I’m the type of person who needs to be perfect and the best at everything. Speaking French is no exception. So naturally, I’m a little quieter and more reserved when I have to eat dinner with my host mother. On one hand, good lord that woman can cook. On the other hand, I need to speak my imperfect French with her. That’s why I always secretly hope that there will be a bottle of wine handy to, you know, give me a lil’ umph in dat parlay frawnsay. God must want me to be fluent in French because I went downstairs and there was a pizza and bottle of wine waiting for me. For the first time, I had a real conversation with my host mother and roommate at the dinner table. Up until that point, I had been doing the “smile and nod” tactic and taking advantage of my bubbly Asian “oh yes”‘s (I hoped my small eyes would confuse her). I really love drinking and I really love wine, so I took glass after glass of red wine (in my defense, she kept filling it and a glass of wine is good for you… … …), had seconds of the pizza, and practically destroyed the tiramisu in a matter of seconds. I then went upstairs and drunkenly videochatted with my homiepizzaslices. C’est la vie (ou vin).
I also have a “dégustation du fromage et vin” tomorrow, aka a wine and cheese tasting. Très français. I’ll definitely be posting about that, most likely inebriated.
Life update: My professor still hasn’t proposed to me, but it’s just because he doesn’t want to overstep the professional boundary, you know, professor-student. But he loves me so it’s fine. Give it ’til Friday when I leave for Paris.
I loled quite a bit. You’re good at this.