Bonjour. Comment allez-vous? Bon?
...I speak zero french. Yet here I am, in Paris, through some sort of miraculous class that Professor Green happened to mention in the midst of our Shakespeare discussion. I have been trying to study abroad...no...I have been trying to flee the country since my sixth grade report on Italy, in which I was asked to keep a travel log, pretending that I had actually visited all the fabulous places that I'd seen in my National Geographic magazines. That was only minorly torturous, Mr. McCarroll.
Various circumstances ranging from the idiotic to the apocalyptic kept me grounded in Los Angeles throughout college, so to hear of a class that I could take post-grad on USC's dime in PARIS was thrilling, to say the least.
I should casually mention that the class happens to be the most wonderful program ever conceived for English nerds like myself. Taught by Professor Cecelia Woloch, a published poet and total sweetheart at her apartment in Paris, I will be learning to write poetry in the old haunts of Baudelaire, Appollinaire, Rimbaud, Hemingway, and Joyce. Cecelia will also call upon her similarly esteemed poet friends (Heather Hartley, Marilyn Hacker, Margo Berdeshevsky, Christophe Lamiot-Enos, and Jeffery Greene) to workshop our poems with us. We shall go to literary salons, read and discuss in cafes, and roam the streets as we take in the poetry of Paris.
...Gaggg. The loveliness is almost sickening. Who actually does this? Me apparently. I am happily becoming the most wonderful academic cliche in the most beautiful city in the world. I hope you're just as disgusted by my shmoopy-ness as I would be were I not participating in it.
Here we go.
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