Each Day

There's buzzing. Buzzing in my stomach due to the fall out. Buzzing in my head due to the uncertainty. (Again.)

I do what I can to compensate. I eat fruit so as not to upset my stomach whose fragility is dependent on the severity of whatever it is I don't want to face, whatever it is I, with a resigned sigh, have no choice but to get over. What are my alternatives? Wrap myself up in a comforter cocoon and plug my ears to the world? Walk about on constant avoidance alert? Yesterday was an apple and strawberry yogurt for lunch. But hey, today was a chicken sandwich—complete with tomato, lettuce and just the right amount of mayonnaise on a baguette. That's progress.

As far as my head is concerned, it feels that I've already made my choice. To make a long story short, I was offered a job that would've been waiting for me when I got back stateside. I had decided I would accept it despite my inexperience because it seemed foolish to turn down a job that was literally being handed to me. But now I realize that I would be expected to stick around for a while and commit myself to building up the program if I were to accept the job, and I don't know if I would be able to commit myself to sticking around for the long haul. I can't in good conscience accept something knowing what would be expected of me, all the while knowing that I don't have long-term plans.

So, looks like I'm back at square one. My island of uncertainty. Turn down a job because you don't want to be stuck long-term in your small town life = going back to the States without a job awaiting you. Accepting a job and committing yourself for the long haul because you're scared of not having a job = being stuck in your small town life indefinitely. I know, it's not that dire. I just don't know now, and I despise not knowing. And I'm going to have to give somebody an answer soon.

Some people suggest staying here. Why not stay on and find a job here? Yeah. While I've got student loans hanging over me and a storage room full of an apartment's worth of stuff back home. Plus my French still sucks. I mean, at this point, I'm conversational, but um, that doesn't mean I can work here. That's like my mom suggesting I work for a French Embassy. Tears of mirth. Plus the Frenchmen aren't that handsome. They're kind of puny and effeminate.

I'm ready to go back home. But I need to get my life together. I am 28 years old. And I'm going to curl up in a corner and die if I can't gain some kind of homeostasis soon. This life of temporary gigs is getting wearisome.

Each day. Each day is new. Each new day is a gift. I have to be thankful for that.

I watched a lovely French film today whose American title is The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It's based on a true story about a man who had a stroke and is left paralyzed from head to toe. He can hear, see and understand everything that's going around him, he just can't move. It's like he's a prisoner in his own body (called Locked-In Syndrome). The only thing he can do is blink one eye. To make a long story short, he and his therapist have a system of communicating where she would recite the alphabet (in order of the letters most commonly used in French) and he would blink his eye when she said the letter he wanted. In the end, he dictated a memoir in this fashion and published a book which has the same title as the film.

It was beautiful. Despite it all, the man had the will to live. He published a book, writing it letter by letter. Each day.

And this was taken yesterday. It was beautiful outside. Even when things are bungled, due to my own feebleness or due to time and chance, if I can just get outside on a beautiful day, things are okay.

A Sunny Saturday or a Famous Friend

I usually blame my mood on the weather. It's easy to do. I often blame my behavior on my circumstances. That's easy to do, too. So, it's sunny outside, a Saturday, and I'm in France. Who does that leave to blame?

The uber-80's song "Take On Me" is incessantly ringing through my head, thanks to a Norwegian friend who wanted to take a walk down memory lane via YouTube while we were wasting time in the Internet room the other day. I was very young when this song came out, and I remember being mesmerized by the music video:

It reminded me of my childhood and of home. A time when things were innocent and uncomplicated and a place I miss. Except A-ha was a Norwegian band. Still, it ruffled up that maddening mix of melancholy and nostalgia that sticks to me and tints the clouds on a sunny day.

I'm biding my time until I walk out into the sun to have coffee catch up time with the friend I went to Spain with. Trying to steer clear of my host mom until then so she won't question why a youthful girl like me is playing the hermit on a day like this. I hope we can find a free patch of table and chairs outside in the main plaza. On a day like this, there's sure to be plein du monde.

I have a friend who's going to be famous. She already is, truth be told. I spent part of this morning reading poems that are going to be included in her first published collection because I've been bestowed with the honor of writing a blurb for the book! Reading her poetry produces a more concentrated response from me because I'm familiar with some of their origins. What prompted and inspired them. The funny ones are even funnier. The painful ones hurt even more. There are lines that are etched in my memory without my permission: "I, / having no free tickets/to the moon,/ I'd love you." Or just the simple image of "a wind bath in my ear."

This morning I've reflected a lot. Poems spoke to me almost like the Word of God. God can use whatever He wants to speak to whomever He wants whenever He wants.

