The main stairwell in Folwell Hall. Probably the prettiest and most collegiate building on campus.

I have to hike up these four flights of stairs to get to my French class, but even as out of shape as I am, I never really notice the climb. Partially because my iPod blasts out the noise of my panting breath, but mostly because I'm so excited to get to class that my mind doesn't really give a damn about my complaining stamina.

In the few weeks since this semester has begun, French 3015 has simultaneously humbled and reawakened my driving love for the language of baguettes and cafés and escargot. For the first time in a very long time, I have to try in French class, something that this overachiever is not used to.

This new found fascination can basically be all chalked up to my Professor. When imagining the university world, professors are usually stereotyped as slouching old men with corduroy pants, fuzzy white beards and thick glasses who are veritable walking tomes of wisdom. Enter Professor Akehurst--exactly fitting the bill. His teaching method is fairly old school (unsurprisingly) when it comes to teaching French. A lot, and i mean a lot of repetition, memorization, and pronunciation. This method, though frowned upon by the new curricula and the creators of Rosetta Stone, has worked for centuries, and (most importantly) works for me. Suddenly I'm discovering vowel sounds that I have never heard nor uttered before in my life. I have to think on my feet, while this aimiable old Englishman retells the class stories from his glory days and tasty tidbits of French culture. Every class period is a treat worth sitting in the front row for. It's such a pity that this is Akehurst's last semester here.