I am stuck

in a world of not wanting to do anything. I have things to do lined up against the wall like toy soldiers with smiles painted on their faces, but I don't even want to look at them. One soldier's name is 250 Word Composition About The Pros And Cons Of New Technologies And Their Effect On Young People Due Tomorrow. Another soldiers name is Lesson Plan For Teaching The Administrators On Friday. Another soldier's name is Rotary Dinner PowerPoint Presentation. Another soldier's name is Start Applying For Jobs.

The morning started out ambitiously. Warmer than normal, wind blowing through my pincurl waves still smelling like passion fruit smoothie, brisk walking, "Party in the USA" doing its autotuned slide through my earbuds. Got my hands up, they're playing my song, I know I'm gonna be ok, Yeeeeeeeah, it's a party in the USA. Even though I'm in France.

Got my hot chocolate. Yeah. Saw the handsome-faced Libyan. Yeah. But somewhere between handsome face and lunch break, my brain was finally touched by the bug. It introverted into its usual spacious, rambling, melancholically tinged world. It ambled around the room while my professor spoke, her French devolving into Charlie Brown "wa-wa-wa-wa-wa."

I ate a sandwich, watched the Euronews channel, struck up a lunch chat with a Vietnamese nun. Shared my Catholic experiences: living in Italy, throwing rose petals onto a passing procession figure of the Virgin, going to mass with a priest friend, eating candied almonds made by an order of cloister nuns in Spain, feeling serenity shine through stained-glass windows.

Listening comprehension went in one ear and out the other. After class, to the library to write my composition, but tears kept stinging my eyes. I knew I wouldn't be going to Cafe de Langues tonight. But thank goodness for an empty break room and a piano to myself. Pachebel's Canon (not the original version), Send in the Clowns, the first movement of a Kuhlau sonatina, the theme to (of course) Fur Elise. Bits of this, pieces of that. Because that's all I can remember.

I came down the stairs from my shower right after Madame got back from physical therapy. It's raining, she said. And it's supposed to rain tomorrow too. But I have an umbrella.

Way too lazy to add captions . . .

so, please enjoy these pictures of my Saturday in their natural, unexplained state. Okay, I went to a few chateaus in the cities of Amboise, Chaumont, and Blois. We were originally going on an excursion with the Institut, but apparently too few people were going, so they had to cancel it. A group of us decided to forge ahead anyway and we had a lovely day. Enjoy!

Sunny Side Up

I have to write, as sort of a meteorological testimony, I guess, that it was gorgeous today.

Since I thought the universe had conspired against me yesterday, I guess today it felt compelled to show that deep down in its heart, it really loves me.

I'm serious, today was the antithesis of yesterday. I walked outside and remembered my gloves, but as I rounded the corner, realized I didn't really need them. It was much warmer than yesterday morning. The sun was out, and the sky was a pristine blue.

Spurned by the coffee machine yesterday, I got a hot chocolate instead from the one in the other break room, but upon my return to the building where we have class, seeing a group of my classmates with tiny cups of hot drinks, I realized it had been fixed. Inspired, I went in and, invited to converse with the beautiful Colombian, brushed up on my Spanish.

As I was sitting in class, a beam of light shone in through the window directly into my face. It was blinding. At first, I cupped my hands above my eyes to be able to see the board. But then I stopped, leaned back slightly in my chair, closed my eyes, and allowed the sunlight to wash over me.

Rainy Day #39851

This morning started out as one of those mornings that contained those exact, precise, perfectly equilibrated elements which, set into motion by a meticulous unattributable impetus, creates quintessential melancholy.

Quintessential melancholy is not caused by anything. No particularly sad or depressing event immediately precedes it or is directly related to it. Instead, it materializes, it descends, when those heretofore piecemeal elements suddenly, inexplicably converge.

I finally arose, a little more cloudy-headed than usual after a restless night of dreams I couldn't remember. I overheard my host mother murmur "Il pleut" to the little boy she watches during the day. It's raining. I got my umbrella. Locked the door behind me as I stepped outside. As I rounded the corner, I realized I had forgotten my gloves. It wasn't raining in the true sense of raining, but misting so intensely than an umbrella was necessary. I held my umbrella with one cold red hand and put the other into my pocket. Wet, gray realities were my thoughts all the way to class.

