This one time at band camp...

Using the metaphoric vehicle of American pie, let's take a voyage down memories lane.

There goes my semester. I must say, second half of my semester went tremendously better and more rapidly than the first half. With the absence of the drama llama, traversing the francophone desert of abroad studies seems much more pleasant on foot. After this crazy 6 finals week, another adventure begins for me. Yes, leaving metaphor meadow because JacquEurotrip (pronounced Jock-oh-ro treep) is kicking in full swing.

Normandie-Genève-Zurich-Bern-Venezia-Firenze-Roma-Wien-Munchen-Amsterdam-Brugge-Brussels-Luxembourg-Paris/Rennes-Lisbon.

While cramming as much Italian and German as possible sounds astoundingly amusing, proactive interferences from their bitchy French cousin basically rendered me as linguistically coherent as a badly shaved, one-footed and down-syndromed siamese cat. Let's hope the natives speak fluently the feline (alliteration point!) language. However, considering the restricted allocation of time for those languages, I'm actually pretty content with my languid progress, but progress nevertheless. Ass-saving phrases are, of course, top priorities. I.e. "Where is the train station," "Please help me--I'm lost," "Can I touch/lick/mount your national monument?", "If I put it there, does it hurt?" and my favorite, "No thanks. Your mom just asked me the same thing."

TMI WARNING:
So remember how puberty is a bitch? So let's imagine an adventure-land type roller coaster ride (yes we're getting back on the symbolic bus). Everybody has to go through it, and the age limit is around 11-16 years old. It's a sucky-ass ride because your whole world is upside down and everything is perplexing and bewildering to you through this new experience. And say due to gravitational and physiological forces at play, things get modified amidst your ride. However, when you finished that ride, you reorientate yourself and your life, albeit changed forever, moves on. Now imagine my 20 years old fat ass standing in line again. End results?
My pants don't fit any more. My mom hung up on me because she doesn't recognize my voice. Hirsute would not justly describe certain areas where barrenness lied before.

(Yes, you should have heeded the TMI warning)

This is the message I'm leaving on France's voicemail:
"Anyway, we had some great runs, but it's time for me to go. It's not you; it's me. Okay, maybe it's you a little bit. I mean, you're kind of a bitch sometimes. All right, that was a bit harsh; I didn't mean that. I was drunk. From 1 glass of champagne. It's not my fault that your 5 years-old baby can outdrink me. Sorry, I'm rambling again. Just want to say that I'll miss you a lot, but I think I prefer your younger-but-hotter sister, America. I mean, the thing you did with your toes was amazing, but America, oh mah- gawd, you should see the size of her... Nevermind, I'm talking too much again. I hope one day when we see each other again, we can still be friends."

Goodbye this blog forever,
Jacques