Ups and Downs

First-update.

Yesterday was the highly anticipated art class trip to the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Lyon. It was intellectual and fascinating and I enjoyed it very much.

If someone from Rotary reads this-stop reading here.

Actually I learned about it the day before and I thought it was rather a waste of time. We were to arrive at the lycée at 1:15 and part shortly after, spending the afternoon on a pleasant guided tour of the museum, after which we would return as a class to the school, from which we would make our own ways home.

What really happened was this:

The bus was late so I arrived at 1:17, thinking I was late, but the class was still milling around the prof doing nothing as he assured that he hadn't forgotten any of our names. Not kidding. He wasn't even checking to make sure that we were there. I believe that if I hadn't called to him and shoved my permission form into his unsuspecting hands he wouldn't have even remembered he had given them to us to get signed. We then walked to the bus stop as a class, where we waited for half an hour for the bus. I would hope that I'm not the only one who feels that this is a tad bit ridiculous. I thought not. Anyway the guided tour was quite a bit less than my expectations had led me to believe it would be, as I saw very little of the expositions as being very intellectual. Anyone can set up a camera on a beach for a few odd hours and then put a TV on fake sand with a colorful umbrella and call it art. Finally, we ended up being told that the teachers had decided to stay in Lyon and not accompany the students back to the school, so we were showed the way back to Gorge de Loup and left to ourselves. Thankfully it's a route I know only too well. Needless to say I was left feeling quite unsatisfied and have even greater desire to see the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, both of which happen to house REAL artwork. By people who actually exist in my world.

Secondly-I would just like to say that the Rotary exchange students in Lyon are as of right now my favorite people in France. After a particularly prickly encounter with my aging Youth Exchange Officer (no explanation needed) they were perfectly content to let me vent angrily and even took part in the Louis-bashing themselves. And of course afterward we indulged in some serious laugh therapy. And chocolate.

Thirdly-OLYMPIQUE LYONNAISE MATCH TOMORROW NIGHT!!! So excited!! They're playing against Marseilles, which is truly a rivalry made in Hell, so it should be a good match. Even if I don't understand a bit of soccer, I'll enjoy spending the evening cheering on my new home team with Casey and Dany. And possibly David if he decides to leave his host father for a bit and join us obnoxious girls.

Levels of Communication

Have you ever before wondered where texts and messages go if they have no definite destination? Do they just float around in cyberspace for months until the device for which they are intended is once again at their disposal?

I heard someone mention something to this effect not too long ago, though the exact meaning had not quite become evident until today. I hadn't been aware of how long my phone had been dead, just that for a few days I hadn't needed it. But today I charged it and returned it to the land of the living, receiving five subsequent texts that buzzed in within a matter of seconds. Then I thought, where were those texts while my phone was six feet under? Because they most certainly weren't in my phone. i concluded that there must be a bank of undelivered texts somewhere in a vault deep inside the government think tank, and that they're all just floating around getting to know each other until they're called once again into duty.

If this is so (which I must first assure skeptics that it most certainly is), how do these texts become aware that they're once again needed? Do they each have little red lights that flash when their respective phones are revived?

I am forced to conclude that this is so. And as a result, I expect to receive a multitude of texts come July, flooding into my inbox complete with little red lights and visa stamps.

American Chocolate

After a short liason in the south of France with my host mother, I am surprisingly happy to be returning to my makeshift French home. A little worried about the state of my art homework (30 dessins to finish in four hours tomorrow on nonexistent sketch paper), but relieved and prepared for a good night's sleep nonetheless. How my art teacher really expects me to accomplish this daring feat, I have no idea. Quite apart from the fact that I have no means with which to do the work, I have simply no motivation to do pointless sketches during my vacation that amount to nothing more than busywork on paper that costs more than it does to send an eight-pound package from Ohio to France.

Today I discovered that my growing friendship for French food is doing me no good. It's a terrible thing when you notice that though you try your hardest to avoid taking that second helping, random blubbery lumps show up where you least expect them, and you haven't the slightest clue where they came from.

Though I do believe I've just come across the reason I've become something resembling a walking, talking amoeba - a rather large package of M&Ms that just arrived in a rather unhealthy package from Dad. Oh, how I love and hate you, Father.