The · place · where · humor · goes · to · die

Today, I skipped out on my last two hours of class, concluding my summer schooling in France.

Currently, I'm packing for my blitzkrieg of traveling during the next two weeks where I plan on hitting Paris, London, Edinburgh, and Dublin. My luggage is light because I sent away twenty pounds of stuff earlier today.

Here is a general rundown of themes and happenings that defined August in general.

Trouble spelling the word "aout." This word means August in French.

Total isolation from other males. I did not grow a vagina, but I am on the same cycle as my lady friends.

Ripped off. The Eurail pass ripped me off because France comes up with bullshit ways to charge me for shit when I book the fucking ticket two weeks in advance.

Annoying people. The monitrices of this month were nothing compared to last month. Where last month, the monitrices were all peppy attractive French stereotypes, the majority of this month have been homely depressing French stereotypes.

Dates. Awkwardness came from being the only couple in the program because I am the only guy in the program.

Amboise. Julia and I went to Amboise for a day and checked out Da Vinci's old place. His bedroom was labled as "The Leonardo's Bedroom." Also, we learned that, among other things, Leonardo invented the tank, the lifesaver, and the paddle boat. I'm kinda pissed that the only reason most Americans know about him is the Dan Brown book and resulting Tom Hanks movie. We need to recognize him for the important accomplishments, such as the paddle boat. (Note: I am not insulting the paddle boat, I am serious, it is one of my favorite inventions of all time)

Class and fatigue. Due to class being eight hours per day, I couldnt get my relaxation in, diminishing the fun of the month.

And finally, anticipation. I AM GOING TO PARIS, LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN.

In Paris, I will be seeing the Rock en Seine festival which will feature among other bands: Dizzee Rascal, The Shins, The Hives, The Arcade Fire, Dinosaur Jr., M.I.A., TOOL (Which will be hilarious), CSS, Kings of Leon, Albert Hammond, Kelis, and Bjork as the headliner.

See you back in Eugene in a few weeks.

Be careful when you walk down the street towards the Bay from Rossio Square because there are two types of people always yelling at you for something. The first are the homemade art salespeople looking to saddle a tourist with whatever picture of some old street they just drew. I don't get why people would buy these, because who's going to have space to carry your meter by meter drawing of a smelly square with them? The other type of person is the drug dealer. My first drug dealer surprised me badly. I was walking, just exploring before Doug and Pat showed up, and a man in a white hat walked up to me, and I figured he was asking for directions, and whenever a man in a white hat walks up to me and asks for directions, I have to help, it's how I was raised. Imagine my surprise when he says "Hey, hey, want some?" and pulls out a big sack of weed. I automatically responded no, mostly because I don't do weed (normally), and especially because I don't trust guys in white hats who are selling weed. When I met Doug and Pat, they had a similar story of drugs, and then one of us came up with a brilliant idea - SELL DRUGS BACK! Basically, the next time a dealer would come up to us, we would beat them to the punch by saying, "Hey, hey, you want some cocaine (pronounced KO-KY-EE-NA)?" It worked perfectly, except for the time the drug dealer followed Pat all the way into our pensao.

Anyway, the next few days were filled with fun and enjoyment in Lisbon. We continued to go to the spot, and Doug and Pat continued to be smoked out by African dudes. One friendly guy whose parents were from Oregon offered to give us a tour, but we never really found him during the day, although he was always at the spot when we went there at night. One day we decided to hike west, due to the fact we hiked east the day before, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of what must be the rich district of Lisbon. Every house was gigantic and pink, giving off the impression that after they finished painting their daughter's room, the homeowners went "Fuck it!" and took it all the way for the whole building. As we walked further into this area, we found out we were in the ambassadorial district. When we walked by China's embassy, I had "24" flashbacks, but I put them on hold when we saw an American flag down the street. We walked towards it happily, expecting that we had found the American Embassy, and hoping they'd give us Costco dogs. Instead there was just a firmly shut door and an unresponsive intercom. We tried to buzz and say, "We're Americans too, we just want to hang out," but they weren't having it. The heavily armed guard (the only one in this entire street of ambassadors' homes) outside of the American door suggested that we should leave. We obliged.

However, that part of the trip was coming to an end and the next day I hopped on a plane to my former home - Italy.

Usually this is where I'd break up the entry, but since I think this will be one of the last bits of free time I'll have to write, I'm going to jam a lot in, quickly and written badly.

The plane I was waiting for in Lisbon was delayed two hours, and I was afraid because I only had a two hour layover when I was in Milan. I got on Alitalia plane, and the ride went well, and we got in on time to Milan. At that point I sprinted out of the plane and into the terminal wildly trying to remember the Italian words for "terminal", "gate", and "plane". The woman at the desk, seeing my hopeless desperation, helped me in English. I sprinted through the airport (Something which I've always dreamed about doing) and got to the plane with two minutes to spare. Even better, since I was the last to check in, they gave me first class. Granted, the flight was only a half hour long, but still, take it where you can get it. I was finally back in Rome.

