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.