Brodeshead Revisited

I need to just say something. Contrary to how my last post sounded, I did not spend that evening in my room, on one knee, guzzling Smirnoff Ice. What I did do was go to a store with many people who were not imaginary and purchase an economy-sized bottle of the stuff. Also, my self-Icing was not nearly as notable as the "fight" we watched between two French teenage boys. It consisted of both garçons whining and pleading that the other stop escalating things. In a way, they were fighting about fighting. Just your average pseudo-intellectual French activity. Voilà.

Sunday night was trivia night at this British pub that seems to speak neither English nor French; it is called "Le Frog and Rosbif" and despite the fucking weird name it is a pretty cool joint. The place used to be a prison for women back in the days of yore, and now it's a prison for alcoholics. I was on a team of mostly Northern Irish people, but there were a couple Londoners, and also there was a Danish man whose name may have been Yogurt. At the behest of one particularly immature N. Irishman, our team called itself "Shit Sandwich" and we tried like hell to understand the quizmaster (did I just say that?) as he yelled out thirty questions in French. The questions were equal parts inane and arcane: "How heavy is the heaviest radish in the world?" "What happened to the Brazilian woman last week who ordered a hit on her husband's mistress but then the hitman fell in love with her?" "How many cockroaches are there in the hockey stadium?" (I don't think we heard that last one correctly.) All told, we ended up getting 15/30 right. That's right: Shit Sandwich broke even.

This weekend I may travel down to Biarritz just for kicksies. But I also might read Walden and The Portrait of Dorian Gray, in French, as I'm supposed to. It's really a toss-up...I'm so torn.

Today I think I did the impossible (for my demographic): a crossover. I mean I did work on the court today. Here is an amateur reenactment of another feat I pulled off, this one against a much taller mec I was defending: I'm the black guy.

To all of our readers living in a 50 km radius (I have no idea how far that actually is): we're having a party on Saturday night in Pessac. If you don't know, Pessac is a sad excuse for a town just outside Bordeaux. It comes from the Latin phrase for "I'm pissed I actually live here." Seriously though, all who are of legal drinking age in at least one country in the world are more than welcome. Also seriously though, there might actually be people reading this who aren't in Paris or Boston right now. We've got statistics on our audience. (Looking at you, Argentina. WHO ARE YOU? REVEAL THYSELF!)

The party is going to make both travel and study complicated during the weekend. Well, as the French say, "To read is to mock the blind; to drink is to thank the gods." -- Voltaire

(P.S. For those who are curious about the actual answers to those quiz questions, tough luck. It was too noisy to hear most of them. We did manage to get that one about the cockroaches right, though. Turns out there are three of them. Shit Sandwich rides again!)

The Brogeuoise Lifestyle

Oh, man.. look below readers, and behold the good life... for me to poop on! Seriously A.I., I feel for you dude. Get up to Paris where you won't have to depress us with your tales of "class" and "pregaming dinner parties by yourself". You know how many other students live with me? None! That's right, I'm ballin' outrageous with no sibs and two old-ass host parents who are in bed as of 9:20pm. Anyshways, Paris is pretty fun. We've been keeping busy by going to museums, going to Giverny, which is where Napoleon grew up I think, and holding illicit parties with our underage host siblings. Check it out, it's us in Steve Aoki's boat!!

Up next, more Paris info... (sorry A.I.)

Ming

Had a busy week. Finally figured out my schedule.

Got someone living with us for the next month. Name's Ming. From Taiwan. Female. 40.

On vacation. Doesn't speak a word of French.

Lives above me now.

Watched Raging Bull this week.

I did, not Ming.

Glad Jake La Motta isn't living above me.

Iced myself last night. Proud. Met more Irish chicks, couldn't understand a word so I left.

Gotta go. Dinner party isn't going to pre-game itself.

Brorientation

This post is dedicated to James A. Garfield, America's twentieth president (and first presidential southpaw; I see you James), who died 130 years ago today after some idiot shot him over the summer. (I started this post when it was still the 19th. Time flies when you're reminiscing.)

Today was the beginning of classes at Université de Bordeaux 3. What more can I say? (Lots, it turns out.) After a night of fitful sleep and an early-morning contest with myself to see who can shove the most pains au chocolat into my mouth, I put my earbuds in and let Avicii guide me to the tram stop. It was 8:30 AM: the devil's time. By the way, the school is thirteen stops away from me, and thirteen is an unlucky number, so I should probably drop out.

My history class was at 9:30, but I had a rendezvous with my tutor at 9 to ensure that I can locate the classroom in time. It took probably six seconds. So after pretending to smoke cigarettes with all the French kids for 29:54, I head to class, where I am talked to for two hours about the difference between a king and a monarch. This will be the most engaging class of the day.

I ran into a British guy I met the week before who was even more dis-broriented than I am, so we got ham sandwiches and tried to sort out our schedules, but we just ended up talking about French lesbians instead. After lunch, I made what would turn out to be a calamitous error in judgment: tagging along with another American student and going to a sociology seminar. I couldn't tell you the name of the course or its subject if you gave me a dozen Desperados. Imagine the most pretentious conversation you've ever heard, and then remove one half of it and translate the rest into scholarly French. What you are imagining is only slightly more confusing than the seminar, which lasted two long, gruelingly French hours.

Fortunately, I had to leave a few minutes early in order to make it in time for my next class, in the music department. This course, whose name is not translatable in English, would prove to extinguish any interest I had in studying music theory and history while abroad. I sat in a room for four hours while the professor shared with us his love and knowledge of all the different types of chants from the fourth to the ninth century AD. This was some next-level shit.

