Monday, January 31, 2005

Greg has to feed his kids

Do you remember in highschool, when you were a ridiculous nerd with nothing to do because you lived in the middle of nowhere and weren't on the dance team and thought windows 98 was like Nintendo times 40? Back when you you sat around playing tetris, drinking coke and listening to your crappy CD-rom murder all of the sound quality on your CDs, just thinking about how much more awesome you are than all of your friends? Okay, not that. Thinking about song lyrics, and what people on TV wear, and whether or not your crush was looking at you at lunch, and if your clothes were seriously not adjusted to your freakishly long legs/awesome new boobs? Do you remember in highschool when you got to the point when you really liked who you were? Maybe that was just me... Regardless,

That was my Sunday evening.

Without Tim (he has no phone for the weekend), and without the internet there was nothing to do but play Snood and listen to the Beatles on repeat. In the past few years, my ability to be interesting in my own head has been nearly destroyed by that expensive social game called college. But here the classes are worthless and everything interesting is closed after five (unless you're a drunk), so there it was like a holy grail: the ever-ellusive and splendid absolute mental blackhole.

The funny thing is, the only thing I learned about myself is that I miss Mat Brooksher. And I still love the Beatles more than I love anyone else.

Though St. Valentine's Day may be the worst holiday for the loveless souls in this world who enjoy pink-bow torture (and those of us who live 4000+ miles from our boyfriends and could be doing something less depressing than drinking, alone), I will be spending it with the Pope.

On one hand I'm a moron for not surprising Tim in Washington for Valentine's day, his birthday, and our anniversary. On the other hand: Rome.

We plan to stay there for seven nights, and I'm quite sure that it will take at least that long for it to sink in that I'm spending how much? money to see the Pope's funny hat collection. But if me crying while I stood on the tomb of Henry the VIII is any indicator, there will be many tears shed in the Sistine Chapel.

This entirely justifies the fact that I live in an abandonned hospital, take 100-level civics classes and try to avoid people who eat horse meat on a daily basis.

More good news: God/People with money take pity on me frequently. My Grandma's lovely PEO chapter has givin me a scholarship of sorts, and some lovely Shreveportians have givin me a nice travel grant. Now I can eat and buy things like dishsoap and books for my classes from the biggest bookstore in France, Le Furet du Nord, which I love because it was there that I found my cheese bible.

And is it on that glorious note that I will end this conversation.

Phrase du jour: J'ai un grand encyclopédie des fromages. (I have a cheese bible.)

Friday, January 28, 2005

P.S.

P.S. Don't get kidnapped by drunk french people if you can help it.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

I'm not sure how many people described to me the stages that one goes through when studying abroad but everyone described them differently. But of all the stages, including paranoia, acceptance, homesickness, etc... no one ever mentioned to me the stage of absolute boredom and ennui. No one told me that the time would come when I would decide to reject the French language entirely, instead, opting for rearranging my furnature and writing haikus about the "washer" and "drier."

Last night was the annual party of the patron saint of the F.L.S.H. (Faculté Libre des Sciences Humaines): St. François de Sale. I couldn't tell you who he actually is, or why he's the patron saint of the humanities department here... but I will tell you that he's blingin'. The party cost 7€ for a pre-party hour of Sangria and Pâte sandwiches (the French know how to ROCK!) and then a talent show. The main difference between a French college talent show and an American college talent show is that the people here actually have a modecum of talent. I could tell the jokes were funny even though I couldn't understand every third word. (side note: in Lille, the French is a messy combination of French and Flemmish, as far as I can tell, making the translation difficulty four-fold.)

The oddest thing may have been watching people dance to such American hits as "If Everybody Had an Ocean," by the Beach Boys; "Prince Ali" in French, by Disney; and "Let's get Retarded," by the Black-Eyed Peas, a classic in any culture. My favorite line is "Bop ya head like epilepsy, up inside ya club or in your Bently, Let's get ignant, Let's get Hectic, YA YA YA YA YA YA YA..." Ahhhhh, America's number one export...

