Plunge

So, I've plunged back into my American life.

Saturday night after being picked up from the airport, I was treated to dinner at my Dad's favorite place, Golden Corral. I just hate the way it sounds. The name just gives me an image of a bunch of obese people being squeezed into an enclosed space and gorging themselves at a horse trough. My dad loves buffets. Whether it's a home cooking buffet or a Chinese buffet, my dad is there. I'm not going to front and act like I didn't tear up the fried chicken, though. I had been craving it. My French host mom didn't know nothin bout no fried chicken. Speaking of Madame, I dropped her a little line to let her know I made it back to the States safely. When the taxi came to pick me up that Saturday morning to take me and my 2 tons of luggage to the train station, old girl teared up and got me going, too. Even the taxi driver was touched. As I downed my second huge glass of sweet tea, several things hit me all at once:

1. You would NEVER get a glass that big of anything to drink in France.

2. There are no free refills in France.

3. Sweet tea is a foreign concept in France.

As I heard country music twanging in the background, observed the portly patrons help themselves to thirds, and was addressed as "baby" by the waiter, I felt baptized in the corn syrup sweetness that is the South, and felt as close to home as I probably ever would. On the airplane on the way over the Atlantic, I sat next to a rusty old man and he asked, "Where are you coming from and where are you going?" I told him I had finished a 6-month stay in France and was headed to be with my family in Alabama. "You're from the South?" he asked, astonished. "Well, you sure don't sound like it." I then proceeded to recount an abridged version of the story of my life to account for my lack of a Southern accent.

Anytime I told a French person I was from Alabama, most of them would say Oui, like the song "Sweet Home Alabama"! Yeah, like that. Then they'd proceed to ask if people were racist there. T'yeah. People are racist everywhere. (Even in France!) But I didn't say that.

Sunday was Church McChurchy, and I was asked to give a testimony. "Praise the Lord, Gloria a Dios, and now I can say Gloire au Seigneur!" I gloated.

I headed up to Birmingham to see my bestest friend. We had our Celie/Nettie reunion:

I had my first Stateside Starbucks with her. Awww. It was a tall iced white chocolate mocha with whip. I felt so American ordering it. Even more so at the drive-thru. There aren't drive-thrus in France. The closest I saw was a walk-up outside window at the McDo in town.

So I've had a mother-daughter day of pedicures and brother-sister movie night, but today, today, I was a woman on a mission. Today, stuff was getting done. Today, things were getting checked off of my checklist. Today, I was handlin that bidness and scored a job interview for an ESL teaching position on Tuesday!

I wish I would have spent a lot less time worrying about what to do once I got back. God is like, "I got this." Why is it so hard for me to believe that He really is in control?

Au revoir, la France!

So . . . this is my last post from the Hexagon. No, they literally refer to their country as l'Hexagone from time to time. I'm not making it up. They also use re-composed English phonemes to make anglicized French neologisms such as relooking. The French word for 'makeover.'

It's late. I'm looking forward to going home, but at the same time, I spent a lot of tears today. I thought I got my crying over with this morning, but tonight, as I looked out upon the Loire, it happened again. Friends trying to cheer me up. Facebook promises.

I know. It's just the fact of saying goodbye. It's just the knowledge of returning to a life where my contradictions will appear more stark. It's the feeling of yearning for something I thought I already had.

I must say goodbye to France. Not France itself necessarily, (because I plan to come back) but I must say goodbye to this particular French experience. If I say goodbye to it, that means I acknowledge its existence. And if I acknowledge it, I must swallow it whole. No whitewashing out the down times. No cutting out the bruises from an otherwise pristine apple. All things work together for my good.

Until I reach the other side of the ocean, where my blog will be re-baptized in the name of Where You Can Find Me . . .

U-S-A! U-S-A!

We made it to the finals!

U.S. and England through to last 16 of World Cup

I really have been proud of us for playing some decent football. Usually, we're super nul. But I'm quite pleased with the way my countrymen have been hanging in there.

Once we start caring about soccer, next thing you know we'll be using Celsius and the metric system.