Rome is the kinda place that looks to fuck you over everywhere you go if you're not careful. Unfortunately I was reckless and in a rush when I arrived in Termini. I have no idea what the geography in that area is, so I just paid a cab 20 euro for a ride to my hotel. The ride was 6 minutes long. I suck. I didn't have time to dwell on that though, because I made plans to meet with Andrea at 9:30 at the Pantheon and it was 9:15 already. Luckily, it's very easy to find the landmarks in Rome. I had been to the Pantheon before by accident during the day, but I still found it easily at night. I just went towards the gigantic former king's palace, then saw a sign for the McDonald's located next to the Pantheon and went towards there. I found Andrea easily. She gave me what may be the most intense guided tour of a quarter I've ever had. She knew every single fact about every single side street in that area. She then told me about the amount of work she put in every day for her classes at it made me feel like the six hours per day of language classes I was taking left me on the short bus. The gigantic studio/apartments where she lived was incredible too. There was a view of St. Peter's Basilica from the window, and the building was vaguely medieval. It was also the first time I had ever seen an architecture studio. It reminded me of Project Runway but without any fabric. The stay in Rome was to be a short one, though, because I had to go up to Siena the next morning. I said good bye to Andrea, right after she told me the story of how drinking under the bridge is not a good idea, because Italians like to drop their empties off the side.

Siena, my next stop, would be the most difficult in terms of finding who I was looking for. All I knew coming in was that Kaitlin, Mike, and Thyra would be arriving by bus there at 4 PM. I had no clue where the bus stop was, and no clue when I was arriving. At Chiusi, I had some bad luck and then some good luck to immediately make up for it. My phone continued to not work, just as it had not in Portugal, and I was freaked out that I wouldn't be doing anything those entire two nights in Siena. I desperately went to buy a SIM card in Chiusi, where the guy there explained that my phone was hardwired not to work abroad. I officially had no way to contact the people I was meeting. Luckily, when I was waiting for the train to Siena, I met some nice British girls who were on holiday because it was summer and they were teachers. After the talking the whole time, they offered to share a cab with me on the ride into Siena. That saved the important ten minutes I needed. I checked into my hotel in Siena, got directions to the bus stop, and raced over to the stop. It was hot and empty, and I sat down on the curb wondering if I already had missed them. After five minutes, I went over to a phone booth with the smart idea of trying to call Kaitlin collect, as if she'd accept the charges. I had picked up the receiver when I looked over and there they were - fresh off their 13 hour trip, jet-lagged as hell, the friends I was looking for.

Kaitlin had her sorority girl pep still in tact, Mike seemed as normal as always, and Thyra was near-dead. I invited myself along to follow them and eat their food and help them move in, because I really wasn't that into sight-seeing at that moment.

It's strange to see a new group of study abroad students form from an outsider's perspective. I've always been in the middle of it, trying to make sure I'd fall in with a few friends. Here, I wasn't trying impress anyone, I was just having fun with my friends that were already there. Still, the group was impressively cool. I kinda wished I was an art student, because they were so welcoming. Then I remembered that I was living in France, so no big deal.

That night, we went out and I decided to use the chronological list.

CHRONOLOGICAL LIST

Met at Piazza del Campo.
Bought beers.
Bought wine.
Found Bar Barone Rosso.
Walked towards area Kaitlin and Thyra live in.
Find gigantic block party, and commandeer the elevated dance floor.

Wash rinse repeat. That was also the second night, too.

Next up was the romantic weekend at Cinque Terre with Julia, but since romantic stuff isn't very funny to write about, I'll just say it was fun. I'll just say I was pretty badass when I realized that her phone wouldn't work either, so I took the train up to a station before where we were going and jumped on the train, hoping to find her in the car to make sure she wouldn't be worried and freaked out, trapped in a weird city that speaks Italian. I got on in the back of the train and went through, checking every seat that had a girl with blondish hair. She was at the front of the train. When I surprised her by sitting down I used some lame line like "Hey, this seat open" because I'm a total nerd. Anyway, then we just went around and sight-saw like American tourists for the rest of the time.

I also ripped my pants on the train ride back to Angers.

