Wiping the Slate Clean... Again

When I first started this blog, I had lofty goals about what I would be writing. I intended this to be a spot where I would review literature of the intelligentsia, detail decadent recipes of global cuisine, and in general provide tips and advice on subjects that I had some relative knowledge on. For all intents and purposes, that is what this blog is (albeit with a severe lack of decided direction). However, it has developed into what is basically an eclectic smoothie of my odd ramblings. Yet somehow people continue to read it. Perhaps it is because I am an incredible and humble writer, perhaps it is some misguided sense of Make-A-Wish-esque pity for me, or perhaps you have nothing better to do. Ultimately it's likely a combination of all three.

For those of you who have been following my recent social media posts (particularly the self-aggrandizing ones), you may know that I recently moved to France. More specifically Dijon, France (I'm just here for the mustard...). So considering that I am now living abroad (iF yOU DonT LiKe iT hERe yoU CaN leAVe), I thought it best to announce that I am going to be making an intense shift in what I write about and what subjects I cover. I think now that I am living in a different country it would be best if I focused my writing abilities on a more productive nah I'm just kidding, I'm going to continue to write pretentiously about things that I love and that I think you should love (and if you don't love I will be very disappointed in you). Though, now my posts will include a stronger focus on international culture and topics, the life of a newborn expat, and what I imagine will be my inevitable guillotining at the hands of furious Frenchmen over my pronunciation of La Croix.

With that settled, here is a quick account of my travels and my first week in France.

I left Boston the evening of September 10th, after a last beer and sandwich with my parents (Allagash of course), and arrived in Paris at 6am (12 am EST). Upon landing, I wrote a joking tweet about sick bags on airplanes... which panned poorly as it was written on the eleventh...

Life pro tip: the little paper bags they give you on airplanes are NOT for inflating and popping mid-flight

— Chris T. (@ADozenRedProses) September 11, 2020

Besides that little gaffe, my flight went swimmingly (flyingly?). A handful of airplane wine bottles and a quarter dozen movies (what a silly way to say 3) made the flight go by with ease. That and a few nice in-flight meals (cue Jerry Seinfeld "What's the deal with airplane food?").

Paris airport was a tad labyrinthine, but nothing that a travel pro like myself couldn't handle. Though I did stand outside for twenty minutes for a bus that was not in service. I took the train (that's French for "train") from the airport into the city, eventually arriving at Gare de Lyon (a large train station in the center of Paris). Considering it was around 7:30 am when I arrived, I only had to kill 4 hours until my train to Dijon arrived. I read the entirety of the first Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (DON'T PANIC), worked up the courage to fumblingly order a coffee and croissant, and paid a buck just to use the bathroom (yeah, you have to pay to use some public toilets in Europe, so invest in adult diapers before your trip).

As a modern gentleman (and someone willing to pay five extra euros aka monopoly money dollars), my train seat was situated in first class. Unfortunately, I'm an idiot. Thus my initial seating in the second class car across from a heavily tattooed and pierced gentleman who glared at me intensely. Fortunately I recognized my mistake and made my way to the gilded first class train car where a totally bodacious waitress was waiting with a gallon of Champagne (well perhaps not really, though the seat was a bit comfier).

Arriving in Dijon, the kingdom of the world's best mustard as it is often called (okay no one calls it that... yet), I made my way into the romantically old part of the city. Passing the famous Palais des Ducs (Palace of the Ducks), I meandered my way to my new apartment. Finding that my landlord would not arrive for three hours to let me in, I quickly began to sniff out the nearest apartment. Fortunately, it's on the road behind the apartment building.

I waltzed into the little bar, sweaty (it's been 80+ degrees here everyday... Fahrenheit, not Celcius) and tired, greeting the bartender with a near perfect "Bonjour" quickly followed by a "I'm sorry, I don't speak French very well, do you speak English?" (in French obviously). Spoiler alert: he did not. Thus my orders boiled down to me repeating "one beer, please" again and again. If it works, it works. After a few beers and some more reading, my landlord arrived and I was invited into my new accommodation. To call it Spartan would be accurate (sans men with six-packs and red capes). But I'm known for my adaptability, so I only cried for twenty minutes.

After getting my scant possessions put away, I elected to get some basics to furnish my apartment. Where better than IKEA? No really, are there better places than IKEA? Because buying things is much more difficult when the name is in Swedish and the description in French. I've been relying mainly on visuals lately. I bought some basic utilities and meandered back to my apartment, collapsing in a jet-lagged mess.

The few days after that were more or less the same. Me walking everywhere (gotta get that sweet Euro dad bod somehow), eyes wandering like the tourist I am, apologizing in my child-like French, and just generally being stressed as hell. I did find time to sit in my apartment, watch some movies, and drink some beers (which is what I was doing back home, just in a basement).

Fortunately, during orientation I was able to meet my brilliant classmates. A superbly multicultural bunch of accomplished men and women from around the globe, speaking numerous languages, sharing cultural differences, and all eager to become friends. Given my current asinine grasp of foreign language, I've been relishing in the opportunity to speak English again (albeit not always as the best speaker of it). I will have to forgo my overbearing American sensibilities and engage more in language learning in the hopes of improving to the point that I will be able to woo some Brigitte Bardot (like young Brigitte Bardot, not modern Neo-Nazi Brigitte Bardot).

We've already all begun immersing ourselves in plenty of French bar debauchery, staying out too late and living pseudo-hedonistically (at least until the semester begins and we buckle into learning like real adults). I've already found the bar where I will spend all my money and time outside of class. It is an absinthe bar (surprise surprise), that plays metal (with the clientele being stud-clad metalheads of every degree), and is situated on rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau. It is the trifecta of things I thoroughly love and will certainly be the subject of another post in the near future.

I hope that this settles any concerns you had for my well-being (which was fragile upon arrival). I will be sure to continue to write more often as well as post pictures of my travels. So for those of you stuck in America, you may live vicariously through me. I will try not to rub it in too much.

RIP RBG