I am by no means a music fanatic. Don't get me wrong, I love listening to music on long car rides, or while cooking, and I've been known to play the violin on occasion, but I do not espouse the notion that I can't go a day without my iPod, as many of my friends do. No, I much prefer the soothing voices of Rene Montagne, Steve Inskeep and Robert Seagull, the vanguards of public radio whose objective journalism provides a soothing backdrop to my aforementioned activities.

That being said, when I do chose to eschew 91.5 FM in favor of something more melodic, I, like everyone else, have specific preferences in the type of music which I enjoy. My tastes are eclectic, but by and large I enjoy any music that is not heavy metal or played at the Grand Ole Opry. Janis Joplin, John Mayer, Edith Piaf, The Beatles, Diana Krall and Michael Jackson are just a few of the varied names and that appear on my play lists.

As I have mentioned before, the Utopian lobby of my dorm is home to a black grand piano, its shine matted with wear but in excellent shape nonetheless. Everyday without fail, there is someone who takes it upon himself to give a performance of what largely consists of classical tunes. These expositions are fueled by both a genuine desire to practice and a somewhat egotistical urge to demonstrate their talent at the black and white keys. For the most part I am grateful for such displays of talent and musical prodigy. While I revel in the ambient noise of hushed conversations, the computerized beeps of the turnstile and the clink of knives and forks from the cafeteria below, a subtle change of ambiance is appreciated.

However, it is important to note that, much like the court jesters of medieval Europe, providing entertainment in my lobby is a privilege, subject to revocation at my discretion. If you should find your fingers lacking in dexterity, your sense of rhythm marred by the unpredictable hustle and flow of dorm traffic, do not attempt to wrestle a ballad from the 88 keys diametrically opposed in tone and shade. Such insolent behavior serves only to anger and distract me from my work, and as you are here at my unspoken bequest, be considerate of my eardrums lest they doth protest too much to your hideous rendition of "Heart and Soul".

Such was the case earlier today, when as I perused a book while sipping my usual coffee, a friend of a friend approached the piano, audience in tow. As she began to play, I was put at ease by her skilled command of the instrument. She was clearly a talented pianist, and her performance was a pleasant addition to my lobby. My approval was premature however, as soon after she began her medley she added a layer of dissonant, nasal vocals, the kind which sounds nice when coupled with a jazz quartet but sounds screechy and amateurish when applied to more mainstream musical standards.

While my first instinct was anger at this atonal recital, I was also impressed (albeit reluctantly) by the girl's audacity to provide vocal accompaniment to her song selections. Her second tune was far better suited to her mezzo-soprano-aren't-my-nasal-congestion-and-sudden-dynamic-changes-charming tone, as she belted out Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" for all it was worth, a spectacle that would have been much more impressive had everyone and their mother not already done a version of the song on a. American Idol, b. A mediocre solo album. Still, I was willing to concede that I was mistaken, but I stand by my assertion that she did not have a universal set of pipes. Future performances would require an exhaustive review of her set list and hand written approval before she took to the proverbial stage and public forum that is my lobby.

Sitting in relative silence as I compose this entry, I wonder who will be next to brave the piano in an attempt to garner attention and, unbeknown to them, my silent praise and approval. If you are unsure as to whether or not your melodic offerings are worthy of reverberating through the hallowed halls of my lobby, look behind you as I lounge splayed across two unnecessarily embroidered and moderately tacky armchairs. An indulging smile or small nod is all you need to secure a spot in the annals of willing entertainers who venture into my kingdom, lusting to launch themselves to musical prominence.      

Furious. Irate. Livid. None of these adjectives can begin to describe the inexpressible rage that overtook me yesterday evening. Having left my academic accouterements in the capable hands of my friend Megan, I returned from my one hour Glee watching hiatus to resume studying for an impending exam the following morning. Choosing instead to set up camp in the games room adjacent to my beloved study nook, I went to retrieve my book bag and return to my haven of productivity.

Upon arrival, I discovered the unthinkable. My corner had been usurped by a horde of viscous, simple-minded bimbos hellbent on crushing my spirit and ruining my prospects of success. One of them, their ring leader, had been sitting next to me earlier that very same day.

