Bittersweet Beauty (But it's mostly bitter)

I have an unnatural obsession with beautiful people. Gender is not important; a beautiful person is living art, and should be recognized as such. Hence my infatuation with not only Scarlett Johansson and Halle Berry, but Taylor Lautner and Bradley Cooper. I follow their fashion choices and cosmetic forays with an insatiable fervor, not to mention they're media exploits. However, much like impressionist art, beautiful people are best appreciated from afar, for the closer one gets the more numerous the problems with the concept become.

In the case of impressionist art, one can employ the adage, "good from afar but far from good." An up close investigation of Renoir's Le Moulin de la Gallette would reveal seemingly frozen waves of paint cracking with age, adopting no specific feature of the scene they compose. One consequently loses the significance of the piece by literally failing to see the big picture. Yet one does not face the same dilemma when confronted with the beauties of the world in the flesh. In fact, closeness is most desirable in these circumstances, and a bad angle is hard to find. Why then are these flawless creatures of humanity best regarded at a distance? Jealousy. By being forcibly confronted with the reality of people exponentially more attractive than oneself, a person's self esteem plummets further than the average Pamela Anderson neckline.

"But Daniel!", you say, "People already suffer from low self esteem due to constant bombardment by unrealistic images of scantily clad women and perfectly sculpted men in advertisements and the media. Actually meeting them face to face wouldn't make a difference." I will concede that such is the case, but I would counter on two points. Firstly, these people need to man the fuck up. Anyone whose self esteem can be so severely damaged by television has an unhealthy attachment to it in the first place. Secondly, you are forgetting the disconnect between concept and practice. By actually experiencing that which has only manifested itself in thought and fantasy and knowing that we cannot take part in the tangible facet thereof, we become overwhelmed by jealousy, resentment and sadness.  

Recently, I have found myself in this precise predicament in the New Residence Hall lobby. The culprits are two incredibly attractive young people who are not only gorgeous but in a relationship with each other. One is a short brunette with large rectangular classes (they work, trust me), the other a tall and muscular dirty blond with a very symmetrical face and fantastic bone structure. Every time I see one of them my heart burns with jealousy and I ask myself why the blessing of physical appeal was not bestowed upon me. When I see the two in tandem, I begin to see the merits of a Harrison Bergeron-esque society. I suppose my consolation prize for all of this is a snarky intellect and an unwarranted high opinion of myself.

My English teacher told me that clothes were invented not out of necessity for warmth but because the vast majority of human beings are ugly. While this still holds true, I suppose that being in the presence of genuine beauty isn't all bad. Though burning jealousy wins out, I can't deny that a small part of me smiles inside knowing that the world is still capable of fueling my hobby of stalking the lovelies of the world.

Stand Up Eight

When I left the suburbs of Raleigh for downtown Montreal, I was filled with a sense of boundless opportunity. I would soon be free of the constraints of high school drama (to be replaced with a more potent variety) and the teenagers with whom I had spent the past four years tirelessly working and slacking to get into college. I was nervous, not knowing anyone in Canada, and thrilled, as I knew no one in Canada. I had an opportunity my friends lacked in that I could totally reinvent myself without a constant reminder of the person I used to be walking around in the form of my fellow students. I was the only one of my friends to leave the state, and one of three from a class of over 600 to leave the country. I didn't feel that the world was my oyster, more that it was an endless library with each aisle and tome containing new people and experiences which would have a significant impact on my life to come.

As is so often the case, I found my theory to be correct; yet the impacts of the people and experiences I was to encounter spanned the gamut from wonderful to terrifying. I made friends from every walk of life, countries whose capitals I did not know (which doesn't happen often), and who spoke more languages than could be counted on one hand. It was this time in my life, this time being the incredibly recent past of last semester, that I collided with my largely inelastic limits on alcohol consumption and self motivation.

I started my freshman year of college under the mistaken impression that I was my sister. My sister, who I love dearly, likes to have a good time. She's incredibly intelligent and studious, but when she goes out for the night you know it's a party. As I also like to indulge from time to time, I figured that our mutual tendency to be people about town fell in line with our corresponding interests in French and political science. Thus, I figured my college experience would be similar to her's. Party every weekend, leave at midnight, come back at four, and do it all over again the next day. My liver did not take kindly to this idea, and made it quite clear by forcing me to my knees before the porcelain altar on more than one occasion. I soon discovered the joys of a night in, although I became burdened with guilt that I was spurring the opportunities the city afforded me, opportunities that were prime factors in my decision to hop the border.