Author's Note - Due to the author's being in France at the moment of writing this small piece of story, there may be an unusual amount of typos due to misplaced keys on the keyboard. To illustrate, the author will now try to type out the alphabet as he normally would on a traditional American keyboard:

qbcdefghijkl,noparstuvzxyw

Now to rejoin the story -

I am under the impression that tourists from the Northern reaches of Europe (England, Ireland, France, etc.) have never seen three semi-sunburned men in their early twenties smoking barefoot on a piece of roof jutting out from the fifth floor of a building. This has to be the reason, as it seems just about every two minutes, Doug catches another tourist in the middle of the square raising his camera up from the slack position around his neck to take yet another picture of these death-defying acrobats of Rossio Square, daring to smoke cigarettes and drink 40s at the same time, all while suspended in the air by the sheer power of Portuguese roof tiling. Of course we waved to our spectators. Also, I wasn't quite as death-defying as Doug and Pat early in the evening either, choosing to stay in the windowsill rather than venturing out to an area where my ass would be supported solely by these baked orange tiles. Eventually, like it always does, entertaining the tourists got old, so we looked in our guidebook for a spot, made a note of it, and took off to the Barrio Alto area of Lisbon, the supposed hotspot.

After about twenty minutes of climbing a gigantic hill, we decided to abandon the road to whatever hot spot we were going to (I honestly don't remember what it is) and take a turn down a narrower street. There, we find a small grocery store that happily sells us 40s after I say to them in convincing Portuguese something to the effect of "Our buzz is dying, give us booze." When walking out of the store, we heard drum beats to our right and decided to follow it. What we found there was pretty much the best park I have ever seen inside a city. It was just a small terrace paved over and littered with benches, along with a hill of dead grass in the back of it connected to a small bar, but the view was so much more. Doug continually referred to it as "the only view comparable to the Bay Area" and I am tempted to agree with him. Far to our right was a massive suspension bridge which we found out was grey when we walked around the next day. Topping a hill on the other side of the bay, near where the bridge ended was a miniature version of the giant Jesus from Rio, arms open, ready to give all of Lisbon a big old Lord-sized bear hug. Seated in the middle of the terrace were three people playing three different kinds of drums, a guy playing what was apparently an alto saxophone (I had no clue what it was before I asked him, I thought it was a clarinet because I am musically retarded. I later tried to put logic into my guess by claiming "At least it was a reed instrument!"), and a guy who I was convinced is the lead singer of Bloc Party freestyling in Portuguese over their beats. We sat down and knew we had our place for the night. From that point on, the evening accelerates to a speed a little too quick to recount accurately. I will just list things I know for certain.

THINGS I KNOW FOR CERTAIN
Doug looked for a bathroom
Pat and I tried to mingle with cute girls to our right
We discover cute girls are French and Luxembourgian (Luxembourgese?)
We grab more beers from the bar
We wonder where Doug is
We discover Doug is at the top of the terrace sitting with African dudes
The African dudes have already smoked Doug out
All three of us return to our former seats on the stairs
Doug and Pat flirt with previous two girls, I speak with Italian girls
We drink
Italians leave, I am fifth wheel as Doug charms girl from Luxembourg
We discover these girls are in their early 30s
These girls smoke us out
I actually sing along to Bob Marley
We drink
Girls leave
We drink
We leave
We go to the pensao
We watch CSI with Portuguese subtitles
We sleep

That first night pretty much set the pattern for the next two nights to come after that. The next day we were hung over with an intense hatred of just about everything, considering we didn't have fresh bottles of water, had each smoked half a pack of cigarettes the night before; and the temperature had climbed to about 105° Fahrenheit. Still, we went out and saw some sights, came back, showered, and went out to Barrio Alto and that awesome spot again, with similar drunk results.

I still have one more night in Portugal, along with a trip through Italy! Check back soon for the rest!

When I walked into Charles De Gaulle (aka Roissy, because just about 8 million things in Paris are named Charles De Gaulle), I quickly checked in because I was without baggage. They don't have traditional terminals for cheap airlines in France. They just have rooms where people wait for a cramped bus to take them to a cramped plane for a cramped flight to another city where you get up off the cramped plane, realize you have cramps, cramp into the cramped bus, and then back into the cramped terminal. Still, it wasn't that bad because I was listening to Justice, and it's impossible for anyone in the world to be said when they hear D.A.N.C.E. When I arrived on the plane, I was feeling good, I had my International Herald Tribune, and the page was open to that day's crossword. I even had the whole row to myself. Then it filled up. First a big sweaty Portuguese dude who left a buffer in between, which was considerate. Then it filled up more. Eventually, a cute British girl showed up after him, and he just sat there in between us, dominating both arm rests, forcing me to lay down against the vibrating window to my right. If only she got there first, it would have been nice to speak English for a while. Then again, when I borrowed her pen, it leaked all over my crossword and my fingers, making it look like I had just been taken in for fingerprints until I was able to find a proper sink and soap. Anyway, I rode out the bad luck and just waited until the arrival in Lisboa.

