I went to school and I was very nervous...

Moral Dilema: I have the opportunity to spand five days in Istanbul with my friend Josh.
Problem: I have not enough money to legally sneeze. (You get what I mean)

So I have to fund myself through a month of travels with Tim (as well as pay for rent and groceries) but I really want to spend my remaining funds on frivolous things like a visa to enter Turkey. I'm telling you-- don't ever be poor. Being poor is not fun.

Also, why is it okay for a teacher to give a test and not grade and return it for more than a month? Seriously, two weeks of that month were vacation time and we still haven't gotten our tests (the ONE assignment we've had in that class) back. Isn't it Dr. Wolkomir who gives everything back like, before you've even handed it in?

Where are all the Wolkomirs of France?

I caught you a delicious bass...

Add another country to the list. I've now been to Frankfurt, Germany. Not a wurste to be found and nearly everyone spoke English. I can still taste my disappointment.

This was my first trip on a foreign airline (Ryanair doesn't count, they're just British). I will tell you, Lufthansa has the MOST uncomfortable seats EVER. It was slightly akin to sitting at one of those desks with the chair attached only there were flight attendants walking around with bottles of wine. That was a change of pace: dinner was chicken in beer gravy, everyone got a hot towel, and wine was complimentary. This, sadly, does not make up for non-reclining seats on a seven-hour flight, but it was an interesting cultural experience nonetheless.

I love German. It's the greatest language. Like portugues- I probably only love it because I can't speak it.

Another 24 hour journey.

Meh.

Oh yes- I'm officially done with three classes. Which means I'm three classes closer to... um... not having to go to class anymore.

Pictures of DC (read: taken in DC) will follow.

Phrase du jour: IDREAMEDOFAPILEOFGUMMYWORMS (scribbled on my paper while I "slept" through art class, I think it's true.)

Sparkle Motion

Our Nation's Capital: the place where drunkards freely puke in the subways and no one cares.

I have seen at least three people vomit in the metro stations in the past two weeks, as well as seeing numerous splashes of someone's big night out. What amazes me is the lack of trash cans in the metro. One would imagine that after mopping and sanitizing the floors even three nights in a row, someone might get the idea that a waterproof container at one end of the platform or the other might be of some use.

Also- in case you're inclined to follow stereotypes and blame this on the homeless, it's all nicely-dressed college idiots. Ahhh... the way some people spend mommy and daddy's money.

On a brighter note: this has been yet another day spent in a Smithsonian museum and I couldn't be more pleased. Today, we ventured into the Museum of Natural History where you can see giant skeletons, learn about (gasp!) evolution, watch people video tape the Hope Diamond (and everything else that will provide hours of non-entertainment), see a mummy named, um, Mr. Cunningham (or some other equally insidious anglicized name), touch a meteorite or, my favorite: smell the bees.

Hidden in one tiny corner is this ridiculously awesome display of a bee hive with live bees in it (Thank you Orkin Bug Zoo!). It was merely "cool" until I got really close and smelled the smell of bee's wax and honey. Then it became "awesome." Then I touched the glass and it was warm from the movement of a hundred bees rubbing against it and it became "frickin' awesome." And then I pressed my ear to the glass and I could hear them buzzing like white noise and then... there was a pissed-off lady behind me who wanted to see the bees and I was forced to move on to the African Widow Spiders.

For anyone who's ever seen the episode of King of the Hill where Bobby (The boy ain't right.) gets brain-washed by ants and starts eating sugar and hearing voices... that was me and the bees. Except I ate a jumbo New York-style hotdog instead.

I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that I have to go back to France on Tuesday. It's kind of like coming to terms with having your birthday party at the skating rink instead of at Chuck E. Cheese. I'd rather stay here, play in the ball pit, wear a funny hat and eat pizza until I pass out, instead of listening to bad 80's music and going around in circles for four hours (I don't even know how to rollerskate)-- but in the end I suppose there are still presents and cake and someone has to pick up the bill.

I'd just rather be here with Tim than hanging out with Dirty Sanchez and the crazy Anti-Laundry Lady.

