Living here feels like an evil megatron Bob Saget descended upon the city of Marseille vomitting 1987 and hobo piss throughout the south of France, getting back at them for having to pay to use the public restrooms. My natural instinct is to rebel and save my sanity by visiting one of several local McDo’s (because that’s what the cool kids call it) on a regular basis, but I go to inhale the fumes of capitalism, heart disease and soy filler only to find my peaceful sanctum corrupted. The counter maid can’t understand me because I refuse to say “Beeeeg Maaahk” with a French accent. “Mac” should not rhyme with “cock.” Then, I sit down with my freedom fries and coca-light in hand only to find myself surrounded by Frenchlings attempting to sing along with “my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumps” – “Mah hom, mah hom, mah lah-veh-lay lah-day lom.” But aside from the mass memorization of Black Eyed Peas lyrics they don’t understand (though I will admit that I don’t understand them either) and occasional voyages to the Hot Topic online store, the youth culture here seems to gain most of its influence from Heathers.

Anyone who suffers from francophilia, strangely absent from the DSM-IV, could easily cure him or herself by coming and living here for I have never before seen such a combination of orange track jackets, side ponytails, camouflage, spike heels, cowboy boots, rhinestone belts, teased hair and thick eyeliner outside of Japan. It’s like a sugar-coated time-release capsule. The men take longer to get dressed than the women and the women, once they snag a man, seem to signify the success of their hunt with a butch haircut. The transvestites, and good lord have I seen an inordinate amount of them, are more masculine than the men. Safe to say my gaydar is down for the remainder of the semester.

My favorite part, however, despite the sheer hilarity of guys wearing makeup and tight jeans with a mullet, is the ubiquitous pile of dog shit on the sidewalk. I make the best of it by pretending to be playing hopscotch.

There are some benefits to living in France, of course, such as the fact that nobody speaks English. (Whatever you heard about Europeans all speaking English- it’s wrong.) Last night I called my host brother “fucktard” three times and all he did was smile and nod. Even the greatness that is Engrish.com cannot emulate the experience of actually living in a foreign country where the most comprehensive pickup line I have received so far walking down the street with another chick was, “Good, two. Two good. TWO GOOD!” And if there’s Aramark here, I haven’t seen it. People here don’t fully cook their meat or refrigerate their milk so I don’t really need Aramark to maintain the same digestive patterns to which I have become accustomed at Brandeis, but even so, the food here is preferable to whatever the hell it is they put in that pizza.

The people here are also insanely nice- I have no idea where all those rumors about the French being nasty and rude got started…oh yeah, Paris. But in Marseille everyone’s just really impressed by my ability to speak their language because they were all sure that Americans were too busy bastardizing our own language through gangster rap and the Bush administration to bastardize theirs. And they worship the size of my breasts, which are about three times larger than all the body fat of all the women in France put together. An American D is a French quadruple zed. When I walk into a store looking for a bra they take one look at my chest and offer me a small yacht. I didn’t even know that lingerie stores here sold yachts. But that’s the French for you, always prepared…