The first reaction most normal people have in Lisbon is a hacking wheeze. When you get off a plane, roughly 50% of the people immediately light up. It had me wondering if it's totally okay to take lighters on planes there, making me feel suddenly safe, and then it had me wondering why I wasn't smart enough to have tried to bring a lighter on the plane. Anyway, after I accustomed myself to the smoke-filled terminal, I tried to find a way into the main area of town.

The plan was to meet Doug and Pat in the main square (or at least the biggest) of Lisbon at 2:30 and my plane had arrived at 1:45, so I had plenty of time. At first I went to an information booth to ask how to get to Rossio. It consisted of this sentence: "Onde é...Fuck...What's the fastest way to Rossio?" I think that may have been the fastest I ever had given up on a foreign language completely. They pointed me out in perfect American-accented English a big yellow bus that said AirShuttle, with a list of Lisbon landmarks printed clearly on each side of it.

The bus was roomy, and I able to sit my bag beside me for the ride. Looking out the window during the ride, I got my first Lisbon surprise. It's not dirty. At least, not really. It's strange, when I was thinking about coming to Lisbon, beginning about a year ago, I always imagined the city as being a little grimy, a little dangerous and unwelcoming. However, looking out the window I saw something completely different, basically a developed version of Mexico. That's not a derogatory comment either. It was just like any other big city I'd been in, and it had the nice bonus of not smelling. The driver was scratching out the names over the speaker, making it impossible to understand what was going on, but luckily there were Italians on the bus who helped me decipher which stop was mine. Apparently it was "R---s-o."

I was in the square at 2:30, so I decided to sit myself down, grab a drink of water, and just look out for my friends, who were sure to show up on time. It was damn hot there, which immediately occured to me, as soon as I seated myself, even though I was in the shade. Whereas in Paris earlier it had been a comfortable 65-70, in Lisbon it was nearing 90. I got the hint when I saw people who weren't homeless splayed out on concrete benches at the edge of the square, tucking every extremity they had into the shade, as if any part on the square with sun on it was lava à la every game we played on a playground set in 2nd grade. I looked at my phone again to check the time, 2:40. They should be showing up at any moment I thought. I looked at my phone again 2:40. Okay, why'd I just look at my phone twice in under a minute, I thought. I looked at my phone again, 2:41. Why aren't they here yet. Then I look up at the upper right corner of the phone's screen and see the missing pixels that would define the unease that would permeate over every trip to a new town for the rest of this short vacation. My phone didn't have service in any country but France. Then the worries really started to come. Is this square too big? Will they be able to see me in this shade behind these pillars? I briskly walked onto the edge of the square, dehydration and sunstroke be damned. I checked my clock, 2:48. Where the hell are they? Did they get lost? I began to go over in my mind how long I would wait in the square for them before I got a room and resigned myself to be alone in Portugal for three days. It was 5 PM. Maybe they're trying to call me right now, and they're just getting a French message and the only thing they can understand is "Virgin" and they think the sexy-sounding voice on the other end of the phone is making fun of them. At 2:53, they arrived. They were instantly recognizable, even from across the square. They were the only people that were taller than 5'6" in the entire country. Pat was a bright red becoming a normal shade of tan, and Doug surprised me with beardlessness, even though he had been shaved for quite a while before we left Eugene. We bisoued each other because, I don't know, that's what guys do there. I was beyond relieved, I had found my friends, and I wasn't going to die, at least for the next three days.

The place they were staying at was a pensao on the fifth floor of a building overlooking the southern end of Rossio. It only had two beds and the shower consisted of a tiled wall in the corner of the room and a hose with a spray nozzle attached. There was one window, and at the end of that window there was about a 4 x 6 span of roof which they called "the balcony." We had our goals set pretty quickly - get traditional Portuguese food, get drunk. We went into the tourist area, and found a place that sounded delicious and sat ourselves down. We ordered a pint of whatever the best beer they had on tap was. The beer, as we would learn, was Super Bock, one of only two brands of beer in all of Portugal. It's heavy yet light - it's taste would overwhelm your tongue, then demand you drink more. It was probably a shade better than a 40 of Big Bear. Doug and I ordered some sort of beef on a skewer, and Pat got some fish which actually tasted pretty good. We were satisfied until we got the bill - 50 euro between the three of us. That pretty much ended our eating out for the rest of the trip. We continued from there, found a convenience store which calls itself "The Hippy Shop" (a great sign for travelers from Eugene), and stocked up with essentials such as wine, wine, sangria, Portuguese cigarettes calles Portugues, and a liter and a half of water. There weren't any hippies in the shop, but there was a glass case under lock and key of porto, the port wine specialty of Portugal. In it some of the bottles were worth over 500 euro. This blew me away. It made me imagine Hilyard Street Market selling Cristal on the same rack as the grenades of Mickey's. We had quite a night ahead of us.