As the pressure mounted from my course load and I began to drift apart from people on my floor (a matter of differing interests more than confrontation), I soon felt the sinister tendrils of anxiety curling around my psyche. When I was driven to a panic attack during frosh week due to excessive drinking, I assumed it was an isolated incident. However I became doubtful that this was the case as I became increasingly anxious as the term progressed.

It started out with abstaining from weekend outings with the floor. I opted to stay in, preferring not to tempt fate and revisit the day's meals. Having only experienced these flutters of panic in the isolation of my own room, I soon began to associate my room with heightened anxiety. As you can imagine, this made attempting to fall asleep somewhat of a chore to say the least. By mid October I was completely off alcohol, fearing it's panic inducing effects, and my appetite had waned to the point where my daily caloric intake came from a cup of coffee and a croissant.

The week before I was scheduled to see my sister and our mutual friends in Boston was without a doubt the most grueling of my life. By this point severe anxiety was a constant companion, driving me to hyperventilation every waking moment and abolishing my appetite and sense of thirst. I ate nothing and forced myself to drink water, an act that was met with intense waves of nausea which inspired more terror at the prospect of throwing up (an irrational fear to be sure). I did anything I thought would help reduce the level of anxiety that had my life in a death grip, but nothing worked. Depression set in not long after, and I became overcome with sadness and fear. The upside to this was that crying superseded the panic, and every night of that week I would go to my room and pray for a thought tragic enough to force me to tears. In sorrow, anxiety could not touch me, and I found respite in sobbing into my pillow. It got to the point where I fantasized about death because of the lack of anxiety a corpse experiences six feet under (to be clear, I wasn't suicidal, I just thought about death in the philosophical context of the absence of feeling and emotion).

This may seem like an extreme reaction to anxiety, but for those of you unfamiliar with the feelings of a panic attack, allow me to give you a crash course. First, you feel a flutter in your stomach, which I describe as the evil twin of the adrenaline rush one gets on a roller coaster. This is followed by nausea and a loss of control over one's breath. The only thought running through your head is why do I feel this way? You are utterly terrified of this emotion and anything that could amplify it. In short, you feel as if you're going to die. This was my life. I spent hours walking around the neighborhood around my dorm in hopes that the cold would freeze the panic out of me. The one time I forced myself to eat a salad, I became nauseous and subsequently refused to use that particular salad dressing even after my appetite began to return. I moved my furniture in hopes that it would break the association I had between feelings of panic and my dorm room. None of this was effective.

Figuring I had nothing to lose in leaving the country for a weekend, I went ahead with my trip as scheduled. I decided that seeing my sister and friends would be a positive change in my life that could just break the cycle of panic that had engulfed me for the past several weeks. My mini vacation helped significantly, and while I was by no means back to normal I felt almost reborn. I spent my first week back reveling in my ability to eat and not going into fits of terror at the drop of a hat. I decided that the true test of my return to normalcy would be going out Halloween weekend. If I could make a successful trip out with friends and not spiral into a panic, I knew I'd be on the road to recovery. I failed in my endeavor, and a subsequent trip to my favorite club solidified my aversion to both drinking and going out.

While greatly diminished, my anxiety was by no means cured. As I only felt the feelings of panic at night, I soon refused to leave the dorm after dark. I could not stand to talk, hear, or read about alcohol or the act of vomiting, and when I came across these subjects in books I became uncomfortable and pushed to the edge of anxiousness. I found that I could stay in my room only if I had all the lights on and was particularly positioned on my bed. I soon came to the conclusion that the only cure for my condition was the impending month long break I would have without the stress of classes in a familiar setting surrounded by the people I love.

A month at home was precisely what I needed. I spent every day watching TV from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed, and I loved every single minute of it. I never got bored, and I felt that rather than wasting my time I was detoxing and healing the deep mental wounds of the past two months. After discovering that I had lost 20 pounds out of stress (an unhealthy occurrence in someone who's 6' 4" and only weighed 160 pounds to begin with) , I dedicated myself to restoring my appetite and original body weight. The day before I left to return to Montreal, I felt renewed.

