Fin Tours Debut Paris

We have finally left Tours which means...the end of the French Class From Hell. To anyone not in the program it's impossible to describe the flame of joy that burned merrily in the hearth of my heart as I walked out (early, ostensibly to "chercher mes valises") of that awful skylit room for the final time. Shame that the professeur was as lovely as they come. I feel bad resenting the product of her hard work, but what're you gonna do?

Oh, in exciting pre-Liberation news I finally took a French bus! And it was (almost) not a complete disaster! Which is to say that the morning bus went off without a hitch. The afternoon bus, which I judiciously made absolutely sure was the right bus to take, was a complete disaster! After getting on the right bus, I naively assumed that it would take me to the right stop. I got on a self-assured traveler of the world, confident that I might even pass for a real French person such was the effortless assiduity with which I montéd the autobus approprié. These delusions of competence shattered soon afterwards when my bus passed not one, not two, but three of the stops that would have left me within easy walking distance of my home. My fight or flight response thus activated, I took it upon myself to mash the request stop button like a fiend several thousand times, attracting the attention of several of my fellow passengers. At last my prayers were answered (or perhaps we'd just come to a stop that finally had people at it), and lo the doors of the bus did open. Unfortunately the doors closed on me on the way out, so I had to force my way off the bus and endure the confused stares of the French busgoers as I walked the length of the bus towards my final destination, home. It was only then that I realized I'd lost my water bottle in the struggle. Eight euro cents not well spent. The moral of the story is that it's ok to take the bus in the morning but absolutely the worst idea ever to attempt to repeat success. If you do something right in a foreign country, it was a fluke. Don't get cocky.

Anyway, we left Tours the same way we came: on a bus that smelled of sweat (three cheers for broken air conditioning in 90 degree weather!) and the pheromones of eager anticipation. That's right Sweet Briar friendlings, I can smell your emotions. Wait don't read that, I want you to like me despite my tiger nose. Moving right along, we finally arrived at the Alliance Francaise/Sweet Briar office and, in good Sweet Briar form, they had us do something confusing and unnecessary. We were told to leave our luggage out in the courtyard (because the gates would also keep out the people who were luggageside, right?) and descend into the ass of the Alliance, where we filled out the seats of a theatre that has undoubtedly held really great productions of things in the past. There, in some sort of Frankensteinian fusion of pageant and adoption ritual, our host families waited for us. Parnet then read out our names, whereupon we filed up to the stage to meet our host family. By which I mean our host moms. Because gender roles guys.

My host mom, whose name I forgot immediately upon learning it and will now have to squirrel out of her through the winning combination of subtlety and smoothe-talking that is my calling card, took me to her apartment. And though many of you will have read my Facebook status, I am going to repeat here: MY BALCONY OVERLOOKS TWO FOUNTAINS. People who know me know that I love fountains. People who are reading this blog in Nepal, hi! I love fountains. A lot. Their apartment is amazing, they are the friendliest people, and only photos can describe how happy I currently am with this situation. Undoubtedly I will die in a fire sometime this year, but until then let the real study abroad experience begin!