Get ready to ramble!

So that post I promised that was going to reinvigorate my blog and prove that I could keep up with something...yeah, I'm a flake and you all know that. And you love me or something. In any case, it's been a while since I've updated. Fortunately, due to the insularity of French people I have not actually made any new acquaintances to tell you about. Since returning from Morocco, I have played the role of hermit disconcertingly well, in spite of the fact that I feel more at ease in this country than I ever have before.

Given that this first semester is more or less finished, and many of my new friends go home this weekend (that's you, Liz, Ana, Red/Rouge/AlexJKnotAlex, Yasmina-coughtraitorcough-, Caitlin², Kimianotnewbutstill, etc. and etc.), I'm in an unusually reflective. Here are a few things that occupy my brain on this, the official four-month anniversary of my departure from California.

AN: This might be broody and not funny. If you only come here for the lawlz, please steer clear. If you've never lawled and think I'm a self-aggrandizing asshole for assuming that I am witty...well get in line probably. Also, after spending thirty minutes on this, I'm amending this note to add that this is a fucking ramble-fest. Not for the faint of heart or really any but the terminally bored. And even then you might want to stay away.

Thought one: It's not really hard to live in a European country. While I run the risk of sounding like some post-First World-apologist in suggesting that, on the whole, France and America are more similar than they are different, I beg you to hear me out. Yes, I supplicate myself before thee.
France is different, certainly. There are a myriad of clichés that I could point to to illustrate this difference and they would be true: more types of cheese than Tiger Woods had sexual partners (yes, a sports reference. And no, I'm not talking about golf...wait, is that too dirty? Do children read this? If they do they shouldn't. Bad parents. As a side note, I'm really angry that more of my high school classmates haven't gotten pregnant at an obscenely young age. It seems to happen so often to my friends from Oregon. EDIT: Just looked it up. While teen pregnancy rate per 1,000 teenaged girls 15-19 in California is 1.2 higher than in Oregon overall [38.4 to 37.2] teen pregnancy among non-hispanic Whites [I went to UO and I grew up in LG. This is the more relevant statistic, sadly] is 11.2 higher in Oregon than it is in California [27.0 to California's 15.8]. There, now you learned something. CDC).

That kinda got away from me. Anyways, the point I'm going to make before I go off on another tangent is this: while France differs superficially from (cf. Cheese, hours of eating, differences in social comportment, bises, and if you want to extend superficial to its extreme I'd even go so far as to say that the political differences are only cosmetic changes to a base of the Western democratic ideal).

When they (who are they? I don't know but they definitely did what I'm about to describe) try to prepare you for study abroad, they warn you of this apocalyptic and unavoidable scenario in which you will eventually grow to despise your host country due to its differences vis à vis your home. It's not a question of if, but when. You will inevitably be unable to cope with just how alien your environment is, they tell you. They call it culture shock, and it never happened for me. Four months in France and I have yet to be confronted with an element of the culture so incomprehensible to me that I am thrown into a pit of maladjustment. Maybe I'm doing it wrong. Maybe the French culture is so impenetrable that, even living as I am in a host family, I am simply not connected enough with it to feel just how different it is. I don't think that's it. Maybe it's the fact that I have some sort of inoculation to this culture, as I've been here before in a host family. I still don't think that's it. I'm not saying that it was a waste of time being here: on the contrary, I have validated my love of all that is "abroad" and confirmed that the path I am currently taking is a path that I'm happy with, and not just one that sounds cool when I talk bout it at graduation parties/ a justification for wanting to learn languages. And that's cool. But I do feel sort of jipped. Ok, this is going nowhere, so onto the next thought. There will be three thoughts or this will be more agonizing to read than the Scarlet Letter. Which was a good book, but I have Hawthorne's inability to finish a sentence. So yeah.