That's My Boy

I've steered clear of political stuff for a long time, but I just have to give a shout out to my boy for making BP pay up for their mismanaged catastrophe.

Here's a quotation from Rahm Emmanuel (still my cabinet crush) from this NYT article which sums it up for me:

Mr. Obama clearly sees his presidency as far more than a bully pulpit — he has cast himself as a last line of defense against market excesses that take many different forms. “In the past, corporate America was not only at the table, they owned the table and the chairs around it,” Mr. Obama’s combative chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, said in an interview Thursday. “Obama doesn’t start off confrontational, but he will be confrontational if there is resistance to the notion that there are other equities.”

He doesn't start off confrontational, but he will be. Aw, shucks! In other words, Obama will clown on you if you get crazy. So don't get crazy.

I've been thinking . . .

Time is winding down. Spain lost today. That was a bummer. At least I got a few good glimspes of Casillas.

A striking Swedish friend into photography did an exposition of her work. I was one of the models involved for the portrait pictures. It was rather humbling to see my face blown up on a screen, but I didn't worry about it because it wasn't about the imperfections of my face or size of my teeth, but about her work. It really turned out lovely. Ronsard poems, roses, music. It brought me to tears. I was so proud of her. I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself. Something that will forever mark my time here in an inexplicable way.

I know. 'Bittersweet' has echoed around this blog long before now. It's a cliché. But it's true. I'm ready to go back. It's time to go back. But any time you go, you also leave behind. There are things that must be left behind. There are others that I'm reluctant to.

These past 6 months have marked me in a way I haven't really been able to express in this blog. I'm only humanly able to offer glimpses, impressions. I'm only comfortably able to reveal the surface. Words are never enough.

Maybe that's why the pictures moved me so. They communicated a wordless truth. They represented those moments of recognition words aren't fit for.

There will be no next time. Yes, I can always come back to France. It isn't going anywhere. Yes, I can stay in touch with people I've bonded with. I can even go visit them. I can take another course at the Institut one day. But I will never be in this place, in this time in my life, with these people, ever again. It is a unique, temporary experience. It was always meant to be. There will be no next time.

But I've been thinking. The million dollar question now is what I'm going to do when I get back to the States. Undoubtedly, the answer is that I'm going to get a job, hopefully teaching again, and pay down my debts. But what about after that? What do I really want to do?

I want to do what I love. I love teaching and I love traveling. Once I get my stuff together, I want to travel to another country to work as a teacher. I think I may even spend my life scouring the globe. Sell my car, sell all the stuff I have in storage, and go.

I still wrestle with feelings of rootlessness. Of yearning for home. I still get frustrated with the fact that I've never fit in. Never permanently and never comfortably. But slowly, like a down feather stroke, I'm coming to terms with the idea that that's okay. Maybe God doesn't want me to be comfortable. Maybe I was never meant to find home. Not here on this Earth. And if being an itinerant teacher is where my passion, ability and purpose collide, then so be it.

Those Americans

One more Sunday. I have 2 more weeks left. How can you possibly sum up 6 months of life? How can you even begin? Like, when I get back to the States and someone asks, "How was France?" how am I going to even be able to begin to answer?

June began the month of the Americans. A horde of Americans have literally descended upon the Insitut. I was afraid of a bunch of them invading my class. After my buddy from Louisiana left, I was the only American in my class and I wanted it to stay that way. I wanted to be unique. Much to my chagrin, an American guy did join us, but I've since forgiven him because he's cool and speaks French like a pro.

I have 3 new American roommates. They're really sweet, and they make a really good effort to speak French. At first, I was kind of wary because I didn't want to be inundated with "Omigawd" and expectations of my translating everything Madame said because "I, like, totally don't understand." But it hasn't been that way at all.

Au contraire, a lot of the other American kids at the Insitut annoy the stew out of me. They stand around in little anglophone clusters talking about banal fratboy exploits the night before/complaining about their host families/saying "omigawd, like" and chugging down all the carbonated drinks in the vending machines. And when they do speak French, their accents suck. I hate hearing them speak French because I know that's what I sound like when I speak French, and it's depressing.