Since my return from winter break, I have slowly undergone the arduous process of mentally desensitizing myself to the triggers I had developed the previous semester. I began to gradually force myself out after dark, and I even went out my first weekend back. I had gone from contemplating death to returning to my former life of occasional partying. While I'm still not completely back to normal, I take solace in the Japanese proverb that says, "Fall seven times, stand up eight." I am in the process of picking myself up from my seventh fall, and I'm too smart and too dedicated to let anything keep me from standing at full height, ready to wander the shelves of this library of a world and delve into its endless volumes of people and all that comes with them. 

I am seriously concerned about my recent lack of motivation in the field of creative writing. Rarely do I find myself at a loss for words, and when I am faced with a predicament such as this I can't help but wonder what existential force is powerful enough to stay my hand at the keyboard. It's not that I believe my thought process to be so overwhelmingly ingenious that it is immune to obstacles of boredom. On the contrary, someone who always has something to say is rarely a person worth listening to. It's simply that I'm always thinking, deluding myself into believing that my opinions and observations are worthy of praise. The only thing in which I truly take pride is not my powers of perception but my ability to convey what I see and think in a manner that is eloquent, spell binding and at times humorous. In short, I seek to captivate people's interest in what would be in the hands of a lesser writer a truly mundane subject.

Thus I'm terribly worried that my stymied creative flow is foreshadowing a devolution in my intellectual prowess. By all accounts I am not an attractive man, I am not physically fit in the slightest and I have the stage presence of a four year old. Ergo, I rely on what I perceive to be my one true talent, writing. Am I intelligent? I would say yes, but my grasp of world affairs, the French language and the American political system is something that could easily be taught to someone with a greater work ethic and less acidic tongue than myself. I chalk this up to constantly being surrounded by people far more motivated, dedicated and linguistically well versed than I, and consequently I feel greatly disheartened living down the hall from a girl who speaks three languages and is the founder of a multi-national charity.

Where do I turn for inspiration? Should I address the shimmering coat of snow that blankets the uneven field on campus, the dangerously poised frozen stalactites keeping guard at the windows of every house? Of course not, such imagery would be hideously cliche. I am truly at a loss. There are a million things on which I would love to give my opinion, but I have neither the credibility nor following to merit a detailed explanation as to why a combination of Keynesian economic theory and tax increases are the cure to the current fiscal crisis facing the United States. Even among the things we pass; time, gas, and judgment, I have found no witty critique blossoming in my temporal lobe.

What does a writer do to fill his empty mind? Oscar Wilde liked absinthe, Tom Wolfe his white suits. What I need is a defining characteristic that generates both recognition and mystique. I'm much more partial to bourbon, and a student budget is not conducive to purchasing suits. An ideal solution would be a complete change of venue, a trip to a foreign yet developed locale such as Barcelona or Lyon. I could make broad generalizations in concise paragraphs about cultures enriched by millenia of history, and given the widespread ignorance of young people they would hang on my every word. Montreal is nice, but it lacks that prestige that comes with flying transatlantic.

Thus, my course of action is clear. Finding the means to achieve the ends is another matter entirely, but practitioners of the arts are not to be burdened with such trifles as logic or reality. People who apply themselves to the physical and mathematical sciences are bound by the constraints of facts, and facts are so unimaginative. They may be interesting conversation pieces, or lead to breakthroughs in medicine and feats of engineering, but why bother to take the time to try and find them? Research is like an elaborate game of hide and seek, where the course is set with stringent guidelines. Writing is a process of creation where gravity doesn't matter, significant digits don't count and lobsters may have the power of judicial review.

I will concede that imagination is fueled by our perceptions of the tangible universe. It is the spark that ignites the creative flame, but consider this passage from T.S Eliot's The Wasteland.

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.”

 

Here we see lilacs, vivid shoots of color, new life and aesthetic pleasure arise from the unresponsive, lifeless expanse of dead earth, combining with man's most important thought processes. Lilacs are the great canons of literature, formed from a body that holds no whimsical content, facts. While facts can inspire in their own right by driving people to action, it is the human psyche that is the true source of creativity in this world. 

