formée de deux fils tressés, l’un blanc et l’autre rouge, auxquels on peut attacher une petite figurine en bois ou en métal (un coeur, une lettre, une fleur, un fer à cheval ou un trèfle à quatre feuilles) qui joue le rôle de porte-bonheur.<br /><br />Filles et garçons, femmes et hommes peuvent offrir des "mărţişor" à leurs amis, leurs amours, leurs familles. La seule contrainte traditionnelle étant de mêler deux brins de couleurs rouge et blanche, on n’hésite pas à confectionner les "mărţişor" personnellement. Quant aux marchands, qui sont souvent aussi les créateurs, rivalisent d’ingéniosité dans le confectionnement des "mărţişor".<br /><br />Le rouge et le blanc mêlés représentent les deux saisons qui se mélangent encore. Le rouge c’est l’hiver (peut-être parce qu’on y fait rougeoyer l’âtre) et le blanc, le printemps qui s’annonce avec la pousse du perce neige, fleur symbolisant le retour de la nature à la vie.<br />Légendes autour du "mărţişor"<br /><br />Il y a plusieurs légendes concernant l’origine du marţişor.<br /><br />Selon l’une d’entre elles, il était une fois une vieille dame qui s’appellait Dochia. Elle avait une belle-fille qu’elle haïssait de toutes ses forces. Un jour d’hiver, Dochia lui donna un manteau très sale et lui dit d’aller le laver dans la rivière et ne pas rentrer avant que le vêtement ne soit tout blanc. La pauvre jeune fille y obéit, mais plus elle le lavait, plus noir le manteau devenait. Désespérée, elle se mit à pleurer. Soudain, un homme nommé Marţişor apparut et demanda pourquoi elle pleurait. La jeune fille lui raconta son malheur. Alors, Marţişor lui divulgua le secret qu’il possédait des pouvoirs magiques. Il lui offrit une fleur aux pétales rouges et blancs, lui conseilla de laver le vêtement encore une fois et de rentrer ensuite à la maison. Et miracle eut lieu ! Lorsque la jeune fille regagna sa maison, le manteau était blanc comme neige ! La vieille Dochia ne pouvait pas y croire. Mais, du coup, elle vit la fleur dans les cheveux de sa belle-fille. Toute confondue, Dochia pensa que le printemps était venu et décida de partir ses troupeaux sur la montagne. Le temps était beau et la vieille enleva ses touloupes, l’une après l’autre. Mais plus tard, la bruine remplaça le soleil trompant. Au sommet de la montagne, Dochia rencontra Marţişor qui la réprimanda d’avoir obligé sa belle-fille de supporter le froid et l’humidité. Puis, l’homme disparut. La vieille Dochia resta seule sur la montagne. Le gel la transforma en pierre.<br /><br />Voilà pourquoi, début mars, les Roumains tressent des fils rouges et blancs et les portent comme amulettes pour célébrer la victoire du bien contre le mal et l’arrivée du printemps.<br /><br />Conformément à une autre légende, une fois, au mois de mars, la jonquille a fleuri avant la perce-neige. La perce-neige en fut fâchée et se mit à battre la jonquille qui, à son tour, frappa la perce-neige et la blessa. Du sang s’écoula sur la neige. Sur cette place, poussa une autre perce-neige, blanche avec des tâches rouges. Une jeune fille a trouvé cette fleur et l’a attachée sur sa poitrine. Alors, les amies de la fille ont tressé des fleurs de fils blancs et rouges et les ont attachées sur leurs poitrines.<br /><br />Depuis, tous les ans, au mois de mars, les Roumaines portent à la poitrine des amulettes de fils blancs et rouges qu’on appele marţişor.<br /><br />Et ca fait plus de 5 ans depuis quand je commence chaque printemps en ecoutant le meme morceau de folk roumain appartenant a Phoenix (Roumanie, annees '80). Enjoy!