I woke up excited to finally meet up with my American comrades. I was an hour late after getting lost in the catacombs of the Metropolitan and a Parisian labyrinth called the 6th arrondissement. When I finally found my way, I also discovered that I had been abandoned and missed the beginning of our orientation. All was fine in the end and I was indescribably relieved to see the other students.

That evening I bought ma mère a bouquet of yellow tulips and met with everyone for dinner. One of the girls who stayed here last year came over to cook a Japanese feast with my current housemate, Mika. Ma mère, dressed in a traditional kimono brought to her by our houseguest, served our meal of pâté, fish eggs, and raw salmon on beds of white rice and glasses of le vin rosé, followed with pork stew, clementines, and tea. Imagine this petite fête with these three women, the other housemate (a nice French boy), and myself, all nibbling our sushi and trying to speak French to one another. The highlight of our conversation was ma mère explaining to the other girls the meaning of the term “bobo.” The Cusackian absurdity ran amok, climaxing when George Michael’s “Faith” came on the radio.

After dinner, I escaped to the Trocadero and delighted in an evening spent at le tour Eiffel with Kathryn sharing massive amounts of cotton candy and my first glass of red wine in France (Brouilly).

Objective Truth: The toilet paper is often pink.