Meet Me In Marseille

Kebab Sunday

At last, Sunday has come again! The final day of my week, before I am once again subjected to the harsh realities of inadequacy, it's time to velo my way to the Kebab shop.
The going rate: 5 EUR
Equivalents to food in America: None

Reasons why I only eat one a week: Many

Tell me that doesn't look absolutely delicious to you.

Château à Saumur

We visited Saumur today.
A few things:

1. Why would you "restore" an ancient monument like a château? Isn't the fact that it's old and crumbly the appeal? I don't honestly see the point of hauling up new stone and rebuilding the castle bit by bit (except for perhaps the bridge. We don't want anyone to end up buried in a pile of centuries old rubble as a result of pre-sophisticated masonry). Also, my 2,50 EUR seemed a little ill spent as only one room of the château was accessible.
2. The ducks in Saumur are the most aggressive water fowl I think I have seen in the World let alone France; a place in which I have always put faith in communicative abilities of wild birds and their brethren.

That's all. Confusion. Disappointment. Lovely Photos.

Among other things

I've definitely been neglecting the blog. Don't doubt that I've been growing culturally (as well as physically. French cooking uses more butter than any other culture I can think of- it's lovely). The only thing is, it's very difficult to find the time-not to mention the free internet- in order to post regularly. However, we are online in the home and today is a solid day of rest. Therefore, it's time to hop back on the blog-wagon.
France is still full of French people. I still feel compelled to light up every ten minutes because of the thick haze of cigarette smoke around the college. Among other things, I miss a very large cup of coffee. There are no mugs in our house. The coffee that they make us is surprisingly weak, although it's probably a good thing; I feel as if my host father would be very scary all hyped up on caffeine. In the restaurants, the cup of coffee is so small that I feel compelled to drink it before it gets cold due to lack of insulation. Hm. I don't even care if it comes in styrofoam anymore; I just want access to an espresso machine so I can make my own coffee.
That's probably good for the complaining for now. I have all day, so perhaps I'll think of some anecdote later on to make up for the lack of posting in the last three months.

French Dogs

It has become quite the art to dodge the dog poo on the the street as I pass by. I swear, there is not a Rue, Quai, Boulevarde or Avenue in Angers that does not have at least one unpleasantly large canine bowel movement directly in my path from point (a) to point (b). Considering my new found love for french shoes- I have become a fecal matter ninja....

Sadly: little else to report.

The Discotheque is Dead

The 21st birthday, for obvious reasons, is not nearly as important in Europe as it is in America. Considering how often I see highschool kids at the bars, it's apparent that drinking age is not so much celebrated or rebelled against in France as it is simply overlooked.
Regardless, it's special to us 'Mericans so when a friend turned the magic "21" we all decided to go out to a Discotheque. Now before you all, all of you, start to fantasize about the radical nature of European dance raves and such, hear what I have to say.
No one tells you about the jank bus that takes you 45 minutes out of the city and then trapps you in the boonies with no way to return except your own car or 2 buses that run at either 4:30 or 6:30am. Scary.
Also, aside from smoking, which is banned in all bars and clubs, the French love line dances they all know. Toward 3:30 in the morning, I witnessed a hundred French people line up and dance a sort of Latin/European Electric Slide.
Also, imagine a long dark hallway tucked into the back of the club. About half of the drunken mass of people trapped at the club (the other half dancing a perverted version of the Electric Slide) are squished shoulder to shoulder in this chamber, smoking. Smoking and smoking and smoking; and it's all trapped between two sealed glass doors where I sit smoking a poorly rolled, kind of wet, French cigarette split between myself and Jim.
In the end, we exit the foggy corridor unsatisfied and dismayed to find that we have been left alone on the dancefloor and the bus for home is minutes away from leaving.

• I feel uncomfortable and dizzy.
• I run for the door and barely make it in time to wait 20 minutes in the parking lot.
• I wobble home uncomfortably on my shitty 3-speed bike and by 5:45 am safely in my bed, ultimately not much worse for wear.

I am, however, struck by the realization that no one is scarred quite as easily these days as they were in past generations.

For the Love of God, do the French HATE THE INTERNET?

I have arrived in a desert. I wasteland. I have literally become a dried up raisin of a person. Unplugged from the lifeforce, abandoned by the community, cast out by my facebook and skype Karass...I am alone. Utterly and completely alone.
I live with two, very lovely, retired French people. They don't have a computer, or an internet connection. I cannot access the wifi at school until they give me a password and they wont give me the password until I have my ID card and I can't get my ID card until they take pictures...which are schedule for next week. There are no cafes within walking distance where it is acceptable to squat and scam off the free wifi. I don't even know if they exist. The mall is a short trek up the highway (a lenient term due to my distress) and closes, inconveniently, at 8pm.
As a last ditch, I have spent my weeks budget on a small USB device that should allow me to pluck a 3G signal from the air like a fresh glistening fruit of knowledge.
At a paltry 3,50 Euro (around $4,50) per hour, the internet, at my regular projected internet usage the grand average of $140 per week.

Current total allotted expenditures per week: $65 per week
Dammit.

The Art of Taking Notes

We've started the second week of classes and already it seems a bit of a drag. I like some of it, but for the most part, the teachers just explain too slowly and I spend a lot of time spacing out. Well, not too much time, but that's the problem. I'm afraid to space out, because she's speaking French and it's more difficult to just jump back into the conversation if I decide to ignore my professor for 5 minutes. Spacing out, definitely a no go. So instead I sit, kind of bored, listening to her once again explain the finer points of french grammar, of course both the ones I already know and some which I don't, once again foiling my attempts to space out.
All in all, I neither am coherent enough to understand nor distant enough to enjoy a good day dream.

A Glorified Spongebath

In France, it is not quite so customary to take long, wonderfully warm and comforting showers. Maybe they don't like that. Regardless, the setup in a french shower is strange and different when compared to those in America.
You see, in order to maneuver the water onto your body, you must take hold of the shower head which rests at the bottom of the tub on the end of a long metal tube. Then, you spray isolated parts of your body as if you were a dishwasher in some sort of short order restaurant. This would be mostly alright, a little bit more work but alright, if not for the fact that one's bum is pretty consistently cold. Perhaps not cold, but at a temperature not corresponding to the temperature of the rest of my body. This will not do. Tonight, I endeavor to take a bath, but on the mornings when I must rush, I have another plan.
I purchased (and believe me, they were not so easy to find) a set of suction cup hooks. To one of these, I attached a thin cord, tied with a slip knot. Then, I attached the hook to the wall. Difficulty came when I attempted to attache the cord to the shower head by way of another slip knot. I have yet to attempt to bath with this contraption, hanging conspicuously from the wall. I will have to try when I have more time. For now, I will operate under the hopeful and probably delusional assumption that I will be able to enjoy anything close to a normal shower anytime in the next four months.