I recalled her plain Jane appearance and ubiquitous MacBook Pro. As I settled into my routine of plugging my laptop into the secret outlet hidden in the floor, I recall her surprise and delight to discover a means of indefinitely powering her computer to prolong her stint in my beloved lobby. After jokingly (but not so jokingly) swearing her to secrecy, I resumed work on my research paper, oblivious to the approaching horrific injustice that was to drive me into exile.

As this scene played itself out in my minds eye, rendering me incapable of rational thought, I became enraged. How dare these girls use my lobby. They were not worthy to bask in the welcoming glow of the incandescent bulbs, to repose in the faux Victorian chairs. What was worse was seeing the plain faced brunette making use of my secret outlet. That rancorous, shameless bitch! Did she not know the power of this space, the consequences she threatened to incur by exposing its greatest secrets to the dorm? Clearly she was unaware of her cruel idiocy, and rather than seek direct confrontation with a gaggle of potentially murderous college aged females, I retreated a few paces to the more exposed and outlet-less corner of the lobby, the one not so acoustically oriented so as to filter out the unnecessary ambient noise.

This relocation was the rough equivalent of moving from Manhattan's Central Park West to the Lower East Side. I traded opulent luxury and unparalleled convenience for heavy pedestrian traffic, exceptionally loud outbursts and the smell of illicit drugs wafting through the air. I hung my head in defeat, but vowed a triumphant return. Like Christ, I would return to my kingdom upon a cloud of glory, though in lieu of a glorious condensation of water molecules I would make my triumphant homecoming in a pair of sheepskin slippers and a beige cable knit sweater. I would not lower myself to begging for acceptance in the realm that I am now convinced is my birthright. "Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven" I thought to myself, quoting Lucifer's infamous mantra from Milton's Paradise Lost.

And so I waited. I was determined to see their occupation crumble like ancient Rome falling at the hands of Germanic invaders, driven to surrender by a combination of needing to sleep and overall boredom. I endured less than ten minutes of torturous noise and stupidity, the latter of which manifested itself in the form of a girl hopelessly trying to memorize a French vocabulary list, before I conceded defeat. My retreat was hasty and a severe blow to my regime, but I knew there would be copious opportunities to retake my throne.

I returned today to find my corner deserted save for one girl, typing away absentmindedly on her laptop and no doubt contemplating whether her productivity would flourish in a change of venue. I approached cautiously and set up my post as quickly as possible. Fumbling with my charger, she helpfully pointed my towards my usual outlet. It took me a moment to process this advice. Her knowledge of the outlet's existence suddenly registered and confirmed my worst fears about the circulation of my realm's secrets at exponential speed. This was unacceptable, treasonous and severely disheartening.

From that point on I vowed to guard with extreme ferocity the wonders of my study space, a veritable Eden in a dorm swamped with the inherent sin of man. Constant vigilance and a keen eye would be my indispensable weapons against my witless peers, those fools who dare tread on hallowed ground, unfit for this paradise.

Not With A Bang, But A Whimper

What is the sound of a dying man, the final words that grace the lips of those beings seconds from passing into the beyond? Is it a feeble rattling breath, a frail wind passing through parched lips? The whispered affections unspoken in a life of unrequited love? No. The sound of death comes not from hospital beds nor the mouths of the elderly, eyes closed in finality. No the sound of death is what I hear every day at sporadic intervals as I lounge in my preferred reading nook in the lobby of my residence. It is the sound of a door alarm, a scion announcing the exodus of students from the upper annals of New Rez to the public gateway that leads to the dining hall.

When it began, the noise was a high pitched whimper, sounding twice at the open of the secluded doorway to the left of the entryway. I thought little of it, slightly perturbed by its unpredictable sonorous emissions but by and large oblivious to the comings and goings of my peers via the winding stairway. As the year has progressed however (this being a relative term as I am barely two and a half months into my tenure at university), the alarm at the exit from the staircase has begun to show the strain of constant use. Gradually, it began to lose it's Fran Drescher-esque whine and slowly changed clefs from treble to alto, alto to bass. It hovers in limbo, with the first alarm squeaking feebly from a hidden speaker, followed by a secondary piteous moan. Combined with the fact that the force required to open the door triggering the unpleasant sound is roughly equivalent to that necessary to topple a stationary Rosie O'Donnell and my somber prediction is that this particular portal is on its last legs.