<br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/v_FgAruDgmA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-78131944416646493182011-02-21T13:33:00.000-08:002011-02-21T15:17:18.377-08:00La vie est une paire de ciseauxElle coupe et dechire<br />Eclate parfois dans des fous rires<br />Elle coupe et dechire<br />Elle tue les levres aux sourires<br />Elle coupe et dechire<br />Elle change ton parcours sans te le dire<br />Elle coupe et dechire<br />Elle cherche ta faiblesse pour l'entretenir<br />Elle coupe et dechire<br />Elle fait de toi une moule en cire<br />Elle coupe et dechire<br />Elle fait tout ca<br />Et te prepare pour le pire<br />Voila pourquoi la vie te coupe et te dechire.<br />Mais la, j'ai de nouveau des boucles<br />Qui puissent bien tout contredire.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxUbIaU6FR-9Bn_FGXcvbjMyTFy5zjpaPDqyp8CLjDuUdy96tFEPjZQD5JT5YQVno80hFTPwCtCmjmJgqHC2fySFTFVxBVMuqu237w1Ck9Cg_1nAoWjG5P6Tfiyr0Gp2zHGl0AVcUskC9/s1600/bucle.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxUbIaU6FR-9Bn_FGXcvbjMyTFy5zjpaPDqyp8CLjDuUdy96tFEPjZQD5JT5YQVno80hFTPwCtCmjmJgqHC2fySFTFVxBVMuqu237w1Ck9Cg_1nAoWjG5P6Tfiyr0Gp2zHGl0AVcUskC9/s320/bucle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576285533308327602" /></a>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-89726185526336566722011-02-17T10:28:00.000-08:002011-02-17T15:26:50.998-08:00Deux "chocoliques", un musee et les penitences qui vont avec<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwlfhy3UqGAAY_nH2tUjmhoqxy2ICyEPGW2J83nSniTnWjx9osvLQZaFPAZ3sKGhmScV4BRe6HYQygBRGznzTgzZz5tTFLq1uL7q7QtymLD5trijwElNaizUhiAlSDD9cem1lgPhfnJTG/s1600/Theodore-Gericault-radeau-meduse.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwlfhy3UqGAAY_nH2tUjmhoqxy2ICyEPGW2J83nSniTnWjx9osvLQZaFPAZ3sKGhmScV4BRe6HYQygBRGznzTgzZz5tTFLq1uL7q7QtymLD5trijwElNaizUhiAlSDD9cem1lgPhfnJTG/s320/Theodore-Gericault-radeau-meduse.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574802016434096578" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokSIJSAUKQkYb87jGjceRet_rNAg4sUW1H8NVgh9a6sg1UjgSsu2bC30b0rTq-a8Ct_sW9BC9bEeKMUzzzO6bO8x7-S1w2MAULusXF6yySuEX2bpfRmxVPLcyaDqybsS2Yx3f9sdO2Yrn/s1600/louvre-grand-salon-napoleon-III.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokSIJSAUKQkYb87jGjceRet_rNAg4sUW1H8NVgh9a6sg1UjgSsu2bC30b0rTq-a8Ct_sW9BC9bEeKMUzzzO6bO8x7-S1w2MAULusXF6yySuEX2bpfRmxVPLcyaDqybsS2Yx3f9sdO2Yrn/s320/louvre-grand-salon-napoleon-III.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574801089565500082" /></a><br /><br />C'est la saison ou l'on ramasse les passions...<br />Alors, quoi faire? On cherche d'abord un terrain fertil ou les passions poussent a leur gre et pour le plaisir de tous. Le jardinage, quand il s'agit de passions, c'est un travail laborieux qui suppose des sourires en equipe, une goute d'enthousiasme partage, une quinzaine de kilometres de galeries "louvresques", une tasse d'esprit ouvert et avide de culture, un brin de sens de l'orientation et un nuage de temps. <br />Une fois tous ces outils prepares, les jardiniers puissent se mettre au travail.<br />Et tout d'un coup, la cueillette des passions commence. Un bouquet de vie sera bientot accompli. Le silence s'installe, les sens s'eveillent, les tetes tournent, les yeux s'abreuvent de couleurs et de contours en marbre, les neurons dansent frenetiquement, les pensees et les soucis s'envolent. <br />Ici, on ramasse la passion pour les antiquites grecques, la, celle pour l'egyptologie, un peu plus loin il y a tout un champ de Delacroix et juste a cote on sens l'odeur des Da Vinci et David. <br />Enfin, flaner dans les champs de passions, ca fatigue...et juste au moment ou l'on est au bout de ses forces, on apercoit le divin