This is a test of the emergency broadcast system...

Not really.

For the third week in a row the cleaning lady knocks on the door, Carrie says "Entré," there's no response, keys jingle, the door opens, and realizing that Carrie and I are asleep (comme d'habitude between our 8:30 class and our 2:00 class) she hangs a trashbag on the door and leaves. Our floor and sink have not been cleaned for FIVE WEEKS. This would not bother me except that our floor collects enormous amounts of debris from the stumbling drunkards, dust rhinos and, apparently, the Daily Distributor of Debris who comes in like the Tooth Fairy while we sleep and drops black dirt all over our linoleum floor. I swept a solid pound of filth from our two modest floors and am considering writing a multilingual letter to the cleaning lady about how I'd happily sacrifice one nap in order to keep the soles of my feet clean for just two damn minutes.

That being said: here are the pictures of Paris. Enjoy.

Dear Catastrophy Girlfriend,

Tim has informed me that one can read this blog for days and still have no idea what's going on in France. That may be best for everyone but in the spirit of diplomacy here it is:

-I've been listening to Belle and Sebastian's "Dear Catastrophy Waitress" for the past four days and I'm considering eloping with myself.

-Gisel had a going-away extravaganza (now with more Vaganza than ever!) on friday night. How odd it is to be in another country (one which, unlike America, actually has an official language) with spanish, finnish, chinese, mexican, french, canadian, american, hungarian and italian people... and the common language is English. Well, half english, half whatever familiar words one can snag out of the air in order to make half-coherent conversation. Santiago got drunk and threw a bottle of milk across the room and then got very angry when Carry made him clean it up; therefor we have a picture of him "crying over spilt milk." These boys I live with are like the brothers I never had in that I love them most of the time but sometimes wonder if they've been struck retarded. And they eat my food, steal my things and argue with me for no reason.

-I feel horrid for Gisel who has to leave in the exact moment when everything falls into place. Eveyone has finally reached a point where there's a certain degree of comfort- nicknames (Rox in a box with a fox, rox-a-thon, etc...), inside jokes, routines... How bizarre must it feel to be the one person who is leaves while everyone else is still making plans? I don't envy her. As many times as I've cursed this country in the past three(!) months I wouldn't want to leave now. Sometimes it takes a while for change to sink in but Gisel not being around hit me the second nine of us put her on the train to Paris. Now who's going to lick me and play with my hair and say innappropriate things really loudly under the assumtion that no one speaks English? Who's going to do Erin's laundry and manage Josh's booming hemp-necklace enterprise? Am I going to have to depend on Alexis to buy me kabab in the wee hours? So, so sad.

-But... there are better things underfoot that are a permanant part of France. Like attending Easter Mass in Notre Dame de Paris. Early Sunday morning Carrie and I put ourselves on the train and headed towards what may be the actually reason (historically and through justification) that France exsists at all: Paris. No, I had not yet been, except to travel in and out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, but now that I've been I have to ask myself "why do we not have an exchange with the Sorbonne?" Paris is rediculously lovely. It's lovliness is rivaled only by the lovliness of it's crèpes. Of which I had three: une crèpe complète (ham, cheese, mushrooms), chocolat chantilly (chocolate whippedcream) and chocolat banane (chocolate bananaaaaaaaah!). Stick a fork in me: I'm done.

Wait.... if I don't write the rest Tim will complain of negligence in journalism...

ATTENTION!!! Carrie has, just this moment, returned from dropping Gisel off in Paris with the news that Gisel is in Lille because Air France changed her ticket to 10:00 a.m. without informing her. Just when you think you can escape... And this is why I fly on international carriers based in the U.S. And also why I don't travel with two 80lb duffle bags like Gisel does. Incredulous laughter fills the air.

Anyway.

Carrie and I had the benefit of spending our Sunday morning listening to the bells of Notre Dame. We climbed the towers and came back down in time to attend Easter Mass in the front row. The story is the same in English and in French, in case you're wondering but there is one fascinating thing. Maybe this amazes me because I'm not Christian but the French use the familia when addressing God. For some reason this level of familiarity thrills me because I guess I've never thought about the fact that thee, thou, thy, etc, are the original familiar in English, to the best of my knowledge. And people say God doesn't want to be your friend!

