That would normally seem like an extremely strange line of questioning, but here, it’s become completely normal. My friend Marcelo and I were talking about that a few weeks ago. I had run into him while picking up the terribly discouraging stack of documents I needed for my Spanish politics class (literally and figuratively heavy articles featuring hundreds of pages on legislation concerning compensation for victims of Franco’s regime. in Spanish. Dios mío.) and we got to talking about learning languages. While being trilingual is impressive in largely monolingual societies like ours, here, it’s just average. I’m no longer surprised to hear it mentioned in passing that, yes, indeed, he speaks Greek or she speaks Danish. It’s normal to hear a Swede speaking English with an Italian or a German speaking French with a Mexican. When surrounded by such an impressive group, it’s only natural that the two of us sat around plotting our next moves in a massive linguistic chess game with the end goal being to find a career in international relations. German, maybe? Portuguese would be an easy move for a Spanish-speaker. Italian? Russian? Swahili? Chinese? Latvian? Zulu?

It was in this frame of mind that I decided on my next moves: Italian and Polish. I know, they’re not terribly widely spoken, useful or in any way practical, but I feel like I’m allowed to be a bit more frivolous with languages four and five than I was with the last two. Relying on the generosity of my friends (Thanks again, Basia and Andrea!), I’ve begun the arduous task of adding two more languages to my repertoire. Two languages that bring me just a little closer to my roots.

When I told my mother I was going to learn Polish, she told me how the sound of it was a comforting one for her. It reminded her of her childhood when her aunts spoke in the hushed hum of sounds that, even after one lesson, I’m growing to like myself. Although my mother’s generation was not taught the language, I’d like that part of my heritage not to be lost forever. So, while conscious of Poland’s growing role in European politics, my area of specialty in my studies, that really isn’t the reason for my struggling through my utter incompetence to pronounce words with virtually no vowels in them, accents on consonants and to which, polish being my first non romance language, I have no point of reference. So then, co to jest? (what is it?). It’s just a way to touch my past, to bond with my Mom, and to indulge my insatiable appetite for foreign languages.

While Polish is a recent interest, I’ve always been attracted to the Italian language. It sneaks into all of my favorite parts of life….the comfort food my grandmother cooked, the directions on my sheet music, the words to my favorite aria, and, more recently, evenings spent with good friends. My father doesn’t speak Italian. It was the language his aunts and uncles spoke when they didn’t want him to understand what was going on (Gee, that sounds awfully familiar…). I hope to branch out a bit further than the smattering of absolutely awful gros mots that seem to be the first thing you learn in any language (well, that and how to say “cheers!” if your Erasmus) and actually learn this one. I had my first lesson on Friday afternoon with my friend Andrea being the professor, (and entirely too eager to give homework, I might add) and my favorite fellow American, Amy as my classmate. After learning highly useful phrases such as “You are a nice elf” and “She has a million elephants,” Amy asked the question that was on both of our minds: “So, when do we incorporate the hand gestures?!”

That’s the next lesson….still a bit too advanced for us, apparently.

My lovely little vision of myself as some form of low-level diplomat, improving America’s PR in my own little sphere was quite terribly shaken by the arrival of a Tasmanian Devil worthy whirlwind of horrific accents and attitudes that could have only come from the land of the free, home of the brave. To be fair, some of these new américains are just as appalled at the behavior of our compatriotes as I am, but for the most part, I feel as though I’ve unwittingly found myself in some new MTV reality show with a title like Real World: Lille or True Life: I Fulfill the American Stereotype. Houston, we have a problem.

To my European friends, I remain the exception with the others being a more accurate representation of what an American truly is. Are they right? Am I really the exception? Is my culture actually as obnoxious as they think it is? Can I accept that? It was with this mentality that I settled down to watch President Obama’s first State of the Union Address, a speech given annually by the sitting President to a joint session of congress attended by his cabinet, the supreme court justices, and the joint chiefs of staff which outlines the current situation the country finds itself in as well as the President’s plans for the coming year. There was a lot riding on this one. With recent losses of a senate seat in Massachusetts and a governorship in my home state of New Jersey, slow progress in passing the new health care legislation, and a shaky economy, Obama needed to deliver something strong….and, for at least one disenchanted American, he did.