I guess I need to cut them some slack. About 8 years ago, that was me, with my little American summer program group in Spain. Back when all I cared about was a boy named Jorge. I guess I'm just older now and I've been in France too long and have appropriated some of the legendary French arrogance.

I've been into World Cup soccer. Soccer being one of those things that everyone else in the world except the United States is into. Like the metric system. I can tell you that Thierry Henry is the star of the French team. I know that Ronaldo is Portugal's star. I can tell you that Rooney is England's soccer hero. And that's just from watching a few matches and Nike commercials. But who's the hotshot on the American team? Bof! I have to admit it was awesome seeing the US score a goal on England the other night, though. It was more because of an English error than American prowess, but hey, that's the game. Take that, colonizers! We re-declared independence on you up in there!

Here a few links to photo albums to show you all the fun I've been having lately:

Concert and hanging with friends

Villandry

Enjoy!

A Lot of Loveliness Lately

The title is for all my alliteration fans out there.

Friday afternoon after class, I took a melancholy stroll to my favorite garden park. I found a shady spot under a tree and ate my lunch while observing the swans dip their graceful necks into the water. I perused old journal entries, ruefully smiling and trying to suppress the inevitable tears that welled up as I studied the shimmering ripples the wind cast upon the lake. On my way out, I happened upon the hispanophone clique and was invited to stay a spell. Colombians + 1 Spaniard. They jokingly called him el colonizador. The colonizer. Afterward, I met up with an adventurous Aussie, and we ran for the bus (and caught it) to get to the Prieuré de Saint-Cosme, built in the 11th century, and known for its bewildering variety of roses. Click here to partake of the loveliness of that day.

Saturday I took a day trip to Paris with a Norwegian and Japanese friend. I felt like a link in a globalization chain. While they went apartment hunting, I went to the Centre Georges Pompidou to examine the bizarre world of contemporary art housed there. I don't know why I like it so much. It's so amusing to me the weird, self-obsessive things people do in the name of art. For example, I saw this dress. It looks like it's made out scraps of dried leather or something, right?

If you notice, there's a small picture in the background to the left, showing what the dress looked like when it originally debuted. Imagine my disgust when I looked closer at the picture and realized it was this:

A dress made out of raw meat. I was disgusted, but I found myself smiling and tears of mirth sprang to my eyes. Really? That someone would go to those lengths to make an artistic statement. The absurdity of it is just amusing to me. Here are some quotations I found of artists explaining the motivation of their work. This was right beside a video of a lady shooting up her previously painted canvasses:

If you can't read it, it says, "In 1961, I shot at canvasses because shooting allowed me to express the aggression that I felt. An assassination without a victim. I shot because I liked seeing the canvas bleed and die. I shot to reach that magical instant, that ecstasy. It was a moment of truth. I trembled with passion when I shot at my paintings."

I laughed out loud. Really?! I know I'm dramatic. Perhaps melodramatic. But I wanted to collapse in a fit of giggles when I read that. I mean, come on. Here's another one that made my day:

I just felt like telling Christine Delphy, girl, saddown. Okay, it's like a circular argument. Stop saying universalism exists because it doesn't exist yet because people keep saying that it does. So, the only thing left to do is denounce the false universalism that does exist, or rather the universalism that "exists" but really doesn't because the real universalism is being held back because people are saying that it exists. LOL! I love this kind of stuff. It will have me rollin all day.

Anyway, after I got my fill of weirdness, I headed over to the Le cimetière du Père-Lachaise to see Oscar Wilde's tomb. I was shocked to see how defaced it was. I wanted to summon Lord Henry from The Picture of Dorian Gray to give all of the idiots who did this a proper tongue lashing:

Of course, I couldn't resist taking yet another stroll around Montmartre. Nothing beats eating a Nutella crepe while overlooking the city from the top of the steps in front of the Sacre Coeur. On my way to the Metro to get to the train station to catch the train back to Tours, I stopped in a most adorable cupcake shop and got a box of 6 to take home. The guy behind the counter was adorable, too. While explaining the different flavors, when he got to an Americanized flavor like carrot cake or red velvet cake or Oreo cookie, he was like, "Of course, you know zees one." (French people can't pronounce the 'th' very well.) Ah, Paris.