Notre Dame is an absolute masterpiece. Beyond a shadow of a doubt it is the most luminous and impressive cathedral I've ever seen, which is a serious claim considering that there isn't much about gothic architecture that could be called "luminous." It's beyond words, and my pictures are basically crap if they're supposed to do it any justice. But it's not the only big church on the block...

We also went to a place by the Palais de Justice called Saint Chapel, which is a chapel that had been raided and used as a flour storage shed until someone (brilliant!) remembered that its upper chappel is a wall-to-wall stained glass window that tells the entire story of the Bible. The breath was literally knocked out of me when we came up the spiral staircase into something out of a lucid dream. I cannot fathom the work it must have taken to create that one room.

The next stop (with some crèpes in between) as we marched along the Sienne was, in typical tourist fashion, the grand Eiffel Tower. Pause.

As we approach it from behind, after walking from one end of the city to the other, Carrie looks up and flatly says: "why is that a tourist attraction? It looks like a radio tower." I have never laughed so hard in my life. THE EIFFEL TOWER. THE SYMBOL OF FRANCE. Coming from Carrie who loves everything and thinks everything is beautiful (except modern art). "What's the big deal?" But as we got around the hideous hotel blocking our view and were able to see the thing in all it's glory we realized just exactly why. It may be tall, it may be steel, but it's elegant. It's feminine and masculine. It's sweeping and overpowering. And it has a hell of a lot of steps.

Overall, Carrie (who counts stairs habitually) estimates that we scaled over 2,000 steps in that one day. Half of them in high heels. You tell me that's not impressive.

Essentially, what's happening in France is that I love Paris and cannot WAIT to go back, even though I must have spent 100€ total in one day and my calfs hurt and the torent of rain at the top of the Eiffel Tower gave me a burning fever. It's the sort of tired happiness which you take home and wonder how anyone lives without.

Be what you would seem to be...

Yes, Mad as a March Hare and this is a picture of me today, lounging by the pool. This is a great country.

I took my first(!) test today... it was sickeningly easy and I refuse to hope that the rest of my tests will be like it. Instead of telling you about any of that other boring stuff I'm going to write you a small poem:

Bone dust is the bottom of the ocean
the hills are made of bone dust too.
All the letters lay in piles,
locked in books that look like
strange aquatic creatures,
and you are a house in a tree
from which I watch and love
the words.

I need a Mad Hatter, or to have Had Matter.

This post is dedicated to my dad, without whom I would never be able to be comfortably insane.

Lightening has just struck my brain...

The gravity of this year hit me while I was trying to pay attention to yet another Art et Société powerpoint presentation.

It has only been three months since the year started and I've already experienced the death of my great grandmother, 1,276 different countries and their respective cuisines, TKE Sweetheart, getting the position as Newspaper Editor, my family moving out of my house, the engagement of my best friend and three flights across the Atlantic.

I have yet to come: my first trip to DC, my best friend's wedding (NOT starring Julia Roberts, as far as I know), a month in Europe with Tim, the beginning of my SENIOR year of college, three more trips (at least) across the Atlantic and liposuction. (Just seeing if you were paying attention.)

I miss Trina, Jason, Kristin, Jenkins, Jon Stewart, PBS and Seth's flip-flops.

I plan to cure ebola and star in "The Ice-Capades: The Golden Egg on Ice" in the coming weekend, just to round out the month.

Feliz cumpleaños a ti...

Went to a Spaniard's birthday party last night. He got condensed milk and porkchops from his friends and everyone sang the birthday song standing on chairs.

French people in summer look like gypsies and I nominate myself to steal their beautiful clothes.

Last night we also to went to an Easter "dinner party" and it was basically disguting and, like anything from Sedexho, it made everyone sick to their stomachs. This is a severe let down after the dinner party held by the Finnish girls who know how to throw down proper. But we took marvelous before and after pictures.

Oh, and because everyone's been whining that I haven't appropriately emmersed myself in french culture (because I haven't been to Paris and I'm not the President of the Cannes Film Festival) I took this picture just fo you. Appreciate france THAT.

And in case that wasn't enough, here are some boring pictures of buildings in Calais, along with some others that aren't quite as boring and may in fact be less boring than whatever cleaning/homework you could be doing.

