My silly schoolgirl crush on le foxy facteur is indulged once again.  This morning, I get dressed, and instead of wearing my usual t-shirt and capris, I wear a t-shirt and a skirt.  I even put on some red lipgloss, as opposed to the neutral color I usually wear.  Yes, gentle readers, I tarted up slighly for the Postman, in hopes that he might look my way.  This morning I left the appartment a shade too early, and he was nowhere to be seen.  I muttered, “damnation,” under my breath and proceeded to stop every few feet and crane my neck just a bit, in case I saw his bicycle.  Satisfied (or rather, dissatisfied) that I had blown it, I went to the train station with the intention of buying my train tickets to Arles. 

Not since my sojourn in Poland at the end of the Communist era have I met a people so inured to waiting in pointless lines.  After 20 minutes of going (nearly) nowhere, I gave up with the intention of heading off to the SNCF boutique near the tourism office.  As I left the station, who should I see, delivering mail on my street, raven curls tousled lightly by the breeze?  Ah yes, M. La Poste.  I pause.  Should I make a pretense of going back to the appartment, all the better for path-crossing?  I had no real reason.  And yet, he is a smoldering civil servant.  So yes, I went back to the appartment.  By this time, I have decided that it wouldn’t hurt to put some band-aids on my feet, since my shoes have a tendency to rub me the wrong way.  I run upstairs, slap on some band-aids, and run back downstairs.  And yes, I suppose it was a bit like stalking, but we’ll ignore that for the moment.  As I approached him, I smiled.  He smiled a sly smile.

“Bonjour,” he said.
“Bonjour,” I replied.

Yes, at this rate, I would have to live in Grenoble for a year before any progress was made.  And yes, next week my schedule changes, and I won’t be able to make eyes at the mailman.  Nevertheless, it gave my day a boost; as it turns out, it was sorely needed.

In class today, the instructor said that she had our first assignments to turn back in, but that the news isn’t good.  Apparently, the class as a whole has poor written grammar.  She has to rethink the class schedule.  Some people did all right, but the rest did not, in her opinion, have the appropriate skills for the course level.  Of course, we would have to wait until the end of class to get our homework back.  I worried, because not only is that my nature, but because if my written French grammar stinks, then je suis screwed.  After all, a huge part of the application for a graduate program in French is the French writing sample.

Long story short, I got an “A” on the writing assignment.  Apparently, I was one of the exceptions, not the rule.

But the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth.  I suppose I should be content to loaf, earn some easy credits, and coast through the summer.  But, as anyone who reads this blog knows, I am a full-on, apple-polishing, extra-credit-doing school nerd.  And it is against my nature to coast.  Plus, it will be boring for me.  The whole thing cheesed me off.

Better to think of the dreamy postman.

And maybe I should get around to buying those train tickets.