The speech treated all the most pressing issues facing the United States today (an economy struggling to recover, unemployment, energy, the health care bill, and the budget deficit, among others) with a tempered optimism for the future that acknowledged the gravity of our current problems. His patriotism seemed of a much more modest type than the cowboy bravado of the past president with rhetoric that suggested that America now looks on countries like India and China as serious economic competitors and that our country is strong, but far from invincible. I also feel as though we’re taking significant steps in the right direction domestically, however small they may seem, with measures aimed at lowering health care and tuition costs (things that Europe has done well), promoting equality in ensuring equal wages for women and repealing “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, as well as broaching the delicate subject of our national debt. However, I suppose what impressed me the most was the way he presented both our faults and our virtues in such a way that was patriotic without being overwhelmingly so. Perhaps that’s an approach I should adopt in my own first foray into foreign affairs.

Although I know that the calm control demonstrated by my president in tackling arguably the toughest set of circumstances to face the United States in decades n’a aucun rapport with the wild, American Pie-esque antics of a large majority of the Americans in Lille, it does help me breathe a little easier. I know my country is headed in a better direction lead by someone who embodies what it really means to be American. Sure, some of us do behave like we just stepped out of Mean Girls or Animal House, but there are so many who do not. Yes, the United States has been putting its worst foot forward for years, but that’s not all we have to offer. We can be elegant, clever, thin. We can be trilingual, conscious of the world around us, and willing to learn how it works. We can be respectful of other cultures and be patriotic. We can carry ourselves well in our political decisions as a country and our personal ones as individuals. En gros, we can follow the example of our President.

Yes, We Can.

Speaking of New Year’s resolutions, I don’t tend to ever actually make them for the New Year. Perhaps this is due to my awful tendency to procrastinate, or, perhaps making them on my birthday, twelve days later, just seems to suit the personal nature of self-improvement a bit better. Either way, this year’s resolutions are all about growing up and enjoying it.

I turned twenty last week. Twenty. It seems both absolutely ancient and so very young at the same time. Here, I’m one of the youngest…constantly reminded that I’m the same age as someone’s little sister, patted on the head and considered oh so mignonne. Par contre, my life here is a far cry from the extended childhood that is the American college experience. Although I do miss the spontaneous Nerf gun skirmishes, box forts, and cult-like devotion to Tuesdays with Maury (yes, I do mean that trashy talk show), I do very much prefer this pseudo-adult lifestyle.

I was sitting in a bar at midnight on my birthday… something that is still delightfully scandaleux for an underage American. In the past five months, I’ve developed a bit of a taste for wine. Granted, my considerations in choosing it still greatly revolve around which bottle of Bordeaux has the classiest looking label, but at least I’m not as maladroit as I used to be. Sipping red wine in France seems to be a far better induction into the wonderful world of alcohol than the beer saturated, red solo cup culture of the American frat party. I was asked by a French friend last night if that childishly rebellious, perpetually drunken segment of American college culture exists and was a bit embarrassed to admit that it does. Somehow, drinking to get drunk seems so impossibly low brow after seeing how elegantly alcohol can be treated (not that it always is) by the age group in France.

Of course, life here doesn’t completely revolve around wine soaked soirées. Classes started again this week and I was actually glad to get back into the routine of classes and spending an inordinate amount of time attempting to assemble a mildly French-looking outfit to go to them in. I won’t bother you with my theories on la mode (and their varying degrees of accuracy), but let’s just say that American college attire doesn’t quite cut it at Sciences Po. I feel a bit like Anne Hathaway at the beginning of The Devil Wears Prada…slightly shabby in a world that’s all heels and haute couture (or close enough, by American standards). After being here, it’s strange to think that American college students proudly wear pajamas to mid afternoon lectures. You may as well just announce to the professor that you intend to sleep in class.

Classes in and of themselves are different here too. The professors are much more likely to give you a slap on the wrist for poor performance rather than holding your hand to help you recover from it.  The system here is, in my opinion, just a little harsh with the highest grades being completely unattainable, failing marks not uncommon, and over all brutal honesty being the rules of the game. That being said, a little tough love seems to discourage the type of entitlement American students (myself included, sorry to say) feel about their grades.

Bref, I didn’t begin this with such a comparison in mind, but it just seemed fitting. My turning a more adult age seemed more fitting in this environment than the one I left last year. Both systems have their merits, of course, but I’m sure I’ll have trouble returning. On the bright side, eating Nutella out of the jar with a spoon in one’s pajamas seems far more acceptable in a dorm room that in my little French apartment.