"Paris was always a good idea, you said." - Linus Larrabee

Splendid

Today started out with the cute as shiny buttons boy my host mom watches during the day. He toddled in wearing a hat too big for him, right above a baby tooth-filled smile.

My procrastinated upon presentation on culture shock went over better than prevu. I have to admit I was quite flattered by my professor's compliments afterward.

I got my favorite sandwich from the orange boulangerie down the street. It really is divine. It's a chicken sandwich with lettuce, tomatoes and mayo on a baguette. But it's just the way the chicken is seasoned. The lettuce and tomatoes are always fresh and there's just the right amount of mayo.

I went to my lovely garden park with a fresh-faced Swedish friend, and we lazed in the sunshine, watching jugglers, eating pistachio pastry, and speaking of poetry and post-France plans.

I did another Rotary presentation.

I ate a bowl of cherries.

My day in a slideshow collage:

This is my life, my friend

24 days left in this land of melancholic European wonder.

I've been obsessed with Eurovision songs. Sweden didn't make it to the finals, but I don't know why. It's been my theme song of late. Enjoy!

I must write something

but I can't write anything linear, cohesive. The only things that come to me are scattered remembrances, like a beam of white light shot into a kaleidoscope of color through a prism.

I've discovered a park. Oh, if only I'd discovered it earlier. It is divine. I purposely sit in the sun. I've never gotten sunburn in my life. I want the sun to bake me into a deep golden brown. Gingerbread. I laugh at my journal scribblings of yesteryear. Those times when my principal worry was comprehensive exams. When I fancifully imagined I'd meet someone here and get back to the States in time to plan an August wedding. Mirth.

On the way out, crunching my ballet flats against pebbles, a middle-aged Frenchman wearing a wife-beater and a Panama hat called out Bonjour, Mademoiselle! La vie est belle, n'est-ce pas? Life is beautiful, isn't it? Oui, I smiled. La vie est belle.

The girls had a Eurovision-thon Saturday night. Norway won last year, so the contest was held in Oslo. (Think the American Idol of Europe. Sort of.) We gorged ourselves on blinis and salmon and cheese and gave each country's performance our own 1-12 score. We all got up and danced for France and we all gave it a 12:

My straight-laced host mother later admitted to watching some of the show and said she was truly ashamed of France's performance. Ha!

The Armenia song was one of my favorites. The song would not leave my head:

I've got a couple more Rotary presentations coming up, and an oral presentation coming up. I'm going to do it on culture shock. I've had enough culture shocking experiences to be able to talk knowledgeably about it, I think.

Whoops.

Aaack! I've been such a slacker.

This puppy is winding up and winding up fast. I have less than a month left.

(sigh.) Where to begin?

I have pictures to share here. (Complete with captions for your explanatory pleasure.)

I'll write more when I'm in a less scattered state of mind.

Today was a sunshine day.

It was. It was all smiles.

Sunshine and class discussion and not caring how my wavy afro hair blew in the wind.

It was a newly discovered park day. Statues and fountains and flowers and mothers with strollers and mysterious middle aged men doing tai chi in the shadows. Journaling in the sun. Picking up train ticket stubs and museum ticket stubs and photobooth pictures and old notes that fell out. Pebbles. Not wanting to move. Wanting the world to stand still and wanting the sun to warm me forever.

Lunch at the Resto U. All of us from everywhere. Teasing the Canadian guy for how he says "about" and "out" and "been" and "bag" and "thorough." All of us speaking French in our respective accents.

Homework in the sun. Watching an improvised game of volleyball. Walking down a cobblestoned street to meet my Norwegian friend for the European culture activity she was involved in. She quizzed French people on the streets. Do you know the capital of Norway? None of them did.

Goat cheese flavored snack crackers and gummi alligators I bought from the grocery store that charges you for a plastic bag. I put them in my bookbag.