The differences are never ending and a little daunting at times. It's funny to know that you should be enjoying something, but to basically not be enjoying much. My only hope is that it will pass. Today's class is a good example of an astounding and slightly frustrating difference. Carrie and Erin and I arrive in time for class (Comparative Literature) and take our seats. Five, ten, twenty minutes pass and there is no teacher and no one seems to mind in the slightest. After a half an hour, one girl goes to see where the professor is and returns to report that Messieur Flipo is, indeed, not coming. This is the first day of class.

So yet another unsolved mystery is placed on the pile. Do French teachers frequently decide they'd rather sleep in than attend their own classes? Do French student always find it great fun to sit and wait for a half an hour before leaving? Is everything here this disorganized/infuriating? Will there always be an inch of standing water waiting like a cess-pool in my shower in the morning?

Yes.

The question is whether or not the education I get from this will be worth it or not. To be honest, I miss attending class regularly. I miss doing anything regularly, as a matter of fact. There's something to be said for the familiarity of a routine in a place where it seems that not a soul would care if you disappeared entirely. I miss the knowledge that my teachers would call my house if I missed a week of class; here the teachers don't even notice that they've missed a week of class. And I'm wondering, what is the point of being here if everything I learn I have to teach myself on the internet?

Had I known this was the case I may have just taken a semester off to read books on the beach in Hawaii and work in a restaurant for Tourists. At least I'd be tan and maintaining a budget.

Phrase du Jour: Je ne peux pas trouver les mots. (I can't find the words)

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Dungarees

So... I've dropped the god-forsaken Sartre class and added a spot of English/French translation instead. All day long I've had classes with Madam Bray, who is quite a feisty Brit and proud of it. It's a jolly good laugh because my French/English translation class requires me to translate French into British English. Therefor, instead of boxers, men wear pants. Instead of overalls, we wear jodphurs. And for some reason I now know the french word for stirrup pants.

All of that is fine though. At least if we go on holiday in the mother country we'll know the difference between the boot, the torch and our petticoats. Union Jack, Union Jack, etc. etc....

Enough nonsense. No real developments thusfar today except that I don't hate my classes anymore but I do seem to be coming down with some sort of spanish throat disease. At least Riccola comes in the same bag in any country.

Carrie is researching our hopeful, upcoming trip to Berlin right now and pulling her hair out. I think we may go to the Fjords instead. See what everyone thinks is so great about those upper regions where everyone has blond hair, translucent skin and says "please" and "thank you."

Oh yes, Kacie pointed this out to me and if anyone has any idea how to put the picture of the caf worker wearing a sombrero on a tee-shirt or a bumper sticker, please, please tell me.

Phrase du jour: C'est dans cette discothèque que j'ai rencontré un ami de mon pére dans les bras d'une belle Asiatique. (It was in this discoteque that I met a friend of my father's in the arms of a beautiful asian woman.)*

*this is what we're translating in my class. You tell me I'm not getting my educational dollar's worth.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Les Jeux Sont Faits

W. T. F. ???

This morning: my first french class. What I caught is that it's about J. P. Sartre, who was a philosopher and who may or may not have liked things that were depressing. And that we may or may not have to read lots of books that people find challenging in English. And that there may or may not be a test, someday. Around April.

I'm trying not to be nihilistic... by that I mean I'm trying not to think that nothing can be known or communicated. But I have to say, I'm awefully excited about my South African lit class that's in English. I didn't think is was possible to miss the word "um," which is replaced in french by the sound, "euuuuu."

Oh yes, I keep forgetting to mention this. The toilet paper here is pink. Like, pink-ish purple. Like pink-ish purple-ish brown. It's lovely in it's own, disturbing, sort of way.

And kleenexes come in boxes that alternate tissues between nursing-home-green and frosting-gold. Also fascinating. I'm quite familiar with this right now as everyone who went to Spain has contracted some sort of throat/sinus infection.

I think it's time for a comfort hot dog/denial nap.

Phrase du Jour: Je m'en fou. (I don't give a damn.)

