BROBETROTTING

Mesdames et messieurs, I'm writing you from a café in Paris, where I've just landed after a whirlwind trip to Europe's favorite estranged cousin: the United Kingdom. Sitting here, sipping my Stella Artois, which I've recently learned is the Rolling Rock of this continent, I have nothing but the fondest memories of the nights I (literally just) spent in Oxford and a suburb of London named Egham (founded in the 1800s by a certain Croque Monsieur). First and foremost, I would like to recognize the generosity of my friends Laura Rothkopf and Audrey Kiely, Britain's Leading Ladies in the hospitality department. Thank you, girls, for assuring I wouldn't go to bed fearing for my life on the cold, mean streets of suburban England. Without you, I would have become just another Billy Elliott.

Oxford was a blast, if only a short-lived one, especially because I once spent a whole summer there while my father (the original Bro) was on sabbatical. It was great to walk the streets I used to frequent, passing Oxford University Press, the beautiful Magdalen College, and a restaurant named Jude the Obscure which, back in 2002, was a dragqueen-themed bar named Bojangles and was the source of many a weird late-night encounter as my family hurried home. I watched in awe as students bustled in and out of university buildings 400 years older than the District 9-style shanties Bordeaux calls a campus, and felt a similar shock at the bargain basement deals we were getting at Laura's college bar. Something seemed wrong here; it was the architectural beauty of Yale (just to give you something to refer to, even though obviously OU predates YU) and the affordability of Bridgeport. A winning combination, every time.

London, it turns out, is enormous (click here for a really confusing, not at all helpful perspective on the city). When I arrived by the British equivalent of MegaBus (no comment), I sauntered around Hyde Park and then caught the tail end of the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. By that, I mean I saw the beefeater firmly fixing his stance, which could mean he was finishing the Electric Slide or trying to deal with a wedgie. Honestly, talk about a job with visibility; how much pressure do you think those dudes feel on the reg? And what if they don't even like meat?

I navigated the London Underground over to the East End, where our good friend Neo "Ne-Bro Bro-ra" Sora works at this pizza shop that resembles Neo to a tee: reserved yet friendly, tasteful yet not self-indulgent, Japanese yet seemingly a child of all cultures. For legal purposes, it would be unwise to divulge the name of the restaurant that has hired him as somewhat of an undocumented citizen, but mostly I don't want to share it because it might cease to lose its cloistered hipster appeal. Suffice it to say that the chorizo, pumpkin, and telaggio pizza Neo made me will be etched in my memory, as well as on my shirt and jeans, for years to come. Keep it up, bro!

Egham is a quaint town around forty minutes outside of London, and despite its calm, provincial façade, it is home to perhaps some of the rowdiest Britons in all of Albion. Audrey and I spent the first night playing the ukulele and trying to sleep while her hallmates engaged in what sounded like a cross between rugby and strip poker. (To quote dear friend Ivan Broitsev, it got weird.) Individually, these kids, who are almost all freshmen at Royal Holloway - University of London, are cool and interesting and have those killer accents, but something changes when they got John Barleycorn in 'em. (The accent does not change.) Freshmen.

So there's not tons of stuff to do in Egham, but there is a pub that does curry nights on Monday and Tuesday, and a produce market on campus that would probably rival Fruit and Veggie Co-op at Wes, if I knew what that was. The school has a castle, though, and a late-night stroll around the buildings was a good way to take in the sights and avoid strip rugby. However, above all, the defining moment of my time in Egham was making dinner Sunday night. Audrey and I revived an ancient Chinese recipe and whipped up scallion pancakes, replete with salad and fried haloumi. This delicious creation was the envy of the entire town, with freshmen heard to be salivating from kilometres away. Some classy gin and tonics helped us tune out the groveling.

I popped back into London yesterday to hit up two landmarks: the Tate Modern and my friend Alex Kramer. AK-47, as Audrey will now be called, and I saw some very interesting exhibits, including a Diane Arbus room with photos of Jorge Luis Borges, Russian midgets, a Jewish giant, and this adorable yet terrifying boy, among others. Kramer met up with us at the Tate and led us on a circuitous, serpentine route through the city that would make him second only to Moses in terms of worst guides in history. We're talking literally four miles to the nearest Thai restaurant. Fortunately, the joint we landed at, the Three Compasses, had these amazing leather chairs that made us all feel like rich Chinese businessmen at the Delta Airways Executive Lounge. (Just me?) After a surprisingly good chicken panang, AK-Moses had to leave us to make it to the Old Vic, where he was being honored by Kevin Spacey for taking over as the new artistic director. Congratulations once again, Kramer.