A quick round in the garden right outside the Musee des Beaux Arts. Pigtailed little girls. Lovers entwined on a bench. Old men making their caned way.

I have to take every day like this. Enjoy it for what is. Accept it as a gift.

Funny Story

So, while in Paris, I went to this colorful, noisy, jam-packed open-air market. I bought a half-kilo of cherries and went my way, eating and discreetly spitting out the pits. I was accosted by this crusty old dude who was asking for 10 centimes for a cup of coffee. Really? I'm not going to stop in the middle of this overflow of humanity, dig out my wallet and give you anything.

I told him "Sorry," and kept walking. He started following me and was like, "Please, just 10 cents isn't much, you can't give me that? I just want a cup of coffee." I shook my head and kept walking.

But here's the funny part. Then he was like, "Ha, ha, that's just a joke. I actually want to invite you to have a cup of coffee with me." What?! You go from begging me for 10 cents to trying to ask me out for coffee? Is this some kind of a new pick-up tactic? I wanted to stop and howl with laughter, but I said, "No, leave me alone," and kept walking. All around us were stalls with merchandise, and he was like, "Please, you can choose anything you want and I'll buy it for you." I mean, really? Trying hard not to laugh at the increasing absurdity of the situation, I just kept going. He eventually gave up. Thank God.

Anytime I need a laugh, I'll think of the beggar-turned-player at the open-air market in Paris.

Paris, Going Back

Wow. That went by fast. I'm leaving to go catch the train back to Tours in about an hour.

I always do a lot of reflection on train rides, watching the landscape speed by from my window seat.

Sometimes I think if I can just get back to the US, I can get back to being myself.

There's a poem a friend of mine wrote a long time ago when we were in undergrad. For some reason, she didn't like it very much, but I loved it. It's simply about taking a nap in the afternoon. There's a poignant line from it that has stayed with me for a very long time:

"God, wake me when things are changed."

It's beautiful and honest and somewhat sad. It's the recognition that we need God. That we desire things to change. That we need God to change them. But they can't change on their own, not the things within our power. For that, we have to be awake.

Paris, Day One

This is actually the third time I've been to Paris. Well, 3 not counting just passing through airports and train stations in Paris en route to somewhere else.

The first time was in 2004. I was 22, taking a little weekend trip with my roommate while studying abroad in Spain, and I had a fleeting romance (if you could call it that) with the tour guide. That was before I could speak French. The second time was in 2008. It was the summer before I started grad school full time, and I had spent a month in Salamanca, Spain doing a summer program with my university. On the way back to the States, our group stopped over in Paris for the weekend. I still didn't speak any French back then either.

I was thinking on the train how terrible yet easy it is to take things for granted. I've been before, so it's easy to kind of shrug my shoulders about it. Some classmates asked what I was doing for the break. "Oh, I'm just going to Paris. Pas grand chose." I had to think about that. Just going to Paris? We're students in France, most of whom have been here for a while, so everyone's gone to Paris. At least to the Charles de Gaulle airport, if nothing else. That shouldn't make it any less exciting or special. But that's what happens when you take things for granted.

I've already done the touristy stuff. Louvre, Champs-Elysee, gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. I wanted to do some different stuff this time. I did a lot of walking, exploring and reminiscing. This movie, Sabrina, is what made me first want to go to Paris. I love this clip. "I met myself in Paris." It was kind of my state of mind today.

On my way to check into my hotel, I listened to an impromptu strings concert on the street. When I checked in, the concierge said he adored my American accent. I went to the plaza around the Centre Georges Pompidou to get a Nutella crepe and watch the street performers, aspring artists, and crazies. A crowd gathered around this old, cuckoo man who was lighting matches and eating them. A little curly headed boy ate a crepe and had chocolate all over his face. A lithe man juggled crystal balls. I took a walking tour of Montmartre and took a picture of the cafe where Amelie worked, Le cafe des 2 moulins. I saw a troupe of b-boyers hyping up their show with broken English. I had another crepe for dinner. Ham, cheese and mushrooms. A man sang Arabic love songs accompanied by a tinny Casio keyboard on the metro. I walked under the Eiffel tower and simply shook my head to vendors who were trying to pressure me into buying one of those cheap mini-Eiffel towers. I bought one of those the first time.