Thought number two: None of this has to make sense. I guess I just realized this is my blog. But then again I write for an audience. I suppose I am at a cross roads of purpose. Spoiler alert: this is an overwrought metaphor for where I am in my life. Oh God...I'm about to turn into Thought Catalog here.
I have always maintained that you don't start to be a real person until the age of sixteen. Real person here will be defined roughly as a self-aware being capable of critical though but, more importantly, possessed of some sort of metacognitive capacity (which does not have to and, quite often, is not fully utilized) by which to analyze his or her own life in such a way as to create an internally-defined vision of what their world is. I believe that, up until the age of sixteen, you are defined by all that which is exterior to you: essentially, you are built from the outside in. That's why middle school is a stereotype of trying to be something else. It's in the early teens that you start to feel this need to build identity, but everything up until then has led you to take your cues from the world around you. From day one, when a poster plastered on a front door says it's a boy or it's a girl, you are told who you are. It's only in your mid-teens that you understand that you can decide who you are and, more importantly, how you wish to view the world. Anyway, this is important because I thought that it was a sort of exponential curve from there where you went from zero to one hundred and then were a real person. But I think that what I and many others my age are going through at this point is anxiety of influence: the world still has expectation of us, and as human beings we enjoy gratifying others. But we have expectations of ourselves, and at the point where the world's expectations and our internal desires diverge, we feel an intense anxiety. I think this is especially pronounced in the college crowd, and especially the college crowd of American students. But now I'm really rambling. In tl;dr news: It's hard to know where you want to go in life and we get kinda anxious about that. I don't know where I'm going in life and that scares the living shit out of me. And there is no rosy ending or nice comforting but it's okay quote because this is my blog and I choose to view the future as a giant question mark over a pit of terrors with just a rickety bridge to cross it. And more likely than not we fall in the pit, get a desk job and get over ourselves.

Outtakes from this post:
I tried to type America and I wrote dinner. It was such a bizarre typo that I thought about keeping it in. But I didn't because honestly after that whole pregnancy fiasco I couldn't afford another weird tangential loop that only makes sense when I'm narrating it in my head at a thousand miles per hour.

At one point I tried to make a funny (read: turned out awful and I removed the beast from this post) grammar joke and wrote spitting infinitives instead of splitting infinitives. That made me think about the possibility of some edgy reboot of School House Rock where they rap. And then my brain exploded because it was awful and now I have to explain to my host mother why I need new sheets when she just changed them. And you're brain exploded because innuendo and now we're all dead two days early. Marry Christmas and Happy Babushka! See you on the other side of the ball drop!

Also I promise the next post will be extra funny, light-hearted, and coherent to make up for this mess.

I Have Returned

After multiple requests and a very long absence, I have decided to take up the mantle of blogging again. This is all actually a ruse to avoid packing for Morocco, which, yes, is where I'm going tomorrow. I will be there for five days with a friend and a person I've met twice who seems lovely. Between the three of us we have planned jack shit and are staying in a hostel that it so difficult to get to that the owners thought it prudent to FILM A VIDEO OF THEM WALKING TO IT FROM VARIOUS POINTS IN THE CITY. This seems likely to end well.

What have I been doing with my life, you ask? How nosy...but I'm feeling indulgent.

I made a friend in a class! Well, actually, I handed a guy a piece of paper and then he asked me if I was going to go to the cafeteria. I took this to mean that he wanted to ask me out and that we were going to be in love. Unfortunately, I didn't have any money on me, so I lied and told him I had a class. The next day, I forgot to bring my backpack with me, so I sat through my one bearable lecture and was heading out of the classroom when I ran into Franco-Algerian BeanieBoy (I identify him from afar by his beanie. It is somehow unique and he is short; I often don't wear glasses. From hereon out he will be referred to as FABB). He asked me if I was in the upcoming class. I was, but I was clearly leaving the room. The obvious answer being no, I told the lie I had to tell so that he wouldn't think I was the type of person to skip classes. Another chance at romance missed.