Last weekend was the last of the semester and so, the last spent with my Erasmus friends who aren’t staying until June. Our very last evening together was calmer than usual. We wandered around the Marché de Noël in the center of town, drank hot wine, and laughed at how cold we were as we shivered in the snow. It took some convincing, but I was also persuaded to go on the Grande Roue, a frighteningly high ferris wheel set up in the center of town during the Christmas season. From the ground, it looks lovely at night all lit up, but from far above La Grande Place with the wind rocking the carriage and whipping snowflakes into our eyes, it was hard to tell if it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas in the city below. All  in all though, despite the cold and the horrendous fear of heights, I’m glad I did it.

The Grande Roue in the snow

Me, mildly petrified, riding the ferris wheel

As lovely as the evening was, it was nothing compared to Christmas itself. I was lucky enough to be invited to spend the holiday with my roommate and her family chez les ch’tis in Bergues, a medieval walled city as north as north can be in France,  just south of the English channel. It’s become famous recently as it was the setting for the wildly successful French film Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis, attracting tourists from as far away as Japan.

I had two reveillons in Bergues, but the meal on Christmas Day was just magnifique. Tata (“Auntie” in French) Michelle, my roommate’s great-aunt who hosted the fête, is exactly what one would expect Amy Winehouse to look like if she manages to avoid drug overdoses and make it into her seventies…and quite possibly the best cook in all of France. I have never eaten so much in life and don’t regret a single mouth-watering bite.

Like all French meals, this one began with an apéro, a bit of alcohol (this time, it was champagne, my favorite!) and appetizers eaten in the salon to whet the appetite a bit before sitting down to the meal itself. Afterwards, the party moved into the a room perfect for such a traditional feast with old books collecting dust in shelves lining the walls and candle light flickering against place cards done in lovely old calligraphy by the grandfather. I was seated next to the most poorly dressed confirmed bachelor in France (who happens to be the carillonneur in Bergues. Quite awesome.) and across from the English wife of one of my roommate’s uncles who speaks a deliciously amusing mélange of French and English and smokes comme un pompier.

The meal itself was incredible. Plate after plate of delicately delicious food was set in front of me over the course of about four hours, each paired with a carefully chosen wine and followed by a “C’était bon? Tant mieux.” from Amy Winehouse’s older self. I learned a lot about wine during the meal. Although my preference for an English white wine was somewhat scandalous, my love of red wine was met with a universal nod of approval and a rare comment from the half asleep grandfather par rapport à my increasing french-ness.

The whole experience was just unforgettable. I was goaded into trying a bit of maroilles, (a horrendously strong cheese whose presence is announced by its smell), I heard the older members of the families tell stories about la guerre in a town only a few miles from Dunkerque and anecdotes involving drunkenness and bicycles. I discussed federalism with Tonton Jacques and persuaded my roommate’s grandmother to tutoyer me. I felt like I belonged there just as much as anyone else at the table and found my voice more easily than normal amongst all the laughter and chatter of Christmas dinner. En gros, the stereotypes, at least in part, about les ch’tis are true…they are some of the most warm and welcoming people I have ever met. As my roommate’s grandmother puts it “On n’est pas les sauvages ici!”

Perhaps they’re all just so terribly chic and poised all the time, that they don’t need such a word, or perhaps the French language is just too lovely to permit the creation of a word that trips over itself as much as the word “awkward” does. Whatever the reason may be, this awkward american is quite at a loss without her favorite descriptor and the whole ménagerie of awkward animals that go along with it. En gros, in an awkward situation, without the awkward turtle, turkey, fish (a new one courtesy of Lise), or, my personal favorite, the awkward jellyfish…how on earth does one break an awkward silence? Must I resort to actual adult conversation instead of childish hand puppets?Sérieusement?!

I suppose, more than anything else, I miss knowing the cultural references.  In some ways, France isn’t so terribly different from the United States culturally. My roommate and I both like Mika, wear converse sneakers and shop at H&M. Everyone here, regardless of nationality, finds the kid who wears roller skates to class absolutely absurde, drinks Coca-Cola, eats at McDonald’s and is generally not so terribly different from lesaméricains…. as much as they’d hate to admit it.

In other ways, our cultures are different, but delightfully so. On this side of the Atlantic, it seems perfectly acceptable to make references to “à larecherche du temps perdu” regardless of what you are actually à la rechercheof. Come on now, who doesn’t love a good Marcel Proust reference, or, for that matter, one to Carla Bruni, Florence Foresti or any other mildly ridiculous pop culture personnage or to the French literature I love so much?

