1:20 p. m. » Barcelona

I'm in Barcelona. I have very little time, but I´ll tell you a bit about things here. Our apartment has three levels, the third having an office and a private roof terrace type thing. You can see the sea from my bedroom window, and some Gaudí from the livingroom. We live three blocks from the Metro, and three in the opposite direction from the beach.

I was assembling a futon last night when Séréna and Céline came in with a large bowl of muscles. We sat on the floor in the middle of a semi-empty room and ate.

I still haven´t said much about these two, but I will soon. SORRY THIS POST SUCKED.

10:32 a. m. » Bad News

Not much time for a thorough update, but a couple of days ago Emma and Elsa gave me kisses and told me that they loved me. Séréna, the girl with whom I'll be living, gave me a three-inch gauge across my forehead with her goddam talons, and told me that we're not friends. All her mom said was, "Yeah, we're gonna have to cut her nails."

1:27 p. m. » The Roadtrip and the Kids

This morning I awoke in the rear of a camping car, parked at a random rest stop, in the south of France, near the sea I think. I have been in the company of Didier whom I trust, know fairly well, and enjoy spending time with. Needless to say, I feel a bit more at peace than usual, and there's a sort of gentleness reciprocating between me and my surroundings. Last night we drove to Lyon again, dropping his daughter, Marie, whom I previously described as the girl I may someday marry, at the airport. I'm quite sad that I may never have a chance to see her again, as we shared many laughs, and educational (for me) coversations (that, as you could guess, were drastically limited for obvious reasons). I've made connections with a few of the children. Aurélion, the ten year-old who consoled me about long distance relationships. Emma, the five year-old, who after seeing me yell at the dog, laughed and informed me that French dogs don't understand English. They will be missed -- their big eyes and their ridiculously French haircuts.

By the way, yesterday as I sat at the poolside, at the house in which I'm currently living, one of the young boys was playing with a toy car, yelling "Oh no! It's President Bush's car! Oh no! It's falling into the sea!" as he threw it into the water, "Oh no! He's swimming! Oh no! The sharks! Oh no! He's dead! President Bush is dead! DOMMAGE!" Earlier, his younger female cousins walked into the kitchen wearing nothing but undies and long, elegant, ballroom dress gloves. He turned to me (he's 10 years-old) and said, "The definition of fashion." These kids will kill me before anyone else has the chance...

I got off topic there, but anyhow, we then drove to southern France to drop off the beast vehicle thing. We drove Didier's 1987 Renault back through the countryside, alongside fields of lavender, olives, grapes, and apples. We stopped to pick a few blossoms of said flower, resting, enjoying the fresh smell, standard in this area. I am back in downtown Grenoble -- probably for the last time.

Cécile arrives in an hour. Next post should be juicy.

I breakfasted on a terrace today, as the sun was rising. Flowers hugged the edges, everything was as gold as Ponyboy, and the croissants, bread, and chocolate were delicious, as expected. The house had a wide screen television, two computers, a pool lined with stones, a large yard, and a wood burning stove. It was obvious that these people had money -- or at least that's what they wanted me to think.

So, like I said, I've been using Virginia Woolf as relaxation time. It may be a place and time type of thing, but some of the passages are quite powerful. I'd like to discuss her stream of consciousness writing style or the way that she shifts topics and characters, but it all seems too fragile.

This post totally makes me sound like a homo.

1:13 p. m. » Lyon Quick

Again, I have so little time. There is so much to discuss, but so little time to do so. When I am settled in Barcelona, I hope to have more computer time, or maybe I don't. Emails take priority.

Yesterday I wandered the city of Lyon, which was once the capital of France. I saw a pair of street performers, one playing the fiddle and one the accordian; a transvestite picked up for prostitution; and a dude on rollerblades!

The city seemed safe enough, but the French people are masters of deception! While waiting to use a telephone booth I made friends with a young French man of (apparently) Turkish decent. He called out to all the ladies who passed with words and comments that I could not understand. Once, though, I did hear him say, "Oh! Finally! It's my three little mouseketeers!"

