A give me eight...

It's funny how the most mundane things become utter travails when you are abroad. Case in point: buying half-of-a-baguette. This weekend I've been sentenced to do mind-numbing RA work and I only leave my apartment in order to buy my bread for the day. Since it is Sunday and this is Europe, only one bakery was open. The line was out the door! As I stood in line, I recited what I was going to say in my head: "Je voudrais une demi baguette, merci." Not tough, right? Well, little beads of sweat were beginning to accumulate on my palms and I had this anxious feeling in my stomach. You know, the feeling you get right before you have to take a prelim. Yes, it was that bad. The worst part was I couldn't see if they had any demi-baguettes left. No, the little old ladies ahead of me were strategically placed so I couldn't see the selection. Shoot, I needed a plan B. I looked around desperately, but couldn't see anything. Now the line was moving and my feet began to feel moist. When I got up there, I asked for a demi-baguette, and the plain lady behind the counter whipped one out. You know me...I changed my mind...and then I changed it again. I went with the original demi, but at least I did it without stumbling over my French too badly. Still, I could hardly believe that such a little thing could cause me so much anxiety. Mon dieu!