If someone asked me to introduce myself five months ago I would have said that I was a young socialist and aspiring journalist. After spending a certain amount of time in the United States, I would add that I am French. As a matter of fact, more than making me American, moving to Washington DC made me French. It is really hard to admit for someone like me who was scandalized by our President’s debate on French identity and who claimed to be a citizen of the world. Yet, last November, after spending around three months at GW, I started to miss French brioche and baguette and I still couldn’t understand why Americans were against universal health care.
To make it simple:
I am a socialist, which means that I support the Occupy movement, I am progressive, I read Marx and grew up in a city that used to be communist. I don’t know the French anthem but I know the Internationale by heart.
I want to be a journalist, which means that I always carry my camera with me, that I am writing all the time and that I have a photo of Bob Woodward above my desk at home.
I live in City Hall, which means that I can certify that it looks like the hotel in The Shining and that I have been locked out my room several times since the beginning of the year. I am also the one who plays ukulele at 2:00 AM (sorry).
I am French, which means that I complain all the time (about food, about advertising, about drivers…), that I always blame others when I make a mistake, that I love sarcasm and that I already knew who Marion Cotillard was ten years ago. Yet, I don’t drink wine and I don’t like cheese, which doesn’t mean that I was adopted.
I am European… which means that I am soon going to be in serious financial difficulties.
Otherwise there is really not much to say except that I am not a good cook, nor a good musician, nor an athlete…
And that I will be blogging about all this during spring semester.