The next week, determined to turn my luck around, I forced my friend Rouge and Leonie (who is Dutch and Kathleen be jealous) to linger around while FABB asked the professor a question. As I'm writing this I realize I sound really predatory and pathetic at the same time. Like a tiger with a flat tire if tigers had wheels. In any case, I finally got the lunch I wanted. It is at this point that I realized that I do not understand this kid when he talks. He has an accent banlieu which means he speaks with slang and twang and I'm reduced to just nodding along. I ended up agreeing to get coffee with him (or perhaps asking him if he wanted coffee? Sometimes I don't understand him so I ask for clarification on something but I speak in sentence fragments [you've read my blog] and am monotone and so he thinks I'm saying something declarative. It's all very confusing). Coffee was...well, let's put it this way: coffee was three hours of him talking about conspiracy theories. Specifically, him trying to convince me that 9/11 was planned by George W. Bush, me protesting weakly that no, this could not be the case (at the point that someone believes something there's very little point in trying to convince them otherwise. Particularly when your linguistic abilities don't allow you to say much more than "well...those people have their science, but there's another side and they have their science and they say no---

I'm interrupting this story to say that my host mom just did the cutest thing, and she did it in a way that was Solange de chez Solange, as Solange would say (I love Solange!). As I was typing whatever nonsense appears above, she knocks on the door to ask if she can talk with me for a second. Certain that I'm finally going to be disciplined for eating too much bread and cheese, I go into the living room. Turns out she wants to give me some advice about going to Morocco. Granted, she gave some horrifyingly vivid descriptions of people covered in lice and fleas and living on the streets and reasons why I should stay away form them (including a digression in which she described her sister's infection by a parasite that burrowed under her skin that she attrapéd [sometime the French word is just better, ok?] on the metro. THE METRO!).

She then told me to take a shit ton of ammodium (entirely unsure of how to spell that and furthermore too lazy to care) and gave me some medicating and a bunch of packets of tissues (because they don't do toilet paper and you can do that math). She is incredible.

To wrap this shitty post up, I'm going to Morocco, I'm sure I'll have something entertaining to post when I get back, my friend visited me the other week and it was fun and I totally intended to write about it, and I ate so much gum last Tuesday that I actually became physically ill. Oh, I also got a positive shout-out in one of my French classes for...doing something right? Crazy world, I know.

Привет! Меня зовут Катя и я один из друзей Бена. Он очень смешной, да? Вы русские? Давайте разговорим вместе, чтобы я могла лучше говорить по-русски! Мой емейл kpaint@charter.net.

Meth Heads and Books Read

Today is a historic day for this blog. (AN: I understand that, technically, it is grammatically incorrect to say a historic. However, I believe that voiceless glottal fricatives are consonants too and deserve to be treated as such.) For those who are not neurotic and obsessive-compulsive, you may not have noticed that, prior to today, I have only updated my blog on days ending in 1, 4, or 7. This pattern, like so many of my other irrational self-perpetuating habits, began as an accident but ended up being a fundamental rule governing the updating of this blog. Today, however, I'm making like Linkin Park and breaking the habit. /Pointless prologue.

A summary of my life, to wit:

One of my many charming traits is that I am as naive as I am vulgar. I remember being in a taxi on a family vacation and marveling at the disproportionate number of beautiful women whose cars had broken down on the side of the road. Why had God singled out these fine maidens for mechanical trouble? And, furthermore why had he chosen to do so when they were all on their way to a cocktail party (I had inferred from the length of their skirts that they were on their way to a party. Weird that it should take place in the middle of the day, but it was Italy and they are weird there.) It took me several days of reflection (one-track mind), before I realized that these women weren't having car trouble and were, in fact, prostitutes.

It is in this vein that I spent most of my metro ride to the library yesterday pressed quite intimately up against a man I thought had a degenerative muscular disease, a sweat gland disorder, and some form of functional epilepsy until I realized he was just a meth addict going through withdrawals and having trouble getting that slice of cheese into his mouth. This revelation was precipitated not by his guttural moans or by the sores on his hands, nor even the track marks on his arms (those were just freckles in a line), but by his asking me if I had any drugs.

