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!