As I listen to the woman at the piano tapping away at the ivory keys with impossible speed and precision, I cannot help but wonder if losing the telltale subdued screech will drastically change the dynamic of my one infallible haven of sanity. Was it not the Puritans who professed the inherent imperfection of man? Perhaps in order for my lobby nook to be the true manifestation of unspoiled comfort and convenience, I must be periodically reminded of the sonic horrors that inhabit this world, a proverbial anonymous Roman servant to whisper to the Marcus Aurelius within me, "You are only a man." After all, if this is the apocalypse, the end to my days of pleasure and productivity in this faux Victorian armchair, at least I've been forewarned. As Eliot said, "This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper."

From Top to Bottom

After a brief transitional period during my freshman year, high school became a liberating and confidence boosting experience. I know what you're thinking. High school? Confidence building? Liberating? None of those adjectives seem to fit with the classic American description of four years of brutal humiliation, mountainous piles of homework and a constant fear of being judged by those much less intelligent and infinitely more attractive than you. However I assure you my tenure at Enloe High School was anything but unbearable. I had spent the previous three years undergoing all of the tortures mentioned above at the local middle school in my upper middle class, conservative North Carolina neighborhood, and to finally be free of taunts about my sexuality and liberal political view points was the greatest graduation present I could have received. I was among my own kind, forward thinkers, musicians, non suicidal creative writers. People who could name senators and state representatives from above the Mason Dixon Line. It was amazing.

While I briefly stumbled in honors freshman English (garnering a C for a quarter grade, a personal low), I gained my footing with ease, and while I wasn't creating life long friendships with kids in my class, for the first time in my life no one was going out of their way to be my enemy. As far as I was concerned, flying under the radar was the perfect position to have, as it didn't cast me in to one particular social group. Speaking of which, cliques were something that were conspicuous at my school only by their absence. It was remarkable to see the poorly dressed, socially awkward, future Ivy League students mingle with the beautiful people (many of whom incidentally also went on to world class universities, most notably the head cheerleader now attending Columbia) without fear of retribution. However, like all high schools, or institutions of learning in general, certain types of people banded together based on a number of different factors. At Enloe, it was generally your academic interests that drew you into a particular circle. The drama kids were close, as were the super geniuses who were taking college level calculus their freshmen and sophomore years. Not being terribly mathematically inclined and having sworn off theater after two grueling middle school plays, I opted to simply remain unnoticed.

This strategy was quite successful, until I discovered French. I had already attended French immersion summer camp for three years before beginning high school instruction, but as impressive as that may sound it gave me only a marginal advantage over my peers. Much to my delight, French turned out to be not only a joy to learn, but also absurdly easy to master. In no time at all I had committed all the vocabulary and verb tenses to memory and had secured my spot at the head of the class. Nothing could phase me. I was an unstoppable francophone machine.

Sophomore year I encountered what would later prove to be a formidable opponent in my quest to become Supreme French Master of Enloe High School. Her name was Madame Popescu, my new French teacher, and she conducted her class with the ruthless efficiency she learned during her tenure as a second lieutenant in the Communist Romanian army. She was a woman not easily intimidated, having used her status as Romania's premier opera singer to escape the Soviet Block and make her way to America by way of an Italian refugee camp. Upon arrival in New York, she worked her way up through the ranks of the hospitality industry, gained her citizenship and eventually settled in North Carolina, where she still teaches high school French with a fervor bordering on obsession. Needless to say I loved her.

Finally I had found someone who could push me academically, teach me things about French I didn't know, things that would require extensive study to decipher and use skillfully in conversation. French I was simply a warm up, a teaser to attract students to the upper echelons of the most beautiful language humanity has ever known. To my chagrin, I was quite mistaken. Vocabulary lists, stem and ending tenses, direct and indirect object pronouns; these were things with which I was unfamiliar to be sure but required only one 40 minute class period to commit to my wheel house. I was conflicted. On the one hand, I managed to maintain my status of top of the class, on the other, none of the material challenged me academically. My only source of inspiration to continue with French came from my annual excursions to Lac du Bois, where everyday I ate, slept and breathed the French language. I ended sophomore year satisfied to know how to use the imperfect and future simple tenses, but anxious to tackle even more complex grammar.