At The Level Of A Gun

I recently stated that the true enemy of hatred is public discourse. I stand by that, but when civility takes a back seat to impassioned attacks on others, the forum of discussion becomes a breeding ground for contempt and violence. Well intentioned debate walks a fine line between productive compromise and useless mudslinging, and if we ignore the former and cross over to the latter the problems we set out to solve only intensify.

It is at this point that I am obligated to address the recent tragedy in Tuscon. While I do not believe that the incendiary rhetoric of Sarah Palin or Sharon Angle inspired the murder of six people and attempted assassination of Representative Giffords, calling for "second amendment solutions" to problems in government certainly does not carry the connotation of peaceful cooperation and bipartisan compromise. There have been an overwhelming number of pieces in the media recently calling for an end to hostile speech in politics and on the home front, but they all simply repeat each other. Each one ends with the prediction that such politesse is only temporary, and sooner or later we will revert to the old tone of hostility.

I'm not advocating changing the tone of the debate. As much as I oppose hate speech on principle, it's important that it plays a role in society precisely so we can understand how futile it is to employ it. While a well penned essay can certainly sway opinions and inspire acts of both good and violence, the place where we must truly focus our energy is in cutting off the resources that enable people to carry out such acts of carnage. There is absolutely no credible reason to own an assault rifle in the United States, except perhaps for investment purposes. The threat of an oppressive government in the United States requiring deposition by armed insurrection is not only remote, but were such an instance to occur the fact that people believe they could go toe to toe with the world's only military super power armed with an assault rifle and high capacity magazines is laughable.

Even those who advocate that gun ownership is effective for personal and home defense are woefully mistaken. More people are killed or injured by their own gowns than are those against whom they would intend to use them. In fact, gun violence in the 20th century claimed more lives than World Wars I, II, the Korean War, The Vietnam War and the Gulf War combined. Yet for some inexplicable reason the NRA and Congress seem to have it in their heads (or rather their pockets) that more people owning lethal weapons makes the country a safer place. I have absolutely no idea how this is logical. I have never heard of an instance in my lifetime where a deranged gunman was stopped from committing murder by an armed civilian. Had I heard such a story, my immediate reaction would have been relief that such a person was stopped quickly followed by terror that there seems to be a large number of people with concealed weapons walking the streets. Even a man located near the scene of Representative Giffords' assassination carrying a concealed weapon admitted to having almost shot an innocent bystander after he tackled the alleged shooter to the ground, mistaking him for the perpetrator rather than the victim.

If we want to make this country a safer place, the answer is not to tone down the volume. Nobody every won a battle by sitting quietly. An argument certainly, but silence in the heat of conflict is tantamount to acceptance of defeat. Disabling the systems that enable true terror is the only foolproof way to ensure that we can resume the work of dismantling hatred and bigotry without the looming threat of violent solutions formed at the level of a gun.

I am a horrendously indecisive person. You might not think so by the way I write, but that's only because writing is the alternate universe in which I am a confident, witty, commanding person (actually, I'm fairly witty in the real world too, but here my humor is honed and edited to my exacting standards. Speaking is so unpolished; everything you say is a first draft). Every time I go shopping, whether it be for clothes, groceries or home appliances, I am entrenched in a constant battle with myself as to whether or not a) I genuinely need to purchase this item b) this item is too expensive or c) there is a cheaper alternative of comparable quality. I can spend hours browsing a minimal selection of socks, forcibly differentiating between the subtleties of midnight blue with cream toes and black with white accents (for the record, the latter option is preferable).

Perhaps the most challenging thing on which I must render a decision is the title of my entries. Too often I find the titles that drift to the forefront of my cerebral cortex are insanely hokey and have the ring of teen lit mediocrity. "Wisdom in Sandwiches" still haunts me to this day, and it's precisely that kind of Ibsen quality sludge that causes me to so frequently abstain from naming my publications. However there is one title with which I'm still wrestling, and it happens to be the title of this blog.