Check back sooner than later for the next chapter!

I closed my backpack as I entered the station, and sprinted into the ticket area. They were very friendly in changing my ticket, saying that I could get on the next train which was in about 20 minutes. Of course, I know what they were thinking, it was probably something along the lines of, "Wow, either this guy is really stupid and waits until the last minute to buy a train ticket, or wow, this guy is really really stupid and expects that after he misses his train, he'll still be able to get to Paris 20 minutes later." Either way, that part worked out well.

I was hungry from anger and frustration, and decided to get a pain au chocolat to calm myself down. I always find sugar and butter to be an excellent way to chase away the doldrums. My hair is drenched when I walk across to the boulangerie, because the humidity in Angers at the end of July is somewhere between 110 and 113 percent during the summer. Inside the boulangerie, I angrily order my pastry, and when she asks which one, I point over, AND THE PAIN AU CHOCOLAT ACTUALLY MOVED. Basically, I have rain activated super powers. This discovery really brightened up my day much more than the chocolate-filled bread.

The train was uneventful, although I saw some of my first fat French people of the trip, which is always a little surreal. I read the International Herald Tribune, whose main theme throughout is about how China's going to kill us all with their poisonous Barbie Dolls and dog food. Pretty smart strategy on China's part if they're doing it on purpose though. Take out the kids and the dogs first, then who's going to protect our old people?

When I arrive in Paris, the awkward festival begins. For me, that's asking every single person I see, "Quelle direction est l'aeroport?" (which in English translates to, "if you're reading my journal and can't understand this little piece of French, I don't feel sorry for you") Everyone was helpful and I actually got to the RER (the outside neighborhood line) out all the way to the airport. Then disaster struck. More, a little bit of uncertainty struck, but disaster is so much more dramatic than uncertainty. For some reason they put two airport stops on this line and I didn't know which one was mine. Across the way from me, me there was sitting a snappily dressed tall and bald man, with two small pieces of luggage. I assumed from his clean suit that he was a pilot, but I wasn't sure because I didn't see any sort of epaulets or yellow stripes or wings on his breast pocket. Once we were two stops away, I finally asked the bald man and he immediately helped me, saying it was the first. He then pulled out his Air France scheduling book. I left confident enough to find my place, but not before asking an information place where to find Terminal 3. He pointed directly over my shoulder. I'm stupid.

More to come later!

Where was our story? I forgot to tell the story of the day before the trip. The day before, before anything has ever happened is what truly defines what the trip is going to be. I'm a superstitious guy, so when I see an omen, positive or negative, I take it to heart. Anyway, the day before we went to the Cointreau factory. There, we took a tour of where the hooch is made. To begin, they showed a presentation of Cointreau through the ages. It was difficult to follow, commercials really shouldn't be longer than 3 minutes. After that, we went into the factory. To begin, they gave us a bunch of orange peels and said, "This is where Cointreau comes from!" After getting these green and orange peels, I was under the impression that we would be helping to make the liquor, so I took great care of my peels for that portion of the trip, occasionally stopping to break them apart and sniff them. Still, by the time we'd seen all the stills, I was still with handful of peels. They simply told us to throw them out. Oh well. We then went to a hallway of Cointreau advertising through the past century which was simultaneously hilarious and disturbing. The original mascot for Cointreau was a sort of mix between Santa Claus, a Prohibition-era plutocrat, and a mime, or in other words, extremely French. He gradually changed into a friendly infant-like character that just wanted to get you liquored up. The commercials we even weirder though. The first commercial, which turns out to be the first commercial ever made, had the Cointreau man-child desperately craving the triple sec; while the second had the cuter Cointreau mime animated in a battle over the affection of a woman. Basically it begun with someone stealing the woman, the baby got some Cointreau, got the woman, then the woman-thief had a failed suicide attempt. I wish I lived during the 40s and 50s sometimes, just to be in a world where that was considered a potentially effective advertising campaign. After that, we got to the usual sampling part of the tour, and it was tasty.

Altogether, the factory was much less disappointing than the tour I took of the Perugina chocolate factory two years ago. When you say chocolate factory to me, I imagine rivers of chocolate, not sweaty Italian guys dumping hazelnuts into vats. However, when you say liquor factory, I imagine me drinking a strong drink at the end of the tour. Well, I got the drink, and a disturbing man-child to spare.

