The One Where I Give A Scattershot Update

So I've been absent for a while. Consider this my comeback post, the one where I make up for all that lost time and reward you for your loyalty and patience. Unfortunately, because I'm me, you'll walk away with very little actual knowledge of my life in absentia. It's ok though because it mostly consisted of playing spider solitaire or watching friends. Oh and I went to class all last week. But let's talk about the important stuff. Y'all ready for this? We're gonna hash it out step-by-step.


So I got kicked out of my host family. Well, kicked out is an ungracious term for being told with very little warning that I would no longer be welcome to live with them once I could find another place to stay. It was a bit like being laid off and broken up with at the same time. First Host Mommy Numero Uno (Cronológicamente, claro), told me I was going to be no longer welcome. I could stay as long as it took to find something else (because that would obviously be so much less than awkward), but she didn't think we were going to work out.

Naturally I packed up and left that night. On my way out I was treated to one last bizarre exchange that went something like (my thoughts in italics), "It's so sad that this has to happen You sound like my ex. The one who also didn't mean that when he said it. You're such an intelligent young man, with so many great qualities. None good enough to merit my presence in your life? I hope you'll keep me updated about your life. That would be easier if I still lived in your house. Also no. You have my email, right? When I said yes just now I meant no. And you can call us any time. I hate telephones. And come over for dinner often! I think you're a sociopath. Please move out of the doorway before I move you. Also I'm stealing one of your spoons."

With the help of my great friend Ana, who spends too much time in places like Brussels and London and not enough time in Paris for the entire year like she should, I moved to Braden's. Where I slept on the floor, which was surprisingly comfortable. I then moved to Caitlin's for the Two Lost Weeks, where I slept in a tiny bed and abused the living shit out her hospitality. I'm also fairly certain, based on no evidence whatsoever, that her French roommate thinks I'm a sex offender. I just got that vibe from her. Or something.

In the meantime, registration took place. This involved time travel to an era before the internet was invented, because apparently there's an easy way to do something and the French way, which involves an amphitheatre in a building located at the ass (in a figuratively literal sense, as Clignancourt is located conveniently at the end of line four. With no convenient connections. Also very little to do. It's a real ball!) of the eighteenth. Upon arrival in the dungeon of Centre Clignancourt, you take your seat, fill out a piece of paper that could have been filled out literally anywhere else (like, say, on the internet), turn it in, and are then confronted with the uncomfortable reality that you will have spent an hour round trip to write down four class codes. If you're me you'll also kinda sorta forget which ones exactly you registered for.

Anyways, this is getting long and I'm getting bored. Classes are fun, I'm taking Russian, there was a cute guy on the metro, went shopping cuz couldn't do laundry, look super European, live in a building that's going to collapse it's so old! Guys, I'm in France.