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A little update
Well, after last week’s setbacks I feel like I’m making some progress, in terms of making a social life and feeling more at home and at peace with myself. I got over my cold really quickly, minimal hacking and only needed half a giant roll of toilet paper to capture the mucus coming out of my face. It’s now entirely my responsibility to track down the keymaking guy and have him make my key…but his shop is never open…go figure. I’m still kind of freaked out by strangers on the street that look the least bit dangerous, and god help me if they try to talk to me on the street I get a mild heart attack when a man says “bonjour” in my head I scream “FUCK OFF I’LL KILL YOU IF YOU TRY ANYTHING.”—apparently that feeling subsides after some time and therapy. I’ve been watching too much True Blood… so I keep running over this image of the next time I’m going to be accosted in an alley and it goes something like this: ay yo gimme yer bag bitch---I’ll clutch whatever mystical looking piece of jewelry I’m wearing make my eyes roll back in my head and start speaking latin backwards and start dry heaving, if I actually had the power I would rip my face off and reveal the true nature of evil and muscular anatomy…go apeshit brujo…. and hopefully he will think he’s having a gypsy spell cast over him (hopefully the French are superstitious) and head for the hills! Or maybe I’ll just run really fast like a bitch.
Whatever. Um. Yes, making friends. Through friends of friends of friends the world gets smaller every day. I met up with Zhara, she’s the sister of an acquaintance of mine in Albuquerque, she’s been living in Paris for a year now. We apparently have something like 27 friends in common and just never met in Albuquerque, so we met in Paris, cool! She introduced me to this very cool circle of poets and artists and people who like those things. There’s an organization called Spoken Word and they put on open mic nights every week and various performances, I’ve met some cool people through it. I’ll go more often now. I’ve been going to some parties, but it’s like I’m constantly battling the old jewish lady in the back of my head….yew should go hoooome its getting late you gawt some nittin to do in the mawhnin. You shewdn’t drink unutha glass of menachvitz you might fall asleep on the metro….bettah wear a sweatah you might regret it….The old jewish lady in my head has been winning the battles lately. Maybe this weekend I will sequester her and party full throttle and miss the last metro and dance until morning…but I will bring a sweater. I have a (digital) pen pal from Greece moving here next week who will probably motivate me to go out more. It’s so strange how nowadays in PARIS, when it comes down to the choice of having an epically drunken foolish evening or having a lovely morning the next day I choose the lovely morning. That will probably change soon…it doesn’t sound like me. Or maybe I’m being grown up….bahahaha. Once there is a party epically enticing enough for me to hate tomorrow I will stay until the wee hours of the morning, but I’m hard to impress in terms of parties, so we’ll see what happens.
Yesterday I had a lovely day since I went home like an old lady the night before. I went to Pere Lachaise, armed with a red bull, camera, and sketchbook. If you don’t know, it’s the cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried…no I did not kiss his grave. I couldn’t find it not was I that motivated to. The whole pokemon style tourism thing [gotta catch em all! Locate, take a picture, came conquered, on to the next monument to not thoroughly appreciate] is a real turnoff to me. The cemetery is a seriously gargantuan testament to death and history. It’s really beautiful, not really spooky until the sun starts going down….then I get a little nervous as I said I’ve been watching too much vampire bullshit, I mean c’mon it’s still a cemetery. The most interesting things I saw were the huge differences in equality, even in death. Some people could only afford to have a modest cross above their grave while others constructed what look like mini churches or mansions to continue their legacy long after their deaths. And still those monuments are subject to time once they’re forgotten about and maintenance ceases. Iron rots and doors collapse. The tree roots knock over headstones, never to be repositioned. I felt more connected to the earth, and a better concept of our relation to our time on it.
I drew a few pictures; it was a more challenging exercise than drawing pictures of statues in the Louvre. For one I have to make up the composition with my little finger viewfinder, ooh how artsy fartsy I must look when I do that. And I have to find somewhere appropriate to sit, I gave up on finding benches near a good composition and caved into sitting on top of a gravestone…old Mr. Henri will not be rolling around in his grave under me if he knew I were sitting on top of him….hopefully. Then drawing a cemetery is a lot of perspective. It’s sort of mathematical in nature. The more ripped I am on caffine, like heart racing this is what drugs are like ripped on caffine that’s when it’s the most fun. And to drink that much coffee here would be so expensive…so I have to resort to redbull. Lame.
Then I met up with Elsa, she just got back from traveling. Wooh, she’s one of the first people I met when I came to Paris and I’ve only known her for a couple weeks but she’s my oldest friend now! So we got some wine and met up with some friends in a park and talked whilest drinking the wine and smoking cigarettes, in true Parisian fashion.

there's pictures of all these things on facebook, I'm too lazy to upload them on both.