Yesterday, I sat on a bench with a francophone friend talking, our backs to a fountain, actually, the second fountain you see in the blog header. I didn't know the word for fountain . . . fontaine, my friend offered. "No," said an older lady sitting on the same bench who I doubted was following our conversation,"that's a jet d'eau." Appartently, a fontaine is more like water running down or calmly pouring out some type of fixture. This was water shooting out of jets. Thank you, old lady. Difference duly noted.

Gris

That's the color it is outside. I'm sure you can guess what it is in English.

It started getting warmer. Springier. Little rosebuds of hope for warmer weather started opening up. Le printemps arrive . . . spring is here . . . that was in the air for a while. But now, a retrograde. Glacial winds sweep through the air, but I refuse to pull my winter coat back out. I refuse to wear the same sweaters I wore the first three months. Lately, despite it all, the sun would still manage to make its way out. Not today.

Walking to class this morning, I stuffed my ears full of iPod buds only to find that my iPod was out of power.

There are some hard truths settling in my stomach. Realities converging upon me that make me tremble. Worries, wishful thinking, weakness. Powerlessness. Rationalize it into oblivion. Just keep going, just keep waking up, getting out of bed, doing your homework, counting down the days to avoid facing it. Keep your head in the clouds, look out of windows, take walks by the river, take pictures of the sunset, hold innocent children in your arms, laugh, write postcards, stay busy, wish it away. Do whatever is necessary to keep from facing it.

Think about trying to explain African-American identity to a Vietnamese nun while watching a sound bite of Obama at the Global Nuclear Summit dubbed over in French. "But he's not very black," she said. "Like you." Think about the life of a Kurdish man by way of Turkey who's filmed documentaries, wants to go to Paris to get a Masters in Film, dreams of going to Hollywood, and says capitalism is the source of the world's woes. Think about the purple-tinged faux-hawk of a carefree Chinese kid who's caught between criticizing his country's government and admitting that things have changed for the better. Think about appreciating Simon Baker's (an Australian actor who's played in American movies and TV shows with an American accent) beauty with a pretty, perky Aussie. Think about walking to class with the Colombian boys, squeezing in a quick Spanish lesson before settling down to French for the rest of the day. Think about how funny it was when your prof pronounced "gangster" like "gahng-STEHR" or when one of your classmates pronounced "Gulliver" like "GOO-lee-vehr" or when your host mother, when describing how her grandchildren love McDonald's chicken nuggets, pronounced them as "noo-ZSHAY."

Not as stolid and virtuous as facing it, I know. But at least it helps to recognize that there has definitely been more color in my experiences here thus far than the gris today might lead me to believe.

Here Begins the Rest

So, 2nd (and last) session is in full swing. Most of the people in my class are the same ones from last trimester, but there are a few new faces. I was so glad to see everyone again after the break. It was something close to joy. I guess my friends here feel almost like family because we've gone through the same experiences together. We're from all over the globe, but the one thing we have in common is that we're all strangers. There's something about being strangers together that forms an uncannily strong bond.

Already, I'm thinking about the afterlife. Life after France. My American life. My ordinary life. My routine life. My old life. My familiar life. The life that I miss. The life that I always planned to come back to. Already, I know my heart will go through a Velcro process of separation. A Band-Aid being torn off. I know that old, conflicted, bittersweet hurt will linger. The contradiction of wanting to move on and wanting things to never change. But I also know that the hurt subsides with time.

Pick-a-language. That's the game we play. An ice cream cone of language flavors. We were the UN at lunch today. Norwegian and Swedish are mutually intelligible, I learned, while my American friend and I spoke a delicious batch of Frenglish. I dipped into the Spanish jar with the cool Colombians and offered a morsel of Korean to a new girl who's in beginning French. An young ha se yo. Lucky for me English is the default when things get too complicated.

It's Friday, and my English class was cancelled, so I've had quite the leisurely day. Next, dinner with host mom and Italian roommates (just for a week), later, going to the main plaza to take in the slowly warming spring air.

When I Skyped my dad last night, I rattled off some things to him in French to show off. "Sounds like you need a tissue to wipe all the spit off your screen," he said. Ah, Dad.

Sunset over the Loire

I walked across the bridge yesterday evening just in time to catch the sunset. It was breathtaking. Magnificent. I love the river.

Ah, finally!

I finally have the time and space to sit and breathe and open up a tiny corner of my world to let the light in.