chocolat. Vetu d'un bleu ciel et parseme de serveurs en costard, le champ aux chocolats change des regards coquins avec nos consciences qui, a la fin, vont ceder a la tentation. Cueillir des eclairs au chocolat est l'un des peches le plus doux depuis celui d'Adam et Eve. Alors nos consciences disent non tandis que nos actes disent oui. <br />A ce moment, la saison de la cueillette arrive a sa fin et on a presque fini son bouquet, mais il y a quand meme une touche de couleur qui manque: la passion pour Napoleon III. A deux pas du chocolat, une inflorescence en style eclectique Napoleon III accable nos regards d'une facon halucinante. La derniere passion coupee, on prend chacun son bouquet et on se casse.<br />See you in the next season!<br />'Till then, regalez-vous de quelques fruits de nos passions d'aujourd'hui: <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchAqBqbKAoB-A3fELIO0gpe-4iBMVfUaL8LACILKfO2mpkB5j9j1UVuTNCSbUs3BD8gDfLsFOFZz7azG5Fw02primddDuAU0Nf9rWjWCOELwxvsOKFVfP_WKn_o-Cria3cCM5BwJcedYo/s1600/delacroix-liberte.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchAqBqbKAoB-A3fELIO0gpe-4iBMVfUaL8LACILKfO2mpkB5j9j1UVuTNCSbUs3BD8gDfLsFOFZz7azG5Fw02primddDuAU0Nf9rWjWCOELwxvsOKFVfP_WKn_o-Cria3cCM5BwJcedYo/s320/delacroix-liberte.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574800883268170370" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOg1a7dc-cZ1mFC-kbcqEVvbAtmoD_KWrhElRrMcCclRORYoyU3lMJPGz8XSvlBnRAm72OF1Ve_e8hvvqe6EIFwqoDJu0hkDZGuALMXUycyHIicvKHpEzxg_RAgTWh8YU5w7KnlOzXUsaP/s1600/louvre-lustre-grand-salon-napoleon-III.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOg1a7dc-cZ1mFC-kbcqEVvbAtmoD_KWrhElRrMcCclRORYoyU3lMJPGz8XSvlBnRAm72OF1Ve_e8hvvqe6EIFwqoDJu0hkDZGuALMXUycyHIicvKHpEzxg_RAgTWh8YU5w7KnlOzXUsaP/s320/louvre-lustre-grand-salon-napoleon-III.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574801363327816754" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp4VQEdPY65L-2py2xcLEBtIDK3VNx0X1xZpjlmcJs-_qCjpepKl_13HbJ26MM0R6sfc2u6B7D9LCdYSRSVGkmt2mzT_ji1m_MepcabHjx7F5Crmi-hM_9lk_tvW-9vbGoTWSF1R_RS5z/s1600/louvre-imperatrice-eugenie.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp4VQEdPY65L-2py2xcLEBtIDK3VNx0X1xZpjlmcJs-_qCjpepKl_13HbJ26MM0R6sfc2u6B7D9LCdYSRSVGkmt2mzT_ji1m_MepcabHjx7F5Crmi-hM_9lk_tvW-9vbGoTWSF1R_RS5z/s320/louvre-imperatrice-eugenie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574801726357367154" /></a>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-54661991756524625502011-02-05T07:47:00.000-08:002011-02-05T09:45:17.406-08:00Je ne t'aime plus, mon stress!Parce qu'il y a un debut a tout, voila mon premier article ecrit en francais. <br />On change de pays, on change de formation, on change d'amis, on se redecouvre soi-meme a travers quelques mois passes dans le pays de Voltaire et Rimbaud, alors ca veut dire qu'on change de langue et de culture. Le processus est lourd, ca prend du temps, mais il me reste toute une vie pour le finir. Je m'assume le risque de faire tout un tas d'erreurs d'ortographe, mais j'essaye quand meme de ne pas jeter de la boue sur la langue francaise. J'espere que le resultat sera assez satifaisant.<br />Alors, revenons a nos moutons.<br />Je l'avoue, j'ai eu du mal a trouver un bon sujet a traiter la...j'ai du choisir entre Napoleon III, l'un des genies fous et excentriques de la France dont j'avais suivi les traces, il y a quelques jours, dans ses appartements du Louvre et le stress des partiels qui harcelle en ce moment mon moral. Mais bon, parler "histoire" sur un blog perso, c'est pas trop cool et c'est moins avalable que les autres delires psycho-sociologiques qui brisent les murs de mes pensees.