Maybe a hot chocolate would help lift my rain-dampened spirits. The little coffee machine in the cafeteria where we always go to get 40 cent cups of coffee and hot chocolate during breaks would be something of a familiar friend, I thought. Wrong. It turned against me. It ate a whole euro without rendering the hot chocolate or returning the money. Ordinarily, I would have shrugged it off as time and chance. Today, I wanted to cry.

Later, I ran into the sexy Libyan during a break between classes. Whereas I usually feel flattered or amused while talking to him, this time I felt sad. Suddenly struck by a sense of futility, of impossibility.

Things did begin to look up. And the moment I realized I felt better was when I took a bite out of the croque-baguette I bought for lunch. The bread was toasty. The ham and cheese filling warm and creamy. I had a cream-filled pastry in another bag, and the street vendor added a tiny little cookie for good measure.

The sky was still gray, it was still cold, but it had stopped raining. And one day before I leave, it will be warmer, and the sun will be out.

Weekend

Ah, Valentine's Day. You tricky little sucker. Always managing to sneak up on me when I have a grand total of zero prospects.

It's all good. I feel a whole lot less concerned about not having a valentine for Valentine's Day today than I have in previous years. Maybe it has to do with the fact that that back then there were a couple of guys floating around out there who maybe could have maybe possibly sorta cared and I was bummed when no one rose to the occasion. (Okay, I have to be fair and speak specifically about the past 2 years.) Today, I have 100% nothing to even slightly get my hopes up over so I'm pretty serene. I know that sounds depressing, but it's meant to be funny. I'm typing this with an ironic half-smile on my face.

So, Friday night I hung out with a friend and we had one of those intellectual semi-debates that I really relish.

Saturday, went out with another friend, then we went to a cozy cafe and read for a little while. It was the perfect setting to write existential drivel in my journal, so I gave in to the urge and followed suit. I'm also reading a novella in French called The Beautiful Escape. Such a French title for a book. I'm really excited about being able to read a book for pleasure in French. Later on last night I went with my friend who found my wallet to a concert. The music featured was of the style of La Réunion, an island off the coast of Madagascar, which is a French territory. It's got a lot of African percussion and rhythm and most of the songs were sung in the Réunion creole. (sigh.) I can't help but think of this guy that I met the very first time I went to France who was from La Réunion. While studying abroad in Spain, my roommate and I had taken a weekend trip to Paris. He was the tour guide. I saw him again in Spain during a festival in Valencia. But that was a long time ago.

Today I went to a church here in Tours with one of my classmates. It was a nice service. I love it when the songs are church songs that I recognize, just with French lyrics. Afterward we went to a bakery and I got some macaroons for my host mom for Valentine's Day, a little strawberry tart for my roommate and a heart shaped mini-cake for a friend. Her birthday is tomorrow.

Here are some pictures of the concert Saturday night:

Today was icicles.

Blankets of powder. Snow salt sprinkled against my pepper black coat. I like snow, usually. But today I'd had enough. Snow used to be winter wonderland. A rare meteorological blessing. Oh, special little snow bunny hearts and angels. Frolic in the pure white sparkly goodness. But it's different when you have to walk for an extended amount of time up in that stuff. And avoid slipping on those chic, narrow, stone-tiled European sidewalks and dodge frozen dog doo, which looks so much nastier sprinkled with snow. It looks obscene. Like a violation of nature. Like if Miss Havisham's molded, spiderwebby, decades-old wedding cake were topped with fresh buttercream icing. That's just wrong.

Today was midterms. Written comprehension—an article with the questions in order. Fantastic. Written production—write about whether you think the phenomenon of immigration will increase, decrease or stay the same. Fabulous. I did my presentation on immigration. But oral comprehension was a total catastrophe (it's pronounced caht-ah-STROHF in French, don't forget to pronounce the 'r' like you're hawking up a loogie), but at least it seemed to be for everyone involved. All I caught was something about some rivers and some salmon. Oh, and oral production . . . eh, not quite catastrophe, but close to it. It's kind of the luck of the draw. I happened to choose the subject of cyber-defamation. Okayyy . . . I mean it's a current topic, but hard to talk about in French. I did mention my blog, though. Hee, hee. J'ai un blog.

