Thinking

Tonight, my host family had a friend over to dinner. Whenever someone else visits for dinner, it means my host mom cooks an amazing meal and I tend to drink a little too much whiskey/wine and then go to bed in a haze.

So, right when I was about to go to bed (about 11:45 p.m.) my host father questioned me about homosexual rights. It got to the point where I got all flustered and said (in French), "It's difficult for me to defend myself, because I don't speak French. Now, I have homework to do, and I'm going to bed." And I left the table.

...whee.

On Traveling

Last weekend, my friend Vicky (a student at Grinnell, currently studying in Granada, Spain) and her friend Laura came to Paris to meet our friend Davis (also from Grinnell, studying in Paris) to attend a Pixies concert. Vicky invited to me to meet them for the weekend, and since other kids from Nantes were going to Paris as well, I packed and hopped the Friday afternoon train.

Leaving was unsettling; not only because I was randomly going to an unknown city, but the farmers in Nantes were on strike (blocking the public transportation with their tractors and cows) and someone had been hit by a train between Nantes and Angers. But once I got to Paris, met up with Vicky, Davis and Laura in the train station, immediately all feelings of mal a l'aise disappeared.

While Vicky is a little crazy and a lot energy wrapped up into tight hipster pants, Davis counters her with his calm, and between the two of them, Laura holds her own. Needless to say, the four of us combined were a force to be reckoned with. We spent the weekend riding the metro, buying food from street vendors, and visiting the occasional tourist trap. And it was absolutely one of the best weekends I've had in France so far.

(Davis, Vicky, Me)

And to add to the fun, Vicky and friends from all over (Belgium and Morcco) and I had decided to meet the next weekend (this weekend) in Barcelona. My good friend Felicity had suggested this to me, and being not unlike my father, my first thoughts were ones of "Hmm..Barcelona sounds expensive...I don't know" (even though it was only about 70 euros.) And of course, I waited too long, and of course, the prices increased. And, ignoring all rationale and intellect that I have gained over the years, I bought the very expensive tickets anyways.

(Yes. My parents were unhappy. And yes, I spent last week in the grips of paralyzing guilt.)

I went to Paris two nights ago, skipping class, so that I could take the cheapest flight out to Barcelona. I spent the night in the beautiful and stereotypical centre-ville appartment of my host mother's sister (an appartment decorated with antique chandeliers, tapestries, and even a real, stuffed wild-boar head hung up on the wall.) At 4:30 Friday morning, I walked 30 minutes down the large, well-lit parisienne avenues, under trees and vintage lamposts, past churches and cafes and bars that hadn't yet closed, and had no intention of closing. And you know what? I was pretty proud of myself. It was kind of warm, there were people out that weren't going to mug/rape/kill me, and I knew where I was going without the help of Davis.

And then I got to the airport check-in and realized I'd forgotten my passport in my drawer back in Nantes.

I swear to god, I was dropped on the head as a child.

And though I pleaded, through sobs of terror, with the check-in attendant, my frantic attempts were met with a cold, emotionless reply of, "Vous pouvez prendre le train." Yeah, ok, I'll take the fucking train after I just lost 400 euros down the drain.

So I exchanged my train ticket, received 7 euros back (which, when the lady gave me, brought me to tears again) and spent the next 4 hours curled up in the fetal position in a corner of the train station. Think: shards of glass of guilt raining down upon me.

The gross thing is, the only thing (besides the 7 euros) that made me feel slightly better was, when I was walking from the airport terminal back to the train station, I read an advertisement for some insurance company. The ad had a student working out an organic chemistry problem, and immediately, in my head, I thought, "Diels-Alder: the double bonds move between the aromatic rings to connect and form a bridgehead."

Thinking

Tonight I introduced my host family to Snoop Dogg's classic 'Who Am I (What's My Name?)'

Needless to say, they were impressed.

A little late, butt...

(Left to right, back to front: Geoffroy, Mayalise, Ann, Veronique, Ingrid, Claire, Me.)

Last weekend, Ingrid visited me, my family, and Nantes. She chose the right weekend to come, as it was also my host mother (Veronique)'s birthday. For her birthday, the two daughters, Ann and Mayalise (neither of whom live in Nantes) also visited, and the entire family, sans Ingrid et moi, went to an 8-hour play on Saturday afternoon.

Glorious.

Instead, Ingrid and I went out with my friends, celebrating the Grinnell College tradition that is 10/10, which includes maybe drinking a little too much and 'creating community,' or something along those lines. She met all my friends, and we went out to eat at a Tex-Mex inspired resturant called, "The Ranch," where the waitresses don't wear bras and the heads of dead animals decorate the walls.

The next morning, we woke up, had an incredible lunch, and then sent Ingrid off, back to Tours. This upcoming weekend: Paris.

(left to right, back to front: Geoffroy, Mayalise, Ann, Veronique, Ingrid, Claire, Jacques, in front of the entire Western canon, and then some.)

Thinking

It's started to get cold and drizzley here.

Which means the mounds of feces, vomit, and cigarette butts on the sidewalk have kind of melted together to form little lakes of nastiness.

Mmm.

Refresh

A few weeks ago, when I wandered into a tabac to buy minutes for my cell phone, the woman working the counter heard my accent and asked if I would teach her two children how to speak English. I agreed, and since then, every Wednesday at 3:30 pm., for 10 euros, I walk across the city to the same tabac and teach these girls English.

Which is silly, because, as I've come to realize, my knowledge of French grammer far greater than that of English grammer. I have absolutely no idea how to teach English, let alone explain the English language in French.

But it's nice. The girls are adorable, and every time I come, the lady gives me as much coffee as I want, and has always baked a cake for me. And 10 Euros. Did I already say that? 10 Euros and cake. For an hour every Wednesday. I would call that a win.

Besides my famille d'accueil, this lady and her daughters are some of my first French friends. And as I've been getting more comfortable conversing in French, I've developed other friendships, too, in my climbing class, and with friends of my host family. While I have really good American friends, finding friends outside the Institut is surprisingly difficult, as we are somewhat isolated from other students our age. That, and the kids in my physics class at the university are surprisingly cold. The girl who sits next to me is innocent-looking enough, but she wears a pin that says, 'Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck.' Then again, it is physics. Maybe they just haven't gotten to the chapter about 'Social Aptitude' yet.

But, a few days ago, I met a boy while climbing, who ended up walking me home (a 45 min. walk) because he wanted 'to learn to speak better English.' And last night, my host mom drove me to meet up with her godson and a group of his friends, with whom I went to a bar, and then to a discotheque-costume-soiree thingy. And that soiree? Think eurotrash meets Halloween, and then add a lot of whiskey. I left at 4am (earlier than everyone else), and yes, that 9 am class this morning felt just great.

But I have French friends! Finally.