Anyway, as I reflect on my excursion, and as I hear Adam Levine tell me about his Jaggeresque moves, I realize that there's been one thing missing: live music. The Tate was great (great Tate!) and AK-47 has a voice that would make Prince's doves cry, but I am seriously craving a real concert. I mean, the last time I saw someone onstage, apart from the jazz quartet at the wine bar with that awkward-ass guitarist, was the Great Steve Aoki Boat Incident on September 10th. FORTUNATELY, PITCHFORK MUSIC FESTIVAL IS ALMOST HERE. I think I'll end on that note. What better way to cap off a bro-tastic (literally not bro-tastic, it has been almost exclusively me and girls) vacation than Bron Iver, Brour Tet, Washed Brout, etc.?

P.S. That new Coldplay is now playing on the radio here, fuck ça. There is a couple exchanging glances and--I can read lips, guys--commenting silently on how I'm chewing my jambon de Paris with my mouth open. Firstly, no I'm not, up yours. Secondly, you probably smoke with your mouth open. Thirdly, I just finished watching Into the Wild, so let me be myself.

P.P.S. I never chronicled the Parisian invasion that was India, Dés, and Stéph (you earned an accent!) leading me around Bordeaux as if they were the ones who lived there. I will paraphrase and just say that we all had a fucking bomb time. The highlight was the Saturday night meal at l'Entrecôte, and eating there was like walking in Nobu with no shoes. Okay, that about wraps things up here; tune in next time, when WSJ tells all about getting frisked by some unfriendly RyanAir security guards!

Broncerts, Brontmartre*, etc.

Sup everyone. Just ate an entire poulet fermier so I might pass out soon. But not before I incept this insane remembrance into your head. Last week me n' the gang went to the literal Moulin (C)Rouge to see a concert... as in, that place in the movie where Ewan McGregor gets on stage and sings a bunch of show tunes. Except, it was a face-kicking mix of techno/house/electro, so more like E-in' McDrugger! (Get it? ...sorry.) The lineup, partially, was BeatauCue, The Twelves, Is Tropical, and half of Hot Chip. Basically, imagine INOX (or relive it!)**. Now, subtract everyone you've heard of, put it in a little room, and add a bunch of dudes that look like Moby. Yeah. The night basically went like this:

10pm: Meet in front of the Moulin Rouge. Begin drinking.

10:30pm: Get more vodka.

11:30pm: Finish drinking. Get in line.

12am: Girl immediately rejected for being too drunk. Cries.

1:30am: Concert actually starts. No one knows who is playing. Lots of dancing. Girls make out. Nice!

2:00am: Turns out, it's Is Tropical! They're playing this song.

2:30am: The Twelves. Also, more drinking.

3:00am: Where's BeatauCue?

3:30am: No, seriously....

3:45am: Bathroom break. I see some guy pulling out his own tooth.

4:00am: Everyone leaves.

Pretty fun concert, actually. I busted out some dance moves, the ladies loved it, and even better, I managed not to expose myself, attempt to de-shirt a girl, and scream expletives get as crazy as I did the previous night (note: sorry again, everyone. Like, so sorry). The Twelves are really good, check out this track. Although I left with bite marks on my neck. Not all that sure what that's about.

*Montmartre, which is where the Moulin Rouge is located, is like the gathering spot for everyone in Paris who's just had too much pineau, to borrow terminology from A.I.. Also, hookers. Like thousands of them. It is literally possible, while walking, to accidentally have sex with a hooker. Thank Broseidon, I had my wits about me this night, and I did not succumb to temptation with any man/woman/whatever. Naturally, the 'hood is also full of wasted ass creepy dudes, which made for really fun pregaming on the sidewalk. Some guys literally walked by us, all of seven girls and two dudes, and said "how much?". Seriously uncool move, man, they were clearly with me. Montmartre is also home to a seriously malade amount of kebab places. Nowhere have I felt so surrounded by delicious, delicious whitesauce. Literally, I would do this, but with whitesauce. The combo of good bars, kebab joints, and dangerous liaisons with Paris' famed ladies of the night has me already anticipatin' the next night out in the 'martre. Except that last part. Seriously, fuck that.