Monday, January 24, 2005

Barcelona in Photographs

There are a million or so new photos if you'd like to see the crazy bastards I've been hanging out with, instead of just reading about them. If I look really happy in these pictures, you can probably guess why.

Thanks again to my Dad for my wonderful digital camera!

Spain: The Novel

Same old bicycle, always drinking...

After the second longest shower on earth,* the longest hot dog on earth and what I like to call "The Big Sleep," I finally have enough time for a decent chat about all that is Spain.

But first the good news: Carrie and I have been allowed to move in together into my apartment, thereby splitting the rent down the middle and saving us both nearly a thousand dollars. This means I get to eat. C'est fantastique!

Because I've seen more and done more in the past five days than I did all semester in Shreveport I'm left with the terrible decision of what to tell and what to leave out from my three busy days in the actaul city itself, the two days of in transit alone have enough to write a thousand words. Suffice it to say that I slept not more than nine hours in that five days time.

Barcelona is a city steeped in the works of Antoni Gaudi, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali and a number of street preformers who range from brilliant to rediculously insipid. Our first discovery on Thursday morning was that our hostel, hastily chosen from studentuniverse.com was actually situated directly on La Rambla, the main thoroughfare and heart of the city. In direct proportion to everything we wanted to see: we were the center. (Now may be an excellent time to mention that among the first things our little group noticed was an odd and immediate annimosity between Cody and the woman who worked at the front desk of the hostel. This annimosity will fester and boil during the entire duration of our stay there.)

In fact, it may be a good idea to give a brief description of our five travel companions in order of when they decided to join Carrie and I for the trip.

Katherine is from one of the Carolinas and like to doodle in her sketch book and listen to her iPod. She smiles a lot but isn't particularly bothered with making plans or communicating per se.

Cody is from Memphis and is a PIKE, a member of some fraternity who's letters aren't available on this keyboard. He's great fun when he's sober and feels like making your life easy; when he's drunk he's like being around a large, obsintant poorly trained circus animal.

Erin is from Buffalo and is decidely more mature than most of the world.

Josh is from who knows where. He's a remarkably decent guy who has studied abroad before and who likes to sell his hand-made hemp necklaces to stores and drink forties. He has Milroy's disease and is therefor one of only twenty families in the world with congenitally fat feet.

Gisel is Dominican and Puerto Rican and can speak Spanish so well that she often thinks in it. She's also rediculously good looking. These too things combined made her the Spain Trip's MVP.

It was with this group or some combination of the above that I discovered the Mediterranian ocean, La Pedreras, the Barcelonian tourbus system and my love for Paella. Also beer vending machines, discothéques deserted spanish villages and the intricasies of the Belgian rail system.

If any of you has never heard of Antoni Gaudi I suggest you look him up on the internet because I'm afraid not even my marvelous photography skills can do his creations justice. I never realized that a city and it's people could so totally be defined by the architecture of one man, who was in turn defined by his love of color and his fascination with the aquatic life of the Mediterranian sea and with mythology and symbolism. Among his works we were able to see many but visit only four: La Sagrada Familia(only the outside), La Padreras, Casa Batllo (also only the outside) and Park Guell. Gaudi, considered the son of Barcalona, did most of his work in the early 20th century but his buildings are amazingly timeless. They truly look as though there were taken from another planet, a sort of Dali/Dr. Seuss type place where everything is made of flowers and icecream and the world really does rest on the back a sea turtle. The construction hours alone on these structures are enough to make you want to wrap Barcalona in bubble wrap and hope nothing ever happens to it. In the style of the old world when things were built to last a people rarely saw their own life's works ever completed, the Sagrada Familia is an enormous and awful (as in "full of awe) gothic cathedral begun in 1882 which is still under construction today and is not expected to be completed for another 80 years. These people have my complete respect.