Easter Musings

First of all, Happy Easter! Even though it was yesterday. Sometimes Easter is on my birthday and the ideas of being born and born again are intertwined. I had a deep need to watch The Passion of the Christ, but unfortunately I left my DVD at home. The most profound scene is the last—there's no resplendent light, angels beaming, or Jesus gloriously floating out of the tomb. In the silence, he simply gets up and walks out. The mere fact that He conquered Death was enough. Dying to be reborn, to be resurrected anew is the most powerful motif in the Christian story to me. The fact that something beautiful and alive has the possibility to rise out of the ashes of death gives me hope. Growing up, I went through a phase of being obsessed with mythology. One story that always captivated me was that of the Phoenix, the ancient bird which, after an act of self-immolation, would rise again from its ashes. It is at once frightening and moving. Sacrifice is a bitter necessity that I rarely rise to face. But the one thing that keeps me one step removed from despair is the ever-present possibility to be made new when I finally allow my kingdoms to fall.

Barcelona and Madrid

Over Easter break, a friend and I journeyed out into another country of the Old World, Spain. We got to Spain last Saturday evening and went back to France the following Friday. Ridiculously, I'd been to Spain thrice and had yet to visit Barcelona. What a stroke of chance that one of my classmates from Barcelona allowed us to crash at her place for free and launch out into the Catalonian deep. I spent my birthday there (yep, 28) and ate snails and rabbit for dinner. We also spent a couple of days in Madrid, my old stomping grounds. I reminisced about walks I took with a tall Colombian (slight reference to him here) at the Plaza de España (sigh), and of sandwiches I ate in the sun sitting on the steps of a monument at El Retiro Park (sigh). I relished my role as translator and Metro navigator and had a lovely time. I finally got a slideshow together. Enjoy!

Upcoming
Classes start back Wednesday. Right now, I'm hanging out at a friend's in Tours (the same friend who let us crash at her place in Barcelona) until I go back to my host mom's sometime tonight or tomorrow. I was promoted to the next level (supposedly the highest level at the Institut . . . ooh, I'm super big stuff now), but I'm kind of sad about the disbanding of my old class. We had an awesome prof and a really tight-knit group. The next class is going to be considerably smaller and considerably harder, but oh, well. C'est la vie.

I'm already into my 4th month here. I know June is going to come speeding along now. I'm already having visions of myself sobbing and snotting and making a spectacle of myself and bemoaning having to return chez moi and not wanting to leave this transitional, temporary French life behind. Ah, change. Leaving behind. Starting anew. We'll cross that bridge when we get there.

Spring and Spain

I'm super glad that Spring is finally here . . . it can still get a little chilly, but it's beautiful to see the flowers and the sunshine and eat outside and take walks by the river.

Today was the last official day of class before our trimester break. Our break lasts about a week and a half and the new trimester starts April 7. Tomorrow we have a little breakfast where everyone says goodbye . . . some people aren't coming back after the break. I got my final grades. Not bad.

I'm going to Spain! We're leaving Saturday. Everything totally works out, too. There's an older gentleman in our class who's got a summer house in Spain and he just happens to be driving there, and offered to give us girls a lift. I have a friend from Barcelona, who's riding along as well, and she's letting me and another girl crash at her place for free while she's vacationing elsewhere. Super awesome! I've been to Spain 3 times and still haven't been to Barcelona, which is ridiculous. Here's my chance. We're also going to spend a couple of days in Madrid . . . (sigh) brings back so many memories. Hopefully I'll get to see some old friends and former host mom. I may spend a few days in Paris on the way back, too. This is probably the last time I'll get to do any major traveling for a long time, so I'd better make the most of it!

Pictures and Such

Me and friends at a cafe Saturday afternoon:

I volunteered with Rotary and Rotaract (young people from 18-30) for this little fundraiser called Chocolat en fête. I got to try all kinds of chocolate and I helped out with the little kids. They got a tiny cake and got to decorate it with melted dark and white chocolate. So adorable.

The Rotary Club Tours Sud (my host club) did a tiny write up about my presentation on their blog. Check it out here.

I sent out a batch of postcards . . . I have to buy some more because I have a lot more people on my list than I anticipated.

Next week is our Easter break before the new trimester starts, and Saturday, I'm going with one of my friends to Spain for a few days! I've been nominated as the translator.

Ordinarily

the rain depresses me and I hate the smell of my rained on hair.

I nearly die inside when I forget my umbrella in a downpour.

But things are different when you're walking with someone else who's getting wet too.

I passed the DELF B2!

Someone told me that I'm good at moving between worlds.