It's Friday night and I miss the TKE house

Yes, yes indeed.

Actually, it's Saturday morning but I still miss the TKE house. Why is Harold and Kumar Go to WhiteCastle so funny? Funny enough in fact to be an acceptable substitute for partying with other people? Because we haven't seen our friends in FOUR long months. Ah, but I'm not asking for pity-- indeed my life could be so sad that the wailing, screeching she-harpies who live across the hall from Tim could be, well, my friends. Try that on for depressing.

Apart from the "missing the TKE house" bit, there is no comparison to the huge amount of NOTHING I've been doing. At this current moment, Tim is taking the Foreign Service exam like a champ. All the while, I'm mostly just thinking about putting on some pants and heating up some leftover Cajun pasta (courtesy of Tim's spectacular and hilarious Nana and Grandad, who are visiting for the weekend).

Interesting concept: people who are applying for editorial positions with the Conglomerate should consider forming full sentences on their applications.

Tell me you don't identify with this shoe...

This shoe is my life right now. It's happy. It's stuffed. It's comfortably nestled down in the sun. It asks no questions; it tells no lies.

Remove this shoe and the painful sucking sound of resistance will ensue.

The tooth-fairy left June under my pillow last night and this is what it looks like: Barcalona, Nice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Vanice, Vienna, Budapest, Prague, Dresden and Hamsterdam.

(Contributions to the Fund-To-Keep-Roxie-in-DC can be direct deposited and will be reimbursed with Belgian chocolate or, in the case of food allergies, Belgian beer.)

Rock Lobster

I think something truly magical happens when you put two genuinely disgusting people together. All my life I thought that no one could rival the massive piles of used kleenexes (Kleeni) which I like to leave like joyful heaps of Easter joy wherever I go. My parents and friends stood by in amazement, witnessing this unparalleled feat of natural habitat distruction at the will of my unruly sinuses. This is before Tim and I started dating mid-allergy season last year... and now as DC blooms, I realize that this love of ours comes partially from the fact that no one else on earth could sympathize with two such lovely balls of phlegm as we two.

We could fuel Beijing on the heat produced by our burning kleeni. There's nothing hotter, really.

On another note- I find it ironic that I flew all the way across the ocean to see an art exhibit of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, the most influential painter/lithographer of the absinthe-crazed Parisian district of Montmartre on the cusp of the 19th & 20th centuries (shwooooooo). If that sentence was entirely too educational, try this on for size: I don't care who the pope is. He doesn't look nearly as lovable on a stamp as the last one did.

My two best friends just turned 22 this week*, meaning I'm next. Kacie may be fat but I'm O.L.D. (and wiser by not much)

*Happy Birthday guys.

Eager Dreams

you have a bird between your legs

Last night Tim had a dream that his sinus infection won't get better until they choose a new Pope. In all my years of amateur dream-interpretation I have no idea what that means.

Right now I am not:

1)Writing a paper about England in English, nor about myself in French, reading Kafka's metamorphosis, Ah, But Your Land is Beautiful or Waiting for Godot, nor am I translating things back and forth between two languages.

2) Eating popsicles and sleeping in the sun (because they mowed the grass and my face will swell up like a carnie at a cotton-candy stand).

3) Tim-ing, because he's at work.

That means that I am officially doing nothing beneficial to myself and the world something needs to change. Or I could just sit here and yack.

Yesterday we went to the National Zoo (don't you love how they can call everything "national" just because it's in DC? This is the National Blog, experience the awe.) and I learned about, um, not a lot, but I did get to see lots of fuzzy things. Didn't get to see Giant Pandas or Invertebrates (read: octopi): disappointment would ensue if I hadn't had an excellent green curry for dinner.

Moral of the story: If the girl's bathroom is all the way on the other side of the building and you're too lazy to walk that far-- don't try to cut down of energy expenditure by showering in the guys bathroom (which is right across the hall) for the following reasons:

-Just because it's empty when you sneak in doesn't mean it will be empty for long.
-No amount of shampoo can masque the HORRID smell of guys in the morning.
-Some guy will accidentally toss his shampoo into your stall and you will get caught.
-You will still feel dirty when you walk across the urine-stained floor.

