I could tell you about the most amazing field trip ever, how prostitutes are scared of barbarians, or uninteresting stuff like the fact that I spend half my days covered in printing inks now.
But no.
Because our week in Angoulême by far tops the list of Worst Case Scenarios.
Uh, where do I even start?
On Wednesday morning we parted from our perfectly comfy homes in Lacoste, and hopped onto a ten hour bus ride that would take us just past our intended destination, slap bang into the middle of nowhere, with no Wifi, nothing. This is fine, except the place looked like something straight out of a Horror film, and all it needed was a bunch of horny teenagers and an unsuspected serial killer/rapist to fill its desolate, mossy holes.
Mossy isn't too bad of a word to use here, as this is what our temporary homes, misleadingly named "villas," would feel like for the next 50+ hours. The surrounding forest would intrude the inside of our living spaces, but not in a romantic, Florentine Renaissance way, but more in… you know how the word "moist" makes you feel all icky and gross inside? Yeah, like that: Floors accumulated with mud, and showers leaked; some people used spare blankets as makeshift bath mats but these only got unbearable to step on as they soaked through.
Our only freedom from this place was when we got to explore the Festival de la Bande Dessinée (Comic Book Festival) in Angoulême, which happens every year at this time. This was actually pretty cool, I think, and I even though I like to say I don't like reading comic books because I am unreasonably incapable of concentrating on details of speech and details of imagery at the same time, I submitted to buying this little gem.
For those who didn't feel that these 8-hour outings were enough to distract from misery, booze proposed another solution. Enter mindless shouting and running about, and games of Fishbowl dominated by Penis, Pussy, and Ke$ha. We were told we were going to meet some Icelandic people there, which I was looking forward to, but unfortunately the only time I did was when they came knocking at our door at FIVE FUCKING AM IN THE MORNING thinking they had left a wallet at our place.
"Let's hope this isn't a serial killer…!!!"
Primary school camp all over again. Shit just happens when people get too close for comfort. And have no Internet. Good and bad thing?
All in all I wouldn't say this trip was a disaster, but it's good to be breathing Lacostian air again.
French word of the morsel we have left of this week is: Le cauchemar.
As in: Cette semaine a été un cauchemar.
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