These past few weeks haven’t been less hectic, even though the final papers are, finally, finished…I’m still waiting on my exam grades despite the fact that exams were in December, my internship is nine hours a day, I have to write a report on that internship of 20 pages not including a work portfolio, a work log, and a presentation, and the “freelancing” I’ve been doing (just odd jobs) seems to be really taking off, which is great when you love to write wine reviews and letters and research arts programs, but not so great when you love to do those things and have no time or energy left for them after work…
To top it all off, life with My Personal Francophone has its ups and downs for us both. It was alarming for a bit, but I think that it’s natural when you’re trying to finish what should be a two-year Master’s in one, working 39 hours a week, writing what amounts to a thesis and trying to earn a little extra income, and he’s writing an 80-page thesis on the relationship between Don Quijote and Sancho (Oops! Am I not supposed to tell anyone what your topic is, ND?), while taking classes, while preparing for practicum at not one, but two, different French-speaking schools, at each of which he has two different classes…and the two of you still, somehow, want to have the time and energy to go out occasionally…
I would like to say, on that note, that two exciting things happened last weekend:
1. I saw “Lincoln.” If you haven’t seen it yet do it NOW. There is no doubt in my mind that Lewis will win the Oscar this year. He’s not Daniel Day Lewis playing Lincoln. He IS Lincoln. I completely forget it was him at all…also, John Williams. ❤ Also America. ❤ ❤
2. We went to this mega-awesome bar in Brussels, called Le Cerceuil. For those whose French, like mine, sounds something like this exchange I had at work earlier today:
Me (to my supervisor): “When is it that you wants the text for the client sent? (Other project manager) has told us that we send to the client every Monday but we doesn’t know if it goes to a revisor first?”
Supervisor (stares politely but a little blankly at me for a second): “I’ll…check, and let you know.”
“Le Cerceuil” means “The Coffin”. Which explains why My Personal Francophone never knows what I’m talking about when I say “Let’s go to ‘The Circle” this weekend!” And also explains why I’ve only been there once before last weekend.
It’s every Goth’s deepest desire. The tables are coffins, some closed, and some open to reveal glowing skeletons. Patrons drink out of skull goblets while sitting on red couches over candles, and their drinks are strangely colored and named: Satan’s Aphrodisiac, Demon Sperm, Cadaver Urine. In the back room, it’s red-lit black walls and a painting of a coat rack bearing coats, an umbrella, and a mournful-looking severed head. Words painted in script name the room “The Sepulchre”.
I had Cadaver Urine (rum and amaretto). My Personal Francophone had Demon Liquor. And I kind of wished we had been there on Halloween rather than in Luxembourg. (I did bring it up that day, but since I called it “The Circle” he justifiably had no idea what I was talking about.)
And no, I did not, at all, even remotely consider the applicability, this past weekend, of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.