I'm going to go back outside and enjoy this rediculously beautiful sunshine and start planning how much I'm going to eat for dinner because I think I can fit the whole refridgerator in my mouth. Spring France is a whole different pineapple-underwater cake from the France of January. Let's all do the dance for that!

Neighborhood Man

I re-learned something about Centenary yesterday. If you have a conversation with someone who is even remotely within your social sphere, whether or not you speak to them often or know them personally, it is not necessary to explain your life situation in any way before launching into any conversation featuring gossip.

Was that sentence long and complex? Let me put it another way: I never talk to Olivia and yet she knows who I'm dating, what organizations I'm involved in, who my close friends are, etc, etc... so well in fact that we were able to have a conversation (about the rumor in January that Tim and I had broken up [???]) without me ever telling her a tiny thing about my life. I have a feeling this only happens at places like Centenary- where we openly admit to thriving on gossip (ps: send me more).

So just because it's Centenary and you already know this through Magical Centenary Gossip Osmosis(tm), no matter if you're frolicking in the ozarks, discussing movie-rental trends in the ATL, smelling the plants that surround Lake Charles, or writing a dissertation on China/North Korea relations (loser), I am the new editer of the much esteemed Centenary Conglomerate.

Wheeeee!!! This foreign keyboard which inhibits my already-lacking AIM typing skills can't hold me back!!

As a matter of celebration I will eat Easter Dinner at Gisel's place with the girls hope the book I have to read by Thursday has arrived from Amazon.co.uk. Both of which I was going to do anyway, but which I will now do champagne-bottle in hand. Huzzah!

For those about to rock: WE SALUTE YOU

ROXIE'S RECIPE FOR FRESH MUSSELS CALAISIENNE

2 Litres Fresh Mussels from Calais
(Steam mussels and retain two cups of the remaining broth for sauce)
Shell mussels and place in hot frying pan with mussel broth and following ingredients.
4 Tbsp Butter
2 Tbsp Tomato Paste
2 Tbsp sliced olives
1 tsp chopped garlic
dash salt
dash pepper
dash basil
Simmer and reduce by half. Add one cup Crème Fraich (or whole creme), simmer and reduce again.

Pour sauce over steaming pasta and top with grated edam cheese (or parmesiagn). Enjoy with company and the knowledge that you just created a new recipe using stuff you found in other people's fridges.

As you can see, Saturday's trip to Calais was a joy. Michelle and I visited the Musée de la Guerre, saw the Bourgeoise de Calais (a famous sculpture by Rodin), couldn't see Dover because it was too cloudy to see across the Channel, bought fresh Mussels from a stand, visited a museum about the production of lace and ate more fries that one person should ever eat. Overall it was a good day. I've never lived by the ocean but I'm constantly surprised by how much I miss the smell of it.

Yesterday Olivia Hamilton and Katie McNeil arrived from Denmark (via Brussles). It's been like a mini Centenary-fest in our room. ie: It's been awesome. We spent all day walking around the city in the sunshine, eating chocolate covered waffles and gossiping, as all true Centenarians do.

Yesterday we went to the market and bought a rotissery chicken, fresh bread, blood-oranges and kiwis. Also, I've tried another kind of cheese but did the unthinkable and (gasp) forgot what it's called. I'm a horrible patron of the cheese arts.

Also, come to find out that one of my "mid"-term tests is cancelled and that the only grade for that class is a final. Hmmmmmm... I should be celebraiting the death of a midterm but we'll see how I feel about that when final time rolls around and I'm dependant on ONE test for my grade.

Today I miss Robert Savage, Ashlie Daigle, David and Lisa. Let's go camping.

Phrase du jour: Je voudrais faire du camping. (I want to go camping)

The Green

WARNING: I LËARNËD HÖW TÖ ÜSË THË ÜMLÄÜT.

No, That's not what I was göing to say.

WARNING: THE PICTURES FEATURED IN THE LINK AT THE BOTTOM ARE EXTREMELY CHILDISH.

Honestly, what more can you expect from a bunch of Americans surrounded by people who don't celebrate St. Patrick's day (why would they? Unlike us they know they're not Irish).

For years I celebrated the torment of being the kid who forgot to wear green on St. Patrick's day. This meant I was the nërd who had to bum a shamrock sticker off of someone or risk being bruised by people who like the pinching. Enough with the pinching.

