I'm trying to see the beauty in your existence

Woe is me. At almost four weeks, I've reached what has been described to me as a dip in the graph of happiness and enjoyment of living abroad. I write this not to complain, nor to express a desire to change anything about what I'm doing, but to honestly describe my experiences. If it were all sunshine and flowers, how bored would I be? And how mistaken would you be, upon embarking on a journey of your own, having read my deceptive blog extolling on how happy I was the entire time, to later find out that, in fact, stupid shit really does happen?

I sprained my ankle, yes. Its green and black and I can hobble around just fine. Kendra and I trained back from Paris yesterday afternoon to the soothing sounds of Dan Savage and his weekly sex advice column podcast. We arrived back to La Souterraine having exchanged crappy grey Paris weather for clear blue skies, sun, and warmth. We opened up all the windows in her apartment relieved with the feeling of "home," and took her guitar and my gimp self to the cemetery.

It was there that we spent the rest of the day staring at the sky, putting on a concert for all the lovely French people resting in peace (what a great audience), and later exploring the mausoleums of other dearly departed and discovering a broom that was too much like a witch's not to straddle it and pose for pictures.

Our plan was to return to the "Creperie Occitane" for dinner, but we were sorely disappointed to find out that on Saturday night, you need a reservation. Could it be because it is the only restaurant worth a squirt of piss that is open? Naive and hungry, we walked down the street to a "Cafe Restaurant," where we had enjoyed coffee before and so decided to give their dinner menu a try.

Neither of us have to vocabulary to know what we were ordering, but we figured we'd find out when we got home to our dictionaries. I ordered "museau," and Kendra ordered "andouillette paysanne." Translation: Pig snouts and intestines stuffed with intestines stuffed with intestines. My dear friend, steel-lined stomach that she wishes she had, attacks the dinner after saying "I want to join the PeaceCorps, I'm going to have to learn how to eat this."

Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I've come a long way from my adolescent attitudes toward food. I even, at times, consider my self adventurous when it comes to eating. This was an instance that required not an adventurous spirit, but a discerning palette. Bad food is the same in every corner of the world, and in any language.

To add to our dining experience, a group of totally trashed young fools were sitting outside next to us. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little jealous of their inebriation and complete disregard to their surroundings. One of the guys was violently ill all throughout the meal. He was actually coughing to the point of vomiting. He stood up every 10 minutes, walked to the bushes and did what Kendra and I so envied to do; threw up his dinner.

We returned home, frazzled and exhausted, trading fits of laughter for the tears welling up in our eyes, and went to bed.