When thinking of France, the following kind of chase each other around in my head, making for a kind of fragmented confusion that anyone who has glanced over my blog should be somewhat familiar with; some combination of sex, death, existentialism, slenderness, delicious food with lots of duck fat, the word "stroll", very stylish outfits that when evaluated carefully are really very silly, tastefully shabby clothing stinking of nicotine and inferior deoderant, wine and mustard, cafes, and arrogance. Enter an occasional maligned Algerian. And that slutty dead singer who my 56-year-old gay cousin is obsessed with. And Thibault ::sighs involuntarily:: I am not ignorant of the gaps or oversimplifications, but this is is what it is.

Maybe an academic program headquartered in Minnesota with an anti-alchohol policy isn't the best way to do France when you're sixteen. (You should have heard the woman's accent on the phone, she sounded like something out of Fargo.) (Wait, I've still never seen Fargo.) Having not been to France since I was too young to appreciate much beyond the ubiquitous chocolate and dogs, I really have no idea what I'm getting myself into. I hope I don't fall in love. I hope I do.