**If you watched the video, yes we have the boat now. Pretty sure at 1:38 we're scampering away with it.

...Saw Drive yesterday afternoon. Who knew Ryan Gosling was a goon? Awesome, awesome flick. Not enough driving, though. Or of that blonde girl, if you know what I mean.

Alright, everyone. I'm gonna make my mouth do a gainer into a caraffe du vin before I say my prayers do my best Houdini impression in bed. A bientot.

Bromework

"When my father died, I said, 'fuck school.'" - Barack Obama

Hello again toutes et tous, can you believe it's already the weekend? Well, almost. (Except in Australia, where it's probably already Halloween. Am I right, Nick?!) It seems like the school week goes by in a flash here. I have chalked it up to three potential reasons:

1. The metric system

2. Deceptively long lunch breaks in between classes

3. Pineau

My art history teacher has been trying since the beginning of the year to push our class back an hour so we can have 120 minutes of lunch time. What is this, nursery school? At Wesleyan, I'm lucky if I have 50, which roughly translates into 10 minutes of standing in line, 10 minutes of finding a table, 10 minutes of eating, and 20 minutes of throwing up in the bathroom. (If you're reading this, Mert, I got no problem with you. You can fix me up a pie any old time.)

I should mention here that from an economic standpoint, the Université Bordeaux 3 cafeterias are putting Westaurants to shame. I mean I'm getting a panini for something like $4.50 all day, every day. (...Not all day, just every day.) I could be wrong, though; it's possible that a hot meal, boy it feels weird saying that phrase, would end up being the same price as in Amurica, adjusted for exchange rate/metric system. Either way, the people at Le Veracruz (yes, one word) are very nice and have even spotted me a couple centimes when I couldn't foot the jambon fromage bill. The other joint on campus is this place called Le Sirtaki, but I haven't been there because, honestly, I don't know what the fuck Sirtaki means, and I'm afraid to find out.

How was today different from all other days foodwise? In two ways was it different. Whereas I usually snag a 'nini before the 12:30 lunch crush (which is incidentally one of Snorlax's deadliest moves), today I did not queue up because I was deep in a 2006-era Friday crossword puzzle from the NYT archive courtesy of Across Lite, it has truly become an addiction and I need help homework. I'll return to this topic later, as it is the title of the brost, but I wanted first to share with you the second novel food-related thing about today. (Was that a sentence?) From about 7:15 AM to 8:45 PM, the only things I had ingested were bread products with chocolate inside them. That means for breakfast I ate some cereal called Trésor that would put the Cookie Monster (or Snorlax) in cardiac arrest, as well as a slice of bread with a layer of Nutella arguably thicker than the bread itself; lunch was a gastronomic reenactment of the movie "Gone in 60 Seconds," starring Three Pains au Chocolat; after classes, I needed some re-fueling to get me through my evening basketball game, so I manically stuffed month-old pralines into a baguette on my way to the tram.

On an unrelated note, I have several cavities.

Which reminds me, back to homework. Right. Today was an absolute blague of a workday. In my 8:30 AM literature class I was charged with the simple task of writing a dissertation on a concept my professor invented: "marcher, penser, écrire." I originally put dissertation in italics to signify that it is a French word, but then I kept it in italics to emphasize how fucking ridiculous it was that we were writing a dissertation on the phrase "walk, think, write." More specifically, we had to channel Thoreau and discuss the importance of walking, thinking, and writing in Walden. Luckily, the chocolate-smuggling carb puffs I inhaled for petit déjeuner gave me the brainpower I needed to adequately baratiner the paper. Then I spent three hours scouring Wikipedia the library for info on Cardinal Richelieu and also every other important French figure between 1500 and 1661. Did you know Henry IV changed religions three times before the age of nine? YEAH I KNOW! Yo this is cool about Richelieu, though: while the Holy Roman Empire was engaging in a stupid Thirty Years War with itself, Richelieu literally financed the Swedish army which intervened and ended errything, and the ensuing treaty made France the most powerful nation in the world.