11:48 a. m. » Quick Beef

I have very little time for this right now -- still, I found it necessary to report that I've been fed a steak of ground beef, served almost raw. I've begun taking my reserve of antibiotics. I'm going to stop it before it starts. I'll get through this, I swear, God willing or not.

11:07 a. m. » The Restaurant and the People

The night before last I ate at a restaurant with the family. Three year-old Elsa wanted to sit on my lap -- which freaked me out. I'd never even given her anything. Why should these kids love me so much anyway? Is it because they can say what they want with no consequence? Doubtful. I follow most everything of what they say, and it seems innocent. You never know with that sarcasm though. Who knows. Maybe they start them young here. I had a duck platter (with quiche and a stuffed tomato), wine, and tirimisu. All were, naturally, delicious. Though she'd surely completely sussed me out, the waitress, apparently, thought better of it NOT to poison my food -- nor that of the family that is harboring me. The next day though, suspiciously enough, Jaqueline seemed surprised that I hadn't been sick the night before.

I'm back to thinking that the entire French population wants me dead. Random passerbys on the street are, and so graciously, giving me a complex. Do I have a staring problem? I think not. Odds are it's the people here as a whole. They know. They know. Never have I found myself living in such general social fear and self consciousness. I can't begin to describe the extent of deterioration to which my confidence and/or soul has/have already been subjected. I think I'm supposed to be hating myself. This might be the end. Thank God that this family has the decency to at least uphold this charade of hospitality, if that's what it is. I play little games with myself as I walk among the crowds -- maybe because I then feel a bit less lonely? I always lose. I swear to God it's their fault, but I can't help it.

I bought the jeans, and they were ridiculously expensive. You may be pleased to know though that the store clerk was such a fucking gentleman that he cut 3 euros off the price. My luck with these people may be changing afterall.

4:50 p. m. » The 35 Year-Old and the 4 Year-Old

I should have brought more French music. The English and American stuff just isn't going to cut it. What I need is total immersion for the purpose of language learning. Alizée will continue as my album of choice for days to come.

About Cécile. I am told time and time again that she is crazy. They can't find words to describe her, but have no problem conjuring facial expressions. She does not know organization. She seldom plans, but without hesitation does what she will. She loves the idea of and word "maybe." She told me that she'd be here at the beginning of July. Just before coming I learned that she would not be arriving until the 20th. Just yesterday she called and reported that she would no longer be coming then, but on the following Friday. I've come to believe that this woman is not in touch with reality.

Her daughter, Seréna, I've also heard plenty about. Her cousins tell me that she likes to pinch and pull hair. I've heard the word "difficult" used to describe her a few too many times. She's intelligent, and she always knows (and gets) what she wants. They say it's ok though because she listens to men. Christ, haven't they noticed that I'm not a man? I'm told it's important to be firm and strict at least at first. Why am I such a goddam pussy? This girl has never had male influence in her life. I've been told on two occasions that she's probably going to think I'm her father. I'm now convinced it's this family that's trying to kill me.

4:21 p. m. » Sleep and this House

Yesterday I'm sure I lost 10 pounds. I wanted a particular type of crêpe, and as I did what I could to lead myself to a state of being hopelessly lost, I kept an eye open for crêperies (sp?). After walking enough to burn two or three meals and eating nothing (in fear of sustaining zero appetite for that which I craved) I found what I was looking for. I walked for eight hours, stopping only twice for drinks, once for said meal, and once, of course, for the internet.

When I'm not walking, I'm speaking, listening to, or studying French. While walking, I'm typically thinking about French. Overkill. At times, and under this ridiculous sun, I feel more exhausted than I can ever remember feeling before. The thought of moving to a city where I speak not a word of its language, while taking lessons for another, while still speaking another in the apartment sounds, well, it sounds like death. I'm certain of it. I'm, unfortunately, beginning to give in to my initial suspicions that someone here is trying to kill me.