GUR

Every week that I’m here life gets a little bit more stressful, and I suppose different metaphors could be made about moving to a new city… but there’s certainly a pattern—
Honeymoon phase—lasts about 3 weeks give or take a week. Month at most
Then reality sets in—you’re in a big new city, but not for me, I’m in a new fucking country! And shit is complicated sometimes! You want to go to the bank and open up an account? Try doing that while simultaneously taking a French test! Want to go to the grocery store? Want to get directions? Want to navigate one of the most impossible bureaucracies of the world? Want to sign up for a metro pass? Want to fend off beggars and muggers and talk to police and make small talk with a cashier??? Do it all while simultaneously taking a French test! A lot of the time I fail. Fantastic . All this shit happens to me, and now I’m broke as shit and have to pay my roommate 200 dollars for some fucking patented key made only in one store in Paris for whatever the hell reason the owner of this apartment decided to buy into this security system…”oh you got mugged—yeah but the only things he got were my keys and the metro pass my friend who’s out of town gave me” Shit, well now I owe this guy 200 dollars and I have to buy a metro pass which for the year is 300. FANFUCKING TASTIC. I need to buy books and food. I’m growing up a little bit more every day, and I hate it--- I can feel the naivety and innocent sparkle in my eyes fading (kind of, not that I had ever considered myself naïve and innocent before). I’m learning how to cook so I don’t starve to death or become malnourished from only eating bread and that shopping cart grilled corn. I have nobody to whine to in person so I instant message my mother in the fetal position while sobbing over my keyboard. FANFUCKING TASTIC. So moral of the story living in Paris is certainly not all glamour, wine and cheese—not that I expected it to be, but I did not expect it to be this hard.
But everyone I’ve spoken to says the same thing happens
--Things are shit for a while after you first get here, then you have the time of your life.
--Then you feel at home and are used to the city
--then you are forced to move back to where you came from.
This all happens in less than a year.
WOOOH. I’m going to do my best to get over the shit mound fast and start having the time of my life.
One of the most promising challenges will be hating school. So let it be known, I, Brandon Straus, hate business school. I don’t give a shit about spread sheets and figures and samples and case studies. I hate them. It’s not that it’s too difficult or anything, but it’s boring as fuck and all I can do to not go all exorcist and projectile vomit and stab myself in the genitals with a cross, is doodling in my notes…see below.

And if you’ll observe, the notes where there are less drawings are the classes that I hate the least; the teacher might actually be engaging the class and make a semi comedic remark every now and then, like my fellow American professor whom I’ve kind of taken a liking to, we’re both from the southwest.(apparently everyone else hates because she kicked out all the unprepared people, these kids have obviously never met the likes of UNM’s professor Ferguson who will shame you in front of a 300 person lecture class for going to the bathroom—this class is a mind-numbing cakewalk compared to world history). And the more detailed and angry looking the more dick face the professor is. For example, strategic marketing planning (woooooh sounds like fun!), this teacher explains things in the most back asswards ways. This professor is British, and he’s stated before that he does not like America, get where you’re coming from; but, fuck off. If you don’t have a personality your opinion does not matter. I’m tempted to flip over my desk like a Jersey housewife to see if his monotone voice can jump at least half an octave to keep me from gouging my own eyes out of boredom and confusion. This man looks like he does not have a thought in his head. So when I have a question in this class, I’m not shy about it, and I think it pisses him off because he sees me drawing a labyrinth in my notes which is besides the point. The point is even though it looks like I’m not paying attention, I’m listening. As English is my native language, the only student in the class whose native language is English I feel as if I don’t understand what the hell he’s saying the 15 shy Chinese kids who don’t really know how to speak English know what he’s saying either. For clarification for some lackluster acrostic poem/acronym to remember some minute aspect of something boring (he ironically used S.L.E.P.T. last week when I fell asleep) he explains things with more charts and graphs and things that the english speaker doesn’t understand! I ask a question for clarification…is that right? Well yes and no…there are several different facets of this situation and you have to consider blah blah blah blah blah blah I’m still just as confused as the Chinese are. COOL.

