Red Eyes

It’s been a month to the day since I landed in France, and I haven’t updated at all.  (See? I told you I suck at these things!)  My only excuse is that I’ve been busy living life instead of writing about it.  I’m trying to catch up as quickly as I can, but until that happens, posts will probably be longer with less detail.  Unless something extraordinary happens that warrants mucho detail.  I know the first month is the most important, and that’s why I want to still write about it even though the info is old. Anyways, let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?

Red Eyes

For some reasons unknown, I could not comprehend that it was so late in September that I would be leaving soon, and so I kept pushing off everything I needed to accomplish: namely calling my credit card companies, talking to my bank about transferring money, buying toiletries, packing. . . .  I made multiple mental lists which only became physical lists two days before I left for France.  I may procrastinate like a pro, but I make up for it by catching up at warp speed.  And first on the list?  My first good-byes.

Le Sigh . . . Packing . . .

Packing sucks.  Packing sucks.  Packing sucks, packing sucks, packing sucks.  Ah, that feels better.  (Oops, one more: Packing.  Sucks.)  Why?  Because you try to fold everything neatly, place it in the suitcase/receptacle orderly-like, play Tetris so it all fits without bursting some seams, ruthlessly edit what the hell you’re bringing, and then undo it mere hours later! All that effort for only a couple hours’ transportation!  Just thinking about it gives me hives.  (Early Dane Cook fans?  No?  Alright.)  And don’t even get me started on repacking to go home.  It all brings me back to the same conclusion: PACKING.  SUCKS.  That’s as close to a key smash as I’ll allow myself in public communication.

However, like planes and washing your hands after you pee, packing is slightly necessary, so I guess I’ll do it.

Can't I Have a Pro Without a Con?

Contrary to my nature, I had a blog post all planned out about packing and how I’d rather sew my fingers together than do it; I even have the pictures to prove it.  But in accordance to the laws of “Gotcha!” that govern my life, as I sat down to write it, I checked my email and received a pretty little surprise: a response from my contact person in La Flèche!  In English!

Dance party!

Pourquoi "Pourquoi"?

Like every cognizant, major life decision I’ve made in my twenty-four years on this planet, I made the decision to teach English in France for a year on a complete whim.  In the past, I chose my college because it had a speech team (an activity that, at the time, I technically could have lived without); I studied abroad in France because the English pound made my wallet weep; and I’m pretty sure I would have kept adding majors and minors forever if my adviser hadn’t started tacking on years to my graduation date.  I could boil all these choices down to one question: why not?

Hence the title of this blog.  “Pourquoi Pas” means “why not” in French.  A fitting title for my life, really.