Tonight, I moved an Academy Award winning director’s armoire into my roommate’s bedroom. A recently deceased director’s armoire, that is. Small world, Strasbourg.


So, how did this come to pass exactly? Quite simply, actually. My roommate Esteban bought an armoire off of France’s version of Craig’s List, Le Bon Coin. Got it for a fantastic price too, considering the quality. He spent the afternoon disassembling it in the beautiful apartment of a recent widow. Later this evening, my other roommate, Julien, and I helped him bring the dissembled parts into our apartment.


In the process, Esteban just so happened to notice an Academy Award resting nonchalantly on a lone mantlepiece in the apartment. At first, he didn’t think it was real and not wanting to seem like a nosy Nancy, he didn’t ask the widow whether it was legit. Julien, however, had the brilliant idea of googling the name of the dude inscribed on the Oscar. 


Turns out, it’s the Oscar won by the late Denis Poncet, born October 29, 1948 and died December 12, 2014. Apparently, he was a renowned French documentarian and his movie, Un coupable idéal, won best documentary in 2002. Known as Murder on a Sunday Morning in English, it’s about the murder of a 65 year-old woman in the parking lot of a hotel in Jacksonville, Florida. Alright, why is it always Florida? First hanging chads and now old ladies shot through the head? 


Get your shit together, Florida. 


Anyway, his widow happened to sell his old armoire to my Argentinian roommate. I happened to enter the picture after half of the pieces had entered our apartment. I had just finished class and returned home when my two roommates brought in the latest shipment of armoire pieces. After a brief discussion, I went with Esteban to grab the rest from her apartment and Julien went off to pick us up some Kebabs and beer. 


When we finally entered her apartment building after getting lost a few times on the way, I marveled at the literal red carpet laying on the marble tiling of the foyer and stairs. When we made it up to the fifth floor (Which is the sixth floor in reality. Go figure. It’s France), she opened her door to say hello. Turn’s out, she’s a nice lady. She even said ciao to me before conversing with Esteban. While she and Esteban chatted, I looked over her shoulder, and sure enough, the Oscar was there on the mantlepiece, in all its golden, cinematic glory. I was literally a meter away from the thing. Neat, I thought.


Long story short, we lugged several long pieces of wood down way to many god damn stairs and across what seemed like an endless number of blocks to our apartment. It was more like 6 blocks, but I digress. Once we got the pieces in Esteban’s room, we kicked back, ate some kebabs, drank some Alsatian beer (Kronenbourg to be exact) and watched some Rugby World Cup. It was the European version of Miller Time. It was awesome.


And before anyone asks, France was playing Romania. And France kicked their ass.