Having finally made it to the library without catching BleedingSoreitis (that's inflammation of the Bleeding Sores for those of you who don't speak Latin), I proceeded to try to find the book that my professor had recommended we read. (Quick sidenote about French professors...and more specifically about French discussion section leaders. They are brutal. Like Genghis Khan, rip your eyes out and spit in your eye socket brutal. Like hand back your paper and ask if you meant to put it in the trash brutal. But some of them are cute!)  This involved a quick search of the library's online catalog, a trip to the place where the internet had promised my book would be located, and crushing disappointment when I realized that the book was not there.

Persistent as I am, however, I decided that I had simply misread the book's code. So I went back to the catalog computer, searched again, and walked back to the same place, determined to find that for which I had come. I hadn't just endured MethBreath (that's a really good name for a mint I think) for twenty minutes to walk away empty-handed. Shockingly, the book had not appeared in the two minutes it had taken me to walk to the computer and back. Undeterred, I decided once more that I had misread and so went back to triple check. A small part of me wondered if, after three times of looking and deciding that I had read it wrong, I shouldn't just declare myself illiterate and call it a day. But instead I repeated this process two more times until a French student, taking pity on my clearly tortured and stupid soul, asked me if I needed help finding something. Sensing an opportunity to make a friend, I responded by squeaking and walking in the other direction. Which might have been ok if I hadn't left my phone sitting on the bookshelf.


In conclusion I'm making no native French friends but I'm pretty sure there's an adult daycare out there just waiting for me to show up.

My Worst Date

For those of you who have not had the good fortune to be privy to my previous romantic exploits, the following story may appear to be so bizarre as to be made up. Please consult with those readers who have had the questionable fortune to be close to me since my romantic life took off like a plane with one wing (i.e. not very well, and with fantastic explosions); they will assure you that they read this without batting an eye because, depressingly, stranger things have happened. Here goes:

I've been on a few bad dates in my time, when I've been lucky enough to get one. This one doesn't just take the cake, it also beats the baker and burns downs the patisserie. On a bad date, you have very little to talk about. On this date, he won't stop talking. About how much he hates Mexicans, who don't speak real Spanish (as a Spaniard this is apparently a point of pride and brazen racism for him), and he thinks fajitas are gross. A bad date doesn't share your taste in music. This date burst into an off-key rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame"while we were crossing the street, admonished me for not joining in, and pronounced "peanuts" as "penis". 

Our meeting had been pretty typical:  on a Thursday afternoon boy met boy. Boy got along reasonably well with boy. Boy gave other boy number. Boy was unaware that number-taker is, in fact, lunacy incarnated bred with a tasmanian devil and Sanjaya mascarading as boy. Boy promised impending trainwreck a night out.

Enter Friday evening. After agreeing to meet me early for dinner with my great friend Kimia (who is awesome and did not deserve to be subjected to any of this), our boyo loco shows up an hour and twenty minutes late with very little explanation, sits down and refuses to order anything. Why? Because, apparently, he does "no trust the chinese". Never mind the fact that the chef at this Japanese restaurant is clearly white, it's a glass of Coca-Cola for my date. Yes, waiter, this is why we had you set an extra place. Something strange happens after his drink arrived, in that I became the third wheel on my own date. Our Spanish friend focused all of his attention on Kimia. By which I mean all of his attention on interrogating the living shit out of her. First he wanted to know why the electoral college (answer: no on really knows, please leave her alone). Then he wanted to know if she understood his Farsi (no, because he only speaks Arabic). Finally, after mentioning a meeting with a friend later that night, he politely inquired "So you are sleeping with him?" (I play fast and loose with the word politely).

We left shortly after this incident to walk Kimia to the metro. At this point, we became aware of the fact that this man-gremlin is incapable of walking and talking at the same time (which explains why it took him so goddamn long to get to the restaurant as I was giving him directions on the phone. Directions here is encouraging him to keep going down the same street he was on because, no he hadn't arrived but, yes the restaurant was on this street, he just wasn't there yet. Promise). 

