Technical difficulty #3744837729284

Well, I was going to post more pictures. But then, as all the laundry rooms are closed on weekends and I have no clean clothes, I decided to wash some in the sink and, silly me, I tried to dry them with the aid of my hair dryer. Hair dryer blew out all the outlets in my room, laptop battery is at 9% (I'm posting this from my phone), and everything is closed today so I will try to do something tomorrow. This is beyond ridiculous.

As a sort of apology since all the good photos are on my computer, I shall post some pictures I took with my phone while my camera battery was dead.

Yes, they call the Smurfs the Schtroumpfs here. Très bizarre.

At the mall at Gare de la Part Dieu, they have these huge touchscreens with tons of info. They have an English option and I was curious to see it, so I clicked on it and it's full of typos. I laughed and everybody gave me a funny look.

How exactly does one burrow a pushchair? At least you don't have to buy it with a grift card.

Some priceless graffiti walking towards Bellecour

I took this from a bus near Perrache. It's hard to see, but this is an actual Roma camp currently chilling out underneath an overpass. Towards the left, a man is giving a little boy a haircut.

This woman's shirt was covered in mustaches and I just couldn't help myself.

Lyon's hottest restaurant is Ninkasi. Located on the Presqu'île, this one-stop beer and burger joint has everything: burgers, beer, a waitress who keeps calling sauce "sausage," a Canadian, and a roof so low that anyone above 5'7" hits their head when they stand up. Kudos if you got the reference.

The crypt of Sainte Blandine, allegedly martyred in the arena in Lugdunum by wild beasts in the year 177 AD. Often pictured on her knees with chains and palm fronds, holding the hand of the Theotokos, Sainte Blandine is the patron saint of those falsely accused of cannibalism.

Me in the garden Rousseau falls asleep in in his Confessions. I freaking love Rousseau (if you hadn't already guessed.)

Place des Terreaux. The sculptor who made this statue also made another, much more famous statue. Put on thine sleuthing hats.

Caprese salad à la France. My dinner is better than your dinner. The beefsteak tomato was probably from some steroid-laced, delicious race of übertomatoes. Definitely not your corner Ralph's tomatoes.

Rough example of how ghetto my old place was. There was stuff like this in all the stairwells (and mine was on the 4th floor.) 

My new place. Conditions are still Spartan, but ever so slightly less so. Yes, that is Justin's t-shirt that I am using as a pillowcase because it smells like him and I am a creep.

Bagel shop near Terreaux that sells all this American stuff. I was tempted, but you'll all be proud that I resisted.

That's all for now, folks. I hope to be back up and running soon but the French hate deadlines so I have no idea when this stupid outlet thing will be resolved.

With a great amount of fuss, 

Your somewhat bilious correspondent.