Commencement

So I'm here! Jetlagged and exhausted, nursing the worst sore throat this side of the Atlantic, but I'm here. France and I got off to a dodgy start, as I spent the good part of the morning being (mis)directed to various different parts of Paris-Charles-de-Gaulle Airport. I finally ended up taking a shuttle bus from the airport to my homestay in the 9th, a pleasant trip through the cobblestoned streets of Paris that took me around the Arch de Triomphe and back again. When the driver had finished dropping off the other passengers, he started blasting French hip-hop and speaking in broken Franco-English, and I did my best to respond in French.

My homestay family is wonderful, and my room is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, bar none. I seriously did a double take when I saw it: it's so adorably European! I have a writing desk-- and a REAL one, mind you, not the ikea variety. I've been told that homestays are often small and uncomfortable, but this one is absolutely perfect. I don't know what kind of spoiled children usually go on these study abroad trips, but this is probably the largest amount of space I had to myself... ever.

Here's a picture of the environs:


To be honest, I'm a little scared. I'm so used to grid lines that I've already gotten lost wandering in the neighborhood today. In Chicago, as long as you know where the lake is, you know where you are. But here on the Right Bank of Paris? What the heck do I do? I certainly don't ask anyone for directions. If the silly language barrier wasn't there, I'd be able to confidently stroll up to the nearest boulangerie and get the week's groceries. Alas, it took me a few minutes to work up the courage to ask for a ham sandwich, AND I forgot to get anything else for the week. Yes, I do think i'll be living on baguettes and tap water for the next four months.

I'm a little restless right now. I'm so used to having a plan that the next few planless days are a little shocking. Add that to general fatigue and confusion and you have one antsy little American expatriate.

Things I've noticed: the French wear Converse. A LOT of Converse. Almost everyone. It's freaking crazy. No other gym shoes are worn. Also, the concept of a "single-serving friend" is pretty foreign to them, unless I happened to sit next to the most misanthropic and antisocial Frenchman of the bunch.

Well, more later. A tout a l'heure!