Sidenote: it’s also bizarre that I cannot at Office Depot find notebooks with regular college rule paper…what is this graphing paper bullshit, I’m not taking a mathclass, my letters and doodles cannot be contained by your tiny boxes!!
Another sidenote: where you see the asian characters on the doodles next to the bonsai professor heads and the wiener, that’s the days of the week in Japanese, I sit next to a lovely girl named Mi Suki (heehee) and she teaches me how to write things in Japanese. She wrote my name today, and in Japanese there is no alphabet, just characters for symbols of similar sounds but are also associated with more primal words. So my name in Japanese –brah-uhn-duhn – means managing storm strong man. That’s encouraging. 

Mugged in Paris

So, I just had my first taste of reality since I’ve been in Paris…everything had been going so smoothly. I had found an apartment, I’m starting to make friends, I feel comfortable, everything is sunshine and daisies…them bam, I get mugged. COOL. I’m on my way to the metro to go home and I have to piss like a pregnant racehorse and I’m too coy to use a restroom at a restaurant I’m not eating at since they will usually tell you that you have to buy something (and I’m broke)…and the public restrooms in the street is out of service…so I do what most people would do, find a tree on a side street to pee behind. Bad call. I’m finishing my piss and shaking my dick off and some fucking bro comes at me asking me for money and my phone and before I realize what’s happening I’m being tackled to the ground…fight or flight reflex on both sides we both fly, and he scampers away with my man purse (good thing, because if I bit his ear off like Mike Tyson which was my first urge I might have come out with less’n teeth)…which is the only thing he took that I’m really pissed about because it was 30 euros. The only things it contained were my metro pass (given to me by my friend who just left Paris), my metro map, my keys, and my cigarette case…because I’m not used to carrying a man purse I still keep my valuables in my pockets. So, some fucking criminal eh? Not impressed. Where I come from I would have at least come out with a black eye….PSHH the French do noooot know how to rob someone. I still have my ipod, phone, and wallet. I really hope he feels like an asshole for ruining my night for nothing….maybe he will realize now that his life of crime is not productive and go back to community college…probably not, but I’m trying to think on the bright side. I’m not seriously injured…and I could choose to feel victimized or a bit wiser, and I choose to feel wiser. So, next time I have to piss I shall do it in a safe place….now I have to buy a new man purse which I shall not keep my valuables in, but use for a false treasure for muggers.
<3 I hope he chokes and dies on my man purse.

...good thing guns are illegal in France.

Flea Markets, Open air produce markets and going to Bars alone

Yesterday I went to the most famous flea market in Paris, it’s right down the street from where I live, it’s the Port de Clingancourt flea market. It’s fucking amazing. Mom would shit her pants for the antiques, and all of my buffalo exchange coworkers would shit their collective pants for the vintage clothing and ample jewelry and all around good deals—keep in mind this is still a Parisian flea market so you’re not getting the same deals as at the fairground flea market in burque, but you’ve got a much more amazing selection ranging from the same box of broken vcr remotes to high end antique furniture and paintings. It’s kind of amusing the differences of merchandise though. In burque where you would have a vendor selling his Chicano clothes such as virgin Guadalupe sweaters and air brushed Jesus crying oversized t-shirts, in Paris they sell shitty “Americana” clothes. This is quite amusing to me, as they have “college sweaters” of schools they made up the names for that look completely absurd, and now the fad is the ‘vintage’ varsity jacket with made up schools. This is so ironic because I try to look as un-American as possible, and the less economically advantaged French want to look like Americans…how strange. I’ll go back and take pictures one day.
In addition to all the crap ‘Americana’ clothes they sell, they sell a lot of really cheap trendy clothes, cheaper than h&m. I must go back for these and the vintage when I win the French lottery….maybe I’ll mug someone for Christmas.



