Stranger in a Strange-ish Land

Montreal is strange, even considering the peculiar nature of airports. Everything is JUST foreign enough, a mere 205 miles from where I grew up, to be disconcerting. Part of it is the French, of course, but also, ever man is ever so slightly better groomed. Every woman's pants are just a bit tighter, and there's more fur trim.

Also, an airport cop just rode by me on a bike. In the terminal. Well then.

Now, I'm sure some of this is the delirium talking. In the past...let's see...31.5 hours of my life, I've only had 1.25 hours sleep. I'm not of sound mind and body right now, but Montreal is also JUST sophisticated enough and I'm JUST far enough out of my twenties that I'm not willing to sprawl out on this nice, cushiony bistro bench, entwined with my luggage in an awkward embrace, and pass out. I think having a suitcase with wheels instead of backpack straps has ruined my sense of impropriety, at least for the present.

See, this makes me wish that I did accidentally purchase that first class upgrade. (Backstory: I was attempting to check in online in the early hours of the morning, and when I thought I was entering my credit card number to pay for my luggage overage, I was really expressing my intent to purchase an $800 upgrade to first class.) Fortuitously - or not, depending on how closely I'm paying attention to my exhaustion - there were no more upgrades available at that moment, and the purchase was unsuccessful. Now, that near miss has led to hallucinations of a full bed on the plane, and a lounge somewhere in this airport with comfy couches, free food, and attentive Air Canada employees. I'm sure I'll be glad I didn't spend the money after I've reached Belgrade and slept for, oh, I don't know, three days and can use the money to go to Greece or something. But for now, oh, what could have been...

My last piece of momentus news has nigh to do with my slightly off-kilter feeling in Montreal. In emailing my landlord, I have discovered that AirBNB failed to convey my dates of residence to her properly, and my apartment in double booked. By the time I get to Belgrade, I will have traveled close to 24 hours, and I will arrive with close to 150 pounds of luggage. I. Am. Keeping. This. Apartment.

Next up: I learn precisely how much German I have forgotten. Maybe I'll dig out DuoLingo.

EDIT: I just realized I'm wearing the exact same sweater that I had on inside out in my first post. Henceforth it shall be called the Blog Sweater.

Just another day in the Dungeon

I've tried to start a blog so very many times. After all, I have THINGS TO SAY! I could be A (not the; that's hubris) VOICE OF MY GENERATION! The problem is, I keep getting mired down in trying to be thoughtful and meaningful while writing like Fitzgerald. Rookie mistake, I guess. What I have to say below introduces me and my "authorial voice" far better than some faux profundity. So, consider this my hello and welcome to my Grad School Wasteland.

What I am actually wearing today:

• Giant stretchy GAP black yoga pants that are only 37% covered in cat hair
• A blue tank top that under other circumstances might be considered cute
• A black Mr. Rodgers-esque sweater, if Mr. Rodgers had sweaters made of cheap GAP rayon
• Leopard print fleece socks because it's freezing in my basement TA office
• Black reasonably nice name-brand ballet flats because they were closest to the door of my house and CLEARLY the best choice to trudge through a snowy yard
• A Red Sox cap to cover my unwashed hair

(When I am at my desk, this is all covered up by the giant fleece New England Patriots blanket I am using to stay warm since Huge State School has apparently decided not to pay their heating bill.)

Something that actually just happened to me:

I ventured out of my office to go down the creepy underground passage to the vending machines, because even though I profess to prefer "real food" with "real ingredients", I could not resist the pull of a vending machine Strawberry Cheese Danish. Working on campus all day on a Sunday should have its benefits, after all.

I scavenged the darkest reaches of my backpack and wallet for change, stood up, and tried to put said change in my sweater pocket. Puzzlingly, the pocket seemed to have disappeared. A quick visual inspection of my sweater revealed that there appeared to still be the outline of a pocket, so why can't I --

Oh. My sweater is on inside out. I have been here for four hours. Fortunately, I'm alone.

Welcome to year four of grad school, folks.