That I'm good at adapting within worlds. An old, knowing ache rises up in me when I realize I can never realistically be a part of a world, that, at least for the moment, I feel contains some of the many things I lack. I recognize that a part of my constant frustration is the fact that there isn't a world that exists that I will ever be able to fully embrace or call my own.

I walk to school with a nun sometimes. I told her of my test anxieties, my insecurities in the language. The next day she told me that in her evening prayers, she remembered me. She asked the saints to help me not to be so worried. I barely managed to hold back tears as I watched the world shrink. A thread materialized between us, and I wanted, more than anything, to understand her life. She and the other sisters are planting a vegetable garden, she told me. I want to help. I want to be there, to dig in the earth, to leave with some essence of her world.

Waiting for a friend, I sat on a bench in a main plaza backed by a cylindrical movie advertisement when they spotted me. The kind of men that exist everywhere. Old, down on their luck, whiling the day away with spotty, temporary work, soothing their misery with a smoke and a drink and wishful words to young strangers. My friend texted to say he'd be late, he was stuck in a traffic jam. I tried to pretend I didn't know any French. I laughed in spite of it all. After all, the same men have tried their luck with me in other places and languages in the past to no avail.

I explained to a young man about the fact that 10% of all words in Spanish have Arabic origins. Veiled women sitting nearby listened. I listed words and phrases in Spanish, but if you dusted them off a little, they went back to where they came from. Ojalá, I mentioned, basically means "I hope." They nodded. Yes, we say law sha'allah. If God wills it.

Normandy

Before I go any further, it must be said that today is the Ides of March, and I've bewared them. I've been such a blog slacker. I went to the cities of Bayeux and Caen this past weekend in Normandy. It was a very lovely, history-filled trip. Enjoy!

One of those posts I'll probably regret later but that I won't delete because it would be inauthentic . . .

I have a hopeless crush on a fellow classmate. He's not technically a classmate because he's not in my class (thank God, because that wouldn't bode well for my concentration in class) but he goes to the Institut, so I see him every day.

We speak to each other in French. His English isn't the best and I don't know a word of his native language, so French it is. This afternoon we sat alone on the big red couch outside the library and talked about the DELF (we're both taking it), I made copies of his list of connectors and argumentation phrases to help with the oral production section, we talked about learning French, what gives us trouble, our goals, homesickness.

It's absolutely, positively impossible. In my rational mind, I know this. In my rational mind, I wouldn't even want to have anything to do with him. In my rational mind, he is worlds apart from anything possible, desirable, feasible or conceivable.

But (isn't there always?) there it is again. That part of me that's me that I'm having a lot of trouble accepting as me. That annoying sister that you want to leave behind, but you can't because she's blood, and you can't deny her. My sullen sister always manages to reject reason, in spite of its overwhelming weight and power. She hopes in defiance. She mourns what was never lost. And I'm constantly ashamed of her. No matter how many times I plead with her to stay home, to leave me alone, to stop inserting herself between me and my reliance on what makes sense, she will not be denied.

Reason tries to reason by comparing things to my feelings about France. France is nice, but France is temporary. You wouldn't want to live in France forever. You miss home. You're going to continue your life in the US. You like cafe-based socializing, all the pastries and cheese and quiche, but you're not willing to rule out taking road trips in your own car, fried chicken, warm chocolate chip cookies, easily accessible iced white chocolate mochas and Mexican food. You're going to want to take a normal shower again. Not the little European handheld ones.

But, Sister says, he's confident, magnetic. Not over-worried about his success, so it flows his way. Whatever he does in life, she's convinced, he will be successful. Whatever dreams he has, goals he sets, he will attain them. She knows this somehow. And she's disappointed because she knows he lives in a world that's so different from hers, a world that she will never, ever be a part of.

Sister, go back to your little corner, Reason says. You know you wouldn't really want to be a part of his world, just like you wouldn't want to take a European handheld shower for the rest of your life.

So . . .

1. I gave my first Rotary presentation last night. I'd say it went well. I'm always so overwhelmingly aware of my American accent, but I can't do anything about it. Oh, well. People said that I spoke well, so I guess I should just be happy.

2. I signed up for the DELF. I don't know why I'm so scared about it. It's a test to show my French proficiency, not a test to see if I will either succeed or fail in life from here to eternity. I'm really trying to calm down about it. March 19 is the big day!

3. I have another class presentation due next Monday. (sigh.) I need to get it done because we're going to Normandy this weekend.

