Paideia

The idiot and I have been in eachother's company now for a week. She got back into the country on January 21st, but I didn't see her until the morning of the 22nd when Karen and Amelia (host famille) dropped her off at Sequoia. She gave me a hug, which was bizarre because neither us really approve of public affection.

You would be correct in thinking that Reed College students have too much holiday, and that January 22nd would be a timely date to go back to school. This is what I had inferred from the idiot's arrival day - that I would have her to deal with for the weekend and the weekend only, and then she would be busy back to classes by Monday. But as it turns out there's this thing called Paideia (cue wikipedia), thinly veiled under the description 'festival of learning', which affords these tiresome 'reedies' a further 9 days of frivolity. It's basically just a free-for-all opportunity for any aspiring teachers to teach whatever the hell they want, whenever the hell they want ...wherever this hell might take them. She dragged me along to something on the apocalypse on Monday afternoon, led by a Reed alumni who had done his thesis on apocalyptic texts from a denomination I can't remember. He heralded each newcomer to the classroom with the words: 'Hey! Are you looking for the end of the world?' I glowered at him as if I really was looking for the end of the world. And at the end (of the class, not world - although by that time I was wishing for armageddon) I was sure to shoot him a penetrating gaze that clearly stated: 'You may be wearing a smoker's jacket, but that's not going to save you and your jolly self when the monster with a trillion heads comes gambolling down Woodstock Blvd'. The idiot told me to stop being so contrary. On Tuesday we attended 'alcohol desserts' briefly, but the ingredients never showed up so we defected to baklava-making in the next door dorms. For someone who claims to love cookery, the idiot did a remarkable job in safeguarding the recipe from possible ambush, and supping gin from a plastic cup, and alerting the others to dropped pistachio nuts. On Wednesday there was an adorable anglophile convention at the Doctor Who paideia (teacher = student in a fez and a bow tie), and then at night she and Aurore competed in the 'Homer's Hut cook-off' from 11pm-12.30am, getting placed third out of five teams with their (judge quote) 'actually quite delicious but not sophisticated enough for a competition of this calibre' knickerbockerglory. Homer's Hut, by the way, is the campus late-night food outlet, mainly selling E number snacks, and the concomitant pharmaceutical solutions to deal with said E numbers. Accordingly, the people's favourite entry (placed last) was the 'pepto-cano': an open jar of pepto-bismol, spilling wiggly jelly worms, encased in a squidge of chocolate cake and a creamy substance of unknown origin, scattered elegantly with fruit loops. The knickerbockerglory assemblage bridged the division between the 26th and the 27th of January, giving the idiot a pretty good start to her birthday. On Thursday (birthday) I put my foot down and refused to attend the 'comicsocalypse' with her in the afternoon, and the same went for that 6 hour calligraphy class on Friday, but she returned from both with sudden and unnerving pretensions to artyness. Gross.

The rest of this 'learning' love-in week mainly took place in Portland, which I must admit is turning into quite the town. It even warrants its own comedy show on IFC. Over break the idiot's mum read an article in The Times about Oregon being the new foodie destination, with particular showcasing of Portland. The food cart list is proving to be, perhaps, too ambitious, but we're going to try our hardest to get through as many as we can before May. I'm not going to want to leave here. Neither's she. On Monday night of Paideia we went to see this wonderful animation in the NW Film Center (My Dog Tulip), about J. R. Ackerley's love affair with his alsation bitch, followed by a buffet meal in Whole Foods (nom). Thursday, as I've mentioned, was the first birthday the idiot has spent away from the parental realm. There were no tears (she can be a bit of a sop), but instead a blush at receving the comments on her ironic treatise from last semester, a further blush at the sight of homemade scones courtesy of Aurore - cream and jam inclusive - and finally a sweat and a snot from the Miang Kham at Whiskey Soda Lounge in the evening. Then back to the Spanish House for S'mores.

(GLOSSARY PARENTHESIS: S'MORE = a sandwich of honey graham crackers and Hershey's chocolate and marshmallow, cooked in a microwave.)

And if that wasn't gluttony enough, she discovered some delicious carrot cupcakes on her desk at 1 in the morning. Special mention goes to the now-departed-quite-by-surprise roommate, Stefie: baking expert, dubstep expert, and all round quite cool Reed drop-out. Although the idiot is of course sad about the empty half of the double room, she's also certain that Stefie would not resent the inauguration of a film club - some point soon, just to fill the gap.

Saturday night was joint party night, held at Annie's house on 34th. In the morning the idiot discovered her lip piercing was still open after a year of non-occupation, and was quite tempted to put her coronation crown brooch in there. It would have added an interesting, if speech impedimenting, aspect to her Queen Elizabeth II tribute. The theme for the party was icons: Annie was Grace Jones, Holly was Princess Di, George was a cursor, Justine was the statue of liberty, Matt was the absence of iconograhpy, Erin was emoticons, Dorothy was Campbell's soup, Stu was Jimi Hendrix, Rachel was the Virgin Mary, and Vicky was Dolly Parton. It made for some unprecedented pairings. Annie really did everything, and the idiot sort of trailed in her wake and made arbitrary cucumber sandwiches. At midnight or so the party decamped to the S.U for cheesey dancing, and then further decamped to the Spanish House until 3 in the morning.

But seriously kids, go back to school already.

Consette x