<br />Parlons "stress".<br />Un mot qui trouve des contours sous les levres de tous. Une molecule microscopique qui "embaume" l'air de Paris comme un parfum Dior embaume le cou d'une demoiselle: on peut pas s'abstenir a le respirer, car la tentation est bien trop forte. <br />Ca fait plus de deux semaines depuis que mes narines se regalent du stress, histoire d'avoir des insomnies et voire meme de se reveiller au milieu de la nuit juste pour reflechir a mes actions professionnelles. Plus le stress coule dans mes veines, plus j'eprouve l'envie de l'abimer par la fummee de Marlboro Lights. Quoi que je fasse, mon stress refuse de capituler, il garde sa vigueur pour le futur proche et continue de m'embeter. A l'instar d'un petit animal de compagnie, il se nourrit de mon assiette de bonheur, il est avide de mes forces, il ronge avec une passion folle mes nerfs et il gratte sans cesse aux portes de mon equilibre spirituel. <br />Aujourd'hui, je lui ai propose une sortie au cine, mais il a refuse. Il n'aime plus les films. Il prefere le cocooning, alors je suis obligee de lui tenir compagnie. Et me voila, in the cocooning mood, moi aussi, a mon bureau, egaree dans les tonnes de paperasse fournies par l'IST, mon stress a mes cotes, une tasse de caffee a la main, lunettes mauves sur le nez, mes ecouteurs debordant du rock et de quelques morceaux de Michael Jackson (l'addiction vient en ecoutant)...je continue a croquer a pleines dents les revisions pour les partiels meme si j'ai la flemme. De temps en temps, je jette un coup d'oeil sur mon profil de facebook, histoire de respirer un bol d'air frais, dont la concentration en stress est moyenne, de remonter mon moral avec quelques conversations sur n'importe quel sujet avec des gens qui partagent mes soucis "etudiantes".<br />Conclusion: <span style="font-weight:bold;">weekend de merde a deux</span>(moi et le stress)<br />Remede: soit faire les soldes demain aux Quatre Temps, soit renoncer a l'etat de celibataire en vue de changer le type de stress (s'il y a un stress que je prefere, ce serait celui de couple). Pour le deuxieme remede, je suis pas sure, car le Prince Charmant du XXIeme siecle est bien loin, dans une autre galaxie.<br />A la fin de ma plaidoirie contre le stress, je vous propose quelques accords musicaux porteurs de bon humeur.<br />A la prochaine!<br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DvQ5o50CPxU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-21029229919623854762011-01-28T10:50:00.000-08:002011-01-29T04:18:45.793-08:00La roue tourne...vers le foot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQL21dUxty8pxa8RLDUn3ABl0PiAxmEQu4gsnTeQ1ULFepauqkLgSiUoaWRnjH1ho2JeUkMTciYlWdSCzf-QTxolgbdpd21RkC1gY2s-DJxHUqOQTkJZI9yNlLaM8AMEQ-SKE3fsNCScHP/s1600/logo-fff.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQL21dUxty8pxa8RLDUn3ABl0PiAxmEQu4gsnTeQ1ULFepauqkLgSiUoaWRnjH1ho2JeUkMTciYlWdSCzf-QTxolgbdpd21RkC1gY2s-DJxHUqOQTkJZI9yNlLaM8AMEQ-SKE3fsNCScHP/s320/logo-fff.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567579409390338146" /></a><br /><br />Fotbalul...teren arid si in general necunoscut pentru marea majoritate a sexului feminin. Marturisesc ca nici eu nu sunt un fan al acestui sport si nu am reusit niciodata sa ma integrez in universul suporterilor stelisti, dinamovisti s.a.m.d. Pur si simplu, mingea aia nu imi inspira nimic special, la fel cum nici ovatiunile de pe stadion nu ma atrag prea mult. Motiv pentru care, pe vremea cand eram tanara,nebuna si marsaluiam pe teritoriul romanesc nu am facut nici cel mai mic efort sa ajung si eu macar o data pe stadion, sa asist la vreun meci. Cu toate ca meciurile Stelei mi-au procurat nenumarate amintiri fabuloase... Insa in majoritatea timpului jucam rolul celei care-si astepta suporterul stelist sa se intoarca victorios de pe stadion...si indiferent de deznodamantul meciului si de prestatia echipei, un gram de victorie ne revenea noua. <br />Bon bref, amintiri frumoase, momente furtunoase, tinerete.