So, as you all know I love to go out, meet people and drink. Well, being a broke ass foreign exchange student in the expensive city of lights, it is challenging to do so on a budget, but entirely possible. So here are my tips: (applicable in any city in the world)
Pregame: while you get ready with cheap wine . You can actually get some decent cheap wine at Franprix for 2-4 euros, have a glass in between changing outfits because you know it’s so hard to decide on one. Also, if you’re going out alone with the intention of meeting people in a foreign country, this helps a lot.
Smoke:
So get a lil sauced up and hit the metro, pick your favorite bar in your niche, scope out the groups of people mingling outside smoking. If you don’t smoke, you should start (unless you care about your health, but that’s what your late 20’s and beyond are for); this is the easiest and least awkward way to meet people without looking too desperate. So put a cigarette in your mouth, pretend like you’re searching for your lighter, dig through all of your pockets even though you know it’s in your left breast pocket under your pack of cigarettes. “excuqez moi, avez vouz un brique” –excuse me, do you have a lighter,--they will obviously and bam you have something in common you’re both trying to kill your lungs! It’s the perfect segway into conversation…thank you for the light, I love your coat, earrings, blah blah hello you have a new friend. And generally if they’re older or look richer or what have you cougars, they’ll always buy your drinks without even telling you…at least in my case; but careful with who you let buy your drinks, things can get creepy and you have to go to another bar. But at any rate—this is my method for going out and meeting strangers. Works like a charm.
Anyway, every day is such a lovely adventure in a foreign country (unless you’re having a bitchy day, then it’s a pain in the ass to talk to anyone) such menial tasks and situations are at a new heightened sense of meaning…oh I’m grocery shopping…..IN FRANCE! I don’t know if I wrote this already, but usually at the grocery store I take a million years to cross reference which toilet paper is the better buy in my mental index according to its material sourcing, package design, green rating, and cost effectiveness…so now it takes me a billion years to do it in French. At any rate, I’ve been going to Franprix a lot lately (they’re like a mini grocery store in every neighborhood comparable to smiths) to familiarize myself with the basics of buying food here, and also I’m way too intimidated by those picturesque open air markets, which I will go to only when accompanied by a strong French speaker.
The reason for this is because, in my neighborhood at least at the time of day I just went, it was chaos. Lovely chaos though, fruits and vegetables everywhere smelling beautiful, people haggling, vendors yelling, sidewalks completely filled…but as I’ve said before, when I’m in the spotlight I sometimes freeze up on my French vocabulary and stare like a deer in the headlights, and in this neighborhood it’s the real Paris, and they do not cater to tourists. But I want that god damn fresh French produce—I’ve been told they don’t have genetically modified fruits and vegetables, and if they are it has to say it in the package -- so I’m going to get my French friend, and I will get that precious fruit I’m so afraid to order.—So I just walk through the markets staring at the produce longingly and keep on marching along

(sidenote: children pee on the sidewalk here all the time under parental supervision, and it adds to the theory that children are like little old drunkards [missing hair and teeth, terrible balance and hand-eye coordination, fighting, screaming, dancing as they wish and not giving a shit]