More fun tomorrow.

Sometimes

I don't know whether to write.

Sometimes I want to wait for the right moment, for the right mood to strike me.

To be honest, nothing bloggable has gone on lately. I'm just living my French life. Walking to school, passing people on those European stone slab sidewalks. Speaking Frengnish (French, English and Spanish) every Monday night at Le Palais. Taking breaks between classes, getting tiny cups of cappuccino for 40 euro cents from the coffee machine. Individually wrapped pain au chocolat pressed upon me by my host mom after breakfast. You can eat it later at 10 o'clock, she insists. The phonetics labs used to be the livery belonging to whatever aristocrat owned the building years ago. Impeccably dressed Arab men smoke outside the front gate. Veiled women whisper in huddles. A Japanese-speaking French guy, normally in torn jeans, shows up in a suit. I got a job at a department store, he explains. Chez moi can mean the actual place you live here in France, or it can mean your country of origin. Dogs, bicycles, scooters, scarves and man purses. The Colombian kids go somewhere cool every weekend. I got a text message invitation to a Chinese dinner. The weather won't make up its mind. A couple of weeks ago it got up to 25 degrees Celsius. Today the high was 13. And I've been in France long enough to have a sense of Celsius like the rest of the world.

We have Thursday and Friday off this week, making for an extra-long weekend, and I decided that I wouldn't be able to stand staying in Tours with nothing to do. So I got myself a train ticket to Paris. With the aid of my friend's trusty travel guide, I found decent lodging near the Louvre. Traveling alone seems to be my lot, at least for now. So, travel alone I will. I only wish the weather would warm up a little as I roam the streets, museums, and cafes of the City of Light once again.

The Absurd

I think I saw the worst movie in my life in French Civilization today called Play Time. It was absolutely absurd and plotless and had virtually no dialogue. People were getting up and leaving! I felt so bad for my professor. I love the little guy to death. He really is the best. He's travel size, has an impeccable Colonel Sanders-style goatee, and the most intricately trimmed sideburns. He has a pair of glasses that sits on the edge of his nose. There are no little ear thingies. He also has a pocket watch. And to top it off, he literally knows everything. But today, he was sitting there cracking up at the movie while the rest of us were kind of like, really?

We have a sub this week for grammar, vocab, and written production and comprehension. She looks like an older, female, French version of the Mad Hatter. She came in with this slightly unkempt, offbeat, yet exigent air, and her laugh has a touch of the maniacal. I really think she's trying, and part of me feels bad for her because it's tough to come in to a new group and pick up where someone left off. She doesn't know us, doesn't really have a feel for our level of French . . . I mean, as an educator, I can see her side of things. But, ugh. Today was excruciating. It was absurdly surreal. Like a Dali painting come to life. We're doing all of these random, boring things, and though I know she's not purposely trying to make people feel uncomfortable or confused, she's doing just that. With her circuitous, unclear explanations and her rather abrasive, I'm-the-professor-don't-you-get-it-somebody-answer-me-now manner, she doesn't make things any easier.

Today the cold wind was so strong it pushed me along a little bit as I walked home.

Dear France,

We only have two more months together. And we need to work some things out so that these last two months aren't a catastrophe. First of all, I'm going to need you to get your weather game in order. Why is it snowing in parts of France other than the Pyrenees right now? You know it's May, right? And secondly, I'm going to need you to stop making me feel like I'm drowning in Syrup of Depression all the time. You're supposed to be fun and lively. You're supposed to make me feel sophisticated and polished and enlightened. I'm supposed to go back home and dazzle people with my sparkle and verve, not dampen everyone's psyches by sloshing melancholia all over the place and looking like French workers went on strike from me.