Sometimes though, it’s not so very facile comme bonjour. As far as slang goes, I’m quite the débutante. Although I can see my French getting better everyday, I get set back to square one when it comes to slang. Sure, I’ve learned a few gems of gros mots and slang, but their infinite capacity to be transformed into any part of speech and morphed into short forms of abbreviations of something that was slang to begin with just creates a baffling whirlwind of nonsense to which I can only respond to with, “Comment?!”

I suppose it’s something that’ll just have to come with time, but until I find something else to replace “awkward” as the cornerstone of my college student vocabulary, I’ll just have to learn to be content with finally knowing the French equivalent of “lol”

At the same time, as much as I’d love to fast forward through the next few days, the fact that my first semester is over is a bit disquieting. Four months out of my ten are already behind me.

In some sense, I still feel a bit like the “baby bird that fell out of its nest” (my roommate’s first impression of me, apparently) that I was when I stepped off the TGV in September, but the longer I’m here, the more this happy little life I’m building for myself seems to suit me better than what I left behind at home. Of course, I’m sure a large part of this has to do with the fact that the glamor factor of living in France hasn’t quite worn off yet. It’s still a novelty to develop a taste for wine, to walk on cobblestones, and to live my life in such a deliciously beautiful language. That being said, I’ve somehow fallen into a routine without losing too much of that bright-eyed fascination with France. The combination of normalcy and novelty makes me perfectly content….and I’m horribly afraid of losing that feeling.

The fact that most of my erasmus friends will be leaving over the course of the next few weeks throws this into perspective rather rudely. On Saturday night, in desperate need of something to vider la tête a bit after days on end of memorizing the finer points of European foreign policy, my friend Dan persuaded me to go to what would be one of the last erasmus parties of the semester. Some of my Mexican friends threw a little fête for Posada (the meaning of which, I never quite caught, lo siento!). Of course, it was lovely. Copious amounts of cheap wine, homemade tortillas, shockingly spicy Mexican candy, a piñata (Yes, I know. Epic.) and good company were just what the doctor ordered. There was, however, a more subdued feeling to the whole thing than usual. There was a lot of talk of  ”one last time” and promises to visit the far-flung corners of the globe, long hugs, and sad smiles. I, for one, was getting a little sentimental.

Those of you who were with me at Governor’s School (a summer studies program, for those of you who weren’t among “New Jersey’s Best and Brightest”) know that I am absolutely awful about goodbyes. I suppose it’s the finality, in this situation in particular, of parting that gets to me. Not only will I have to faire mes adieus with friends I have gotten impossibly close to over the past four months, but I’ll have to do it knowing that this is a milder version of what I’ll be going through in June. The thought of leaving this place is just awful. My roommate and I were talking about it the other day and I couldn’t even imagine it. J’adore la France. How can I ever leave?

Luckily, I have the majority of my time here ahead of me.

For the moment, I have a lot to look forward to. I’ll be spending Christmas with my roommate and her family (which apparently includes a relation who resembles a plus âgé Amy Winehouse) as well as a few days afterwards (for which I will need warm clothes and comfortable shoes? ) and of course, being up at 2 a.m. for reasons other than studying will be a welcome change.

So, you can only imagine how terrified I was when my first exam this semester happened to be a 15 minute oral exam on Sociologie de l’Environnement. The class in and of itself was an experience. The professor gave his lectures pacing across the front of the classroom, mumbling little cynical asides to himself and making liberal use of the phrase enfin, bref to begin philosophical musings that were far from bref. All in all though, it was an interesting way of looking at the environment. I had only ever studied it from a strictly scientific point of view. Looking at the concept through a more philosophical, anthropological lens seemed to give the science a better context. En fin, bref, the class was fascinating, the professor was mildly intimidating, and the exam scared me out of my wits.

There was, however, a silver lining to all of my fretting over it yesterday. In the midst of my near nervous breakdown, I realized that, all of a sudden, I seemed to have made friends. I wasn’t stressing out alone. While waiting for our first class to start yesterday, Marguerite and Mathilde, who had already taken the exam, assured me that I shouldn’t worry. Later, as I was frantically flipping through my notes in the library, attempting to unearth some profound insight with which to impress the prof, other girls from my class stopped by to wish me luck, to give me advice, or, in one case, to remind me to tell the professor that I’m foreign because, in my case, it’s not évident.

My Italian friend, Andrea, who was studying with me, wanted to know why I suddenly seemed to know tout le monde. I honestly couldn’t tell you exactly how or when it happened, but I’m so thrilled to have found friends outside of the Erasmus counterculture that seems to be content to stay on the fringes of the social structure of Sciences Po. It’s not that I don’t truly value my exchange student friends, but staying only within that group felt terribly isolating. The more I’m able to find friends here, to speak french, and to feel a part of my adoptive culture, the more grounded I feel….and I snatched this feeling of comfort out of my blind panic over my exam. Trop bizarre.

