First of all, sorry, internet hasn't been working!

A few days ago...

It was one of those days when you wake up knowing you won't go back to sleep before the pigeon coos, you've already forgotten your dream, and you realize you bought coffee beans instead of grounds.

I go out to do some errands before my afternoon classes. Off to the Tour de Bretagne, the only excuse for a skyscraper Nantes has to offer, and the likely place to do some business. Not unlike the Tour de Montparnasse of Paris, this building is a late seventies icon of modernity. In other words, it's an eyesore. The stark rectangle of metal and glass seems to be a proclamation, saying "Look at me, stand in my shadows, this is an urban center!" But, compared to the comfortable skyline of roughly six floors of creamy, Haussemann style buildings with little cherub faces under swirly iron balconies, this building just doesn't fit in, it's not French enough. In fact,the closer I get to it, the more I feel like this building could be anywhere in the world, and nowhere in particular.

Inside, it's actually even less welcoming than its reality-obscuring glass exterior. An unfriendly person at the welcome desk ignores you until he looks at you like you're an idiot. After you tell him why you're there, he kindly presses something which lets you pass through the barriers, which are like entrances to subways that block you if you're ticketless, in this case blocking you for coming in the door.

After all that, and five more steps forward, I wait for another door, the elevator. There's other people gathered there, also nervous, confused, and no doubt likewise irritated at having to wait for the one elevator that works at such a "modern" building.

When I show up where I'm supposed to be, I'm in an office. But, it's no ordinary place. Even before I enter, I notice unusually loud elevator music coming from the speakers of a desktop computer, classical instruments playing unrecognizable, light melodies. Behind the L-shaped desk, and it's ill-fitting desk worker, plants are bursting out from different sized pots on assorted platforms. You can tell he really cares about them because they've all got little self-printed name tags, which somehow classify one thin-leaved green plant from the next. I wonder if he's into Zen or New Age. Maybe he's following a holistic prescription to cope with anxiety or anger management. His figure doesn't match his office. He's the kind of person who rests his arm on his belly when he talks on the phone.

Anyway, I find out my visa has, in his words, "conneries" written on it. Okay, great, just my most important official document. After an interlude of phone calls, he tells me I have to go back to the very same Prefecture that sent me to this ugly building in the first place, now with some freshly stamped documents in hand. Then I should be fine, legally. After a long sigh, not quite one of relief, I decide to temporarily put that out my head and head to work.

Promise I'll write about that subject next.