Park Guell is where I will get married. Start saving for a plane ticket now. If anyone would like to marry me there it is an open invitation; in fact, I'd be happy to have as many weddings there as possible. Carrie and I thought about exchanging vows the day we were there but we couldn't find a priest. The wedding party will be photographed in front of the giant lizard. The ceremony will take place on the snaking terrace that overlooks the city and the mountains surrounding it.

The works of Gaudi are not the only brilliant works of art I had to refrain from touching while in Barcelona. The Picasso museum, the museum of contemporary art at the Olympic grounds, and a monastary that is still functioning where also destinations of marked beauty and jawdropping dumbfoundedness. Places I didn't get to go and am saving for my next trip are the erotica museum (naughty), the wax museum (cheesy), the Salvador Dali museum (pricey) and the elevator that goes to the top of the Columbus Monument.

Colombus isn't from Barcelona and the statue is facing Italy (where he actually is from) and not the new world so that's all I have to say about that silly monument to a huge jerk.

But the elevator inside of said monument does overlook the Barcelona Aquarium where I got to communicate with Octopi for about a half an hour and learn about the mating habits of sharks. If anyone wants an example of how Disney is trying to take over the earth and succeeding admirably one need only stand before the Austrailia tank at any aquarium in the world and listen to the little children screaming "Nemo! Nemo!" and pointing to the animal formerly known as the clown-fish. Forever known as the Nemo, the way a baby deer will be forever known as a Bambi.

"Enough of this sight-seeing crap," you say. "What about all those adventure-type things you try not to tell your parents about so they don't worry about you and buy more insurance plans?" In all truth, the biggest adventure in Barcalona is just trying to deal with the people. Not the Barcalonians who are just trying to drink a lot and sell you things, but the group of British business men who are on football holiday and want to talk politics and buy you a pudding. (They paid half of our dinner, by the way, an 80€ conversation about how crap our president is). It's the Brazillians who say they want to dance but actually want to lick your neck. It's the drunk British skateboarders who tell everyone their Australian and bite you before passing out in your bed (thanks a lot Greg, you deserved to get punched) . It's the Scott who buys everyone roses before passing out while all his mates get to talk to you. It's the Belgian girl who can't find the club because it's hidden inside a deserted Spanish village and the scary homeless people in the Metro at six a.m. on the way home from said club, because all the boys you came with are too drunk to walk you home themselves.

It's the poor Chinese lady who works at the front desk of the hostel and won't let you have another Croisant or use the internet after midnight which is what leads to what I fondly call: "Why Everyone on Earth Hates Americans."

Have you ever been in a situation with someone who is so absolutely rediculous that even though you'd honestly like to call the cops on them or throttle them you just have to laugh because otherwise you'll eat our own sock just to keep from ever having to deal with that person again? That's Cody on five shots of tequila, at seven in the morning, calling the consierge a prostitute among other things and demanding to use the internet and telling everyone that his father "the international lawyer" (he's not) is going to press "larges." "Larges?" you ask, to which I reply: sometimes it might actually be easier to kill someone than to talk to them. I cannot desribe in enough detail how marvelously ironic Cody's drunken brawling was except to say that when he apologized the next day we all burst into laughter at the idea of even being able to compose a sufficient apology.

Thank God for the other six people in the group.

All in all, the trip never ever, ever, ever had a dull moment and I learned more about a city and a small group of my fellow Lille-ers than I could have imagined. Not to mention that I spent more money than God. But it was absolutely one of the moist astounding experiences of my life, as well as the most tiring. I plan to sleep as much as my classes will let me for the next week and next weekend... I'm staying here where I can at least pretend I know the language.

Phrase Du Jour: Quanto cuesta? (spanish for: how much does it cost?)

*The first longest shower being the annual post-mud-pit TKE Bid Day shower.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

The Mediterranian is Bluer than Glass

In case you´re concerned, all seven of us made it to Spain after much trial and tribulation. I peed in three different countries yesterday. Beat that.

We were in transit for over twelve hours. Two trains, one flight and a bus later... The first thing I learned on Wed. morning is that all the french trains were on strike: good thing we flew out of Charleroi, Belguim instead of Paris...