 School in Paris is certainly not the way I had imagined it. I mean, of course I knew it would be different from my school in America, but really…I never thought I’d miss my American college…kind of scary to say, but I DO!! I don’t want to go home and cry to mommy or anything, but I guess this will get some taking used to.
 So for starters, it’s fucking small and spread out. It’s in a really nice part of town, almost too nice. Like I said, it’s comparable to New York’s Upper East Side…So, the real estate is entirely too valuable to just buy 20 city blocks to bulldoze and put in a campus like UNM, or even CNM. So, you have about 5-8 random buildings that have been annexed for the school over a 3 mile radius, and you’ve got to navigate the neighborhood to find your building, which can be an immense pain in the ass. The way I’ve figured it out is via landmarking with high end boutiques. To get to the main building, you pass the Dior store, keep going past BCBG and if you hit Ralph Lauren you’ve gone too far. For the secondary building, take a left at Burberry, if you see Chanel you’ve gone too far…so on and so forth.
 The schedules. BAH, the French must not enjoy the convenience of stability, a daily routine, or continuity…maybe it’s that their way of life is so spontaneous…probably not. I think the teachers must have had a protest and shut down the schools for 3 months until they were given the right to choose their own hours. The classes are hardly ever on the same days or same times, or the same rooms. So you constantly have to check your schedule wondering where you’ll be or what you have to do tomorrow, as opposed to having the American system of a pattern…psh posh. Let the confused expats miss some classes!
 I’m the fucking cultural ambassador. Since I’m in a business school, and America is one of the leaders in big business, we’re constantly talking about American companies and culture in my classes as examples. Most of my teachers are British or American so this gives me a one up against the other kids who come to class late, so I can kiss their collective ass in the native tongue…but this ultimately leads them to falsely thinking I give a really want to be there and talk about Americanisms (since I use it as an in). So, now that the teachers and I have a sort of cultural alliance (unlike most students) whenever an American company or facet of life is mentioned and the teacher asks the class [everyone else from Asia or Europe twiddles their thumbs unbeknownst to what the terms ‘green washing’ or ‘collusion’ mean, so I answer these questions happily at first.] Time goes on, I’m expected to answer every question since I speak perfect English and everyone else is afraid to speak up. It starts to get old. In addition to that, all the teachers who are not American are fascinated with our way of life and try to put gross generalizations on everything. “You all love MacDonalds”, “All of your families were poor Irish and Italians a hundred years ago”, “you all live like they do in T.V.!!” No, that’s bullshit. I then have to give the “America is a melting pot” schpiel they didn’t get in 2nd grade and further explain that we have 50 states that are all quite diverse, “they’re like similar but different little countries all in one”. So, I’m actually kind of proud that I can be the representative of my country, as opposed to 80 percent of UNM because I feel as if I have better cultural insight since I’m triple minority and thus a little more open minded. When I’m in America I’ll probably be the first to talk shit about it, from its lack of public transportation to its awful social policies and equal rights practices? At any rate, when I’m here…I feel some sort of duty, a sense of nationality and pride overwhelms me so I must defend our fat ass capitalism culture! Or is it that I don’t want to be grouped in with a mass of idiots? Or is it that our country really is beautiful and diverse in its own way in each of the 50 states? Mostly I don’t want to be grouped in with idiots, and nor do I want other Americans who are not idiots to suffer the stereotypes the rest of the world has about us… but all of my reasons combine my motivation for defending my country, so there you go. I will defend the good ol’ US of A pride. But yes, it is tiring to fight off all the stereotypes.
But another thing at the same rate, as much as people want to criticize the United States, they eat the shit out of all of our lame ass pop culture for some reason. Ask anyone, from Denmark, Germany, Spain, Franc e, and they can probably tell you the full plot line and cast of Desperate Housewives and can’t count on their fingers and toes how many American celebrities and politicians they know about, yet most Americans can’t name a single television show or celebrity that’s based out of a foreign country…except maybe the Beetles…they’re like umm….from like…England or something. Angelina Jolie’s babies are from like, Africa…. RIGHT. At any rate I’ve realized that we as Americans really do have a huge influence on global pop culture, so I feel as if it comes with an individual responsibility to not fuck up our image. The only stereotype I do try to perpetuate is our kindness, even if it is perceived as dishonest. If I see a stranger in the grocery store drop something, I’m going to pick it up. If I see an old lady on the metro, I’ll get my American ass up and let her sit (sorry Rosa Parks), I give lost people directions to the best of my ability (not very well), and just generally give an air of kindness, goddamnit.
So. If it’s not evident in my literary voice right now I’m kind of in a bad place in terms of my social life and economic resources. So, here are some thoughts:
 When broke as shit, one must survive on creativity, which some may refer to as a low standard of living. For example, you can’t imagine the weird shit I eat on toast…whatever’s in a jar in the fridge, I’ll eat it on toast. Fuck it, tomato sauce, pesto sauce, butter, rotten fruit, weird stinky French cheese, ground up babies, fuck it I’ll eat it I’m starving my balls off and the beautiful French bakery with all its beautiful pastries is too damn expensive! Literally, my indulgences when it comes to food these days are the cheapest Parisian street food available. This includes and is not limited to Nutella Crepes (my favorite, for about 2-4 euros for a child size portion), Grocery Cart Grilled Corn (it’s literally grilled on the street in a stolen shopping carton outfitted with a grill made out of a large tin can, operated by a real sketchy dude, but the sketchier the vendor, the better the quality…maybe). Hot dogs are way better in Paris, the way they melt all the cheese onto the hotdog makes all of my entirely legitimate fears about the origin of the hotdog juts melt away, and rather than a shitty bun they’re snuggled in a nice baguette. Paninis are another favorite, which is probably where I get most of my vitamins from, since often times they have tomatoes in them. I should buy a bottle of vitamins…oh wait those might cost me money. We’ll see how long it takes for me to develop scurvy; I’ll buy a lime then. MacDonalds in France does not carry the same stigma that it does in America, and it’s also not as cheap. The MacDonalds at Hotel de Ville is nicer than a lot of high end restaurants in Nob Hill in terms of decoration and atmosphere. Fucking weird huh? When I try to explain to people from other countries that in America, our McDonalds were built in the 80s and still have the same plastic chairs and shitty ‘art’ on the walls (with a few exceptions) they don’t believe me. But hey, after my diet was restricted in the last month and a half by my infected wisdom teeth(I literally ate nothing because it hurt so bad), my wisdom teeth extraction, and my health freak grandmother who would only feed me vegetables, this is just another phase in my dietary history to be forgotten about soon (hopefully). At least my pansa is at an all time record small size.