When I broke the promise to myself that I would never start blogging, I had to prove that I was the exception. I wouldn't try to pretend I was unique, I wouldn't profess to have unimaginable terrors in my life that my parents couldn't possibly understand, and above all I would never make arrogant claims to omniscience. A personal mantra that all young people should take to heart is one of my favorite quotes from Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, who penned, "I am not young enough to know everything". I must remain steadfast in the knowledge that the world has not yet sufficiently kicked my ass enough times for me to claim credibility.

In order to show that I was no ordinary blogger, I fashioned a name for my page that I was sure was neither cliche nor predictable (pretentious is another matter). I would not be "Just Another Nobody", or "Confessions of a 19 Year Old Kid". Such titles are for adolescents who count themselves alone in the number of people who believe them to be crafty and prodigiously skilled writers. In fact, those of you who read my first introductory post (which I have since deleted as I realized in retrospect that it wasn't worthy of publication in USA Today, let alone on my blog) know that the origins of "Tortured Letters From A Sidewalk Cafe" is neither depressing nor an attempt at invoking emotional depth. I actually chose it from a line in a David Sedaris novel, a comedic piece whose imagery struck me as both intriguing and darkly whimsical.

However, as my indecisiveness rears its ugly head, I'm forced to acknowledge that out of context, the name of this blog looks like the title of a poem from a misguided yet average youth whose parents have recently gone through a routine albeit slightly complicated divorce. If I ever post a poem on this blog, do not read any further. Ever since the death of T.S Eliot, poetry is a sure indicator that a human being is in decline. Take heart and know that no matter how much the contents of my works may stand at odds with the title of the electronic anthology that binds them together, I will never torture you with a letter from a sidewalk cafe.    

I Judge (and so do you!)

For some inexplicable reason, theme parks seem to be haven for the poorly dressed. No, I take that back; if they were havens the poorly dressed people who frequent them would stay there, giving my eyes a much needed respite. Such was the visual torture to which I was subjected on my recent vacation to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Long seen by my sister and I as a sacred pilgrimage, my Hajj for Harry was punctuated all too frequently by visions of a barrage of bros, plaid shorts fused disgustingly with striped shirts to form an ensemble so heinous I can hardly recount it here without forcibly suppressing my gag reflex.

This must be some twisted joke, I told myself as I strolled along the faux cobbled streets of not Hogsmeade. Maybe they used up all their good clothes for holiday parties and haven't had time to wash them. Maybe it's a consort of students from the local school for the blind. Perhaps they're foreign guests unfamiliar with our customs. Sadly only the latter part of my self delusional musing turned out to be true. It's remarkable, but the last place one would expect to find a global cultural exchange seems to be its ironic epicenter. Every few steps I caught snatches of a different language, French, Spanish, Chinese and something that sounded disturbingly like a gargling Italian opera singer.

But this can't be; I thought indignantly. How could these Europeans be so hideously dressed? I had seen first hand back at school that everyone but me owns a Burberry scarf, and as Montreal is one of North America's more European cities, with a large number of McGill students hailing  from the continent, I was wrought with confusion at seeing these unfortunately clad tourists.

On the bright side, I told myself, at least I'm a shoo in for best dressed. My new found stylistic superiority did wonders to improve my mood, and I fell back on my favorite pastime, judging people. Now before you close your browser window, let me explain my abrasive frankness when it comes to critiquing. Everyone, without exception, makes judgments. Hundreds of judgments on a daily, perhaps hourly basis. You may not be conscious of it, but each time you make a choice, you are judging that the choice you make is the superior option to the alternative. When you think to yourself, my goodness he/she is gorgeous! You are judging a person's appearance, albeit in a positive manner. So I ask those of you who take issue with my criticisms, what harm is there in acknowledging a universal human characteristic?

"Well, my mother told me if you don't have anything nice to say don't say it at all!" you reply in a breathy, confrontational tone. Your mother is a kindhearted fool. Undoubtedly she means well and is a sweet lady (as most mothers are), but she fails to grasp the long term harm that is inflicted by withholding judgment. When emotions and thoughts are stored away, forcibly detained by our oral musculature and good manners, they fester. Like an anaerobic bacterium, these thoughts multiply and infect your psyche, breeding contempt and distorting your original discomfort into genuine hatred. The best way to avoid this is to vent your frustrations as soon as possible and in a constructive way. "But Daniel!" you triumphantly exclaim, "Your harsh critiques are anything but constructive. Look at your degrading syntax!" Au contraire confused reader. What my syntax lacks in politesse it makes up for in originality. Constructive criticism does not, by definition, have to be kind, and by my count venting one's feelings through creative writing is an activity in the construction of detailed observation. By starting a conservation or expressing your opinions to what I certainly hope in my case is an attentive audience, one removes the veil that shields hatred from it's true arena of defeat, public discourse.

