Perigueux

Last night, I took the train from Paris south to Perigueux, the city I am placed in this year. 

The train ride through the French countryside was beautiful, and also smelly. I hate to confirm the stereotype that there is always a lingering smell of body odor in most enclosed spaces in France, but so far it has proved to be at least 60% true. I don't really mind, I hate showering as much as the next person, but I think we all know what happened to Jerry Seinfeld when he borrowed that B.O filled car. That smell will follow you around for DAYS. Luckily I don't have any street cred to worry about here. Yet. 

I was also (again) preoccupied with murderous thoughts toward my damn suitcase whilst on the metro to get to the train station. It continues to be a thorn in my side, and is really interfering with my ability to keep it real in my current nomadic situation. There was a reason nomads didn't carry 45 pound blaze orange duffel bags on wheels and I just learned it the hard way. The rolling suitcase I have is fine. But everybody, for the love of jebus please promise me you will never purchase a duffel bag on wheels. I got to Perigueux, checked into my hotel, and wandered the city that will be my home for the next few months. Being a fairly small town (30,000), it was pretty much a ghost town on a Sunday night. It's pretty adorable, though, with lots of cobblestone town squares, shops, cafes, and restaurants. I also found this place, of which I expect to be a frequent costumer:

Today I decided to switch hotels because I found one that was $20 cheaper per night, although unfortunately also in an apparently secret location across town (why I will spend $10 on a mojito the size of a juice glass but not $20 to preserve my sanity remains a mystery). I looked for that place for 2 hours, enlisting the help of multiple passerby who had never heard of it. I walked through the rain with my goddamn 80 pounds of luggage, and even accidentally rolled my large-and-in-charge suitcase through a pile of dog poop (it's everywhere). At first I was disgusted and annoyed, but then I looked down at the suitcase I hate so much, and gave it a look that said "that's what you get for being so annoying" and decided that karma was definitely at work here. Fortunately, due to the sudden rainstorm I rolled through enough puddles to allow me to convince myself that the dog poop is no longer present. Regardless, I won't be eating off the floor for awhile. We all have to make sacrifices sometimes. 

I asked again for directions, which this time led me about a mile down a different road and finally, up the steepest hill I've ever seen. I was starting to wonder why there were "private property" signs everywhere when an elderly lady and her dog emerged from her house and yelled at me to go away. I tried to ask where the hotel was and explained that I was simply lost, but then she started waving her cane at me and I didn't really want to find out how fierce that dog was. It probably weighed as much as Kate Middleton, so I know I could definitely kill it by sitting on it, but I didn't feel that being forced to kill a dog was the best way to start a the year in a new city. After two hours with all my luggage, up and down hills, through the rain and dog feces, I admitted defeat. On the way back, a man saw me struggling with the f-ing suitcase and offered me a ride to wherever I was going, but I declined on the off chance he turned out to be creepy. I really don't have the language skills to negotiate myself out of an abduction right now. A few months down the road, we'll see. 

After re-checking into my hotel, which was very confusing for the lady with whom I'd just checked out with two hours earlier, I went explore the Dorogne Riverwalk. It's very beautiful, full of old people out for walks together. I decided that if I want a chance at eating a home cooked french meal, I'll probably have to network around there. There's nothing wrong with cruising for elderly friends by the river, right? There's worse people you can pick up on the streets. Trust me (just kidding, mom). After school hours, the river path was filled up with groups high schoolers huddled together smoking cigarettes. I think this area might be the American small town social scene equivalent of a Wal Mart, only I didn't see anyone trying to pass off a mesh bag as a dress and everyone I saw was still in possession of all their teeth. The French always do everything just a LITTLE bit classier than we do. 

I am going to leave you with a picture of the bane of my existence and then I will promise not to discuss it anymore. Know that it's worse than it looks, and that as far as enemies go, I do realize I'm pretty lucky that mine does not have the ability to talk or move. Goodnight peeps.

Don't pretend you aren't jealous of that carpeting.