Alright, this post is dragging longer than a French teacher on a cig break. Basically, the world of academia put the hurt on me today, but I've emerged stronger and with less homework, so MDR to Thoreau, Oscar Wilde, Sweden, that sweater my professor was wearing, environmentalism, dentists, that skirt my other professor was wearing, Nero, the Medicis, you're cool, fuck you, I'm out.

P.S. American Friends India, Désíréé, and Steph are visiting this weekend; can't wait to show them why we call Bordeaux "Paris on PCP"!!!!!

P.P.S. If you made it this far, felicitations, you are rewarded with this unbelievably hilarious video of Bill Gates leaping over a chair.

Brost Family, other things

First off, just gonna reiterate what A.I. said before: you, Zach, are a champ, and thanks again for the shout-out. Since A.I.'s kicking my ass in the non-brevity department, this one's gonna be kinda longue, which is good because I don't want to go to sleep in my tiny French bed. Which by the way reminds me- what the f, France? Just make a normal sized bed. It would be okay but apparently heaters haven't made their way over either, so my toes look like I dipped them in red wine, which in fact feels great but in this case means they are purple and cold. But that is neither here nor there. In fact, besides the weird chair that I have apparently been given in lieu of a bed, host family life is nothing to complain about. My host mom, Benedicte, and my host dad, Dominique, who are in fact, collectively, the Pope, are pretty chill, unless you ask them about Jews or black people (true story: Benedicte thinks DSK got off because of some sort of Jew-conspiracy, whereby the prosecutor half-assed it because he's a Jew, DSK's a Jew, all lawyers are Jews. Really.). Actually, to extend that parentheses, I told them that one of my professors was from Benin, West Africa, to which they responded "he must be completely black!". To which I sort of frowned, so they changed to "he must be very black". My host parents.

Not cool. But, actually, due to the fact that I am not black, and that I have hidden my partially Jewish heritage from them thus far, I am treated great. The house has about 23034 rooms, give or take, and I am allowed in almost all of them (no living room for me- too much breakable stuff.) My room has a fireplace with a marble mantelpiece, giant windows, and 20 pictures of my host sister, who looks exactly like Marine Le Pen. Also, they took me to their country house last weekend, an invitation which in France signifies that they are sick of my having parties in their apartment when they go without me. They also invited my friend, Christian "Christian" Lalonde, who due to his super-French, super-God-friendly name, probably seems like the son they never had (although they have 4 already). They love God.
I am not allowed in this room.


Anyways, in non-host family life, and speaking of Christian, it is with him that I went to Versailles the other week, which is where Louis XIV did his broin' back in the day. Although there was a conspicuous lack of free trains going there, we somehow managed to make it (we jumped the turnstile). Along with our friend Koko "Loko" Fisch, we rented a row-boat (bro-boat) and commenced to tear that lake a new one! Which is to say, I rowed a little bit, Christian led us into a boat full of small children, sparking a Titanic-like panic, and when we got tired we made Koko row us around (sarcastic French man's quote: "you are really good guys!"). After that, we conked out on the first patch of grass we could find, because in Paris it is literally illegal to step on the grass in the parks. They have little fake police who come yell at you if you do. Actually. I know about the fake police because one day not too long ago, having found the rare park with grass-sitting privileges, I ecstatically pulled out a bottle of wine to drink. Unfortunately, sans corkscrew, I had to resort to putting the bottom of the bottle in my shoe and smacking it against a lamp-post (look it up), which caused an enraged Eurotrip robot-doppelganger to come over, yell at me, take my wine, open it with his corkscrew, give it back, and kick me out. One of those "only in France" scenarios. In any case, we were safe in Versailles, and I was so happy I made like 8 grass-angels. After that, we took the RER back home (stands for Running Extremely 'Ratically) and face-planted into some wine. Actually, speaking of grass, and Christian-related activities....