Enter French III. My teacher this year, the same sweet lady who had taught French I my freshman year (and incidentally a counselor at Lac du Bois) was genuinely goodhearted and certainly capable, but lacked the confidence and authority to control a class of high school students less than ten years her junior. However, despite her insecurities, she finally managed to introduce me to material with which I struggled. The conditional and subjunctive tenses, things which still give me a hard time two years later, made their first appearances in my life that year. Coupled with her policy of teaching entirely in French whenever possible (something I was astounded Popescu hadn't done the previous year), I began to cultivate a new found passion which I only believed possible during summer. This lasted throughout the majority of the year, the majority of which I spent worrying that my Tunisian friend and native French speaker would overtake my position as top of the French class. Thankfully his apathy and inexplicably numerous absences kept my reputation intact. I ended junior year more confident than ever in my speaking abilities and excited to start a month long intensive French course in order to bypass French IV and place directly into AP French, the final battle in my four year conquest of francophone dominance.

The summer program was everything I hoped it would be and more. It validated my beliefs in my speaking and comprehension abilities and gave me a firm grounding in the tricky, often misunderstood subjunctive and literary tenses. Throughout all this, I became close with several of my classmates who remain my best friends, even now that we are spread across three different countries, two continents and opposing hemispheres. Upon my return from camp, I began to gear up for the final year of high school, a year jam packed with college applications and standardized tests. Unfortunately, I encountered a problem when attempting to register for AP French. It seems that by her exacting standards, Popescu had deemed a solid month of French immersion study inadequate for entrance into her AP level class. Having been her most accomplished student two years previously, I was somewhat hurt that she had such little faith in my abilities. Thus, after many emails and countless complaints, I was forced to concede and register for French IV, rejoining my classmates whose lack of determination and inability to pronounce complex phonemes had driven me insane the previous year (I must note here that I harbor no ill will towards anyone in from my high school French classes. They are all lovely people, but it was clear that their enrollment in French amounted to no more than a halfhearted desire to sound sophisticated and a need for a foreign language credit on their transcripts).

They could not compete. I struck them down, test after test, quiz after quiz, one discussion question after another. I took my prodigious skill and used it to spearhead a fervent campaign to guilt Madame into apologizing for not having placed me in AP French. I answered her questions fluently, with a decent Parisian accent which by comparison appeared to be that of a native speaker. My compositions on the French tests were twice as long as necessary and deliberately employed the use of tenses in which others dare not dabble. My scores reflected it. I never scored below %98 on a vocabulary quiz (often having learned it the period before) and my test average was a %95. I felt vindicated. I had no competition, save one girl who sat across from me, desperate to prove herself. I had to admit, she was good. She spoke passable French, was eager to learn more, and even once outscored me on a unit test. She was the only person in the class who could have posed a threat to my sterling reputation, but thankfully my prowess far outstripped her own, and she seemed content with the fact that she could impress the other students even if she wasn't top of the class.

As the year progressed, we moved on to what many feared would be their downfall. Research papers. More specifically, research papers written entirely in French about French history and influential monarchs and authors therein. The requirements were insultingly simple. Two pages double spaced, with a minimum of three sources. I finished the first one in an hour, scanned it once for errors, and turned it in the next day.  %93. I even had to shrink the margins to keep my paper at the two page maximum. The second paper followed in a similar fashion. %95. I was untouchable. I ruled the course with an iron fist, and no one could dare oppose me. I ended high school with what was undoubtedly the best academic French record for an anglophone the school had ever seen. To cap it all off, I had independently registered to take the AP French Exam, which only five people from the actual AP class had felt brave enough to take, and scored a 4. I had done it. I had shown Madame, and now I was off to greater things, following my talents and desires to a city and university I knew could stimulate me academically. I turned out to be right, but not in the way I expected.

