L'écrivain en repos

For no apparent reason other than that I had Microsoft Word open today, I started looking through old files. It started with my interest being piqued by a document labeled “BAD redaction”—which turned out to be an essay I’d written for French class my freshman year of college, which included sentences like Je pense qu’ils sont interessant et j’aime leur parler. Il serait bon pour mon francais aussi. When at last, my mixed reaction of laughing and wretching came to an end, I proceeded to my writing folder to re-read some of my little old stories. Some, I realized, were frankly bad. Others I thought to be decent. But regardless, I couldn’t shake the feeling of how impossible writing seemed. It’s a feeling I get whenever I’ve slacked off and have stopped writing for awhile- that the Sisyphean boulder has indeed tumbled and I must start again from square one.

Of course, I didn’t expect to be writing as much here, especially for the first few weeks when I barely have time to shower. Then again, writing has a strange way of keeping me sane when my life is filled with one petty technicality after another. It feels lofty, even if I’m just twiddling my pen and staring at a blank page. But where does one find the time? This is always the question.

At least I gots my blog!

And speaking of which, I think it’s high time I wrote an entry with real substance. It’s just hard, because I have no idea where to start. I did however, write a long, detailed letter to my friend the other day, and would like to share some snippets here. Some of them don’t *entirely* make sense out of context, but that’s the fun!

I cannot begin to describe the chaos of the school system here. Whereas you have already finished mid-terms, I am not even officially registered in my courses. The classes are posted on the walls, and if there are any changes, they just post those on notes and hope you’ll find them. The course descriptions are found in a totally different area of the school. The syllabi are non-existent. The concept of “online registration” is so far out of these people’s realm of thinking, it’s laughable. There is ONE computer lab in the entire school, which is filled with mega-size computers that look like they belong in a historical museum, or your great-uncle’s toolshed. I walked into it with my friend Kat, from London, who immediately gasped, “Well, this isn’t PRIMITIVE!” Needless to say, we garnered some dirty looks.

But here’s one other crucial difference. The classes are actually…good!

And thank god! If after all that they were bad, I’d have to kill myself. But I find all of them really interesting. It’s definitely a struggle, since of course I find concentrating hard even in English, not to mention French. That’s compounded by the fact that my schedule is bizarre and I have classes, no joke, from 12-8pm on Thursday with just a half hour break. One is english but STILL. Luckily, I have Monday off. Everyone I know has been forced into this sort of insanity at least once a week due to the disorganized nature of the French system. I sort of had to choose between good classes or a good schedule, and I opted for the good classes. They’re not even smart enough to make sure there’s always a ten minute break in between classes. Thus I have a class that ends at 2 followed by one that begins a…2. What?But that’s always how it is…shit makes no sense because everyone’s too busy enjoying life to look into the details.

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So I’m supposed to be doing another presentation on Wednesday, on any subject I want. Got any suggestions. My German friend, Kathrin, cheekishly suggested that I do one on how much I love George Bush. You aren’t going to believe it, but there is a boy in my class from Georgia. He has THE WORST accent I have ever heard. I mean, he can’t even make his “h’s” silent. It’s shudder-worthy. What was his presentation on? “Le Sud Profond” of course! I. Am. Not. Joking. Sub-title “Les Vrai Etats-Unis”—a fifteen minute powerpoint glorifying the confederate flag and rednecks. I almost choked on the irony. At times like these, and others, such as when the other American boy in my surrealism class write things like “Salvador Dali-Lama” on his laptop in 72 point font, it becomes astoundingly obvious why the French hate us.

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Today my friend told me that in Germany they tell children their eyes will turn square if they watch too much television, and then their heads. So I asked, “what next? You’ll grow an antaenna?” and she was like “yes, like a teletubby!”

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God, as if flirting wasn’t hard enough in English- think about what it’s like in a language you barely know.

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I’ve never really understood the art of banter but let me tell you, between the drinks and the gay and the cracked out, I was MASTERING that shit!

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The next morning I had a 10:40 train to catch to Montpellier. I woke up feeling nauseated, and texted Kat asking if she was alive. She and I had drunkenly attempted to bike to the party, on the same bike, which of course had led to us falling off after about two minutes and stealing a ride on the metro instead.

Me: R u alive?

Kat: Juste.

Needless to say, I just barely caught my train and looked, felt and smelled terrible. For a few days, my hot water wasn’t functioning, so I didn’t take a shower for about 4 days straight, which is really nasty when you’ve danced in a smoky, crowded bar and walked all over the damn city. But I’m not complaining. Life’s exciting and as the Germans (apparently) say “you can sleep when you’re old.”

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Then there was Montpellier, where I saw the beach and my friend Chloe and another girl from my school, Jen who is a comparative litterature major also. We drank wine by a fountain and went to an Australian club to pee. Just as we were about to leave, “Smells like teen spirit” came on and we decided we had to stay at least for that. We saw a few guys doing air guitar, which somehow inspired us to do air violin, flute, clarinet, trombone and piano and because we were drunk, we almost died laughing at our own (very apparent) hilarity, though I’m not sure if the french boys were as amused.

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Last weekend, everything seemed to be going wrong and I just started crying as I was walking down the street. And then I thought I was going to be spending the night alone, but I ended up with eight people in my apartment. Eight hungry people who I was trying to feed with the resources in my little kitchenette. We called it a “depression era theme dinner.” I am about the clumsiest host on the planet and of course, actually dropping mousse and splattering it all over my legs at one point. But then we watched a film,a comedy of errors about a French exchange student called “l’auberge espagnol” and it was just what I and everyone else needed.

So that’s that. As a parting note, I would like to take this opportunity to inform the world that I have met a cute French boy. His name is Henri and we communicate very well. Why? Because he’s three years old! This babysitting job is like no other and I am delighted to say that I have now heard, for real, the phrase je fait du mal uttered from the lips of a child. I’m supposed to teach him English, but it’s hard not to get carried away speaking French to him, since it’s such good practice for me, too. Honestly, I have as much fun playing with this kid as I do on any date- making madelaines, flying toy aeroplanes- sometimes it’s nice to just get away from all the hassles of life and be a kid again.

But now, alas, it’s back to the daily grind.