Une nuit blanche.

Around six in the morning on November 5th, the sun was rising in Paris; there was a drizzle, and the light was soft and gray; a dozen people were crowded around the open door of a diner, craning their necks to see the little tv screen inside the crowded diner playing Barack Obama's victory speech. Except for Obama's voice and the noise of rain dripping off the gutters, it was silent. When he finished speaking, a woman shouted in a heavy French accent, "Yes we can!" She was black and she was crying and the whoops of joy echoing in the otherwise-deserted street were hers even as they seemed to speak for everyone, all of us standing there, dead-tired, mostly Americans, up all night in a foreign land to watch the direct satellite feed of our futures, to participate in this moment of our history.

It was a long night, November 4th, and an even longer November 5th (class from 9 am to 3 pm, a brief nap, dinner, and then a viewing of the Comédie Française's Le Mariage de Figaro that went wildly, tragically unappreciated by me), and now I have gunk in my lungs and a cough that just won't quit, but I can't say it wasn't worth it. My first real nuit blanche, as my host mother said. It was great.

Now: another wet weekend in Paris, the warm embrace of the library, and catching up on some sleep. To everyone who has sent me emails in the past few weeks: responses are coming, I promise. It's been a busy couple of weeks and I haven't been able to devote enough time to sit down and answer my email yet, but I will very soon.