<br />Articolul asta nu e dedicat trecutului "meu" fotbalistic, ci din contra, prezentului si viitorului. E vremea sa incep sa fiu recunoscatoare fotbalului. De ce? Pentru ca imi permite sa iau parte la unul dintre cele mai importante evenimente sportive din lume: Le XXXV eme Congres ordinaire de l'UEFA 2011...eveniment care o sa se desfasoare in inima Parisului in luna lui Marte. Inca ma intreb ce o sa caut eu acolo, intr-o lume care mi-e complet necunoscuta. Un raspuns ar fi acela ca o sa-mi fac meseria : guide en tourisme d'affaires. <br />Misiunea mea: ghidul personal al domnului Mircea Sandu de son arrivee a l'aeroport a Paris jusqu'a son depart le 23 mars. Asadar, timp de 5 zile o sa veghez asupra unui pilon important al fotbalului romanesc. Ceea ce o sa fie putin bizar e faptul ca o sa port uniforma si sigla FFF si o sa fac parte din comisia de intampinare a francezilor. <br />Inima, sufletul si limba o sa-mi fie "rosu, galben si albastru" pe cand tinuta "bleu marine si alb". <br />In plus, ziua de nastere o sa mi-o petrec cu membrii FFF, o sa fiu pe aeroport la ora 6 a.m. pregatita pentru simularea marelui eveniment. <br />Ma simt coplesita de turnura asta neasteptata a vietii mele insa stiu ca nu trebuie sa cedez. Capul sus, privirea inainte, zambetul pregatit pentru un nou pas in cariera in turism si romanca voastra din Paris o sa incerce sa dea tot ce are mai bun...chiar si pentru Federatia Franceza de Fotbal sau Mircea Sandu.<br />The futur is bright, the futur is french!tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-31829324529753647622011-01-25T14:10:00.000-08:002011-01-25T15:30:57.953-08:00Vie etudiante, rock et tourismeVivre, c'est agir!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEV8nGTcrJ362wDU3Uakvf_4ToIEWBoT6VGwLCFuSbLDofeHJE0cVOghk7VpMtVSXtBr0qrNU7-5SUYS-Hli_qTfFtpmcrHNaroWxn7MpHH3SQAyt5Yjh6Mj5wvc-DDc5JbonmNOn7naNz/s1600/rock+said+no.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEV8nGTcrJ362wDU3Uakvf_4ToIEWBoT6VGwLCFuSbLDofeHJE0cVOghk7VpMtVSXtBr0qrNU7-5SUYS-Hli_qTfFtpmcrHNaroWxn7MpHH3SQAyt5Yjh6Mj5wvc-DDc5JbonmNOn7naNz/s320/rock+said+no.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566249827448847698" /></a><br /><br />Fiecare etapa importanta a demersului meu intelectual mi-a oferit drept bonus acorduri de chitara. In liceu, il aveam pe Tabus, la Unibuc Jimi Hendrix al nostru era Ciocanel, iar la IST am dat peste Mr. C..ent. 3 artisti desavarsiti ale caror acorduri de chitara o sa-si regaseasca mereu ecoul in inima mea. Chitara,ce-i drept,e arma cea mai sexy pe care o poate poseda un barbat...in viziunea mea.<br />Ei bine, azi o sa va vorbesc despre ultimul chitarist mentionat mai sus. Cine e? E proful meu de eco-droit. Un individ inteligent,sarmant,cool din toate punctele de vedere,varianta frantuzeasca a lui Dr. House mai precis. Primul nostru contact a fost la o tigara in prima mea zi de scoala la IST. Parea destul de tinerel si initial am crezut ca e si el unul dintre studenti. Am fost placut surprinsa sa il vad a doua zi intrand pe usa amfiteatrului si postandu-se la catedra. Atitudine profesionala in cadrul orelor de curs, inclinatii artistice in viata extra-curriculara si un prieten bun qui aime bien te raconter sa vie autour d'un verre de whiskey...E primul francez pe care il cunosc caruia nu-i plac francezii, caruia ii lipseste cu desavarsire accentul gay frantuzesc cand vorbeste in engleza sau in germana, caruia imi permit sa-i desenez sad smileys pe foaia de examen in cazul in care nu-s prea mandra de ceea ce am facut, caruia ii pasa de ceea ce se intampla in jur si caruia ii face placere sa ia atitudine.