I hardly remember what I said during my exam….something about anthroposytèmes and le valeur implicite de l’environnement, but I somehow managed to exceed the professor’s low expectations of exchange students with my french and the fact that I did, indeed, study. I suppose the fact that I read one of the books he recommended didn’t hurt my cause either. In the end, it was “pas mal, pas mal du tout,” according to the professor….epic win. En gros, yesterday was impossibly terrifying, but I couldn’t have been happier on my way home last night. I was making friends, I had my life under control and maybe my French isn’t so bad after all. Magnifique.

Saturday morning, as my roommate was leaving our apartment, she handed me a slip of paper…apparently, a package had come for me while I wasn’t here (or, more likely, I overslept and didn’t hear the buzzer, as per usual). Sweet! All I had to do was go to the La Poste to pick it up. So, I google mapped it and was off on a supposedly nine minute walk to pick up this mysterious package. I didn’t write down the directions, because, well, how hard could it be to remember two left turns? or was it right? or one of each? Needless to say, I found myself wandering aimlessly, but that wasn’t all together unpleasant.

I had never explored the neighborhood I live in before. It’s a bit outside of the city centre, and so there’s not very much incentive to hang around here, but “looking for the post office,” which I gave up on rather quickly, provided the perfect pretext to take a nice long walk. The neighborhood reminds me so much of the one I used to go jogging in when I lived in Washington….quaint little brick houses, quiet streets, your occasional kid on a scooter or little old lady walking her dog…just calm. It felt familiar. It reminded me of home without even a touch of homesickness and that was lovely. As I was walking, I realized that I could probably find the church whose bells I hear from my kitchen window, and, sure enough, I did!

The picture doesn’t quite do it justice, but that round, stained glass window looks absolutely gorgeous from the outside. I love the churches here. They’re all so very grand and stately looking, but some of them, at least to me, inspire more fear than devotion. I suppose that this one seems a bit friendlier because it’s not done in stone and marble and it looks a bit like the church I went to at home. Now when I guiltily listen to the bells tolling ten on sunday mornings while drinking my cup of tea, I’ll feel a bit more comfortable knowing that they’re not coming from some  something anonymous and austere, but rather from this vaguely familiar eglise.

Saturday night, I went to review my notes with a friend to prepare for my impending doom…I mean, my oral exam. I’m not to worry, she says, apparently, not much is expected from us erasmus students when it comes to academics. Now, normally I’d be horribly offended and take it as a personal attack on my intelligence, but I’m actually glad to have the expectations on the low-end for once. Fifteen minutes. in French. Impossible.

As you can probably imagine, studying on a Saturday night didn’t last very long. We ended up going out for dinner and to see a movie (which, by the way, was FANTASTIC. Le Concert…..I have the trailer uploaded to my Films page). It was a delicious mix of english and french, as the two friends I was with are doing a dual degree program with a university in the UK, which, for me was comfortable without my feeling horribly guilty at being a silly american who can’t speak well in French.

Speaking of silly americans, we somehow got on the topic of Sarah Palin. (Yes, I know. I am also glad that Europe sees the finest aspects of american culture such as ridiculous politicians and “How I Met Your Mother.”) They knew exactly who she was, the whole drama surrounding her daughter’s pregnancy and that she was the governor of Alaska. Then I was asked what Americans thought of Sarkozy……and I had to be honest. Most of us have no idea who he is. Embarrassing, no?  I was then asked how many people I thought had heard of Lille’s mayor, Martine Aubry. Honest again….perhaps just me. It makes me feel so awful to think that we’re so ignorant of the rest of the world… speaking only our own language and understanding only our own politics…and the Europeans are well aware of it. Hopefully, while I’m here, I can change that image, even if only by showing that some of us do care about the world outside of our borders.

With two term papers down and one to go, I decided to allow myself the afternoon off to go enjoy the rare break in the weather (and yes, I did bring my umbrella anyway. just in case.). As I was walking into town, it suddenly dawned on me how normal my life has gotten here and, paradoxically, that made me appreciate how special my version of “normal” really is. I run down a spiral staircase in the morning when I’m late for class. I stop and press my nose against the window of the three or four pâtisseries and pass through the flower market on my way to school. The orange-haired accordion player recognizes me as does the awkward waiter in the café and the living statue on rue de Bethune. Despite all of the frustrations of daily life in a country that isn’t my home, I really do live an enchanted existence at the moment and for that I’m so grateful.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, essentially, that I’m just happy to be in France and happy to be happy. I’m happy to be around a language I love and a culture, although impossibly strange at times, I’m growing to love as well. Today, je vois la vie en rose.