With Kimia dropped off, I decided to try to lose him. So I took him up to my house and had him wait in my doorway while I ostensibly went to the bathroom. After spending ten minutes reading shampoo bottles in French, I emerged and explained that I wasn't feeling well. Even having all but described myself as Diarrhea and Incontinence, I was unable to shake him loose. It took an hour of walking around the streets of Paris with me doing nothing but complaining about how I didn't want to be there before he took the hint and let me go. Just kidding, I had to stop walking, inform him that I was cutting our date short, and then listen to a ten-minute long speech about how he would have to go home and spend the night on the phone with his mother, like he did every night, like he was so tired of doing like--what's that? I stopped listening. Please go away now.

Flowers and Gumdrops

Greetings, fair readers! The only reason I'm writing this is that I cannot bring myself to leave my room right now because the toilet won't stop flushing and I have become frightened. However, with the door closed and   Tell It To My Heart cranked up, I can pretend like nothing is broken.

This week I attended all of the classes for which I am registered AND stayed awake through them all. A herculean effort on my part for which I humbly accept your awe and praise. To congratulate myself, I'm going to do an even more self-indulgent post than usual. In this post, I shall enumerate all those things I find detestable in the world. Or at least the first ones that come to mind until I get bored and/or have to leave. Here we go:


Tourists who think that it is okay to use an iPad to take photos. This is unacceptable behavior. I'm not the most magnanimous of men (this one's for you, Mr. Garrett. I do remember sophomore year! Also, sorry that at the time I thought it was appropriate to end a creative retelling of an Arthurian legend with Lancelot dying through autoerotic asphyxiation. I was a show pony back then...I mean, I'm still one now but the lines are more clearly drawn. Still, you handled it very well, and for that I thank you. I also remember you have some story about cheese in Paris or something) to begin with (do you like how I continued my thought from before the parenthetical? Raise your hand if you didn't need to go back to the beginning!) but people standing around landmarks or, worse, simply taking candid I'm-in-Paris-and-this-is-a-Parisian-street shots with their tablets make me wish I owned a harpoon. I mean, I want a harpoon in any case, but that's another story. A short story: once upon a time, my mother gave birth to a violent and sadistic me. Retournons à nos moutons: anyone planning on traveling in the near future should be advised that, as soon as I get the money, I am going to retain an army of gypsy thieves whose will be tasked solely with the robbery and battery of assholes who document their vacation on their iPad. It's what you deserve for such a flagrant display of wealth and lack of common sense.

Another thing that makes me angry are those worthless sacks of skin and perseverance that play music or, if you're really unlucky, sing while you're on the metro. Every time a filthy old man (or, in one case, a rather well-endowed young prostitute--I mean womyn), walks on my car with an accordion or a microphone, I feel like I've lost Russian Roulette without the good fortune of having been able to die. No one likes your music. No one wants to give you money. There is a special circle of hell reserved for you people, who choose the most inopportune moment to decide to share your lack of talent with the world. It's not just that they're not generally very good at what they do. It's that a metro car already filled with the sound of screaming metal becomes a tool the Inquisition would envy when filled with their special brand of cacophony. Again, when I am rich and God, I will have an army of lepers force feed these people their own limbs. Covered, of course, in hot sauce. As an addendum to this, I also hate you, man selling roses outside of nightclubs. I didn't want any the first time you asked me, I didn't want any the second time you asked me, and the five minutes you spent literally staring at me with what I think you think are puppy dog eyes but are actually just limpid brown pools sitting on the flabby marsh of your ugly face did absolutely nothing to convince me to purchase your wares. And the next day, when I passed by in daylight (read: sunlight), I DID NOT NEED AN UMBRELLA. AND I AM NOT "CLUB BOY". YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO ADDRESS ME HEATHEN!


A final thing I hate is time. There is not enough of it. Specifically, there is not enough time to sleep for twenty-five hours a day. I am a man of inertia: when I am at rest, I wish to stay at rest. It is for this exact reason that I am so excited for the day I get my coffin.

Just kidding friends. France is great and I hope you are too! Leave comments.

CMs and TDs and Host Families. (Oh Rhymes!)