This little adventure starts on the 28th of July, a Saturday morning in the 16th largest city in France, Angers. The night before (Okay, I lied, the story really starts the night before) we went out to an «International Soiree» which consisted mainly of people from semi developed countries like Egypt and Russia giving Power Point presentations that just consist of pictures taken from one website and really awesome transitions. Power Point of the Night (PPOTN) goes to Kazakhstan for not choosing to make it a Borat related affair, that's a tough urge to suppress. Anyway, during that whole thing, I was bragging about how awesome it was that two weeks before (The real start of the story?) I was able to get a first class ticket to Paris for 35 Euro. I even went to sleep at midnight, so I could get up early enough to catch my 8h55 train with time to spare.

Back to the narrative's start - I wake up at 8h10, and just for shits and giggles, I take a look at my ticket, as some sort of victory lap, psyched that I pulled one over on SNCF. It said the train leaves at 8h15. I quickly packed up and took off out the door, muttering swears in French and English, and my heavy backpack opening up every 20 steps.

That's all to the story for now!

Check back for part 2 in the next couple days.

Yeah, I'm in Lisbon, and this is my last night here. I have no clue what we're doing tonight, and I'll write a long epic story later, but for now, I must say that Lisbon is the most underrated place in the world.

Yes, that's the word for people who live in Angers - angevin. I've been here for well over a week now, and I'm finally comfortable with the layout of the city, with the contents of the city, and occasinally the people who actually live in the city. All in all, it's pretty impressive. It's pretty big, and the center of town is always filled with brasseries and bars brimming with drunk French who smell of tobacco and are unwilling to give me a drag. The bums in the center of town are an amazing breed, too. They live in one "place" where they maintain their gigantic dogs to make sure the government can't take them away. Apparently in France, you cannot be arrested if you own a dog. This is probably the most brilliant scam in the history of the world. Also, their yells to us in the street are pretty hilarious. "Yoo ARR Americain? Gif MEE monay." Goddamn if they aren't some persuasive folks.

I live in a "foyer" which is basically a converted convent which became a dormitory. It's a granite building with a surprising lack of crosses in it, considering it's on the same grounds as a church that seems to have an unending stream of nuns coursing through it. The backyard is basically paradise, with old benches and a pond that's an impressionist's wet dream, filled to the brim with water lillies. The lobby has two offices, the directeur, and the mysterious secretary. I haven't heard her say a single word. I see her every day, but she's just silent. Is it possible to be mute and a landlord?

My actual room is bigger than any dorm room in the U of O, and I even have my own bathroom with both hot and cold water, a grand achievement. The view from outside of my window consists of the Maine River, a track, a medieval castle, and an Romanesque cathedral. Sometimes you just win. The walls of the room are empty, but look like they have been splotched blue by kids holding sponges. I later learned that this is wallpaper. Apparently the kindergarten-chic is what's in these days for converted-convent housing in France. The other awkward part of the place - I'm the only guy in it. There is no one else there who can willingly maintain a beard. Basically, I'm like the house big brother, they just come to me if they want jars open. Unfortunately there haven't been any jars to be opened, so I'm just about useless.

The foyer is about twenty minutes away from UCO, my school. On the way I pass exactly 4 bakeries and only one store where I can buy useful shit. It's France in a nutshell. The name of the store is the Petit Casino. The first time I had ever seen one of these was actually when I was in Monaco. We had just got out of the Grand Casino, and I was like, screw that, having a cover charge for a casino. Then I saw a sign that directed us to the "Petit Casino" at the bottom of the hill. I go there, and it's a damn grocery store. The Angers Petit Casino still is pretty nice, there's always one guy working the counter who's very friendly. At first, I thought he was a massive asshole because he kept speaking English to me, like I didn't know the French for "Here's 50 cents." Then I remembered my time working. Every damn time a foreigner came in who spoke a language I knew, I tried to practice the language. Now we get along.

The building I learn in is old and nondescript. The food we eat for lunch and dinner is also old and nondescript.

That's all I can think of for now. Hopefully that's enough of an update for you.

This won't be a full update, but I'm doing research right now for a class thing, and I came across a small morsel.

Apparently Alessandra Mussolini is lobbying that Turkey shouldn't be admitted into the EU. Who would sign her petition. Yes, she's THAT Mussolini. Grampa was the DUX. I figured that changing your name would be first on the list if you had a family with that kind of reputation. It's not like Germany had lots of Hitlers running around after WW2, right?

Because you asked for it, it'll be going on all summer, as planned.

I'll get around to taking pictures of the journal entries I made while waiting before I left for France. I won't be typing them all out because I made fancy drawings that included tribal tattoos and tribal fanny packs.