Let that be a lesson to you, Missy.

Blondie says "Call me."

The hottest people on earth-- sleeping as hot people are wont to do

I wish I could say that photos are going to be a regular thing here from now on-- but alas, photo hosting is something I can only get on a computer where I can download the necessary program. What does this mean? That links are the best I can do until I get back to America, where I will no longer have interesting things to post pictures of.

Just kidding- there are interesting things to look at in America too. The picture above, for instance, is a picture of the National Mall (not to be confused with the Mall of America). This artistically-styled masterpiece is meant to represent the serene exhaustion which comes from a day of looking at at priceless art. Ahhhhh, nothing finer than a day passed getting lost in the catacombs of the National Gallery. God bless the Smithsonian and their collection of French impressionist paintings.

It seems that the best things about France can be found no matter where you are- impressionism, pasturization, the metro, exorbitantly longs naps... All these things were invented in France. That doesn't mean I want to go back and take my finals, but at least I know these things will always have a place in my heart even if I haven't particularly "left my heart in France," if you know what I mean.

The Holocaust Sucks

The only picture I took today. Taste it.

Tim and I ventured to The Mall (meaning the US Capital Building, the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial) all of which I only looked at from a distance because we went straight past it all and-- TA DA! To the Holocaust Museum.

For nine million years I have wanted to go there, and today I got to go and depress my head off for four full hours. It's interesting to study something for a whole semester (The Holocaust in Art, Literature and Film with Dr. Nicoletti) and then go see it in real life. I think I read an entire book about the US Holocaust Memorial and then-- ah yes, just as heart breaking as they said it was.

Instead of carrying on with depressing facts I will instead say this and let it go: appreciate peanut butter pie like you have never appreciated anything because it is clearly easier than you'd think for an evil dictator to ruin the world.

Pants on, Pants off

I am a horrible person for not sharing this with you sooner.

The link featured above will take you to photos taken by James, Tim's roommate and source of endless entertainment.

On the day that I flew back to this great land hotdog stands, margaritas and $2.00 flip-flops, Tim woke up to find a set crew camped outside of his bedroom door- effectively locking him in the building for a few hours. A problem? Not when you're locked in the building with none other than Mr. Miyagi, Karate Master. That's right: Arnold from Happy Days, Pat Morita-- that awesome asian guy who played the flamboyant waiter in Spy Hard.

And as if meeting a semi-celebrity isn't cool enough- Tim got to meet him in the coolest possible way. Tim is in the bathroom, Mr. Miyagi comes in, talking to himself, Tim leaves and he and James decide they want a picture. They then wait outside of the bathroom, trying not to look mentally ill for stalking an old man outside of a bathroom. Mr. Miyagi comes out, buckling his pants, which he fumbles with for a few moments before dropping trou in the hallway outside of Tim's door. Ah yes, it is a good day indeed. When Tim and James ask for a picture and the director says "No," he then refers to the director with a pejorative slang-term which shall remain unspoken, and agrees to take a picture, resulting in one of the strangest encounters of a lifetime.

Later, as filming proceeds outside, Tim and James catch him in the act of the pants drop again: on the sidewalk in front of their residence (refer to photos). Oddly, as the day progresses more stories of odd encounters begin to circulate--including that of one young gentleman who asked for a photo and, in response, Mr. Miyagi stuck his head under the guy's t-shirt and spoke to his stomach. And spoke to his stomach.

This is what happens when you combine short, famous and one too many street fight with the cobras.

Honestly, I dig this country. I dig it.

Note: The Ring 2= big fat waste of symbolism. Save yourself $12, rent the first one again.

I wasn't prepaired for this...

When the morning came
the bees flew down and wrapped themselves around me
and that's when I spoke the word
to have them trace your face for me in pollen
but I wasn't prepaired for this... oh...
-Eisley

Somedays are just good days for a pretty song.