Sidenote: Pushing daisies

I can't watch American TV shows here....I suppose I could download them but I'm kind of a technophobe and I don't know how to fix a virus so that's like the equivalent to making out with a chick with mono for me, I won't do it...scary...gross...why... anyways. I miss Pushing Daisies because of the way it brought magic to life, had clever narration, sharp vintage costuming, and the most adorable yet tragic romance television has ever seen, [the two protagonists are in love but if they touch skin on skin the lady will die, so they have to kiss through plastic and wear gloves to hold hands] and even murder mystery!

Tourist Attractions, the Metro, Fashion's Night Out, Magic at the Louvre

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Catacombs and Party

Okay so I wrote this elaborate story about the catacombs but in my frustration with the shitty internet I guess I didn’t save it before I hard reset my computer  and I’m too lazy to rewrite it since the magic has sort of dissipated since it was Saturday and it’s now Monday and I have other ridiculous stories.

So in short, if you don’t know what the Paris catacombs are they’re the secret underground tunnels that were buried under the city hundreds of years ago. Yes, there is the part with the creepy bones all stacked up to the ceiling, I thought I was going to see it but I didn’t (you can pay to see that part, this part is illegal to enter). What I saw was a creepy maze of tunnels, water up to your waste (I ruined a good pair of shoes, who thinks oh in Paris I will need knee high rubber boots?!), the ceiling is very low in some places (I had to walk like a reverse chart of human evolution) a lot of graffiti, street signs older than the Louisiana Purchase (maybe?? They’re definitely older than every American suburb though, but you can fact check me if you want). So, eventually we find this alcove to settle in for a little (to drink wine and smoke cigarettes and make merriness), there was a large castle (sand castle style) carved out of the walls of an unidentified age. Randomly we ran into a strange news crew from Quebec that interviewed my companions, uninterested in an interview in English…although people speak English in Canada too. It really seemed like an out of body experience to be under a city in this strange dark place. It was really like a mixture of Scooby Doo, Indiana Jones, and L’Auberge Espagnole. So, google it I don’t know what else to say about it besides it was interesting.

So, then the next day (Saturday) my hosts and new friends at this apartment in Jaures (the neighborhood) had a birthday party. As I may have said before, my French is not perfect; I can for the most part say what I’m thinking and get my point across if I have patient listeners but I get kind of lost in a conversation when there are multiple people or someone speaks too fast or doesn’t enunciate their words, it makes it harder to concentrate. So anyways, I feel like learning/speaking a new language is like dating. So on your first day you may be too nervous to have a good conversation because you’re scared of saying the wrong thing and misrepresenting yourself...so if you’re like me you need to have a couple of drinks to loosen up.  So, after two or three…you can say what’s on your mind without being too scared of what your prospective lover will think. Then after dipping your toes in the water you get a little bit more comfortable with the person, after a few more dates you’re dating. Maybe you’re kissing (saying hello, and asking for directions, and making small talk), then you go the bases yanno first base second base (effectively telling an elaborate story in French), and then when you’re finally able to  talk about politics, religion, and science it’s sex. So, I cannot wait to pop my metaphorical cherry…but I feel like I’ll get lucky eventually.

So, language learning rant aside the party was interesting. I met a lot of French people, spoke a lot of Franglais (French + English), and witnessed a fight; Elsa is a badass (and my new best friend in Paris)…the fight happened with some guys of the other roommate being disrespectful to the apartment and they tried to kick them out yadayadayada Elsa lays down the law on some surrender monkeys blahblahblah it was kind of funny. Afterwards the party continues, just like any other American college kid party. A college party is a college party is a college party….except maybe for the people who I’m going to school with which I’ll explain later. So, after drinking much courage to speak entirely in French I got the spins and had to go to bed….hopefully I don’t do that on my next date.

End.

The next day I met with my new roommate to be who was a bit indecisive about whether or not he wanted me to stay in his apartment (I suppose it is a big deal to live with a stranger). So I saw this apartment first last Tuesday, it took until Sunday for him to choose, but he chose me!!! How lucky am I to find such a decent apartment within a week. Comparatively it’s a good price, I’d much rather live in Africa (the neighborhood’s a lot of African and Muslim immigrants) in a nice apartment with very nice furniture and my own room, internet, nice and clean roommate, than near St. Germain de Pres near my school. So if we use the New York analogy I’m living in Brooklyn (minus all the hipsters and artists) and commuting to my school on the Upper East Side like the Humphreys from gossip girl, it’s the only metaphor I could think of.