<br />Saptamana asta ne pasa tuturor! Ne-am mobilizat, studenti, profesori si artisti pentru a milita impotriva turismului sexual. Ce-i drept, simt ca am depus mult suflet pentru misiunea asta umanitara. De ce? Pentru ca Romania mea e si ea impanzita de victime ale unor asa zisi turisti consumatori de carne si copilarie fragede. <br />Fiecare dintre noi am incercat sa dam o mana de ajutor la organizarea unui concert rock sustinut de proful nostru intr-unul din barurile studentesti din Paris. Nimeni nu s-a dat in laturi. Proprietarul barului ne-a inchiriat localul cu cea mai mare placere,for free, Mr. C..ent si-a pus pe tava acordurile de chitara si piesele de pe noul album in schimbul unei sticle de sampanie si a aplauzelor noastre furtunoase iar noi,studentii, ne-am ocupat de campania de mediatizare si de biletele de intrare. O sa strangem cativa euro si o sa-i donam unei asociatii care sprijina victimele turismului sexual din intreaga lume. <br />Si asta e una din tentativele noastre de a fi mai solidari,mai constienti si mai receptivi la dramele unor copii nevinovati.<br /> 1. "Ils profitent d'un voyage à l'étranger pour accomplir leurs fantasmes. On connaît les alibis que donnent ces amateurs de plaisirs exotiques tarifés : " Là-bas, ce n'est pas pareil : ils nous aiment vraiment. " Ou bien : " Chez eux, la sexualité est une chose naturelle. " Et encore : " Grâce à nous, ils mangent à leur faim. " Tristes justifications… surtout lorsque l'on sait que, la plupart du temps, ils ne se soucient pas de savoir si la personne qu'ils s'offrent est majeure ou non, consentante ou pas."<br />2. "Après l'effondrement du bloc communiste, le trafic d'enfants vers l'Europe de l'Ouest et les États-Unis ne cesse de croître. La paupérisation de l'Europe de l'Est est à l'origine du développement de <span style="font-weight:bold;">cette forme de tourisme</span> devenu <span style="font-weight:bold;">un moyen de survie en</span> Estonie, Lituanie, Russie, Pologne, Albanie et <span style="font-weight:bold;">Roumanie</span>. "<br />( http://www.routard.com/mag_dossiers/id_dm/6/ordre/2.htm )tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-39805221732083024732011-01-21T06:25:00.000-08:002011-01-21T07:19:06.399-08:00La trentaine...Daca ar fi sa ma iau dupa statistici, barbatii se maturizeaza mult mai greu decat noi, posesoarele de vagin, depresii si menopauza. Propriile experiente mi-au demonstrat ca statisticile nu mint niciodata.<br />Mesajele de la 3 dimineata cu "Tu me manques...", poezioarele, declaratiile de dragoste,convorbirile lungi la telefon, articolele voalate de pe blog si cate si mai cate metode prin intermediul carora un tanar barbat in devenire isi exprima atasamentul si iubirea fata de jumatatea lui feminina sunt acum picaturi de ploaie intr-un cazan urias de asteptare. Cazanul meu s-a cam umplut de la o vreme si da pe dinafara de nerabdare. Intradevar...nu mai are rabdarea necesara sa analizeze si sa discearna masa de cuvinte si promisiuni. Vrea ceva actiune, cateva fapte concrete, sau macar une toucher de realite. Nu inteleg de ce barbatii intre 22 si 25 de ani nu dispun inca de curajul sa se arunce cu bratele larg deschise in realitate si sa plonjeze in bratele mele cu fapte si nu doar cu vorbe. Stim cu totii vesnicele clisee "Sunt inca