Saturday, January 28, 2012

18. 2(Xen)



That title, there, is a mathy play on words. See, I've got the quantity of Xen multiplied by two, which you can also say as Xen times two.  And, see, it's part two of the Xen Times blog, so...get it?

Hmp. Anyway, we pick up where I left off. 

Saturday Megan had to work again. I suppose it is the reason we came here, but I was coming to realize just how it much sucks not speaking French. I've thought my French, while not good, wasn't terrible. But what little French I have gets scant practice. If Megan's with me, she does the talking, so I pretty much just buy croissants in the morning, beer at Villa Borghese, and brief interactions at the grocery store (“No, I don't have a fidelity card,” “I'm using American Express,” etc). And I can read signs sort of okay, but usually I have her there to double check with.



Friday, January 27, 2012

17. Xen Times




My brother came to town. Xen's my youngest brother, thirteen years my junior. Megan and I wanted to show him a good time in a town that we live in, but rarely go all tourist-ey in.
That's him there on the left, plus, like, 20 years.

And thus began a madcap tour of more museums and attractions than even Mike and Monica (Megan's parents) saw when they were here (that was over New Year's, and I'm getting to it). I found that even with my meager French, even though I've been here for a while, it's hard to get by without my compass rose, the star by which Petit Bateau sails, the soon-to-be Dr. Megan McMullan. It also made me wish I had a pedomoter.

Friday, January 13, 2012

16. Recloses recluses


I have always been a bit of a firebug, ladies and gentlemen. Well, I say a bit, but...



I almost burned down our neighbors' house when I was little. A friend of mine and I sneaked into their basement. My mom found us there because of the smoke billowing out of the cellar door from the cardboard boxes we were lighting on fire.

Being forced to apologize to my neighbor, though terrifying, did not cure me. I carried two boxes of wooden matches around in my pocket always; the cardboard book kind were useless, hard to light and no good as tinder. I had them in my pocket when I was playing soccer a couple years later (well, football, actually; we were in England at the time). When I blocked a goal with my thigh the two boxes, or maybe all those match heads themselves, rubbed together and burst into flame.