Then I got a tattoo and had the awesome ability to say: "YES, I'm wearing green, I'm always wearing green." This didn't come to much though because such self defense statements come, by nature, after someone has already left a bruise. AND I still don't remember that I have the tattoo until after I've already been wearing that stupid shamrock sticker all day.

Due to the fact that Europe doesn't celebrate the day (where is all that cornbeef and cabbage?), there was a disticnt lack of stickers and I was therefor nominated TATTÖO QUEEN. Not because of my body art but because of my wicked skills. I used up one of my nice markers giving people tattoos of shamrocks, celtic crosses, greek letters, yin-yangs and other dinstinctly non-irish things. Or maybe the marker got used up when people decided to start writing on me.

You know you've had a good day when the shower water is green the next day.

Anyway... The point is that we must have looked a fool. A pocket of 20 Americans, all dressed in Green, drinking green beer, drawing on eachother and taking pictures of everyone doing the single most decidedly retarded thing we could imagine: taking pictures of everyone licking each other. I apologize ahead of time, you teacher/parent/ types. I suggest instead clicking here.

Or, for the brave and not easily disgusted about the folly of youth: cliquez ici. For Josh's pictures (which may or may not be of me) cliquez ici.

'Tis a crazy time. Everyone's slightly flipped out about the fact that teachers are just now telling us that we have huge tests next week. Nö one can believe that there are only five more weeks of class. Every ultimately insufficient weekend is filling up with some extraordinary trip to somewhere. The sun is blazing. I'm (uncharacteristicly) working on a jigsaw puzzle on my floor instead of writing a paper about the death of Lädy Jane Grey. And Kacie may or may not have found us a house for our senior year (gasp!).

Irish eyes are smiling.

I could grow babycorn in my room for cheaper than that...

I attempted to post yesterday but for some reason this site has decided to function only occasionally. I blame the internet and not France.

Speaking of which: I've decided I need to be careful how I word things when I blame France as a whole for all of my woes.

Imagine that you've just moved to America and that the first place you end up is Detroit. In the winter. It's cloudy, it's dirty, it smells funny, everyone looks completely strange and acts sort of intollerant towards you in your struggles. And everytime you try to make your life better, it doesn't work because that's just "how Detroit is."

I am in the Detroit of France. Had I ended up in the San Diego of France, perhaps I would be singing a different tune. Like, maybe something by The Pretenders.

I will say that my esteem for the country goes up with every degree by which the temperature rises. It has been beautiful outside and tomorrow we're scheduled for frisbee and picnics in the park, where people are so thrilled to not be indoors that they take cases of beer and sit around drinking at high noon.

Josh and I found the most confusing/hilarious/indescribably disgusting thing I have ever seen yesterday. KNACKI BALLS. Yes, these tiny balls of hotdog are the perfect compliment to any meal. How you cook them, what you eat them with; WHY they exist at all... so many questions!

Happy St. Drove-the-witches-out-of-Ireland-let's-celebrate-by-drinking Day. Shamrocks all around.

Spiderman, Spiderman, Does Whatever a Spider Can

The wierdest thing about being back in France (after my brief sojourn in reality) is that it's not wierd to be back in France. Charles De Gaulle is now just another airport (I'm collecting them) and the difficulty of that first time navagating the TGV with Carrie seems overrated.

What doesn't seem overrated is how much I enjoyed being home, home, home...

In one short week I managed to fill all of the gaping holes I've had since moving to F-f-f-france.

There's my best friend, traversing the galaxie, fiancé in arm, to visit me for three short days and buy me lunch at the beloved Northfork. The visit was complete with Adam throwing pebbles into my bellybutton which is an indicator that there is no more compatable man on EARTH for my Trina. This solves the problem of not feeling the love in France, per se.

There's my quilt, begun nine years ago and begging to be finished. Every little stitch bringing me closer to feeling somewhat artistically able again. It didn't hurt my nostalgic tendancies that the quilt is made from my great grandmother's quilt blocks, either.

There's 24 of my closest family members descending on a mexican restaurant like a pack of crazed locusts. The dinner wherein I realized that I am related to them beyond a shadow of a doubt when my aunt said to her wonderfully misbehaving daughter: "Honey, don't devolve." And I noticed my cousin Davey singing the spiderman song to himself... and my grandma eating some sort of deep-fried tilipia which looked (it was literally looking at us with its beady, deep-fried eyes) terrifying but tasted wonderful.