I got to Montreal thinking I would finally be surrounded by people with similar intellectual fortitude, young men and women with whom I could have a conversation about Camus' L'Etranger or the Socialist movement in France in the 1980's. What I discovered was not only could they indeed speak with authority on these subjects, but that their knowledge about francophone culture and command of the French language far outstripped my own.

It began with a placement test. In order to pursue my dream of becoming a French major I first had to verify my skills via an objective test designed to assess my abilities. So one morning I went to the language lab, sat through an hour and a half of the same material which I had put up with in high school, and emerged to find that I not only was I too advanced for any French as a second language class, but that I had taken the wrong test entirely. I rebounded quickly and paid a visit to the headquarters of inept bureaucracy, the French Language and Literature Department.There they told me that in order to place into the Department, I had to sit two placement tests, one to assess my grammar, the other my skills in translation. I failed both. How terrible my scores were, I cannot say. All I know is that I was shunted into an intensive "Advanced Grammar" course designed to pull me out of the mire of mediocrity, and what basically amounted to an introduction in translation.

While I have managed to keep in step with my introduction to translation class (Stylistique Comparee being its official title), I struggle with grammar. For the first time in my life I received a failing grade on a French test, forcing me to accept that perhaps public schools in the American south are not bastions of lingual brilliance. I subsequently devoted hours studying for the following examination, with my intense effort garnering me a B. It has been the most humbling experience of my life, and I can say that with complete sincerity.

The majority of students in my classes are native speakers, and even the anglophones have had at least nine years of French study, much of it being in immersion. While I still take pride in my abilities to speak, read and write in French, my two and a half months in Montreal have shown me that a swollen ego and high opinion of yourself will only get you as far as the next smartest person.

I don't know why I'm in love with my dorm lobby. Actually, I must clarify, I'm in love with a very specific corner of the lobby, second nook from the door, adjacent to the cafe and directly across from the open air staircase leading down to the dining hall.

In case you were wondering, my dorm is actually a converted Renaissance hotel that serves as a student residence during the school year. The amenities are disgustingly luxurious. Marble floors, chandeliers, private bathrooms in every room and queen sized beds, just to name a few of the perks. However I have recently found myself foregoing the confines of my fifth floor living quarters, a space most university students would kill for, for the much more public and exposed lobby.

It all began about a week ago when my two good friends proposed that we study in the games room, a semi separate enclave branching off from the lobby. While I was not at a loss for productivity, I found the lighting too dim and the close knit band of Turkish pool hustlers non conducive to true academic success, so I quit the booths of what during the summer constitutes the hotel bar and grill for the bright lights and comfortable couches of New Residence Hall lobby.

Having been a regular for some time at the late night dessert/coffee counter, I decided to set up camp close by should I surrender to my insatiable appetite for cheesecake. Legs splayed across the love seat, I began to subconsciously assess my surroundings. The lighting is soft enough to hide minor dermatological imperfections, yet strong enough to take the strain off my tired eyes. The afore mentioned proximity to the cafe is highly convenient, and much to my delight there is a recessed outlet in the floor for my laptop. Combined with the fireplace/wall partition combo and the occasional child prodigy coaxing soft beautiful music from the refurbished piano, this nook was shaping up to be my new favorite hangout.

Perhaps the greatest feature of my newly colonized study area is the ability to people watch. By and large the crowd is pretty mundane, students heading down to the caf for lunch, disgruntled maintenance people, etc. However, late at night, when the veneer of studious workmanship begins to crack, things get much more entertaining. People on study breaks start cranking up hip hop tunes, bored cafe attendants congregate like moths to a flame, and the stoners who speckle the perimeter of the building stumble in, simultaneously confused and relieved to be out of the cold. There are also many couples who treat the the regal looking lobby chairs and the circle they form as if they were in the intimate privacy of a far removed woodland cabin.

All of these wonderful attributes come together to form the perfect breeding ground for creative writing. As entries such as these manifest themselves in my mind, I begin to regain my old swagger of intellectual fortitude that carried me through high school, a confidence that has been greatly shaken since my arrival to Montreal. Being surrounded by people on the same intellectual wavelength as myself in a city where being bilingual is a given has been a sincerely humbling experience, and finding a haven in my own home is helping to bring a sense of normalcy to my otherwise unpredictable routine.