Hello there, friends! So nice of you to drop in (although you've probably come here by Facebook link, in which case I reprimand you for not having subscribed to my blog. Because obviously you have nothing better to do than wait to hear about my life. Well, no longer! For it is here! My blog! That you are reading! I'm singing this out loud as I type it. Excuse me if it's not in English!)

First thing's first, the reason why I'm here (theoretically): classes! The French university system is, shockingly, very French in nature. The essence of the French higher education system is quite easy to grasp from the comfort of an armchair, bed, or, if you're a pregnant woman giving birth while reading this blog, stirrups. Think of any principle of user-friendliness and then imagine its diametric opposite. If the Sorbonne's motto  weren't "Here and anywhere on Earth" (read: "Yeah, you could go elsewhere. But we're Parisian, so why would you?"), it would be "You're welcome" (read: "L'Oreal is a lying bitch. You are not worth it.") Lectures consist of the professor. TDs (which are like discussion sections without the discussion) is a dish based on the fine French educational tradition of pedagogery with that subtle hint of condescension that is the lifeblood of French culture.

Which isn't to say I dislike it. On the contrary, I find that the lectures are fascinating, dense, and comprehensive. I actually feel like I've learned a fact every time I come out of a class. There is only a small chance that this is a product not of the level of instruction but the sheer mental effort I expend on actually paying attention. Because French people talk really fast and sometimes you spend an entire lesson learning about the French monarchy and wondering why they're talking about sour bread until you realize that the word batard here refers to illegitimate son. And not this:

Hello. I am a baguette and I am next in line for the throne. Bow to me, for I am the Carb King.

Also, because I'm crazy, I'm taking Russian. Which is three hours on a Wednesday in a room that barely fits all of the students in it. And my Russian professor is this young woman who can speak about as loud as a mouse on sedatives. And quite often I'm not entirely sure whether she's forming words at all or just moving her lips and squeaking in a vaguely guttural and Slavic way. In any case, her timidity brings out the truly terrifying side of the French student in that they completely disrespect her in every way. When a French student doesn't respect the teacher, he or she talks. Not over the teacher, because that would imply in some way that the teacher had managed to make any sort of quantifiably significant impact on the life of the student. No, they simply talk as though they had agreed with their friends beforehand to come and hang out in the classroom. Every so often they copy something down off the board, but it's more a validation of the chalk board's existence than it is of her. In fact, I would say that the primary instructor is the chalk and my Russian teacher is an Agent of the Chalk. Her general ineffectuality is compounded by the fact that she never brings a real eraser and so instead uses a sponge and a bucket of water. Which requires her to bend over ever five minutes and literally make an ass of herself. It's depressing. Also the room humidifies itself and that's a huge problem but separate and for another time.

Next topic: Family! As I've said already, my host family is so awesome it's only appropriate that their toilet glitters. The mom interviews hackers for a living and she also can talk for an hour without stopping. Both of these things are awesome, because as long as she talks I can pretend like I'm not totally awkward. Her husband is equally nice, although they truly are an opposites-attract couple in that he is a man of few words. But he laughs at my jokes when I'm quick enough on my pieds to tell one in French. So there's that. And the sister who lives with them is probably reading this blog so hi Annie! (J'espère que tu ne seras pas dérangée d'être mentionnée sur mon blog. Tu seras célébrée aussi quand je deviendrai une vedette de l'Internet). 

Their cat, however, is another story. We do not get along. He is a tiny clawed terror and is definitely channeling the spirit of my ex-dear cat Jake, who stopped talking to me when I left him for College. Which totally isn't fair because he still gets to sleep in my bed every night except those nights that I'm at home. When he sleeps in the hallway like the jilted ex-pet that he is. If you're reading this Jake, I think it's totally immature that after two years you haven't either moved out or moved on. Or both. What was I talking about? Oh right, cats. Anyway, the essential part of the story is this: I love cats but this cat scratched me because I wouldn't share my chips. Which meant I missed my favorite part of the episode of Friends that I was watching. Luckily, Bable the Chat will be leaving soon to join my host sister in Nantes, where he can terrorize her for a change.

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.