Foucault fo sho has been providing amusing dispatches about her trip to IMEC to study Foucault for her thesis.
At last I found myself at my destination, the beautiful Abbey. Pictures will come tomorrow, as I am exhausted. Fortunately, the one woman who speaks english at the Abbey was working today and was very helpful. She also gave me a much needed cup of coffee, breaking my two week long detox from any caffinated product (which is quite the accomplishment given I was having a huge thermos of coffee, a soda, and a double shot of expresso to get me through my work day and dancing habit). She introduced me to the Directer of the archives who greeted me with a long and warm welcome of which I understood nothing. The woman explained that I could read but not speak french and the woman said “You do know that Foucault writes in French?” Ouch. That was some colder than ice stuff there. I nodded my head and said “oui.” (for the record, the abbey has stuff in both french and english)
Demoralized, I was ready to give up on the day, so exhausted I was sure the whole day had to be a dream. But it turns out dinner isn’t served monday nights so I needed to bike to the grocery store. Well it turns out that I haven’t biked since I was, oh about 6. The fact that the bike was made for a 6′ 10” man and they couldn’t lower the seat didn’t help either. I had to stand on my tippy toes with one foot and quickly swing the other leg over before I fell. I almost ate it every time I stopped because I would have to let the bike fall a bit before my feet could touch the ground. After traveling on streets with no names, making my map useless, and realizing that I had foolishly set out looking for a grocery store without knowing what grocery store was in french I contemplated how long I could go with out food, and if the answer was not very, which cow would go first :p. Then, miraculously, I found it. I picked up a scrumptious dinner of fresh french bread, brie, grapes, and the biggest bottle of syrah I could find and suddenly the grocery store was my new favorite place. All I needed to know was “pardon” and “merci” to make my way in and out.
Filed under: Foucault