So last week we had dinner with Madame as usual, but this time the first course was some kind of orange soup– we asked what kind it was and she said "citrouille." Jessi and I looked at each other cluelessly and then asked, "Pardon?" and she replied, "Citrouille. Comme... courge." We looked at each other again, trying to see if the other had any idea what she had said. Upon seeing our confusion, Madame interjected, "Oh, comme... Halloween?" "Ohhhh, oui." Only she pronounced it "Al-o-when," the French way, and then we realized we were eating pumpkin soup. Yum.
The main course was what she called "Pain de Poissons," literally, "Fish Bread." Umm, what? I guess it’s like the french version of tuna casserole, only it’s actually good. It’s not bread at all, made with tuna, some kind of lemon sauce over it all, and then you eat it with hard boiled eggs. This one took a little bit of guts to take a bite of– I mean, really, TUNA BREAD? But it was, of course, delicious.
For dessert she had "fromage blanc"– white cheese, literally, and Jessi and I had a gateau chocolat. Because we didn’t understand what fromage blanc was (it’s not cheese...), she let us try some. It looks like yogurt, but tastes... well, according to the French it tastes creamier. To me, it was more bitter. But you put a dollop of it on your plate, and then completely cover the dollop with table sugar. Then you eat it. Ick. But they make it into cakes too, and the cakes are good...
And THEN after all that we were all cleaning up the kitchen and Jessi spotted a glass of neon green liquid. Now, wait. When I say "green" I mean, like, if you shut off the lights this stuff would GLOW. It had the vibrancy of liquid soap, which is what I supposed it was. Knowing better, Jessi asked, "what is that?" And Madame, who probably knew Jessi would not want to try it but that I was a willing victim, turned to me and said, "Go get a glass." I obediently did, and then somehow found myself with a glass of the viscous liquid in MY hand! ME! The one who was content thinking it was soap! Jessi turned to watch me, as I said to Madame, "I can DRINK this?" "Oh, yes, yes, it’s very popular with the young people. France just loves this stuff!" (NOTHING in the natural world, with the exception of some types of coral, is as bright as this stuff that I held in my hand.) But, for the sake of France... I threw it back. "It’s... minty?!" I said in astonishment. "Do you like it?" Madame asked. "I think so... it tastes like... toothpaste." Madame laughed at this, and heartily agreed: "oui, oui, tu as raison. Un peu comme dentifrice." But the french drink it... It’s called Sirop de Menthe– I always thought it was for making peppermint cocktails, but apparently you just add tap water to it and DRINK it, if you can get past the color and the fact that, in general, you are supposed to spit out minty liquids and not swallow them. Every time I took a sip I had an uncontrollable urge to throw my head back and gargle. Luckily I refrained.
Last Saturday here was Armistice Day. Nothing spectacular happened, since it fell on a Saturday, except a big parade from the President’s house (the Elysee, at the end of the Champs) to the Arc de Triomphe (NOT a far way for a parade– half a mile max). Armistice Day, which is the same day as Veterans’ Day in the US, commemorates the ending of World War I, which happened in a train car in a field in Northern France at 11:11am on November 11 in 19... I don’t know, 1919? 21? I forget. Irrelevant, anyway. BUT unlike in the States, instead of stores being open and having sales, most things in France close. In Paris, though, it is becoming less and less that way. Madame told us, disapprovingly, that nearly everything was open in Paris and why they couldn’t commemorate just a little more she didn’t understand, pas du tout. But the stars of the parade, which we missed because we were busy hitchhiking through Northern France, were all the living French veterans of World War I. There are only 4. The youngest is 107. And I think they all fought in BOTH World Wars, but I am not sure. Madame said the US has way more than France, apparently we have 14 living veterans of World War I, which is a rather embarrassing fact to have to be told by a Frenchwoman about your own country.
On another note, my archaeology professor (who, legitimately, can not possibly be over 25) has decided that, because he thinks it would be too difficult for me to write a paper "chez toi"– at home– that I should just do an interrogation instead, which will count as more or less my whole grade for the semester. The French people in the class (ie, everyone but me) have to do interrogations in class, one of them each week gets in front of the class and he just pretty much interrogates them on what we have learned in the course thus far. Luckily he is not making me do that. I think I would probably drop out of college altogether if he did. BUT because the French universities do not have offices or study lounges or anything, I apparently am going to have to set up a time and a place to meet up with this professor outside of class to do my interrogation. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that last week when he told me this, I asked, "And do you want me to do this at the end of the semester?" and he said, "Yeah, or in two weeks." So what does that mean? What? Further example of the disorganization of French... well, life.
Speaking of classes, I got in trouble last week in my grammar class. I don’t know what it is about this country, I go the better part of 20 years without getting in trouble ONCE in my life in the States... except for that one time I lied to my boss... and I get to Europe and get yelled at in other languages weekly. And there is really nothing like getting in trouble in a different language. Because half the time you don’t even understand what you are in trouble for, or the words that they are saying, and when someone is in the middle of yelling at you, you can’t very well interrupt to say that you don’t understand what such and such a word means, because then they’ll lose their thread and have to start all over.
This time it was because (having mono) I skipped a meeting thing on last Monday for my grammar class. Now, let’s talk this out: I found out I had mono a week before classes started. I have never missed one regularly scheduled class. Classes are on Tuesday and Wednesday, the professor RANDOMLY schedules something for Monday, I miss it, and what?? Basically, I got a speech about how "I know you might be sick but it is EDUCO policy to deduct grades when you miss class..." But what I don’t understand is whether my final grade is deducted a percentage point, or a letter, or what. AND WAIT, it gets better. I got that speech after class, when everyone else had left– she made me stay after to tell me all that. BUT last Tuesday, when I returned to class after having missed this thing on Monday, I explained to her why I was not there, and then the next day during class, she actually used my excuse as an example of how not to speak! She said, "For example, you cannot say, ‘I was sick, but I haven’t gone back to the doctor, that is why I didn’t do my homework.’ You must say..." and then she explained something about the conjunctions I had used wrong. Only as soon as she said it, everyone knew she was talking about me because I had said that in front of the whole class last week, so all of a sudden all heads swivel to me, then back to her. Nothing like getting called out in front of a whole class of Americans in France.

Enough about that. I suppose I have nothing to complain about... I have turned in exactly one assignment since coming to this country. ((Which I bombed, but it was an 8page paper in another language on the Popular Front. I don't even really know what that is in English.))
Bonsoir,
Blair