Up the Proverbial Wazoo

I'm still a little scared of my French teacher. I think it's because he's so passionate, but since I literally can't completely comphrend his literature and words and feeling, I'm forced to sit, bask and cower in the presence of an intangible energy into which I can't tap. Also, he dresses really well. He's so professional looking I'm shocked there's a teacher the rest of the students love and laugh with under all that fine tailoring.
The rest of the class will be reading a book by Alan Bennett called La Rène des Lectrices. M Creton requested I stay behind after class, where he informed me that asking me, at my current level of French comprehension, to read this book is insane. Most of the other children will have trouble, and this is their first language, he told me. During the time in which we're reading this book, I'll have seperate work for you to do, focused on getting you on their level of reading and writing. By the time the next book rolls out, he said, you'll be able to join in the discussions.
I'm learning language up the proverbial wazoo here. Clearly, I have a firm grasp on English, I know enough sign language to hold a conversation with a deaf person, I'm currently tying my shoes in French, I'll hopefully catch on to Néerlandais soon, and my entire class started on page one of Spanish today. By the time I return to Canada (hopefully triumphantly, but we'll see) I should have a grasp and knowledge of five languages. How amazing is that?
My love for this school cannot be textually rendered.
My English teacher asked me today why I had a blanket. I informed her that I did not, in fact, currently have a blanket. She procceded to be extremely impressed with my handknit and apparently blanket-like school bag. She made me stand up and explain to the class (in English because it was after all English class) what the deal was with my bag. My first day in English class she made me stand up and explain the difference between Canadian and British English. The only differences I could think of were the differences in diction and the fact that British people use the present perfect tense more often than we do. Really hard to articulate. Also, I'm pretty sure no one in the class except for Mme Boucquinaux cared.
I'm not sure if I've gone into detail about the other exchange students at my school. Samantha is from Iowa and she's the sweetest, most delightful eighteen year old ever. She's the only person from Iowa in the country of Belgium. She's a vegetarian who hates salad. Today she mixed mayonnaise and ketchup and dipped fries in the mixture. Ammie is from Calgary and she's been in French Immersion since JK so she kind of makes the rest of us look bad. Nonetheless, she's really funny and she bought me a flower at a party we went to as a thank you for not letting her get drunk. Marianna is the only reason I don't feel guilty for eating lunch with the exchange students and not the Belgians. I don't have any classes with the others, so it's our hangout time. Marianna is Mexican, and she speaks more French than English. We can't, in good conscious, exclude her, nor would we want to. The four of us eat and talk together, bonding over the fact we know, with compelte understanding, that this whole immersion thing is harder than we imagined. Harder than we could have hoped. We're all bonding over the fact we, for some odd, odd reason, love it.
My vocabulary list grew by a mere sixteen words today.
Two of my classmates had an argument today about how to spelt my name: SHEA or SHIA. After a few moments, I managed to interrupt and inform them that my name is neither spelt nor said in that fashion.
The teacher laughed.