So there you have it. Needless to say, I will not be attending the seminar or the music class/detention ever again. Tomorrow morning I will continue my desperate search for stimulation. Maybe there will be room in the Rochambeau class.

Next up, Jaymes will give you his opinion on Dominique Strauss-Kahn's interview. Right now, I have a date with a Côte du Rhône. A +.

On the Broad

This post is inaccurately titled, but it was the first thing that came to me, so we'll go with it. Anyway, some of you readers--which, at this point, really only means WhiteSauce's sister--have probably been wondering: what have I been up to since the departure of the group, particularly my one and bronly WSJ? I will answer that question the only way I know how: with a mixture of disbelief and testosterony pride.

What, you think I've just been sitting around waiting for America to come back to me? Like I can't fend for myself? Like I can't get my own kebabs or watch movies about grapes without the feeling that I'm incomplete or, worse yet, sober? Whatever, man (ecogurl19). Fuck ça. I'm a grown-ass twenty-year-old. I don't need you looking after me; take your au pair shit back to the States.

So...pretty convincing, right? Okay, listen, it's been an interesting couple weeks in between hanging out with my fellow Americans and having to awkwardly insert myself into new, bizarre social settings. There is one thing that remains constant, though.

Basketball. Yeah, I said it. Basketball. Turns out, I've made more friends playing basketball in a week than there are seasons of Louie. Me and my crew, we take the tram across the Garonne to Stalingrad (which is kind of a misnomer; it should really be named "the neighborhood in Baltimore where The Wire was filmed") and hit the court like Kobe Bryant...get it? Court?

Basically what I'm trying to say is I make it rain here, which is actually the real reason I need to get an umbrella for the semester. (Groan.) Besides playing ball, I also had my first excursion last weekend, blowing up Paris for my birthday. I hit that city harder than Rick Salomon! (Someone give me props for that.) As WSJ explained, we spent my birthday stealing boats and doing the fist pump at the INOX Festival featuring Avicii, Skrillex, Steve Aoki, TIËSTO, Axwell, and plenty more. But before that happened, I had this mortel brunch at a place called Cafe Le Bal near the Place de Clichy. Check it out, knuckle-têtes:

(Courtesy of Phyllis Flick but mine looked pareil)

So it was really a day to remember...or not remember, if you catch my drift. What did I learn from my birthday weekend? Answer: the City of Lights is exhausting and, much like doing shots of rosé through your eyes, it's fun until it blinds you.

That's all for now. By the time you get this post, I'll be nose down in a carafe of sangria. The Musee Aquitaine thing was a joke; good one, Jamie. Bro, remind me to tell you about my host family's sauce magique.

L.V.E.B. takes on Paris

Quoi de neuf, putes?? As you may have heard, the major contingent of La Vie en Bros recently made the move to Paris, the home of the Eiffel Tower, Daft Punk, DSK, and the menage a trois. Things here have been great, despite the absence of A.I., as our predisposition towards doing stupid drunk shit actually seems to fit in with the Parisian lifestyle. What stupid drunk shit, you might ask? Well, a friend of mine who shall remain nameless recently spent the night on a filthy sidewalk after considering the trip home and saying "fuck that". He woke up at 5 the next morning with no wallet and head lice (speculation). Later that week, a select few members of our posse spent 12 hours at the INOX electronic music festival doing absolutely irresponsible things... and came home with Steve Aoki's inflatable boat as evidence. Sorry, Steve!

Also, syphilis. Shenanigans aside, Paris has been great. We went on a boat tour of the Seine, visited the Louvre, and have gone to Luxembourg Gardens. Also, some of us started classes this week at what I've been told is the community college of Paris. So it's not all just fun and games- just mostly fun and games. Stay tuned- A.I.'s next up with a quick recap of L.V.E.B.'s visit to the fine Musee d'Aquitaine!

More Bordeaux- Le Musee de Breaux Arts, more Museum things

Hey all, longer post to follow... but check out this fantastic specimen of bromance in its purest form. Beautiful to watch.

Bon Broyage: A Rebrospective

Maybe it's the rosé I spilled on my face, but I think I'm getting pretty teary-eyed as I try to imagine spending four months in Bordeaux without my crew to "go H.A.M.," which, in this particular context, means "eat ham." We've had some kick-ass times over the last two weeks. Join me in my tannic time machine as I explore the rich, full-bodied sojourn that was the Vassar-Wesleyan Paris Program in Bordeaux.

Where do I start? Oh wait, I know: with the muthafuckin' cooking class we took last week.
Basically, we roll up to the Atelier des Chefs not knowing what we're going to make, why there's sand all over the floor, or when the hell we're going to drink. Pretty soon all of our questions are answered. Except for the question about sand. Anyway, one thing leads to another, and all of a sudden we've got this pirate disguised as a chef telling us we'll be making a mango and tomato salad to start, followed by steak served with this little thing called avocado butter. We split into groups of four and cuisine our balls off. Despite WhiteSauce's relatively low standards regarding what he will eat (read: anything), it turns out he's a total pro/bro in the kitchen. Here's a photo of the finished product, courtesy of mademoisellemolly.tumblr.com (my camera got too drunk that day and hasn't worked since):

Dessert was compliments of the pirate chef, but fuck compliments. This day was all about dudes cooking awesome food and then devouring it. WhiteSauce, never one to pass up a meal that a disappointed vegetarian can't have, ate two steaks; attaboy! Of course, there was merlot to wash it all down. Here's the real finished product, if you know what I mean:

Alright, we will continue this journey soon. Right now there's a Nigerian dance party downstairs and a freshly uncorked vino tinto in the fridge that could use some CPR. In the meantime, my friends, enjoy the Big Grape.