I've been reading the New York Times like it's a drug. It may actually be a drug. It doesn't take long to realize that while you're out learning about the world a whole lot of the world changes without you ever knowing about it. Today alone I learned about selective mutism, man-dating, the re-naming or Rome's Statzioni Termini after the Pope, and the death of Andrea Dworkin (who fought nobly for women's rights but unfortunately said some very ignorant, arrogant and rediculous things in her life, don't even get me started) and numerous other bits of fluff that make life interesting.

Oh- did I mention that watching the wedding of Prince Charles and Camilla while sitting in Heathrow airport surrounded by wonderfully irreverent british people was one of those hillarious life experiences I wouldn't trade anything for? I didn't even know they were getting married that day. I think the man behind me said it best: "What's that on her head? Blimey," (shakes his head and moves on).

I think I'm going to go buy Tim some chips and queso to surprise him when he gets back from his internship. That is if I don't eat it.

Planes, trains and automobiles...

More specifically: two trains, a plane, a shuttle, a plane, a "plane," and a subway which was supposed to be a limo.

Yesterday I traversed four countries for Love. Beat that. (Unless you've ever donated an organ: you win.)

I saw so many things yesterday that I'm almost beginning to relish the fact that I nearly always travel alone. Having no one to talk to means you get to look at lots of things. Like the man and woman in line in front of me in Belgium, with a height difference of nearly two feet. The woman barely came up to my shoulder-- the man was a good head taller than me. They spoke the poorest flemmish french I've ever heard.

I also might not have noticed a certain string of brilliant coincidences concerning the luckiest of all numbers. First off, my obsession with the number 16 requires a small amount of explaination: when I was little my parents took my to see Disney's The Little Mermaid (Le Petite Sirine), a film which begins when Ariel is absent from her royal 16th birthday party. I promptly fell asleep and had a Disney-induced dream where Ariel and I swam up a river and sat under a bridge, having a tea party. A mermaid ditched her own birthday party to have tea with me: therefor 16 is a very lucky number.

That being said, I woke up at 6:16, my first train ticket was for seat 16, I rode in car 316 to the airport, and my first plane ticket was seat 16A, directly over the wing. None of this was planed or requested in any way. One of two explainations is possible:

1) This is divine providence, meaning that I am not crazy for leaving Europe to see Tim (whom I plan to see frequently for the rest of my life, if possible) for just two short weeks.

2) I'm crazy for both leaving Europe and for noticing stupid crap like reoccuring 16s. Bah.

Everyone in Lille gave me a hard time for coming home, but I bite my thumb at them. All the museums here are free, food is cheaper, the accommodations are free, and I'm in rediculously good company.

Never mind that JFK airport sent me to Reagan airport on a plane that was more like the glove-compartment of a real plane with wings stuck to it, instead of sending me to Dulles Airport where Tim had booked a limo to pick me up. Instead of a limo I got a ride in the subway, but it doesn't really bother me because mostly I was half passed-out after 23 hours of international travel anyway.

In case you're wondering I haven't seen a thing in DC yet because our main priority yesterday was to sunburn ourselves as badly as possible (we're talking queezy, blistering sunburn) and eat lots of sub-sandwiches. By the way- I know they're called sub-sandwiches because they look like submarines but...

Listen- this is rediculous. Calling them "Sub-sandwiches" makes them sound in some way inferior to other sandwiches. And the synonyms for Sub-sandwich are just as bad: hoagie sounds like something painful your older brother does to you; grinder well, that does too; and po'boy- it's only acceptable because it's got southern charm, but it's one of those stupid terms like "highwater pants" or "clod-hoppers" that makes you wonder who's grandfather couldn't remember the actual word. Unfortunately though- I'm really fond of submarines so I'm not going to suggest that we go so far as to rename the sandwich something like "super-sandwiches," because that mostly just sounds like a lame advertising ploy.

Anyway- the whole point is that I didn't get to ride in a submarine on the way here. But I'm satisfied anyway.

Call me "Little"

I've gone through a lot of personal band names in my time but this new one is one of the best (on par with "Wafer Thin"). Today, We're talking about the French being "en grève" in class again and my friend Holly looks at me and says: "They're just breeding little strikers, aren't they?"