My sleep is being spread over longer lots of time, and is, thus, thinner. I remember my dreams. The last was blessed with the presence of Emily Rock and someone from my last job and it took place at IBM just after leaving Allen Carmichael's bedroom where my old neigbor and his ex-girlfriend (neither of whom I've ever really spoken with) were playing some strange sort of slumber party game. Also these loud noises throughout the night are so not necessary. The theme my dreams share is that I'm consistently in a state of alarm and danger because I feel that I'm doing something wrong or that's not allowed.

I awoke suddenly just after falling asleep last night because my door burst open and I realized that I'd been hearing bits of scratches. I saw the cat, which can evidently open doors, and said something, half asleep, in German I guess. The cat retreated. When I share space with the feline species, it's inevitable that I get the feeling that it's me versus them.

Earlier in the day, five year-old Emma came into my room while I was napping, and she told me she wanted to sing me an English song. She proceeded to sing the alphabet -- in French. I told her it was beautiful, thanked her and fell back to sleep.

It's fucking hot here, but I don't mind. I swear to God this house is trying to kill me, and after reading what you just have, you may agree, but still -- I can't believe how bad my handwriting is.

I promised to tell you about Cécile and Serene, but that can wait. Obviously there were more pressing matters to discuss.

1:12 p. m. » The French Language and the City of Grenoble

After only a few days I've finally gotten the comprehension back under control. Expressing myself remains difficult, but that's certainly not something I hadn't already grown used to in everday life. The children have been strangely supportive, asking if the language is difficult. I'd expected to be antogonized and laughed at. One of them, I'm sure, is gay, because he keeps looking at me.

Yesterday I took a bus from the small village of Uriage (where I am currently living) to the city of Grenoble. It was only a ten minute ride, but the bus system in this city is a nightmare. There are four or five different companies that run different bus lines, and there are also the street trains. The story of how difficult it was for me to get home is not worth telling; nor is the that of the two female semi-pubescents laughing at my accent. I could tell you about the cutish gas station clerk who asked if I had coins -- that is, if that there wasn't already all there was to tell. nbsp;
 
Today I did my best to get lost, but it unfortunately did not work. I'd never had a chance to stroll the area here, and I've decided that the city is nice. I even found a pair of jeans I'd like to buy. Unfortunately, just before I flew, my debit card was lost, and I'm walking around with a temporary ATM card with a 40€ daily limit. I've been withdrawing the max daily, to ensure a sufficient flow, but the $2 charge each day is less than cool. Anyway, I have not yet accumulated the funds for these pants, but promise to let you all know when I do. I'm going to need some shoes maybe as well.
 
I was only joking when I accused Charles of being a drug pusher -- he just likes warm, flat beer.
 
I have not yet met the woman and child with whom I will be living. I have made inquiries though. More on them later.

5:22 p. m. » UK and French Children

By the way. I've already met a crazy -- and in the UK. His name was Charles and he must have been a drug pusher of some kind. I'd never met him, but we had a few hours worth of matters to discuss. His excessive contempt for the Jewish race was unacceptable. This managed not to hinder our relationship too greatly -- but still, these people are tense.
 
The French children are easy to get along with -- namely  because it seems people pretending to know what they're talking about is something they're used to. A five year-old girl read 8 books to me yesterday. A twelve year-old told me that he hated the USA, but thought I seemed nice. There's a seven year-old girl named Marie, whom I'm certain will one day be my wife if things don't work out with Lindsay.

5:13 p. m. » Arrival

I've arrived safely. Nothing too extraordinary has yet come to pass. Yesterday I awoke from a mulit-hour nap to find a random, naked blonde woman wandering through the front hallway. She denied acknowledging my presence, but I'm fairly certain the century-old creaking staircase gave me up. She disappeared into the basement, which I assume must have an exit and, as I was the only one home, I quickly decided not to report what I'd seen to anyone.

More to come.