In fact, now that I think about it, a theme park is the perfect vehicle for public discourse. It's a veritable display of dysfunctional families, overwhelming joy, crushing defeat and vomiting. What's more universal than that? Perhaps we could resolve controversial issues with greater ease if we were to turn what is now a circus of catcalling and hyper-partisanship into a thrilling thematic venue of the human character. After all, who wants an exit wound from bitter infighting when you can exit through the gift shop?

Ever since people have discovered the crushing nonexistence of Santa Claus, they feel that they must take it upon themselves to personally and unequivocally kill the notion of an obese senior citizen slipping down chimneys to deliver presents to billions of children the world over in the span of roughly eight hours.

As an atheist who was raised in a Jewish household whose patriarch is a professor of psychology, I feel that this behavior is a petty form of self validation and schadenfreude in order to compensate for the crushing sadness that engulfed these newly converted infidels when they were children. There had to be some way to justify the sheer idiocy of sitting next to a fire pit with milk and cookies, waiting for a knick knack bearing home invader to appear. Ergo, many self proclaimed hilariously ingenious people both young and old have done a 180 and now mock the lunacy of the idea of Santa Claus in order to save face and scrounge a few laughs.

These arguments start out logically enough. How is it even possible, assuming that one manages to amass a team of flying reindeer, to fly all over the world and deliver presents in less than 24 hours? Of course, that's simply ridiculous. Even further, the idea that one man alone could do it is insane, it would require a team of at least 600! Oh absolutely, a veritable army of Santas. And then to think that a person of such girth could conceivably squeeze himself down the standard dimensions of a chimney, and the fact that millions of people don't have chimneys! Yes, the global housing spectrum is quite wide. Plus how would there be enough room in the sled for billions of presents, varying in size and shape? It does seem inconsistent with the laws of physics.

All of these assertions creep into yule time conversations, and what's remarkable is that each person who makes these arguments believes himself to be the first. It's painful really, seeing the bright eyed and expectant looks that appear on the visages of these would be comedians, anxiously waiting for a laugh, a congratulatory "I've never heard that one before! That's brilliant!" Of course I begrudgingly oblige, giving them an amused chuckle so as to let them save face but at the same time convey my impatience and annoyance with their banal holiday tidbits. It's astonishing that people view these supposedly comical tirades as necessary. Convincing people that Santa Claus is a figment of our imagination reinforced by scheming holiday card companies is much like trying to convince the public that Meryl Streep is a phenomenal actress. Yes, we know.

Therefore, I am instituting a reflexive moratorium on denunciations of Santa Claus. No longer shall I be subjected to unfunny and cliched rants from people desperate for an admiring audience. Instead, let's encourage people to put their persuasive skills to good use and convince people of the nonexistence of more important things, like Creationism. Not only is the idea of a world less than 6,000 years old laughable, but efforts put towards converting the philistines who profess such bullshit are far more appreciated this holiday season than denouncing Kris Kringle.

My lobby is much like a cross between a public park and the throne room on Mount Olympus. On the one hand, you are free to sit, people watch, and read to your hearts content, but should decide to sit in my throne, the two faux Victorian, gold and black upholstered slightly worn Pier 1 Imports loungers set up across from each other to serve as chair and footrest closest to the fireplace, I will unleash upon you a furious, unholy wrath in order to demonstrate my theocratic superiority and supreme dominance. I rule this lobby with an iron fist, commanding the circle of chairs that serve as both study space and respite from the constant stress of classes and exams. Though you may not know it, all who pas into the realm of the red fleurs de lys patterned carpet fall under my immediate jurisdiction.  I am supreme author of the Book of Lobby. Each day I decide who shall sit in a gold chair, who shall occupy the black with gold lattice detail, who shall have use of the recessed floor outlets, who shall perish by fire and who by water. My unspoken word is law, and those who fail to abide by it are sinners in the eyes of a vengeful French Major.