I shall explain in great depth the beauties and complexities of Barcelona when I get back to Lille, where there aren´t a million patient foreigners waiting for their turn at the internet.

Buenos Noches.


Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Roses

And one last thing: people keep telling me that Tim deserves serious points for having sent me two-dozen kilamanjaro roses here in France (brag), but I say he wins, point-system or no. Tim wins. Everything. Ever. Except the things that I win.

Chomping at the bit

For those of you who are ready to finally see some blasted pictures, I have good news and bad news:
*The good news is I finally have pics online: here.
*The bad news is I only have about four of Lille; the rest are of my stupid cats at Christmas. But still, free free to check them out in case you don't remember what my cats look like.

I feel freshly orientated...

Today: Orientation.

After only a week in France, someone has finally told us where the Caf is. Not that it matters, all bets are off until we see if they have two-foot long hotdogs.

Not that I need any more proof that the world revolves around me (and sometimes the people standing in my viscinity), but I (and Carrie, too) was the lucky person to find the surprise in the Gallette Roi, the french King Cake. I haven't yet figured out why there's king cake in every shop window at this time of year, but I got a paper crown and and a little plastic dude out of it, as well as the adoration of the masses. Not really. I can tell you though, finding a little plastic cartoon character is a lot less creepy than biting down on a little plastic baby.

That was essentially all of orientation, oh and learning that I have to make 14's in all of my classes in order to keep all A's. The average for a native french speaker is an 11. We shall see, we shall see...

Last night was an adventure in Laundry. Put the detergent in the middle slot of the drawer on the left... what? Then turn the dial to the cycle of your choice... Fair enough, except all I see is little pictures of party hats and cinnemon rolls. Then wait twenty minutes while your clothes are whirled into a vortex in which there is no water... hmm. Mine were done "washing" in a half hour, I think. While Carrie's took approximately thirty years. They weren't dry until two in the morning, at which time I came downstairs and got dirty looks from one of the Spanish girls for using the singular drier in the time slot which I had signed up for. Carrie had to hang her wet unmentionables from the radiator. We get two hours a week, one load of laundry per week. Sounds do-able until you see that the machine is about the size of Charlie Brown's head. All in the name of smelling Cotten Fresh.

Lesson: the machine may be free, but do international laundry at your own risk.

Also, this morning I had the distinct pleasure of smelling a Spanish man as he showered in the stall next to mine. He smelled like bulls and flaminco dancing. It was amazing. I hope I don't smell like capitalism and TV.

Phrase du jour: Je ne voudrais pas me levée, juste parce-que il neige. (I would not like to get up just because it's snowing.)


Monday, January 17, 2005

Not that you care...

I find it fitting to simply point out that this is the one-year anniversary of the day Tim and I started dating. And we still haven't reached the "you-have-no-idea-how-much-I-hate-you" stage. We actually quite suit each other. I congratulate me. And to him: kudos.

Everyone make out and pretend you're us, since we can't make out and pretend we're you.

Jell-o slip'n'slide

I dreamed last night that my mom gave me a special slip'n'slide for my birthday that had a place which could be filled with Jell-O. Everyone was on Jones-Rice field and Michael Jackson was there, being the announcer/MC, ala Mr. McClammor, my creepy typing teacher from ninth grade. I was startled awake before the first test of my new toy, by my friend Cody yelling to the second floor of my room (I told you it was big): "are you dressed?" Dressed? At noon on the monday of yet another week with no classes? After the weekend I had? Are you kidding?

I'm going to try to keep this short, as this whole "weekend without internet" thing sucks.

Friday night we ended up in a Latino bar that played lots of disco and songs from grease which people who don't speak English were singing very loudly to. There was a special on sangria (3€) and an crowd of rowdy Spaniards. After shutting the place down at three we moved on to Snooker, a bar around the corner which played a rediculously loud combination of french rap and American everything. My friend Alexis and I found the remix of "Ghostbusters" particularly awesome. That ended at about five am with a lot of hungry, sweaty Americans.