The sun was brilliant enough that Mom and I were able to play Scrabble outside, ignoring the fact that the windward sides of our arms and legs were nearly frost-bitten. This is the best-feeling sunburn I've ever had. Despite my mother's adament protestations that I'll become a wrinkled crone for it, I hereby refuse to acknowledge the month of March and henceforth declair the world in a state of perpetual June.

And "QUITE" is worth 68 points on a good day.

Dolphinplasty

Nine years ago I made a quilt from my great-grandma's scraps, but because I'm a genuinely lazy person I have yet to finish it. Today, I almost finished it and I'm extremely pleased with myself and my superior quilting abilities, despite my debilitating tendancy towards procrastination.

My hands hurt from all the quilting, paper-stuffing, monkey-barring, etc that have taken place since I got home. Trina and I took her fiance (whom I approve of because of his ability to actaully jump over my back fence in retreval of Buster's beloved tennis ball) to the infamous park where there is NO LIVESTOCK ALLOWED. We made him take all of the sheep out of his pockets despite his protests.

Check out this awesome essay by another engaged classmate to find out why my family should not have eaten at Zack's but totally did anyway and loved every minute of it. Mmmmmm, Pie....
To quote: "The worst thing about Zack's BBQ, though, is unquestionably the putrid filth that runs amuck inside." But man, that BBQ is so good.

I love being home.

I say "jump," you say "how high?"

As former Senior Class Treasurer, I have a herculean task ahead of me. Sometime in the next six years I will be forced to hunt down every one of the 73 (Schwoooo!) members of my graduating class for our ten-year reunion... it's a very good thing that I'm thinking about this now (loser) because the gossip cloud into which I entered today tells me that they're spreading like little (married) pieces of dust, into the wind.

I have missed work SO much. Having a job, keeping a job, showing up for a job, ignoring a job, getting paid for all that... it's a privelege I don't have in the France. So today I got out of bed (gasp!) at 6:30 am and went to work stuffing inserts at the local paper. My hands are bruised and dry, my arms are covered with inky papercuts, my abs on the right side hurt and I'm 70$ and one key-lime pie richer.

But the greatest part of it is the MASSIVE amount of gossip I heard. About my old high school teachers (who still rock the district, I'm told), about my classmates (stop getting hitched, I say!), about everyone who lives within forty miles. Small communities are possibly the coolest thing ever invented.

Oh, and my poor cousin Amanda is putting on the same crappy eighth-grade musical that I had to put on in eight grade. It's called Ducktails and Bobbysocks, ever heard of it? That's right, that's because it's a piece of crap. But I suppose it's a rite of passage, dressing up like a bobbysoxer, singing badly infront of your parents on a stage made from the lunch-room tables.... And the slave sale is coming up, so here's to all the 8th graders who get to eat sloppy-joes at Joe Cockers house.

Today's phrases come from my venerable elders:

"Excuses are like @ssh*les, everybody has one" -Grandpa Dave

and slightly more appropriately:

"If wishes were horses, we'd all take a ride" -GreatGrandma Alma

Congrats to Meggie, Ben, Tana, Dugan, Jared, Mandy, Chad (not that one), Trina, etc, etc, etc and so on and so forth until as long as you both shall live...

Time Life presents: The Ultimate Love Song Collection

Nostalgia: a crippling disease with which I've been infected since birth (having contracted it in utero). This particular outbreak stems from one cause: my mom is moving out of our house of a million years and into my great-grandma's house. This means: everything comes out of old dusty attic boxes and into new, shiny garage boxes. Supposedly I'm "sorting and getting rid of things I don't need." But, unfortunately, because of my disease I need everything.

Trina used to say that I was born 12 and just get older, I think because it was the only possible explaination for the fact that I possess all worldy knowledge. If anyone needs proof that I did indeed experience childhood, this is it. I found a large box, full of carefully packed small boxes, labeled for their contents. OLD CLOTHES, PLAY WITH GENTLY, read one. SHELL SHAPED BEADS, another. Then it got a little wierd: TWO FEATHERS, BOOKMARK, PIN. And then my mother and I found the treasure... I have absolutely not a clue what I was thinking at whatever baffling age I might have been. A small yellow box labeled: TIGER WIS. BASE CARDS. RIBBON FROM FARE. COUGH DROP.