tanar, vreau sa-mi traiesc viata,nu ma simt inca pregatit...Trebuie sa ne bucuram de prezent fara sa ne punem prea multe intrebari despre viitor" si lista ar putea continua la nesfarsit. Men are just big babies...pana la o anumita varsta. Neseriozitatea si instabilitatea le curge prin vene pana pe la vreo 25 de ani, sau poate chiar mai mult. Niciunul nu stie cu exactitate ceea ce vrea de la viata lui sau de la viata ta. <br />Mi-am insusit cu multa responsabilitate timp de cativa ani buni ratia asta de "barbatie infantila" din partea unui numar considerabil de masculi precoce care au aparut si au disparut in decorul meu cotidian. Acum e timpul pentru o schimbare. <br />In ce sens? Ei bine, de astazi o sa fixez o limita de varsta pentru noile cuceriri, noile mele jumatati. No men under 25 alowed! <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Avantaje</span>: Nu e nevoie sa le fii dadaca si nu e nevoie sa le expui instructiunile de folosire ale unei fiinte umane de sex feminin; Nu trebuie sa le dai lectii in privinta tinutelor vestimentare; Nu au nevoie de lectii de dans; Te simti protejata in prezenta lor; Ti se pun in valoare tineretea si spontaneitatea fara sa ridici nici macar un deget; They no longer live with their parents; Independenta lor ti se pare sexy&charming; Apreciaza cultura si bunul gust; Seriozitatea si franchetea sunt micul lor dejun pe cand experienta si farmecul le consuma cu regularitate la cina;<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dezavantaje</span>: Risti sa te trezesti in acelasi pat cu un tanar divortat sau cu tatal unor copii care iti incetoseaza viata ta tanara si roz; Risti sa fii manipulata cu dibacie de cineva cu mult mai multa experienta; Cinismul unui barbat matur e alergic la visele tale romantice; Trebuie sa renunti la iesirile cu prietenii tai tineri pentru ca exuberanta lor ii cam displace; <br />Raman insa optimista si cred in existenta unei persoane echilibrate care sa ne iasa in cale cand ne asteptam mai putin si care sa depaseasca limita de 25. Parul grizonat e singurul argument care ar putea dezechilibra totul pentru mine,mais pour le reste...ca vaut la peine d'accepter "la trentaine".<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ff0oWESdmH0" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen></iframe>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-80112833678170857132011-01-18T09:54:00.000-08:002011-01-18T10:39:07.435-08:00...pour la liberte de l'art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQhQQj8cRB5TOLZmDqzStBrAOKMl75_UOwoirOr9HB3aayICbb4KdOE0kos92C0R6fIa-kpqpY6V70Rpcm0RGVQRwJKNShyvlIE9ENXPParRcnottD_Awcs0oEwtcgYsdpUx_iozLNNmq/s1600/11._A_lentree_de_lhotel_Plaza._New_York..JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQhQQj8cRB5TOLZmDqzStBrAOKMl75_UOwoirOr9HB3aayICbb4KdOE0kos92C0R6fIa-kpqpY6V70Rpcm0RGVQRwJKNShyvlIE9ENXPParRcnottD_Awcs0oEwtcgYsdpUx_iozLNNmq/s320/11._A_lentree_de_lhotel_Plaza._New_York..JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563597005030699954" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGghayELFJ_ARq4UuahgJYbgVYhETK9GXfqiSIqwzlg4QgMa3Hs4BS4iDHdPmIkmc5of1RLoJ9ihpnKuCsqjvMu7wgeE5At2BUpv6B7wWwm9_gNl21UwtC-Q3PeVjQDsdHtS4-wTrYOLhL/s1600/5._Refugiees_afghanes_a_Quetta_au_Pakistan_prient_pour_les_victimes_des_bombardements.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGghayELFJ_ARq4UuahgJYbgVYhETK9GXfqiSIqwzlg4QgMa3Hs4BS4iDHdPmIkmc5of1RLoJ9ihpnKuCsqjvMu7wgeE5At2BUpv6B7wWwm9_gNl21UwtC-Q3PeVjQDsdHtS4-wTrYOLhL/s320/5._Refugiees_afghanes_a_Quetta_au_Pakistan_prient_pour_les_victimes_des_bombardements.