France and I are officially expiration date-ing

My dear m'ma bought me my ticket home today. As I write this sentence, I have three months, 16 days, four minutes and four seconds left until I board the plane that will take me from Mother France.

For those of you planning to meet me at the Minneapolis airport with adorable handmade signs, a bottle of Blue Moon beer (with an orange slice, please), a bowl of chicken wild rice soup, as much customer service as you can muster and a big fluffy couch, you have exactly three months, 16 days, 10 hours, 35 minutes and 38 seconds from this writing to make that happen.

And in case you were wondering, I've been in France now for three months, 30 days, one hour, 20 minutes and 55 seconds. And yes, I am enjoying the new countdown widget on my Mac's dashboard, MerciBeaucoupMonsieurDame.

I have so much left I want to do here, and now that I've secured my return ticket the clock is ticking. There's no way I can leave France with my pride intact before I:

• Buy a beautiful article of clothing that I'll wear forever. When people ask me where it's from I'll sniff, look forlornly in the distance and say, "This? I picked this up on Rue Croissant de l'Amour on a sunny day in Aix-en-Provence, where the lavender scent on the breeze was mingling ever-so-tantalizingly with the earthy scent of the truffles I had scavenged myself in the Forêt des Pâtes Sauvages that very morning. The salesman told me it made me look onctueuse, and I was in no position to disagree."
• Am mistaken for a native Frenchwoman... after I open my mouth.
• Bring a drageur (pick-up artist) to his knees with an insult so original and beautifully crafted that said dude will be so ashamed of his catcalls and whistles that he can do nothing but join the monastic brotherhood who craft Chartreuse in the Alps, for his days of womanizing are over. Every time I hang out with my French friends I have them teach me the vulgarities of their language, so I feel this day is coming soon.
• Participate in an impromptu song and dance number on the streets of Gay Paree, as illustrated in this little ditty from Funny Face (hat tip: Kellstar):

Any other ideas of must-dos before I leave Cheesy Wineland? Leave 'em in the comments below. Time is running out, mes amies. I now only have three months, 15 days, 23 hours and 44 seconds to git 'er done!

On the Oregon Trail, Part 1

Yesterday the gent and I left our dear Minnesota to go Westward, ho! We spent a nearly unbearable nine hours getting from there to here (which would be Dickinson, ND, natch) with nary an incident beyond a speeding ticket and a North Dakota rain storm so fierce I feared for my life. But we survived the brutal river fordings and cholera epidemics, and for that we must be grateful.

(Aside: I just discovered iTunes U and I'm totally in love. Yesterday we listened to an Australian university's lecture on Harry Potter and the Holocaust and a Stanford lecture about the rise of French awesomeness. Last night we went a little nuts on the downloading (they're free!) and got podcasts on everything from Bob Woodward discussing the media's impact on politics to the art of reading a poem. Sigh... I love getting learned real good.)

We made our home last night at a bed and breakfast, a type of lodging which is quickly becoming an obsession of mine. Hey-- they're often cheaper than regular hotels, the rooms are nicer, the owners are always quirky and you get a lovely and filling breakfast.

When we arrived at this one the owner, Quinta, greeted us at the door, which opened upon her handmade jewelry shop. Sparkly. Then she led us through the house, where we saw the fancy library:


The lovely dining room:

Our room's mini keg (it's the German Room and all Germans have mini kegs-- didn't you know?):

And then this:


Discuss.