Christian and I, being extremely sportif and beauf, decided to play on our University's rugby team, which by the looks of the poster is populated by the 12-year-old sons of professors. After spending 2 hours looking for the practice field, we found it on the campus of the French National Veterinary School. I'm pretty sure in France, "veterinarian" means "animal that is a doctor", because this campus was literally fucking full of animals. Dogs, horses, cats, just everywhere. The practice was almost over, so we just watched. Not twelve-year-olds, just weak French people. I think me and Christian might be the biggest guys on the team. It's like they have never seen a weight. True story: Christian went to the gym yesterday, and was bench-pressing the same weight as the "trainer" there was, which led to all sorts of ooh-ing and aah-ing among the onlookers. I can't wait to play....

Ok, gotta go curl up in Napoleon's bed. Hopefully my friend Chloe "Broe" Boxer isn't in bed yet because she is waiting with bated breath for me to post. Up next, I tell you about the weird concert I went to, and A.I. gives a breakdown of the French electoral process!

Brognac

Before I get to the viande of this post, I just want to thank the good people over at Wesleying for their shout-out last week, hailing LVEB as "one of the most entertaining blogs, period." That's no small compliment, seeing as how, according to this potentially trustworthy website, there are probably more than a billion blogs in existence. Chew on that for a second. We're basically the McDonald's of the Internet, serving up tasty morsels of Francophilia to you and yours.

Did anyone else get a really carnivorous vibe from that last paragraph? What can I say, ya'll, I got meat on the mind after a weekend of what can only be called décadence. (That's French for "decadence.") I accompanied fellow expatriate Savannah "I Invented Swag" Whiting and her host family to a village called Siecq, a few kilometers from world-famous Cognac, home of distilled wine and trous noirs. The patriarch of the family, Jean-Marie, was born in this town, also in the very house we stayed in, which has been in his family's possession for literally thousands of generations. We pulled up at the maison de campagne at around 19h30 Friday night, just in time for us to think it wasn't going to be all that cold after all. Anyway, after we got settled--which is to say, after I put my backpack on a chair--we congregated in the living room for a little apéritif before dinner. At this point it was just Savannah, Jean-Marie, his wife Toinette (short for Yo What Up I'm Marie Antoinette), Plume, and I. Plume is the cat. More on her later.

The apéritif was an amazing beverage called Pineau, and drinking it makes you wonder why Curtis Jackson hasn't come out with a Formula 50 brand; it's literally grape juice and cognac, are you kidding? This shit is legal? If I said I'm not still fiending for some right now, I'd be lying--call me Pineaucchio. After a few rounds, the second half of the party arrived: JM and 'Toinette's daughter and son-in-law, and their two kids, Alice (4) and Baptiste (1.33). We headed to the table and then embarked on a seriously delicious journey through space and duck, replete with red wine, baguette, and more duck. We finished dinner by forming a huddle and chanting, "Quack! Quack! Quack!" Thanks to a food coma and more pineau, I literally do not remember what I did afterwards.

Saturday rolled around, and I followed by rolling out of bed shortly before noon. Savannah and I had a lot of reading to do, so we hit the books for about an hour before we realized: "Pineau." Post-sauce we started to play ping pong, but she is so bad at it that I had to stop after two rallies. Then we went for a little jaunt en vélo around the village, cruising the mean streets of Siecq for somewhere to relax, have an espresso, play dice, literally do anything that didn't involve crying infants. Instead, we ended up on a surprisingly busy autoroute and almost got run over by dozens of trucks. Grâce à Dieu we made it back safe and sound, though Savannah would like the world to know that the bike seat made her butt hurt a lot.

Two pineaux later, I found myself staring down a lamb shank while Alice recounted some anecdote about a person or inanimate object called Nana. (Recounted is a generous way to describe her storytelling capabilities.) Jean-Marie engaged me in a spirited conversation about why it was good that Jews were outcasts in the Middle Ages--Baptiste was visibly uncomfortable with the topic but, alas, could not speak--and then showed me all of his cool iPhone features. (Side note: Jean-Marie frequently referred to Apple as an orphelin. Cute stuff, JM.) After clearing the table by smashing all the plates against the wall, I finally worked up the courage to ask JM for some cognac. He instantly shushed me, looked in the direction of his wife, and loudly announced that we were going to go play billiards in the shed/shanty/house next door. Savannah, JM and I quietly tiptoed across the backyard to his opium den carrying cameras, cups, and a bottle of 100-year-old cognac. You'll just have to guess what happened next. (Either that or wait until Swag uploads the photos to Facebook.)