Long, Lovely Weekend and a Few Random Extras

Long Lovely Weekend

It's gotten colder. I snap my fingers in disappointment because I'm ready for Spring to come. Nevertheless, this weekend was lovely. There was a lot of sun. We went to Mont Saint Michel and a nearby town called Saint Malo:

Church this morning was nice. Thankfully, an incredibly sweet young man who lives nearby who also goes to church had the day off, so he drove instead of my having to take the yucky train.

Few Random Extras

1. My dear mom sent me some girl scout cookies and I brought them to share with my classmates and with my students. They were a hit. Thin Mints are my absolute favorite in the universe, but it seemed that the French folks who took a taste were not impressed. I guess the chocolate/mint combo threw them for a loop.

2. I'm giving my first Rotary presentation tomorrow. Mommyyyyy! I'm a teensy bit scared. I mean, my French is all right, but it seems like it'll exponentially diminish when I'm in front of a group of distinguished francophones. I did a little PowerPoint, and my host counselor checked it out for errors. There's still a teeny bit I'm going to add, though, about Rosa Parks and the Montgomery Bus Boycott. I've already used my PowerPoint for educative purposes, though—the handsome Libyan decided he wanted to see what I was working on, so I gave him a little preview. It was so cute the way he pronounced "Martin Luther King, Jr." Awww.

3. I still haven't decided whether I'm going to take the DELF. I feel like I need to go ahead and take it now so that I can get it out of the way and not have to worry about it the rest of my time here. It costs a bit of money, so I feel like I need to do it now while I definitely have the money instead of waiting until later and being like, whoops, I don't have enough. If I fail it (which I superly hope that I don't, and which I think is relatively unlikely, but still possible), then I'll have the chance to take it again in June. Level B2 is the level that French universities require foreign students to have before they can enter. So, it basically shows that you're competent enough in French to do college-level coursework. I mean, I don't HAVE to have this . . . it's not a requirement at all. It's not like I'm going to be able to teach French in the States because I have a DELF B2 diploma. I wouldn't even want to do that. But it is an internationally recognized test whose results are valid indefinitely. I want to go back to the States with something more than a certificate of attendance. I feel like I need to have something solid in hand that shows my competency in French. This is the beginning of my 3rd month here, and I feel like I've progressed. B2 is the level I'm currently in, so I've already done plenty of practice concerning the test. I feel like I should go for it. But I have to be sure . . . it's not going to be easy. I have until Tuesday to decide.

This is what ya girl did/is doing:

1. Finally finished the PowerPoint for my Rotary presentation coming up!

2. Still relishing the compliment my usually supercilious oral production instructor bestowed upon me this morning. We did practice for the DELF (an internationally recognized French language proficiency exam that I'm considering taking this month), and part of the test is basically giving an impromptu presentation based on a text. I hate it when a teacher asks a question or asks for volunteers, and everyone just sits there. It's just awkward, and I can't stand the silence. I guess it's because I know how it feels on the other end, as a teacher. So, I volunteered and gave my little impromptu speech about the commercialization of traditional holidays. He was all glowing and said I was eloquent and that if I did that for the test, I would pass DELF B2. I felt so warm and fuzzy inside.

3. I feel so much better about my French . . . I still have a really long way to go, but at this point, I'd say I'm conversational. I still make a lot of mistakes, and I haven't broken through that barrier yet, but I don't feel as behind in class as I did when the term first started.

I've been slacking on my blog baby.

Not that there have been a whirlwind of things going on, necessarily. Sometimes it's just hard to find the right time to write. I don't want to write when I'm overwhelmingly homesick, blowing my nose into tissue after tissue, gray clouds of self-doubt and worry my only companions. Naw, not that. But neither do I want to write when I'm ridiculously giddy, coming down from an adrenaline rush because I got a text from a handsome friend, or because a friend and I scored the last two spots on a fantastic excursion to Mont Saint Michel, or because I've got some job prospects cooking up stateside. I'm trying to write when I'm in emotional homeostasis. When I can present a world that's neither rose-colored nor tinged with dismal blue-gray.

Let's see, where to begin . . . ah, yes. What happens when 2 Americans, a Catalana (don't call her Spanish) and a Norwegian get together for dinner?

Observe my Saturday morning breakfast view.

Check out my Japanese former roommates.

Praise the Lord for the first church service held in Tours! It was a super small group, but awesome that they're starting to have services in my city. The missionaries, Bro. and Sis. Brochu, are going on deputation and said I'd be famous since they'll be showing pictures of this groundbreaking service all over the country. If you're Apostolic McChurchy and they stop though your neck of the woods, gimme a shout out.

If you heard about the super storm in France, yes, it passed through here as well, and caused a few damages. But thankfully it wasn't as severe as it was in other places.

That's all for now!

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.