I don't remember Saturday-day (it was nothing but sleep, I'm sure), but we wanted to find a bar where we could just sit: voila Les Pirates Caribean. The Violette shooters tasted like cough syrup; I'm bringing some home for Tim. The wisconsinites tried to show up and rain boringness across the land like a plague but we didn't have room for them and they're remarkable slowness at our table. I'll probably find out that they're prefectly nice people and regret saying this wholeheartedly... meh.

Sunday we found an outdoor market which is beyond discription. The fishes, cheeses and olives alone could melt me alive. The best orange I've ever eaten jumped into my open arms.

After that is was the Musée d'Histoire Naturelle; if you can figure out what that means you get a cookie. It was like a dead zoo-- lots of stuffed birds and some awesome deranged animals. I particularly liked the cow with one head and two bodies and the cat with no face. Neat. No souveniers, alas.

Then we discovered that the Musée des Beaux Arts has three more floors than we thought it did and we wandered around for a long time looking at deceivingly handsom busts of Napoleon and lots and lots and lots of Jesus. More Jesus than you can shake a cross at. It was all beautiful and stunning and breathtaking and whatnot but what got me is the way you can tell what parts of the world were diddling other parts of the world by the way Jesus and Mary look. Mary with the face of an indian goddess, Jesus looking for all the world like a byzantine who just got mugged, even the saints... museums here are like deep, winding cathedrals with no chairs and more naked statues... There's a Rodin of the head of John the Baptist. It's great.

For those of you who wonder about the politics over here, we've only gotten in one discussion about the shape of things. Maxim, the very outspoken and hardly innocent, 17 year-old who lives in our building and loves french rap, explained something to us about Bush and then about French Socialism but I didn't catch much. And that's been it. Maybe it's the distinct lack of French people in our building, it's not like the Wisconsinites are talking.

Phrase du jour: Je ai besoin d'une autre baguette, non? (I need another baguette, right?)

Thursday, January 13, 2005

People here walk around like ghosts, just barely glimpsing past eachother. There are more people here than I've ever seen in my poor country life. It's like the mall at Christmas: everyday. Only instead of saying things like: "Shoot, Martha! Jim don't need another hedge trimmer!" It's all, "Je comprende que les esclaves ne sont pas tombées en le sud amerique; mais pour-quoi est-ce que les banques n'acceptent pas mes pearles en lieu de l'argent?!" You think that's confusing? Welcome to my world.

Anyway, Carrie and I registered for classes today and found out two very interesting things: the Americans here range from really nice and interesting to exceptionally dull.

and... we don't start classes until the 24th, which means we have to think of something to do all week. To bad we're in Europe and there's absolutely no where to go... Why, YES!

Anyway, we're thinking Spain... we found that the nearest train station is rediculously close (if you're not an idiot, like we are) and rediculously far away if you don't know what you're doing. We shall see, we shall see.

If you're interested, I'm taking French Theater, French Lit, Comparative French Lit, Translation, British Civics, Filmology, South African Lit, Art and Society, and Advanced French.
Nine classes means that I can drop like three any time up until the final. Also, I have no classes on monday and I have one eleven o'clock on friday... really, really long weekend. I love it. The fun thing is, we have only eleven weeks of class and each class is only once a week. This means I have each class only eleven times and I plan on skipping at least one week of school.

Time to book flights...

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Le Musée de Beaux Arts

Carrie and I have just returned from the rediculously beautiful art museum down town, it's about a ten-minute walk from the main campus and it's across the street from the palace. As is to be expected, it's absolutely wonderful with it's vaulted ceilings and domes. There's an entire room for Rubens and we saw a few El Grecos, a Piccaso... if I was more of a genius I could tell you something about what we saw but for now I'm a bit star-struck (and hungry).

I still like the Beatles

GOOD NEWS

This morning has given me numerous bits of good information:

1. In France, a hot dog is two feet long, on a hot baguette, with spicy mustard, ketchup, mayo and parmesian cheese, costing about €2,40. this is not an exageration. The implications are obvious: I thought France would cause me to lose weight what with the walking and the not having enough money to eat... but I am gloriously wrong. Mmmmmmmm...

