After breakfast (juice and un croissant with Darrell, 0£), I took a taxi to the airport (21£). Air France refused to allow all 48 kilograms of my luggage onto the plane. I was convinced to cancel my flight and buy a new ticket for the afternoon flight into Paris (72£). I unloaded and repacked my bags in the middle of Heathrow so that one bag had all of my essentials for the next week (two pairs of cowgirl boots, jeans, cameras, mascara). The other (fiction, Tate Modern mug, make-up remover) I shipped through a monopolized service at the airport (140£). I still had to pay Air France for the extra 8 kilograms of luggage (95£). When I arrived at Charles de Gaulle, where one of my professors was going to meet me, no one was there. I called my mom and the other professor from a pay phone with my credit card to sort things out (184 USD). After waiting for two hours, I was instructed to catch a taxi to my home-stay (80€).

By this time, ‘weary’ had become the mot du jour. I had no idea what time it was or what French phrase is used to ask. Despite repeated efforts to explain mes problèmes gastronomiques and extraordinary fatigue, ma mère (as I will refer to my host mother) and fellow housemates kept me up at the kitchen table so that they could watch me drink tea and interrogate me. En français. My silence and awkward gesturing did not seem to move them and, finally, I was granted permission to go to sleep.