Hence, my new band name: Little Strikers

Other less-than-intelligible but fantastic quotes from my fellow exchangees in the past few days include:
"You don't like love handles? You're not a dude!" ~Josh, and:
"It's pretty much my favorite form of communication besides life." ~Dirty Sanchez

(refering to being quoted in books of quotations)

Today, I learned how to make a colorful Matzah Holder for the Jewish passover from Crayola.com. Membership does have its benefits. Also, I want nothing more than to know that I am officially scheduled at Centenary for nexy semester.

Everyone tell my mom Happy Birthday in your head, or call her, or me, and I'll pass on the message. And then tell me your band name.

Revenge of le Catho, Part Deux

This school hates me.

How?

Indeed, I shall say no more, except to say that the hatred is reciprocated.

But Jack Gilbert has published another book; and it's Wednesday, meaning that packing for D.C. is not entirely illogical. Also- I have neat friends and like books, which is good.

I'm wearing an attractive sweater.

Le Catho may ruin my scholastic career but it won't ruin my career as a human-being.

Plymptoons

Oh yeah, Carrie and Gisel met Bill Plympton in a train in Paris and had no idea who he was. As I begin to understand that this is normal: Bill Plympton was nominated for an academy award this year for his short film "guard dog." They didn't get his autograph--- I cry.

For more go here. And cry.

I'mcaughtinatrapandIcan'tbackout becauseIloveyoutoomuchbaby

Ah, the wide and mighty internet- thwarting my efforts left and right. I wrote a tasty post yesterday but it was lost into the black abyss of the matrix or wherever the serveur introuvable goes.

What I mean to say is that I have Elvis stuck in my head. His songs, not actually Elvis.

As the Greatful Dead say: What a long strange trip it's been. Alot of things have happened since I last posted, both here and at home, so it's hard to keep the story short but I'll try.

Tim went home for the weekend to hang out with the choir, meaning that I got to talk to Meredith, Amber, Mat and Jared as well as Tim at seven a.m. Mat said something very poignant about love. Jared is making sure I registered for classes. It was nice.

The only unfortunate thing is that there was a death on Centenary's campus-- the campus is too small for it not to make waves. Hopefully everyone will be okay.



Saturday was a grand day though- Carrie and I went to Wissant, a town south of Calais, with Charlotte (who studied at Centenary last fall) and her exceptionally french fiancé, Pierre. They were more than a blessing to us as we got to ride (read: sleep) in car, walk on the beach, and have a picnic. Seeing France can be expensive and confusing and without them we never would have known about cap-gris and cap-blanc on the côte d'opale. My pictures don't do it justice at all.

Both Gisel and Li, our representative to China, left this weekend and it feels completely strange without them. Imagine you're having a party and then Chris Parham just leaves in the middle of it, except he's gone to China. Forever. How are you supposed to feel for the rest of the party? It's that wierd. On the bright side Li wrote Carrie and I each a beautiful letter in Chinese (plus translation) and it's definately the coolest thing in my journal. Gisel is no longer around to use my toothbrush and run away in mid-sentence.... we miss her.

Last night, OH LAST NIGHT! Carrie and I made Gumbo for all the non-louisianians and we nearly conquered the world. Carrie started making the roux at about seven- we didn't eat until 11:30. We fed about nine people and Carrie and I will be eating the rest tonight- oh yes. There's nothing like good cajun food to make you miss home a little less, unless of course it's also getting a piece of pecan pie and a daiquiri. This sounds like a relatively small event but it may be the coolest thing we've done in our residence hall since we've been here.

Oh yeah, and if you look at the last pictures in the folder... those signs are because we no longer have washers in the building at all, because the satanic cleaning lady (who still hasn't cleaned our floor, though she's contractually obliged) has decided that washing machines and breakfast are no longer part of her responsibilities, which they are, contractually. Carrie saw her bringing in a new shipment of nutella and confiture (jam) and yet she still refuses to put them out at breakfast. She's an anti-service facist, I think. My solution to this problem is to pass the next two weeks sunbathing in DC with Tim. Once again, I will be hauling my laundry across the ocean.

Phrase du Jour, pour Kacie: Tout Change