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 +.