What do I find inside? A Riccola cough drop, 1.5 inches of purple ribbon, two baseball cards and (my favorite) some tiny pieces of stuffed-animal whiskers stuck to a piece of masking tape.

The signifigance of this historical find will confound archeologists for decades to come.

But there were more meaningful finds, like a massive collection of Beatles T-Shirts, my lost stash of Rollingstone and MAD magazines that dates back to 1984 (thanks Uncle Larry), and some drawings of me as a pirate, ruling the world.

I took some french candy (Pimousse Zimzimfruits) to my cousins who repaid me by braiding my hair and telling me about their new cows. Davey named his "Gromet" and my Auntie Tanya named hers "Tellulah." Everyone in the Valley is cow-crazy. Old ranchers doing the "take the tractor for a spin and check on the cows with a flashlight" thing. I love the country.

To Shreveport: I passed within 66 miles of you on the plane. I waved out the window. I send you my love. Say hi to the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES for me.

Flyer Miles

You know you're back in America when you eat a bagel, Macaroni and Cheese, bacon and a handful of Hershey's Kisses for breakfast while watching the new season of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (which is phenomenal, by the way).

"On the second day I was in Texas. I was travelling through the part where the flat-footed, bilious, frog-sticker-toting Baptist biscuit-eaters live... the sky was all hot brass by day and black velvet by night, and coca cola is all a man needs to live on." ~All the King's Men~

By Robert Penn Warren

You're probably familiar with this quote by now, but if not, I find that again and again it pops into my thoughts at appropriate times. Like, for instance, yesterday after 24 hours of travel, touching down in Houston where I felt an odd mixture of sheer joy and absolute horrified revulsion. Who wouldn't after the past two months with some of the most beautiful people on earth, on the most expensive and pretentious continent on earth? Into Texas, land of the Big, the Fast, the Now. I've never been happier to see a Subway Sandwich shop in my life but I've also never hated packs of traveling cheerleaders more.

But now I'm home where everything is noisy, news is free and the cheese tastes like paper but it's still damn fine.

I've discovered that in reality, I am absolutely in love with Charles De Gaulle airport where, once you find your way (and if you speak even a modicum of french) you find that everything smells good, there's lots of sunshine, the seats are comfortable and though the security guards hit on you, as they do inevitably in every airport while they're sifting through your neatly-packed undercrackers and asking you to please remove your shoes, they're deeply interested in getting you on the right plane. I like that. But then, I like airports.

In short, home is nice, still where I left it. Cats, etc.

Remember, the day your grandmother takes you to the movies for the first time in years is a great day. Remember to tell her that that was a really nice thing and that you've missed her company. Not everyone's grandmother takes them to the movies.

Mr. President?

Tell me, is or is not the current President of the United States of America visiting Centenary's campus (First time in 435 years! Oldest Liberal Arts School West of the Mississippi!)? I can't decide why I'm upset but I am. Am I missing it? Is there anything to miss? Would I have the nerve to walk around campus in my "NOT MY PRESIDENT" t-shirt? Would he have to have an interpreter so that intelligent, well-educated people could understand him? Would there be the customary Centenary reception, with cookies? Why does this computer lab smell like onions?

Good news: My friend Abbey is venturing to Paris with me (hello, seven a.m.) so that I don't have to find my way through Charles DeGaulle airport alone. For those who have not experienced CDG, it came into being when M.C. Escher and Salvador Dali got really drunk together and decided they hated the French and would thwart all attempts to enter or exit the country by building an "airport."

I'm already slipping into a depression of cheeselessness. I can't win.

But in case you thought I was crazy, or lying about nothing France working, here is a transcript of this afternoon's conversation in my french class.

Yanick: (the teacher, heretofore known as "Y"): Quand quelque-chose ne marche plus, en française, on dit "il est en panne." Un example? (When something no longer works, in french we say it's "en panne." An example?)

Polish guy: Rien ne marche plus en France. L'internet, les téléphones... (Nothing works in France. Etc.)

