Fears

The following are photographs of the first three pages of my journal, obviously entitled “Things to Worry About.” This was an idea of my mother's, who believes that on some spiritual level identifying your fears mitigates them. I, however, only realized that there are depths of my own insanity that I haven't begun to explore, which will likely require years of therapy to remedy. I would like to stress that, despite the misleading title of this post, these are not fears – they are worries. For example, I am afraid of Nuclear Winter, or of the bowels of the earth tearing open and spewing forth hordes of Satan’s minions. However, those are not worries – and certainly not worries pertinent to studying abroad in France. In writing the list – which only took a matter of minutes, despite the magnitude of the thing – I discovered several important things about myself. Namely, that I have some pathological fear of knives and stabbing, and that I am, on some deep, secret level, a sissy. I suggest that you view these photos at full zoom, to experience the true grandeur of my neuroses. *EDIT* It appears that the images are un-zoomable. As I am far too stupid to solve the problem, I will sum up the fifty-seven item list for you, the Concerned Reader: I am afraid of physical violence and all human interaction.

My father offered several Useful Tips:
1) To protect against getting stabbed, it is wise to wear a long coat. 2) If a person approaches and expresses a desire to communicate and I have no idea what they are saying, I can pretend to be a lunatic.
2) I am six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than 99.7% of the population. ( I also am a non-smoking athlete, which makes me faster than 99.% of the population.
3) Like snakes and spiders, they are probably more afraid of me than I am of them.

4)Their English sounds stupid.

That last one only seems helpful. The way I see it, I’m on their turf, and it’s really only helpful in the way that going to one of Al-Qaeda’s caves in Afghanistan and pointing out that they worship the wrong god would be helpful.

Today we met up with my French "Uncle" Olivier after we had graced the Cluny (museum of the middle ages) with our adoring presence. He went with us to Gobelins, which despite its name is dedicated to large, bizarre tapestries and not fairy-tale creatures. From there, we declared that we would like some coffee. Olivier, in turn, told us that we would meet some of his friends for a snack, which actually meant (after he called them) that we were to go to their home in the 13th. This required a twenty minute walk, a stop at a baker for various tartes, several phone calls to establish where, exactly, they lived, and an extensive discussion of how nice the surrounding neighborhood had become. Georges and Olivier (a different Olivier) – a couple who I had never met before - were of course wonderful people who entertained us with a tour of their beautifully modern house, coffee, cakes, and conversation.

Tonight, for the first time, I had “Un Sandwich Grecque,” a mystical delight which I have somehow managed not to experience until now. For four euros, you get a thick, grilled pita sandwich stuffed full of tomato, onion, tzatziki, french (freedom) fries, and juicy, delicious roasted meats. Heaven.