Anyway, the town is absolutely beautiful. I have to walk a mile to class every day and pass three delicious smelling boulangeries every day, so it's not too bad. The first thing people think of when the word France is mentioned is "food." Unfortunately when you're doomed to food in a cafeteria every day due to the constraints of your program, you are forced to eat stuff that may not even pass for nourishment in the US. For example, yesterday we were given a piece of what I guess was sponge which was designed in the Irish flag colors of green, white, and orange. I guess they forgot it was the Fourth. We were without a clue as to what it was, so we just refered to it as only green white and orange. I think there's an inherent problem here. We're in a place that's supposed to have the most wonderful food in the world and the best they can come up with is food called "orange" that has no vitamin C. The other main problem with lunch i sthe severe lack of wine. I've discussed this with my French prof and he (sidenote: of 20 total faculty members here to handle the students, there is only one man, my French prof. [side-sidenote: Of the 17 people on my program, I'm one of 2 total males.] He's a badass.) agreed with me whole-heartedly. If you're going to have people talk in a language class, if they're boozed up, they're going to be more likely to participate. Unfortantely there's a chink in the armor of this plan. Mostly, because about half of the school IS AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS.

Here comes my plat principale of problems in France. The good part is, that it's absolutely not a big deal in the long run, just a mild irritant. My first commentary: how dare they think they have opinions that matter on any level whatsoever. I have a serious problem with these Gen-X parents that decided to be all fucking hippy because they didn't like their asshole baby boomer parents. Now these kids figure they are entitled to opinions. Guess what, you're 17 years old, shut your shit, sit at the little kid table, and let the adults talk. Then again, I say the same thing about the baby boomers in my class. Basically the only people allowed to talk in class according to me are the 18-25 set. And the prof. I imagine it's the same thing for someone in any age group. I can't imagine a 30 year old giving a damn about my opinions, nor should they.

Anotehr problem with having high schoolers in a country where the drinking age is 16 - they are in the bars. A night out turns to baby sitting. I'm not Creed from The Office, I can't handle these kids darting around with the sixth drink of the night and the sixth drink total for their whole lives. I can't deal with their "Ew gross" looks when I smoke either. It's France kids, get out if you can't take a little secondhand. The dance floors are creepy, because it's a mix of of 17 year old blonde girls and 28 year old French predators. "Ooo la la, you speck Franch vary wellll. Wud yooo lock tu cam tu mai appartement?" Nice dudes. They perch at the end of the bar for twenty minutes waiting for the opening, "Comment tu t'appelles" then they strike. Still, not as creepy as Italians, because they're more forward with their creepiness while the Italians just watch and watch, unblinking, undeterred from their conquest.

I caught a cold as soon as I arrived in Paris, which was pretty awesome. I was hallucinating with fever the second night in France, which always makes for an interesting memory. Imagined events are always so much more fun than the actual ones. For example, that night, I was supposed to see the Eiffel Tower all lit up. Instead, I thought I saw the Eiffel Tower all lit up, then it turned into a space ship and blew up the moon. Guess who had more fun, those saps in fanny packs and hawaiian shirts or sweaty me in some starchy sheets? Still, Paris was huge. Not my kind of city, I don't think I can handle my shit in giant cities. I officially prfer the mid sizes of places like Portland or Seattle, not the giant London or Paris. Still want to go to New York though.

The other great part about Paris is that I found lookalikes for a few of you. It seemed like I found lookalikes for Daniel, Max, and Will. Sorry Nate.

And yes, I eat wine, cheese, and bread every day, and it's wonderful.

I'm pretty sure no one's reading anymore, judging by the comments, so I doubt I'll be writing the long comprehensive bits. Then again, maybe I will. It'll be a surprise. Anyway, I'm in Angers now. It's in the Loire valley, there's a huge castle in the middle of the town and there's a hookah bar situated next door to a movie theater which will be showing a subititled version of Harry Potter. Also, it's impossible to find towels/lamps here.

Here I am, I'm sitting on a wavy bright red couch in my mom's living room, just wishing I could travel in time to 12 hours in the future and be in the air, watching whatever crappy movie the airplane has. Here's the bad part about going on a plane during the summer: The way the movies work is they play movies that are just about to come out on DVD, the kind of stuff they have on Spectravision in cheap hotels that isn't pornography. I can't think of a single good movie that came out in May. Basically I'm preparing for the worst in terms of in-flight entertainment. I'll be bringing several Oprah's Book Club (just The Road by Cormac McCarthy) award winners in my carry-on, just in case the only movie that's showing is Wild Hogs. Yes, I realize I'm complaining about a trip to France. I guess I'm more about the destination than the journey there. It's not like a road trip through a desert to get to Vegas, or even last summer where we nearly got shot in Seattle on the way to Vancouver because someone thought it would be a good idea to honk at guys who had grills not only on the front of their cars and on their teeth, but on their driver's side windows. That has to create a hell of a blind spot.

