Faire du Jogging, Take II

Yesterday I went jogging again, and though I'm pretty sure that no one yelled at me again (they might have, but I turned my music up pretty loud) I did manage to get lost. I ran around, and ran around, and it started to rain, and I had my iPod in my bra and was really afraid that it was going to get ruined. Finally these guys in a maintenance garage urged me to take cover. In the five minutes I stood next to them, and with all that they Frenched at me, I was able to respond two ways: "Je ne comprends pas," and "merci." And I laughed a lot to cover up the fact that even when they started to speak a little English I still couldn't understand them. They teased me a lot, complimented my smile (French men, it would seem, flirt with women no matter what their age), and smelled like grease. Finally the rain let up a bit, I thanked them again (one of my favorite responses) and ran off. By the time I got back to the appartment, my thirty-minute jog had turned into an hour's worth of city scenery and sweat, and by the time I stopped I could literally feel the blood pounding through my leg veins. The next time I decide to go running I will probably stuff a map somewhere on my person, or at least plan my route ahead of time. Sure, the French mechanics were friendly, but it was still awkward.