What are you doing with 4 types of sugar?

I don't care what the Blogger time-stamp tells you, it's 2 in the morning here. But I just drank some tea, which I'm pretty sure is caffeinated, so I'm good for this post (and perhaps another). In French there's a seperate name for the caffeine in tea, it's called, quite appropriately, teaine. I might have spelled that wrong, but frankly my dictionary is in a completely different room of the apartment, and I'm attached to the computer by my headphones, so me getting up to get it could be disasterous. The fact that I am typing in a different room than my dictionary, and that I know where it is should lead you to this obvious conclusion- I have finished moving and am unpacked. This would be a correct conclusion. I have made the 10-minute jump from Jean Mace to Saxe-Gambetta (so named due to the intersection of Avenue Saxe and Cours Gambetta). Granted, I live on rue Saint Michel, but I'm a hop, skip and a jump away from Saxe-Gambetta itself, and really, I was talking about the neighborhood. The moving was not fun, but it's over, I've unpacked and organized, decorated a little, had people over for dinner and shoved all of my things in the kitchen. Julie has kitchen things, but she doesn't really cook here much. I cook a lot, and have ended up with quite a few kitchen things during this past year (immersion blender, electric mixer, mini-four, coffee maker, etc). This has led to two problems. Number one is my paralyzing fear that Julie will return from Spain, where she's interning for the summer, and FREAK OUT at the shear amount of stuff in the kitchen ("What the fuck Gina- I leave you here for TWO MONTHS and I come back and there are THREE types of flour and two loaf pans? And what do you need those cardomam pods for anyway?") Number two is that even though between the two of us we have a metric shit-ton of kitchen things, there are still things missing. Like knives. My endeavors to purchase knives have all ended in disaster, some more so than others. Yesterday at Carrefour the only difference between me and the sales-dude was that his French was better than mine. I knew more about knives than he did. I've considered just getting some in the states and bringing them back, but I don't know if customs people would buy "But they're so much cheaper at Target!" as an excuse for having knives in my suitcase.

This apartment is wonderful. I do realise that I got shit-lucky in finding it, but I looked HARD for places and was getting desesperee before this popped up. I wish Julie were around this summer, but this way she avoided seeing the massive mess that moving caused. I can't wait to take pictures of the place and the neighborhood, because it is all that I could wish for. Last night I was sitting around and I heard someone practicing the accordian out the window. It is moments like this that I know that I'm where I should be. Even more so now that I have a fan to ward off the insane heat. Thanks, SUMMER.

As of two weeks ago, I turned in my MA essay to the University of Oregon. This was the last requirement for my Masters, and the one thing I held off doing last spring to stay a student this year. Although NO ONE has said anything to me, graduation was last weekend, so to the best of my knowledge, I'm now the official holder of a Masters of Arts in French. I wish someone would tell me officially, but you know, I figure someone would've had to already say "Gina, your essay sounds like a 10-year-old wrote it." So Master I am. To cap that off nicely, this Wednesday I have my jury, or interview, for the Masters program I've applied to here in Lyon, in Metiers des arts et de la culture, basically the equivalent of Arts Management. I'm nervous beyond belief, because I want this SO badly. Tres tres badly. I put a lot into my dossier, and it was such a relief to make it on to this round, but I won't be completely happy until I'm in. Y'all know that I've wanted to go into arts management for a very long time, so this is not just being able to legally stay in Lyon, but rather me going through on something I feel very strongly about. I haven't gone as far as to light EVERY AVAILABLE candle in the cathedral here, but poor Alex has received a few panicked text messages. Let's all hope that I don't wear heels that are too high and fall flat on my face. Because that would be JUST GREAT.

Yesterday I decided that I would bring some music to the English lesson I was teaching. My student and I have very, well, let's say different, tastes in music. And I had forgotten how hard "fill-in-the-missing-word" activities can get (Oh Robert Davis, please don't kill me for forgetting the official name of those activities. I was a good student!), especially when the Beastie Boys talk too fast and Ben Folds swallows the end of his words! STOP IT Ben. What are you thinking? I mean, I do the same thing, but I don't have a recording career and no one would ever potentially use me to teach English comprehension. Besides the ten million times I listened to those two yesterday, the apartment has been grooving out to Sporto Kantes (Maria and I are both part owners of the cd, and Kelsey owns exactly one cent of it. I would have bought the entire thing myself, possibly even twice. Check it out, yo. I am impressed), Morcheeba, and yes, finally, Death Cab for Cutie. I just recently realised that I can't keep comparing them to the Postal Service, because there will never be another Give Up, and I should appreciate them as something different. Also Niki told me that I should really just try, because it wasn't that hard, and then lent me Plans. I predicted that I would spend a good part of my summer lying on the couch listening to it, and this prophecy is on its way to being true. Don't judge me because I started with their lastest album- availability people, availablity!

So many other little things- this week was the fete de la musique, tonight I watched France beat Togo in the first World Cup match of this year that I've managed to catch (no tv, went to Laurie and Vincent's), this weekend is the fete du cinema, I built Ikea furniture using a screwdriver as a hammer and managed to make decent pate brise despite the heat and the butter's desire to melt rather than be room temperature.

Now I'm going to go to bed and stare out the window at the Credit Lyonnais tower, which is strangely reassuring.