Both nights I had really weird dreams that involved basketball, large-scale fraud, and escaping from prison.

Today we did remarkably less than yesterday, but on this day I read more and ate more bread. I also observed my own personal Yom Kippur. In my mind.

On the ride back to Bordeaux this evening, Plume decided to get carsick and literally vomit everywhere. Fortunately (for her (him?)), Plume was not in a cage, but instead free to move about the aircraft and throw up wherever desired. We had to pull over at a gas station so 'Toinette could air out that removable thing that you put your feet on, while JM held a death grip on Plume, whispering (in French), "you are old and sick, soon we will cut you up and eat you." Nothing eventful after that. Oh, earlier, when we pulled out from Siecq, I saw a horse on the side of the road that looked like Pete Wentz.

So voilà, mesdames et messieurs. Cognac in a nutshell. Very relaxing with a subtle almond flavor. Best enjoyed room temperature in a cold, cold room. Avoid operating small machinery, such as a dartboard. Please guzzle responsibly. À la prochaine !

Blog sans Blague

Careful, A.I.... the French aren't too down with the Juifs... dunno if I'd broadcast it that much. I've been reading over the blog and I just realized I've written literally nothing about what I'm actually doing on a day-to-day basis here. After all, there is life between wine breaks, short as it might be. Right now I'm taking four classes a week- two at Universite Paris 7 (Denis Diderot), and two at Reid Hall, the building where our program is headquartered along with those of Columbia, UPenn, Hamilton, SMU, Delaware, and Rollins (yeah, I dunno either).

At Diderot I have two biology courses, and at Reid Hall I'm taking a course about monsters from a guy who looks like a mix between Dracula and Bill Hader and a course about globalization in Africa. As of right now I have class and class-related stuff only three days a week, which gives me ample time to stroll, relax, visit sites, and continue my search for the perfect bottle of wine. I just recently made my first French Friend, whose name is Theo, at an Irish bar the other week. I think he likes me because we are already doing the cheek-kissy thing with each other, which is totally normal and cool here, I'm pretty sure. Last week I went to Versailles with a cool dude and a cool dudette.. stay tuned for more stories! Wait til you hear the one about my racist host parents!

Brosh Hashanah

WARNING: I just ate some Petits Écoliers that have been sitting out for a few days (weeks?), so I may die before I finish this post. If I don't, now you know what I eat on days that start with S.

I'm writing to wish everyone--everyone--a happy Rosh Hashanah! It is now the year 5772. Finally! I know we've all been eagerly awaiting the big 5-7-7-2. Now that it is upon us, how should we celebrate? Spend $57.72 on wine for the weekend? Lose a game of basketball by a margin of fifteen? Count to 5772?

Maybe I should get a tattoo on the back of my neck--the nuque--that reads 5772 in some cool French font. Which brings me to my next point: the curious phenomenon that is the tattoo that tons of French girls have on their nuque, which I will now call the nape-tat. Usually, the nape-tat is hidden behind flowing locks of cheveux or just barely visible above a jean jacket. (Is that French?, you ask. Prepare to get your mind rocked by Nîmes.) But in these last two weeks of unseasonable heat, Bordeaux's co-eds, boy it feels weird using that word, can't help but show the world their nape-tats. A common thing to get nape-tatted is a circle that looks as much like the Zia sun symbol as a huge target that practically screams "AIM FOR MY NAPE-TAT!" The question is, why? Whence this urge for a nape-tat, mademoiselles? You are all so beautiful, even without the endless cosmetics products that have weird pseudo-scientific names like Bio-Face. Why would you want so banal an engraving on your perfect porcelain peau?

Anyway, I'm seeing a lot of these nape-tats. (I just said "nape-tat" out loud to see if it was as fun to speak as to write. It was.) They're making it hard to pay attention while my linguistics professor repeats the phrase "en genre et en nombre" ad nauseam. Another note about this prof: he has worn the same shirt for the last two weeks. What is he hiding? Probably a nape-tat.

I have to go arm-wrestle a corkscrew. Shana Tovah!