I'll be arriving in Paris at 7:30 in the morning, missing the NBA Draft, as I'll be flying over Greenland at the moment the Blazers hopefully select Greg Oden. I've glanced at a map of the Metro system in Paris, but I have to admit I'm intimidated. I mean, I'll be arriving during what should be a rush hour, and I'm taking my big piece of luggage through the most busy Metro station in Paris - Chatelet-Les-Halles. Then again, who's going to stab me there. It's also going to be fun to be patronized. I guarantee I'll try to speak French to the first person I meet, and they'll automatically switch to English. Snooty pricks.

I doubt anyone will give me suggestions about what to bring in this entry, but still, if you feel up to, give me any advice. I want to make sure to bring stuff that would make life easier, but doesn't weigh too much. For example, am I a girl for bringing shampoo to Europe? I think I'm doing the right thing. Also, if anyone knows any French slang that I could use, I'm desperate for help.

Well, that's all I have to say for now, the next post will be coming from one of three places:

If it's Portland - I'm bored and like the kid in the Disney World commercial, TOO EXCITED TO SLEEP.

If it's Newark, New Jersey - My layover's boring, and I feel like pointing out that I saw someone that looks like they could be in "Our Thing."

If it's Paris - I landed safely. Woo. I'll be looking for a computer the moment I arrive in Paris in order to see all the Blazers news. Maybe I'll give a recap of the plane ride over.

I'm bringing a written journal along with me. I actually plan on writing in it, and I also don't plan on transcribing everything I write here. I'm probably going to take pictures of entries and post them here, specifically if they have goofy doodles.

Well, I still don't have anything to write about because I haven't left Eugene for over a month. Also, because I'm swamped with writing a shitload for class, and don't feel like writing for myself anymore, even though the stuff I'm writing could be considered personal, but it's still journalistic. Either way, I just want to post this.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fatal_hilarity

My personal favorite: In the third century B.C. the Greek philosopher Chrysippus died of laughter after giving his donkey wine, then seeing it attempt to feed on figs.

Honestly, that's one of the funniest images I can think of. First of all this guy's a philosopher, and his idea of fun is trying to get donkey trashed. Then seeing a donkey try to eat figs...I'm happy I wasn't there, or else I may have died too. I'm also happy I wasn't there because I believe they don't have Taco Bell in Greece.

Guess what, I'm no longer sick and I'm no longer taking some of my classes. Yay. Anyway, I now dread my return back to Portland. It'll be draining on my soul and masculinity, being back at home. However, I will get to hang out with the greatest dog in existence, and he'll make me continue to remember why I love animals. So tradeoffs, I guess.

Right now I'm trying to write a paper in French about how other people are Hell, yet I can't get into it since my downstairs neighbor is playing loud bass guitar and now I'm on here talking to no one, because people don't respond anymore on this thing.

When I get sleepy, my mind wanders. This particular night, there's a head rotating in my mind's eye, floating against a blue background, with his name shouted over and over. Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill! During my elementary school years, I would always come home and see that that head with atoms and particles revolving around it. Everything I've ever and will ever know about science has come almost exclusively from that show. My knowledge of the solar system came from his demonstration with Jim McIlvane, stating that if the sun were a basketball in the Sonics practice facility in Everett, Pluto would be half-way to Canada, the size of a pin's head. Sound waves came from him jamming with Kim Thayil and Chris Cornell. It was the opening to the show which had my attention most of all, though. In it, a voice which was like the daughter of HAL, except with low self-esteem, would always repeat "Inertia is a property of matter".

This phrase always stuck with me. When we watched it in Mr. VanderSommen's class, almost all the students said it along with this robotic voice. For those of you who don't know what inertia is, it's a concept from Newton's first law that states all things moving or stationary stay that way, unless compelled to do otherwise, much like being wedged between a far-too cuddly octogenarian Dutch woman and the old Jared from Subway on an airplane. Basically, it says, if you're not moving, you're just staying. During the last two days, this thought arrives at the strangest time. I believe it applies to much more than billiards and moving refrigerators twenty-five meters. I've been feeling that inertia lately, as I'm sure everyone has. I've been waiting for some sort of change to this routine, the routine of going to class every today, returning home to read, do homework, watch TV, wash, rinse, repeat. Maybe that change is going to come from the outside - maybe there will be zombies and I'll become some sort of fighter against them, maybe my toaster will revolt against me, maybe Nicaragua, China, Cuba, and the USSR will invade the US. Maybes are easy to deal with, maybes can always show up, maybes, for the most part, though, are hopeless. It's a polite refusal. I know every time I'm asked to help someone move, or give them a ride, or donate blood, my rote response is always the same; "Maybe." Occupying your time on the maybes are what contribute to inertia. You stay, perpetually in your same state. However, it's here that I realize that I'm more than just another object stuck to the ground, and that there's something greater when I walk than the equal and opposite forces of my footsteps. There's purpose to it, you can go where you want, and change course any time you want. Maybe.