Scene: Girl, hurriedly running around trying to find R23 for her oral production exam finally finds the way after asking at the front desk. She ascends a flight of stairs, breathless, praying she isn't late. When she rounds the corner to climb the second flight, bam, there he is, sitting languidly and confidently at the top, the beautiful Colombian. He's unworried. He knows his French is perfect, his accent crisp, his speech fluid. He doesn't look as one would suppose a Colombian to look. His honey skinned face, very slightly dusted with freckles, sits beneath closely cropped, but still distinguishably curly, deep, golden, almost coppery blonde hair. His eyes are olive green and his smile is startlingly white. She's afraid to attempt Spanish, knowing she will embarrassingly mix it with francocisms, so she sticks with her halting French. They chat about the catastrophic oral comprehension. They both admit to making up answers.

Yesterday, I had coffee (okay, it was hot chocolate) with the young lady who found my wallet. At first I thought she was older because she left her card touting a massage business (meaning, apparently, that I equate business ownership with age), but it turns out that we're the same age and the business is more of a side job. I was calling her Madame over the phone and she was like, um, I think we're the same age.

I wanted to get her a little gift of appreciation, so I went to a chocolaterie recommended by my host mom (everyone likes chocolate, right?) and found myself in a chocolate dream land. I wanted to stay in there for the rest of my life. It was beautiful. There was every kind of chocolate imaginable to mankind in there. I finally settled on a little variety box. When I gave it to her, she was super excited and said it was the perfect gift because she absolutely LOVES chocolate. I'm glad she found my wallet because she turned out to be quite an interesting and friendly person. It's good for me to meet other native speakers around my age who I can talk with from time to time. I mean, I speak French every day, but the only native speakers I interact with regularly are my host mom and professors. We agreed to meet again next week when we both have a little more time to chat.

Here are some pics of my little international family. French host mom and Italian and Taiwanese sisters. I'm the American big sis. I really do feel like a big sis sometimes. Next week, after the Italian young lady leaves, there will be a few Japanese girls coming to stay just for 4 days. I'm in France, but getting a total international experience. Yay!

More than a Month Musings

I can't believe I've been here for over a month already.

Thursday night was the first time I've had a good old, down-home, pillow-muffled cry since I've been here. Tearing up doesn't count. If there are no sobs or sniffles, I let it go with a warning.

It's just that I despise thinking about what I'm going to do when this is up. It's a question I get asked all the time, and something that tends to get mentioned during calls home. I know it sounds like a little girl sitting there, arms folded at the dinner table, head down frowning, shaking her head (ponytails flailing) refusing to eat her broccoli, but I hate having to consider it. The thought of having to return to what has come to be known as my hometown feels like layers of covers wound around me too tightly on a not-that-cold night, the disappointment that lodges in my chest when I arrive at a much-anticipated place only to find it closed, the tepid, slow-spreading dread when I've forgotten something essential but it's too late to go back and get it.

I know I'm going to have to go back. I'll be penniless, unemployed, and in debt. God, that sounds awful, but it's true. I'm going to have to go back. But I cannot stay there for any extended amount of time. Too familiar. Too static. Too much I'm trying to leave behind. Not enough.

Teaching English went fine Friday. I kind of have an idea of where my students are now. Honestly, their levels are pretty disparate. One guy speaks very well, (the rather handsome Italian) but I don't want him to dominate the class. A couple of guys speak and understand next to nothing, and I don't want them to get frustrated. Most of them fall in varying degrees in-between. I've got to cook up some things to accommodate all of them.

Friday night I went to a classical music concert. Piano and cello duets. I love watching their impassioned expressions while playing. Especially the cello player. I was afraid he was going to tear his bow completely up and/or bang his head on the edge of the cello from dipping his head down a little too passionately.

Saturday was filled with long walks, postcard purchases, going out with friends, eating crepes and drinking hot chocolate.

Today, church. An encouragement. I'm reminded that I'm here for a reason. Despite everything, I still do believe that. Today, a new housemate, too. She's Italian. I haven't met her yet, but will later on tonight. Maybe I'll be able to reach back into the childhood crevices of my brain and extract some fragments of Italian to present to her.

On the way back from buying postcards, I ran into a guy who is part of an organization of volunteers who are normally out on the main street on Saturdays to raise AIDS awareness. I met him before on the street a few weeks ago, sheepishly declining to sign up for a monthly pledge. He apparently remembered me. He already knew I wasn't going to sign up, but he dallied nevertheless, speaking a bunch of broken English and gallantly kissing my hand, declaring it a French kiss since he's French. Um, no.