I know, your first instinct might be to blame me, as you are wont to blame Americans, and okay. I get it. I'll own up to my part. I'm an adult. But you've got to hold up your end of the deal too and stop making me cry over absurd things if at all possible.

Cordialement,

Moi

40km ≈ 25 mi.

Why is the United States the only country in the world who doesn't use the metric system? Okay, apparently Myanmar and Liberia use it too, so I can't say only. But while we have to memorize random measurements for conversion purposes, all everyone else has to do is move a decimal point.

Anyway, this weekend, I did something completely out of the ordinary. I had an extreme case of wanderlust. I had a need to explore. I had a need to reconnect with something, accomplish something concrete. I wanted to feel wind in my hair, blood rush through my veins. And what better way to do all of those things than take a 40 km bike trek through the French countryside along the Loire?

Sometimes the road was level, smooth and steady. Sometimes it went downhill, exhilarating. But sometimes it went uphill, tiring. The first couple of times, I switched gears and ground my way through it. Later on, I had to get off my bike and walk with it uphill. To say that the bike ride was a life metaphor would be way too cliche. So I'm not going to write it. But I will admit that I thought it. I thought it when I passed picturesque scenes of provincial French life. If I focused too intensely on the ride itself, getting through it, fiddling with the gears, trying to keep up with the others, etc., I would miss the beauty around me. When we finally reached our destination, I had a sense of accomplishment, and the beauty of the castle of Chenonceau and the surrounding gardens were all well worth the ride.

I was going to make a slideshow, but I realized I could just post a link here, and all interested readers could see the photo album I already created.

There are a few sort of depressing things I was thinking about expressing, but I'm kind of reluctant to because I don't want to ruin my little triumphant bike ride story. I'll just say this: It's cold again, and I want to die. Can the weather here PLEASE make up its mind? Just the other weekend, I got a nice toasty glow out by the beach. Last week, I browned my legs in the sun while doing homework to the tune of children's laughter in the park right behind the Institut. But today I walked outside and just wanted to turn right back around and crawl back into bed. And it's supposed to be this way for the rest of the week. C'est pas possible. I was complaining to my host mom about how I had just gotten used to the nice weather and now it's like this again. She was all like, "Well, that's how it is in May. The weather had been too nice." Really, Madame? God, You know how I am with weather. Thistooshallpass. Thistooshallpass.

Tomorrow begins my 5th month

in France. This is what I'm trying to do:

1. Remember that winning a scholarship to be able to spend 6 months in France is a blessing.

2. Be thankful for the experiences that I've had so far. Even the negative ones.

3. Realize that I am meeting a goal that I've had to learn another language.

4. Not dramatize. In French, that's dramatiser.

5. Wake up in the morning and be grateful for each new day.

I find myself constantly teetering between two seemingly opposing desires. Liberty and stability. When I choose one, it seems to cancel the other one out. I turned down the job offer. If I had accepted it, I would have felt tied down. Expected to stay longer than I had intentions of doing. I rejected the stability of a sure job for the liberty of non-obligation.

I've had a lot of liberty here. No one expecting me to do anything other than show up to class. No one looking up to me or expecting me to be anything or anywhere. No expectations to live up to. Nobody to let down or disappoint. Virtually no responsibility. In a way, it's been fantastic. A relief. I can breathe in peace and not have to justify my existence. Liberating, if you will. However, in other ways, it's been disorienting. The more you learn about anything, particularly yourself, the more you question.

On the other hand, the one thing I fear probably just a shade more than the idea of being tied down is the idea of being adrift. Free, but without direction, surety or stability. Forever a nomad and never finding home. Being an explorer is fabulous, but being lost at sea is not at all.

As much as I long to avoid being sequestered in the slow, dreary roll of the routine ordinary, I long to find a steady niche carved out especially for me. A warm, comfortably imperfect, reliable place that will always be there and was meant for me.

La Rochelle

Yesterday a group of 7 of us of 6 different nationalities piled into a car and took off for the beach in a charming city called La Rochelle. We picnicked on the beach, soaked in the sun, explored the city, and finished things off with a lovely dinner. I really don't know how this day could have been more perfect.