And so, it begins.

I must say, of all the airlines I have flown on, Icelandair appears the most patriotic. Perhaps because they are the one of the few airlines based in Iceland, perhaps because half the employees work part-time in the legislature, my trip to France had me hankering to spend some tourist dollars in Iceland. They name each plane after an Icelandic volcano. The coffee cups offer lessons in Icelandic. The back-of-the-seat tv’s require a two minute lesson on safety and a three minute lesson on how cool Iceland is. Suffice to say, coming into Keflavik I wanted to, I dunno, ride bareback through some volcanos. And yet circumnstance gave me naught but an exhilirating escalator ride to the second floor of the airport.

The flight from Iceland to Paris was a threshold moment; for I was now one of the few people on the plane who said “whoops” when I doinked someone with my bag. Desperate to retain some aspect of the American cultural bubble, I watched the Lego movie. Thus fortified, I arrived in Paris. Finding the train station ranked high on my list of priorities, it went higher when I realized I didn’t have much time to get there. Eager to employ my finely honed French-speaking ability, I asked an official-looking man what the “most efficient means of getting to the train station” was. To which he replied, “you…red sign…elevator.” Initially confused, I then realized that my brain was redacting certain words to prevent me from becoming too powerful. Grateful, I set off in the direction of the nearest red sign. After a series of fortuitous guesses and well-placed signs, I arrived at the train station. French train stations, perhaps all train stations, are strange in that the location of the train is hidden from you until 20 minutes before the train leaves. Although I see the benefits of a good foot race, I ended up, as the old saying goes, zonk-town population one.

Here I must include a digression about the strangeness that is foreign languages. I find things less strange when I make them into something I understand, and lo: learning a foreign language is like learning how to wield a lightsaber. For me, that makes six years of lightsaber training. Pretty impressive! Yet imagine, for a moment, a society where people have studied the sparkly blade since the day they were born. Now imagine that in this society, lightsaber duels form the basis of communication. Wuzap! Zap! You just got a baguette. Fail to duel skillfully and honorably, however, and the result is awkward pauses, confused looks and much stammering. Imagine I am dropped into this society. I, the young padawan, must square off daily against millions of Yodas. I get whooped by everyone from the cashier to old ladies in the park. Heck, even the family dog thinks I’m inconsistent. And yet, from the ashes of never-ending defeat a new hope rises: most of these highly trained masters of the blade are quite eager to hone my craft. Small improvements: Footwork. Force powers. Etcetera. The analogy shall end here. In any event, languages are weird. Of course, there is much more to a culture than its more noticeable expressions. Perhaps I shall call these other bits, things like kissing cheeks or drinking water without ice, the Force. A mysterious power, yet one I will need to master if I am to become a jedi.

Returning to reality. Zip, zap, zoop and I was in Poitiers. There is perhaps no more delightfully bizarre experience than staying with a host family. Never before have such total strangers shown such warm hospitality to me. I would highly recommend it! Poitiers itself is a remarkably historic city. It is known for, among other things, being the unfortunate victim of a long siege during the religious wars of the 16th century. There are still a few holes in the cathedral from the trebuchets. I kid you not! I would have pictures but I fear I was too excited to do much but gape. I am still in the tourist stage, absorbing much and processing little; actually studying history in Poitiers, which I will be doing in a few short days, will be like getting a glass of fresh whole milk at the Minnesota State Fair: enriching, daunting and straight from the source.

And so. There remains much to be done, and much that is done. Tomorrow I investigate a gathering of board-game and table top roleplaying enthusiasts. Wish me luck.