I saw a little girl break away from her mother to run back and put money into a homeless woman's outstretched cup.

On the train, looking out the window, I saw a car driving not too far away alongside the train, and the man driving the car waved and smiled, pretending that he was racing the train.

Teaching Debut

So, I'm supposed to be planning what in the blue blazes I'm going to do this coming Friday, but I'm blogging instead.

See, I got a little job teaching English for 2 hours every Friday afternoon and this coming Friday is the first class.

I'm kind of scared, to be honest, because my French is still iffy, and I don't want my students to think I'm an enormous dork. And 2 hours is kind of a long time in one sitting . . . I'll probably give them a break after an hour—that seems to be kind of the French standard taking a cue from my classes here.

The good thing, I think, is that my employer doesn't really care what I do. I asked if they wanted me to give them like an overview of what I'm doing, an outline, lesson plan or anything like that, and they were just like, nah, whatever you want to do. So, I guess I have a lot of freedom, but at the same time I don't want to do a bunch of dorky, unuseful stuff.

Why I am afraid of looking like a dork? I thought I had already come to terms with my dorkiness. It's just that sometimes I feel unwieldy, accident-prone, and constantly aware of the size of my teeth, and I know it won't be helped by the fact that I'm going to be standing in front of group of francophones, literally butchering their language while attempting to teach them mine. And . . . okay, one of the volunteers is a rather handsome Italian guy.

I need to sit down and actually read through the brochure they gave me about their organization. It'll help me get ideas for possible discussion topics . . . I'm such a terrible procrastinator. I should have done that a millenium ago.

I think I'm going to try the so-called Natural Approach (I knew Methodology would come in handy sometime) and try to speak primarily in the target language (meaning English). Comprehensible input and all of that. We'll see how it goes!

Amazing Grace, Wallet Style

An old, unashamed black woman stands up and grabs the mic during testimony time. She takes her time standing up, too. You don't know what she's been through. Do you think she cares that you're ready to move on with the service? Tired of hearing her overspiritualized, cliche, folkloric platitudes? Sorry.

Lady: Praise the Lord, saints!

Congregation: (weakly) Praise the Lord.

Lady: (looking around incredulously) I said Praise the LORD, saints!

Congregation: (a little louder) Praise the Lord!

Lady: (shaking her head) Mmm, mmm, mmm. Thankya Jesus. Mmm, mmm, mmm.

You slide back in the pew, knowing this is going to take a while.

Lady: The Lord's . . . been good. I said, the LORD's been good. He's been better than good. He's been better than better than good. I said, he's been better than better than better than better than good. (shaking her head again) Mmm, mmm, mmm.

She quickly jerks forward and back up again, one elbow bent, hand behind her back. The Spirit.

Lady: If He don't do anything else for me, He's done enough - HAAAY! - He's done enough.

She does a double dip this time, and stamps her foot with a flourish.

Lady: There was a wallet, saints. A whole American and French life wrapped together in one up in there. There were credit cards-ah, debit cards-ah, social security cards-ah, euros-hah, student ID cards-ah, driver's licenses-hah. And the enemy, oh, Lord, he ain't for nothing but to kill, steal, and destroy, took it away. Sweet Jesus! But let me tell you something, saints, the devil is a LAH, and let me tell you in the middle of French Civilization today there was a knock at the door. A lady from the front office came in holding a wallet. The same wallet that the enemy stole - HAAAY! - But God turned it around! I said, God turned it around! It had everything, saints, all the cards, all the money, still there! A nice French lady found it and turned it into the Institut because of the student card inside. Mighty God! JAY-sus!

She gets out of the pew, head bowed, one arm still behind her back, the other upraised, and does a stationary, circular jig. Members of the congregation clap, humoring her, the profundity of the miracle of the found wallet slowly seeping into their consciousness.

Lady: I know . . . ya'll are ready to move on with the service. And I'mma let y'all finish, but I have a song on my heart. It goes like this (singing with a deep, clear voice that warmly rises):

Amazing Grace how sweet the sound

That saved cards and money!

A wallet was lost but now is found

And I am so happy.

Ya'll pray my strength in the Lord in these last and evil days.