I have yet to determine the fate of the young girl sitting to my left. Foolishly, she took it upon herself to repose in my throne, and seeing it unfit in its current position, angle it away from the cast iron glass topped table. Yet her thievery knows no bounds. As if to mock me, she has gone so far as to affix her computer to an outlet (thankfully her ignorance extends far enough to cloak her eyes from the one beneath her chair, which I promptly put to use), ensuring her unbounded reign, not constricted by such petty obstacles as battery life. As I sit in an identical setup not four feet to the right, I cannot help but seethe with righteous anger and stinging embarrassment, the amble cushioning beneath my extremities doing little to mitigate the pain of exile.

I try to understand what might have possessed this girl to usurp my seat of power. Why, with a love seat, two couches and a plethora of other chairs at her disposal, did she chose my sacred altar? Surely she cannot be attuned to its innumerable secrets. Only a soul with my unparalleled cunning and distinct knack for creature comforts could have discovered the wonders of such a chair. With her stylishly clunky earphones so often preferred by the B- crowd, marginally outdated frames and colorless gray sweatshirt, this woman obviously lacks the necessary brainpower to exploit the myriad bounties that this lobby nook provides.

Yes, that is surely the case. Clearly she stumbled upon my sacred chamber of productivity and liberal elitist snark by accident, unaware of her grave error. Tapping away on a graphing calculator while simultaneously perusing a website of such little consequence that it fails to capture my interest, I give her a quelling glare of purest venom, the kind reserved for people who murder puppies and Newt Gingrich. Apparently unaffected, she continues her work, undoubtedly negating the effects of her worth ethic by dousing her ear drums in indie hipster tunes, where atonal is the new perfect pitch.

I resolve to keep a closer watch on the unassuming scholars who venture into my lobby. Should you be reading this, be forewarned that in the future, my mercy will not extend itself so generously, so tread carefully and know that you are here at the bequest of an all seeing, people watching French Major with no qualms in outting you in a semi-anonymous fashion. Save face, save my space.

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.

Smug

Much like its phonetic cousin smog, smug is something for which I have little tolerance and is far too abundant. However, I must confess that I find myself guilty of smugness far too regularly.

In accordance with the title of the blog, I am writing this entry from a sidewalk cafe (the same cafe mentioned in an earlier post in fact), and by all accounts it is a veritable breeding ground for smug. The baristas serve organic, fair trade coffees at exorbitant prices, the furniture and overall decor is minimalist and sleek and soft classical music radiates from recessed speakers.

It's the music that really pushes me over the edge. After ordering my usual hot chocolate, I sit down, plug in my laptop, and begin to study (or in this case blog, but generally I'm here for academic purposes). As I get into a groove, fueled by the sugar and ambient noise, my sense of hearing begins to feel neglected. Soon the notes wafting from the ceiling begin to worm their way into my head, and slowly I begin to recognize each piece.

Revelling in my own brilliance, I begin a pretentious game with myself, challenging myself to name each selection. "Bach's Concerto in D Minor for two violins and a piano", "Vivaldi's violin Concerto in A Minor", "Holt's Ostenato from the St. Paul's Suite". This go on for some time before I realize with horror that I have entered the stages of some monstrous Dr. Jackyll/Mr. Hyde transformation.

The keys stop clicking. I look around, take a deep breath and assess the situation in my mind. "You're a liberal American Jew who's parents own a hybrid car with an Obama/Biden '08 sticker and you are sitting in a coffee shop in a major francophone city blogging to classical music." The reality of my situation hits me hard, forcing me to come face to face with what I have become, something I so often ridicule but am now forced to accept as my own identity.

I guess this really is just the outcome of a self fulfilling prophecy. Having not-so-jokingly referred to myself as a liberal elitist on multiple occasions, it was only a matter of time before my metamorphosis became complete. Now the question remains, how do I move forward from such a life altering discovery? Does my insistence on using only 25 year aged balsamic vinegar from Modena require immediate medical attention? Is my firm belief in sexual equality among people of different genders and sexualities life threatening? Is my die hard support for Ohio congressman Dennis Kucinich's 2008 presidential campaign a sign of disconnection from real America and an infirm grounding in reality?

