I felt kinda bourgeoisie once again while visiting a famous southern chateau. Apparently, its architects and a twenty-seven year old Vanderbilt modeled the place after a chateau called Chambord, my old friend (on the right). On my turf and crowed with English speakers, Biltmore was as gorgeously breath-taking as its foreign counterpart.
I have not been to bed before midnight in a good couple weeks. Scout’s honor. Ask anyone that knows me and they won’t have words for the abandonment of my militant sleep/running/class schedules. Though homework and repeat 200’s are still getting done, the French verb sortir has appeared more frequently in my dinner conversations. And, because “cultural immersion” is this semester’s tagline, I wondered exactly how does one go out in Tours, France?
Homesick. OK. I give up trying to pretend like I can learn in 3 months what a French woman knows after 20 years. The idea struck me on the heels of an incapaciting stomach bug, exasperated by my endless to-do list. I had taken on so much that by the end of October, the time of our trip to Normandy, my body decided to shut down. I don’t blame it. If anyone, I point my finger at my parents and anyone else who encouraged my insanity to forsake family, familiarity, and the following:
1) Mon Kitchenaid me manque. Continue reading