This little old lady is just the most darling flower vendor

Sunday Morning at Wazemmes

Matching hair and accordion. Awesome.

Speaking of music, I’m almost embarrassed to admit to this, but I’m currently listening to Carla Bruni. Why yes, that is the first lady of France. Why yes, the first lady of France is a chanteuse. Somehow, that seems so perfect for France….but I really couldn’t imagine the same thing for the US. Can you imagine Michelle Obama doing anything other than being devestatingly classy? I can’t.

Anyway, enough rambling. I’ve gotten so impossibly far off topic today!

Now, I may not go to the most prestigious university back at home, but something about the marble columns, four-story library and rolling grassy lawns makes me feel slightly better about paying money I don’t have for my education. At least the place looks like something of substance, quality and deep intellectual exploration… even if none of those descriptors actually applies to my experience. My professors know my name, or do a very good job pretending they do, and aside from a few Intro to n’importe quoi lectures, my classes tend to be small, discussion-based and heavy on the reading.

American University Quad

Imagine my surprise when I got to France to study at one of the most prestigious political science schools in the county (second only to the Sciences Po in Paris), at a school that raises eyebrows and impresses even the most blasé French person…..and I find myself walking through the worst neighborhood in town to the one, dilapidated building that encompasses my entire campus.

Sciences Po Lille

Now, the idea, in principle, is a noble one…putting the most elite school in the poorest neighborhood in a converted textile factory, socialism in practice and so on….but the mise en oeuvre seems to have been botched a bit. After dodging the catcalls of delinquent teenagers hanging out on the corners and the cloud of cigarette smoke that is perpetually suspended over the front stairs, you arrive in the front hallway. The rain on the glass skylight is making a horrible racket, like spilling marbles on a tile floor. Although the stairway in the foyer looks to be your best option, it only goes up one floor, leaving you to navigate your way through a nonsensical series of hallways to the real staircase which leads up two additional floors. Supposedly, there is a lecture hall on the third floor….something about it collapsing? I didn’t get the whole story.

The library at Sciences Po brings back not so fond memories of a high school cafeteria. Sparsely placed shelves display the school’s limited (although quality and up-to-date) collection of books. ( Don’t even try to find the one you need. It’s already taken out. ) I’m rather one to doubt the amount of work that gets done in the bibliotheque…it seems far more suited to whispering gossip to pass your time between two awkwardly placed classes while simultaneously thoroughly annoying the librarian…who will undoubtedly remind you that the library is for silent, individual work. Having worked in a library myself, I’d normally sympathize with her, but I almost enjoy the little bit of a hum of whisperings while I’m reading the latest Economist on Monday afternoons.

The biggest shock to me though, was the actual classroom experience. Although given a list of readings, no one seems to expect that you’ve done them (see previous comment about the library).  Preparing for class seems to entail little more than sauntering in about five minutes late with a coffee in hand. In one of my courses, the professor distributed readings to us, something for which this overachiever was deliciously happy about, (I miss my structured syllabus with its readings and papers and presentations categorized and dated!) but that seems far from the norm.

The worst part though has to be the format of the course itself. Essentially, the professor sits at their desk, takes a prepared speech out of their briefcase, and reads it off while the students frantically take down every word. For two hours. And that’s it. Although I am happy to escape mandatory class participation and the need to have an opinion on absolutely every topic under the sun, this system seems a bit cold and counter-productive.  I don’t know my classmates or my professors. And, as I struggle to take down the scraps of information coming at me in what my friend Jakob calls a “tsunami of french words,” I wonder if it wouldn’t be more helpful just to be reading a text-book and not going to class at all.

So that brings me to my current predicament…exams. Unlike the lovely busy work, papers, midterms and yes, even class participation grades that fluff up your average in the American system, here, the final exam is worth 100% of your grade for the semester. Crazy! One of my classes has an oral exam…meaning, essentially, that my entire semester boils down to ten minutes of me bumbling through a little presentation in French. Others have more comfortably substantial assignments, but still! 100% of my grade determined by one assignment? Oh. Mon. Dieu.

** note: both images from their respective university websites