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563596817568976322" /></a><br /><br />Dupa un weekend destul de monoton, mi-am inaugurat astazi noii pantofiori cutreierand strazile Parisului meu drag. De data asta insa am avut un itinerariu mai precis ca de obicei: the same old Sephora pentru urgente cosmetice si un lac de unghii numai bun pentru noul sezon, Yves Rocher pentru laptele meu de corp cu aroma de vanilie, Starbucks-partenerul ideal pentru nicotina trasa-n piept pe Champs Elysees si nu in ultimul rand Le Petit Palais- resedinta artei pure pariziene.<br />In calitate de "etudiante en tourisme" ma mandresc cu un badge "Centre des monuments nationaux" care-mi permite sa vizitez, bineinteles in scop stiintific, asa-zis de cercetare, orice monument de pe teritoriul frantuzesc, sa am parte de invitatii la tot ce tine de expozitii de arta si restul tacamului...pe gratis. Avand in vedere ca saptamana asta e extrem de lejera si n-am prea multe activitati pe cap, mi-am pus in gand sa ma culturalizez putin.<br />In concluzie,am petrecut azi 4 ore colindand galeriile Petit Palaisului si holbandu-ma la peste 100 de fotografii alb-negru. Fascinant,ce-i drept. M-am bucurat ca nu eram singura ciudata care face asta intr-o zi de marti: mai erau paznicii, ghidul, cativa tipi cu ochelari scoliti pe la vreo Academie des Arts sau Ecole des Beaux Arts,o mana de asiatici care se vedea ca au ajuns acolo din pura intamplare, bunici si bunicute de origine evreiasca si nu in ultimul rand, 3 cupluri care m-au impresionat in sensul cat se poate de bun al cuvantului. Dragostea si arta fotografica merg mana-n mana in tinutul asta napoleonian...<br />Pana la noi experiente culturale, imi permit sa va impartasesc cateva fotografii si un filmulet cu o mica prezentare a expozitiei care mi-a placut mie mai mult.<br />Regalez-vous de l'art!<br /><br /><br /><object width="480" height="270"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/video/xevzyd_pierre-et-alexandra-boulat-pour-la_creation?additionalInfos=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/video/xevzyd_pierre-et-alexandra-boulat-pour-la_creation?additionalInfos=0" width="480" height="270" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object><br /><b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xevzyd_pierre-et-alexandra-boulat-pour-la_creation">Pierre et Alexandra Boulat pour la liberté de la presse</a></b><br /><i>envoyé par <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/mairiedeparis">mairiedeparis</a>. - <a target="_self" href="http://www.dailymotion.com/fr/channel/creation">Regardez plus de courts métrages.</a></i>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-18450462160962801712011-01-16T14:09:00.000-08:002011-01-16T14:21:29.820-08:00ma raison collee au lit<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/r84Na8TTO-8?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/r84Na8TTO-8?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Al doilea weekend cand sunt nevoita sa petrec ore intregi in pat,cu laptopul pe brate sau cu o carte buna in mana,savurand un cocktail de medicamente in speranta ca o sa-mi revin cat de curand. Histoire de reflechir encore un peu sur le passe,le present et l'avenir...tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3079160528896751597.post-71229506574409319472011-01-10T15:51:00.000-08:002011-01-10T16:24:34.718-08:00oui,je le kiffe<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MmLtPmv_G4w?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MmLtPmv_G4w?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>tyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331715999186134831noreply@blogger.com0