Y: Rien? Non, non, non. Tout les choses en France sont en gréve. Ils participent à un manifestation, c'est le sport national Français. (Nothing? No, no, no... everything in France is on strike. Things take part in demonstrations, it's the national sport of France.)

Fin.

It's oddly comforting to know that the fact that nothing works is a big national joke. In fact, it clarifies a lot of things. Perhaps I'll miss the confusion and decay over the nexy week. My only hope is that my friends, who are going to the Valley of the Somme and then to Hamster-dam, will pick me up a postcard and not get arrested upon re-entering France while I'm gone.

And Josh is throwing me a going-away party, which is cute because I will only be gone for approximately ten days.

Also, our illustrious Dominican/ Puerto Rican, Gisel, wants me to mention her so I will only say that her turret's syndrome is making it hard for me to get anything done. And that people who go to Barcalona to spend the weekend with their boyfriend in a five-star hotel are lucky I let them eat my cookies.

Something I forgot to mention: the zoo in Lille has a prairie-dog (les chiens du prairie) exibit. Nothing but prairie-dogs cuddling under a heat-lamp. This was directly next to the guiney-pig exibit. Dad, this place is for you. You wanna see it?

This time tomorrow I'll be in the States. Call me.

ROX-ANNNNNE, you don't have to go class today...

Not really. I actually went to all of my classes today. Yesterday one of my teachers said "why are you only going to American for a week? Stay as long as you like, you're friend (meaning Carrie) can take notes for you." Huh?

Today, my history teacher said, "why would you bother to come back?" Which makes me wonder... what do they think we're here for? Apparently, the Spaniards are going to school simultaniously here and in Spain. They never go to class; they just show up for the tests. Like Seth.

I do love what I like to call "The Tangental Teaching Method" wherein the professor teaches about everything except the subject of the class. I'm not being sarcastic (I know, I have to clarify because I'm typically dripping with sarcasm). I actually really love it. Anyway, it makes me regret missing class for a week.

Today I learned all about Guy Fawkes Day. On November 9, this is a former British national holiday (still an unofficial one) in which british school children burn effigies of a Catholic terrorist from the reign of James I & VI who once tried to blow up the house of commons, the house of lords and the royal family at the same time. I like these genuinely educational holidays. We have President's Day (like, whatever) and Columbus Day, which doesn't count because we don't burn statues of Columbus who was technically a terrorist too.

Then, in French History, I learned that the first time the french had ever seen a Christmas tree was in the trenches at the Battle of the Marne. They were sitting there in the snow and dirt and they heard all those crazy, heathen Germans singing (oh, tennenbaum...) they peek their little heads out of their little holes and what do they see? The Germans are cutting down the trees and hanging things on them. Nut jobs. Apparently, the French ignored the whole stupid idea until they saw the Americans doing the same thing in WWII. Ever since then, they do it too and, like us, probably have no idea why. My, how we live our pagan rituals.

I could tell you for an hour about the reduculous hell that is buying a last-minute ticket to America on the internet but I'll spare you the pain and just remind you instead that this whole thing may be a mess but it's our mess and we love it.

What that cryptic statement means, no one will ever know.

Phrase du jour: En Principe, pas d'hommes, pas de bébés. (In priciple, if there aren't any men, there aren't any babies. Use this useful phrase as often as you can.)

And for a treat:

Deuxieme phrase du jour: Il ne marche pas. (IT DOESN'T WORK. Learn it, live it, love it. It's the most important sentence you'll ever use in France.)

Fixing a hole where the rain gets in...

Once, when I was twelve years old I went fishing by myself in the creek that runs across my grandparents' property. Fishing there is never a very successful venture due to the minor depths of the creek itself, but my memory tells my that this time I had caught something. I held the trout under the water to clean it and I dropped my Great-grandfather's knife into the creek. I stepped over to keep from falling in and when I did so I kicked up a cloud of mud and silt and lost sight of the knife. I don't remember how long it took me to find it on hands and knees and the icy water but I remember the determination with which I searched. I wouldn't have left that knife there for the world. Besides the stories, that knife was the only thing I had of his and he wasn't coming back.

This is an excellent metaphore for this year thus far.

If anyone needs me next week, I'll be home. In Colorado. My great-grandmother has passed away and there is nothing on earth that could keep me from my family right now.