2. I now have a cell phone. I'm going to the post office to buy more minutes directly. This means I may be able to communicate with people sometime in the normal realm of communication (as it is only six in the morning in shreveport right now) I don't recommend any to-France drunk dialing as I will be asleep and the cost of the call will mean you don't get to go out for two weekends, nevertheless...

3. I now have a postal address. Glory be to God.

Essentially, France is going up in my esteem. After the hotdog (pronounced "oat dough-g") discovery I was so overjoyed I nearly cried. On the downside, paying for housing here has ripped me a figurative "new one" as I have to pay in cash. This means I have to find ATMs that allow me to take out more than 300€. As exciting as it is to walk around with forty bills that look like play money (European Union? tee hee!) it's a little scary thinking about how the ATMs are raping my bank account stateside.

You might find it interesting to note that the water here tastes like it was scraped of the surface of the street, because they put so many minerals in it. But unlike in England, it is possible to find a cold drink... though Carrie and I haven't attempted to go out for just drinks yet purely because we haven't met any other exchange students we like too much. Wisconsin. What can I say?

Walking to the main building on campus is supposed to take about 8 minutes (lies) but it's not too far and, like Louisiana it's too moist to snow here. Although there's still a good chance you'll freeze your couilles off.

Phrase du jour: Je ne me soucie pas si les toilettes sont unisexe. ("I don't care if the bathrooms are unisex!") Spoken (in English) by a German exchange student.

Meow

Pour-quoi est-ce que
les pipes qui restent contre le
mur rose
dans me chambre,
chaque matin,
à cinq-heur quand j'essaie de rèver
(de mon petit chou chou,
qui me manque)
les pipes claquent avec des bruits
de coup de foudre...
est je ne me revielle que
de penser de l' homme qui je desire.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

ALLELUJA!!!

Okay two things:
1. China is chnging their policy on abortions so that people will keep their little girls and balance out the population a bit.

2. I now have more access to a computer. I hear tell that when all of the other international students arrive they decend on this place white on rice, but until then Carrie and our are confusing ourselves further by typing in English and not practicing our french.

Until I can figure out a sneaky way to get my photos on here I'll have to settle for telling you about it. Carrie and I live in a building, called Foyer International, about fifteen minutes walk from the main building of the campus. My room is two stories tall, kind of. The bottom is a little room with pink tile floors, two tables, three chairs, a fridge, two HUGE bookcases and a sink. Then there's a staircase that leads to a loft with a bed and a dresser. Thankfully this building also provides a kitchen, free washer and drier, and breakfast for what it's worth to anyone aho wakes up on time to get it. Wheee! Everything creaks and there are exposed pipes in the room which carry the conversations from the other rooms into mine. (I pay three times more for this than I did for living with Zack, Jonathan and le hot tub, mind you.)

On the bright side, there's only one bathroom on the whole floor... um.

The buildings are all very old and very close together. And there are a million skinny, lovely people to look at . For all it's worth, there's a distinct lack or fat people... here's to walking absolutely everywhere and eating nothing but bread, cheese and chocolate!

We managed to find a grocery store though so at least we won't starve to death. You would not believe the amount of cheese that can be purchased here! But the fresh flower stands and the crazy drivers and the nutty people who sold us coffee to benefit the tsunami victims (0,80€) kind of make up for the shatty stuff.

One good thing: Carrie and I fit in much better than the other American students, that's for sure.

French phrase for today: Je ne parle q'un peu de française, s'il vous plait, pouvez-vous parler plus lentement? (I only speak a little french, please, can you speak more slowly?)



France? HA!

Okay, take the worst room in Cline, add a "mezzanine" and then tear all the wall paper off and make it dark and funny-smelling... Welcome to your new home! Neat. If I can ever get the past the fact that I don't understand a damn thing, and if any other Americans ever show up and if I can get a phone and stop hating everything... I'll be totally fine, seriously. Please send me an email with all sorts of snotty, American what-not and I'll love you forever.

