So, after battling the flu for the past week, I emerged less than victorious from my bedroom encampment to scamper about in attempts to get everything arranged for the big trip. Today I can check off my list "buy a sliver, shark engraved flashy flash drive", "buy a small Say it in French phrase book" and "email family friend about staying at their place in Paris". All this means is I now own a ridiculous flash drive, I can now ask for directions to the bathroom or comment on how nice the brandy was (this is apparently an important phrase) and my first night in Paris should go smoothly as I have secured shelter.
Really though, I just can't wait to pack. I love packing. I've already prepared a list of wardrobe necessities, although I fear my subcategory of footwear necessities is more than unnecessary. I haven't written in awhile and its a bit rough. I am determined though to write four times a week while abroad. I think it will help keep me sane and will give me something to do. Since I will have no friends. And no particularly large sum of money. All we can ask is that the language school have a board game collection. I figure I can always make friends at the Scrabble table. Unless of course, its French Scrabble and then I will be excluded given my language barrier and forced to play something more provincial like dominoes.
On a different note, do you ever wonder how your body is able to make such copious amounts of mucus when sick? I mean really, if I blow my nose one more time I am going to lose it. I have had a long past of sinus problems and I have about had it with my maxillary inflammation. Go away, I say. There's really nothing like those "oh shit" moments right after you sneeze either. You have to act as if your scratching the tip of your nose the whole way to the bathroom so that you don't offend anyone who might happen to look at you and discover the little love drippings that extend from your nostril to your upper lip. We think we abide by the simple rules of cleanliness, but really at times of illness, its back to the ways of the beasts. You're just lucky if you make it without sneezing on any of the smaller, less able creatures around you.
So while trying to look up how to say "I am sick" in my handy little French Phrase Book, I took a moment to scour the section entitled "Drug Store". Listed were the following.
Phrase 851. Boric Acid. De l'acide borique.
Phrase 853. Carbolic acid. Du phenol.
Phrase 854. Castor Oil. De l'huile de ricin.
Phrase 858. Corn Pads. Les toiles anticor.
Phrase 863. Epsom Salts. Des sels d'Epsoms.
Phrase 878. Quinine. De la quinine.
All I can gather from the phrases offered is that oftentimes when one steps inside a French drug store you are actually transported back to France circa 1923. Seriously, though. Boric Acid? Corn Pads? Castor Oil? Quinine? Are the good people of France battling malaria as of late?
I hope the rest of my handy little phrase book is a bit more up to date and I pray I won't have to ever actually have to ask for any of the above, in French or English.
And so ends my day.
Official Countdown: 13 days.
Oh and for the record. I have named the engraved shark on the let of my flash drive Max and the one the the right, Regis. Like Regis Philban. But better, because he's Regis the Shark.
Me. Max. And Regis. All on a great journey, together as one shark pack. Shark pod? Should be good.
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