No. Through a combination of self reflection and common sense I have discovered that none of the above symptoms make me un-American, nor thankfully are they carcinogenic. The fact is that a liberal American Jew is just that, an American. To be honest that is really the only label to which I like to attach myself.

Being smug might make you a bit of a know-it-all, but never let your intellectual prowess incur denegration, nor your cultural tastes discrimination. Be secure in the knowledge that you are who you choose to be, not what others label you.

Were I forced to pick one adjective that best represented me, it would undoubtedly be francophile. From having attended and worked at a French immersion summer camp to four years of high school French to being a French major, the language comprises an integral part of my personality and the person I am as of now (though that is certainly liable to change).

I don't know exactly what it is that attracts me to the language and the rich cultural and particularly gastronomic history that comes with it. My Irish-Ukrainian heritage and American background does not necessarily lend itself to a predisposition towards anything francophone. I'm guessing it was a combination of my family influence and a desire to live up to every liberal elitist stereotype that drove me towards the language of Rousseau and Voltaire.

Given my immense interest in French you can imagine the overwhelming sense of joy I experienced upon learning of my acceptance to a major university in Montreal. My ill disguised excitement led me to tell anyone who would listen about the innumerable opportunities for conversing with locals in the native tongue and exploring the Old City, never at a loss for something to do. Along with mildly annoying many of my friends and relatives, I was also deceiving myself.

When I arrived in Montreal to begin my studies my head was buzzing with cliched images of me strolling along a cobble stoned street clutching a freshly baked baguette and stopping every now and then to talk with the locals about the highly charged political atmosphere, or the merits of a good cassoulet. What I discovered instead was that I may as well have strapped on a beer gut and put on a t-shirt saying "These Colors Don't Run", for the moment I opened my mouth to speak my American accented French announced to everyone within earshot that I was clearly incapable of communicating in anything short of simplified English.

Embarassed and intimidated by the ease with which shopkeepers, bellmen, janitors and the homeless switched from French to English, I reverted back to my mother tongue. I went to bed my first night feeling slightly defeated. How was I supposed to practice my French in a city where it makes no difference to people whether you speak French or English (this of course being a slight exagerration, I have since encountered a number of people for whom English is clearly a struggle)? I decided to put it from my mind, and continue introducing myself in French, then reverting to English when my accent was detected.

However, once I began to settle into my normal class schedule and became familiar with city (an ongoing process I might add, on both counts), the fact that my French was receiving less action than the Pope began to wear on me. Finally the answer I was searching for came to me. Having overheard several of my floormates conversing with the cafeteria staff in French, I threw my hat into the ring and introduced myself. I struck up a conversation with the Haitian woman running the sandwhich counter, and confessed to her my insecurities about speaking French in a city where nearly everyone is bilingual. What she told me was the single best piece of advice I have received since I moved to the city.

She told me to be insistent with my French and be fearless of blunders. "You must make mistakes to learn" she told me. I knew she was right, and it was a refrain I had heard a million times over, generally from exaperated teachers striving to explain their students' poor performance, but her follow up is what really caught my attention. "Tell them, 'No. I will not speak English. I moved hear to speak French.' Be agressive.'" I took her at her word and the next day put her plan into action.

At first, the woman at the coffee shop was unyielding. "So you'd like a large chai latte? Where are you sitting? I'll birng it over." "Je m'assieds juste la." I responded, gesturing towards my seat by a potted fern. "Okay, it'll be just a few minutes." Though I knew she was trying to be polite in accomodating my mother tongue, the unspoken battle beneath the niceties was reaching a boiling point. Each of us was adament in our chosen method of communication, unwilling to budge. It was as if the partisan congressional gridlock from back home had manifested itself in this unassuming Montreal cafe. I held my ground. Finally, success. "Voila ton latte monsieur. Avez-vous besoin d'autre chose?" "Non, je suis bien maintenant, merci!"

This conversation remains the zenith of my francophone exploits, and all at once I fully understood what the woman behind the sandwhich counter meant. It is a mantra by which I plan to abide for the duration of my stay, and will hopefully lead to the realization of my cliched Franco-Canadian fantasies. Half of getting what you want is knowing when to make people feel uncomfortable.