Friday, January 07, 2005

Dear Mona-Lisa, put your red shoes on.

Did you know that a glass of wine in France is cheaper than a glass of coke?

That being said, what is up with China? Yesterday their 1.3 billionth person was born. I find this fascinating. Supposedly, without their harsh laws about how many children a family can legally have (one) they would have reached this milestone (1.3 billion) four years ago. The penalty for having more than one child ranges from steep fines to losing your job and being placed in a work camp for the mentally ill. The result is that the average number of children per family has fallen from 5.8 to 1.8 and the ratio of males to females in now something like 115 to 100. The estimate is that 40 million men in this generation won't be able to find wives.

Remember in the 80's when being the kid with divorced parents made you wierd? (Not that many of my friends would, because somehow all of their parents are still together.) In China, I wonder if having siblings makes you the weird kid with the disfunctional, unpatriotic family.

Speaking of numbers: Coca Cola has donated about ten-million dollars to South Asia, as has Pfizter (the people who make Viagra). This is pretty damn cool if you ask me. I will take this moment to refrain from making a specific comment about our shatty government.

Anyway... 5288 people in Indonesia are dead and Patricia Arquette isn't really a psychic. Also, Amber Fry sucks and I have too much time to read the newspaper/watch The Insider.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Lick this Blog: a Disclaimer

I hate the idea of the blog. Having a blog, in my opinion, usually means you're a bit of a wanker. I say that with the utmost respect for people who can actually develop an interesting idea, but you see: a blog wishes it were a diary, left strategically open to a juicy, tantalizing page in the hope that the right person will happen upon it, thereby telling the reader the thing you can't tell them to their face (i.e. "I want you"... and I do). Only this diary is written by someone incredibly, remarkably boring who actually only wants you because they're so remarkably bored. Armed with the knowledge that I am, now more than ever, a wanker of rare form: nothing I write will ever be interesting enough. This blog will mercifully self destruct in five... four...

The situation is thus: my internet access will be extremely limited over the the next five months, due to the fact that even though Al Gore invented this technological marvel, someone in the past few years has apparently kept it hush-hush from the French.
Though originally this limited time online was a major disappointment to me (who needs to communicate with their mom anyway?) I realize that it keeps me from commiting a horrible crime: I refuse to tell you what I ate for breakfast or my "theme-song-of-the-day." Just because one makes a sentence, doesn't mean a word's been said. Tell me, do you care if I was late to class?
Upon my triumphant return I'll probably still be just another A-hole, but I want to find that my friends still know who I am and don't hate me for it.
Indeed, I want you.

note: "blog" is to be changed to anything other than "blog," which ranks in stupidity with such words as the state-name "Kentucky" and the adjective "puffy."

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

The good news: I might come back

Today's Agenda: purchase ticket to return from France, don't spend frivelous money on things like shin guards and finger puppets.
Agenda Status: accomplished.

Cheese Map

Don't expect a lot of exciting things to happen here for the next seven days as too may things will be happening in my actual life for the likes of you lot. Between now and my next post I will have moved to Lille, France. You'll note that Lille is so close to Belgium that it actually smells like beer and chocolate like the magical factory of Willy Wonka. The "Cheese map of France" is not as full of wonder and glee as I might have expected, and you'll note that Lille's not on it. In fact, all the maps on this site look a bit like they're made out of construction paper and maple syrup, but they have a cheese map nonetheless.
The list of things I don't have prepaired for this semester grows the more I realize that I will be 4629 miles from Campbell's Soup, Mary-Sue Rix and free refills (not to mention my parents). I said the five-month good-bye to Tim at seven this morning and won't be seeing him 'til he meets me in Paris (with el chor) in June. Neat. I'd like so say it's like some awesome black and white movie but it's a little more like heavy anesthetics since it hasn't sunk in that I leave on SUNDAY. Let me say it again: SUNDAY. Or rather: DIMANCHE.
Cripes.
A bientot.