What Is "This"?

The weeks slip by slowly. On the dawn lit drive to work, there was one phrase reverberating in me: "This cannot continue."

There are no specifics. I guess that's what's maddening about my state. "This" doesn't refer to any particular thing, even though the word by its very definition indicates specificity. It's just this place, this place that I'm in career-wise, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Something has to be decided upon. This limbo-ness, that's what I'm talking about. This is what cannot continue.

Career: It really is going to be fine. I can't get away from teaching. It's what I do. But yet, what am I going to do? This now isn't going to be this forever. So what is going to be this forever?

Location: It's family. The closest place to home that will ever exist. But it's just kind of a launch pad. A base that I'll return to now and again. Here now can't be here forever.

Emotional: I'm me. No matter how much I'd wish bits of me away, it's ingrained. My sensitivity. My tears. My overanalysis. My wishful thinking. I realize that these are little me-blocks. But why do I feel so badly about their presence?

Spiritual: Wandering in the wilderness. Conflicted. I love my toddlers. Last Sunday, they were completely consumed with scooping dry macaroni out of containers and pouring it into other ones. They're delighted by simple things. But can I stay in my Sunday School Teacher cocoon forever and think that will make the balloon float?

This thing that I'm in, this insecure existence, it simply cannot continue. Not for too much longer.

This is a major grade.

Name: ___________________ Date: _______ Period: __

Answer the following questions in complete sentences.

1. What are the policies and procedures involved in "giving it over to God"?

2. What does it mean not to live in the past when we are indubitably formed and molded by our past experiences?

3. In Chapter 1, the issue of Things was discussed. How do you stay on top of them?

4. In the case study of C.S., there were details of ponderous, tearful Saturday mornings. What was it that reassured the subject and why?

Essay Prompt

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger" is probably one of Nietzche's most memorable quotations. Argue for or against this assertion using evidence from your own life. Cite where appropriate.

Bonus

Applying inductive reasoning, what are the odds (in ratio form) of a 28-year-old, wanderlust-laden, indecisive, insecure, impatient, stubborn, sensitive, overly-analytical black female chilling out?

White fudge covered pretzels

are what I'm eating right now while listening to Brazilian pop. While writing in French to Swedish friends. While plunged into the molasses of life in the former capital of the Confederacy. While realizing that I love my students somehow. While wondering what's next.

Rainbow Morning

I saw this promise in the sky before I rolled away to work this morning:

Red and yellow and pink and green

Purple and orange and blue

I can sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow too.

A Sunday Night, Like Many Sunday Nights to Come

Sitting here, blogging as procrastination. Avoidance. That's nothing new.

I'm trying to hold on to the last shred of this weekend before the new week comes pouring in, drowning me in its tide of sheer existence.

I like teaching, I do. I like the little details of being a teacher. Freshly sharpened pencils, post it notes, seating charts, gesticulating while walking around the room, hoping my word seeds will plant themselves into my students' brains and that little knowledge seedlings will sprout. I like answering questions that show curiosity about the world. I like giving out star stickers for correct answers and participation. (You'd think high school students would utterly shun the very idea of star stickers, but you'd be surprised.)

But the one thing I despise, the one thing that makes me want to curl up into a fetal position in a corner and die is grading papers. And I have a million and one students. Take me now, sweet Jesus. Take me on home. The papers mock me, daring me to make an insignificant dent.

There's a flying saucer of insecurity that constantly hovers over me. I don't have it together. I'm grasping at loose ends and more sprout before I have time to tie them. It's daunting. I'm doomed to slogging through. I'll never be a hot knife through butter.

Sometimes the cool, soothing genie in my brain says just a day at a time. You can only do what you are able to do. It looks nice typed out. It sounds reasonable out loud.

But tomorrow I'll unlock my paper-decorated door (an attempt at morale-boosting festiveness), and step into my chilled room. There will be desks, a podium, a tardy log, a clock. These are concrete things.

There will be a sea of humanity in the hallways which will come flowing into my room. Here we are now, entertain us.

Call: Buenos días, clase.

Response: Buenos días, Señorita Smith.

Invitation

What: Miss Señorita Smith's Detention!

Where: Room 127

When: August 27th from 2:55 p.m. sharp to 3:40 p.m.

**Failure to attend will be an office referral! Gum scrapers provided!**

After

the end of a long week, to sit down to an enormous hunk of chocolate cake accompanied by a tall glass of milk.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Miss Señorita Smith

"Miss Señorita Smith, um, are you black or are you mixed with somethin?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, how long you was in Spain?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, how come they got that upside down question mark thing?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, I don't wanna fail Spanish. I got to graduate."

"Miss Señorita Smith, you liked the kind of food they had over there?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, what kind of music is this? What you said? Flamingo?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, do you listen to this kind of music in your car?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, I don't know what that MEAN."

"Miss Señorita Smith, ooh, I know! I wanna go first!"

"Miss Señorita Smith, is it going to be like this everyday? It be boring."

"Miss Señorita Smith, it be fun in here."

7th period

was a zoo today. This cannot continue.

I'm not the yelling type. I'm just not. Why would I get myself all worked up because of your foolishness? Not this chica.

Were some parents called today? Yezzir. That should nip this puppy in the bud.

Orange Spice Tea

I go through tea phases.

Phase one: Chai tea.

Phase two: Green tea.

Phase three: Lemon ginger tea.

Currently: Orange spice tea.

I hate the fact that my body won't let me sleep in. I'm so programmed to waking up early that even on a lazy Saturday morning I can't get in a few extra winks.

My to-do list. Oh, my to-do list.

This is what I do: Hope for impossibles. Then, if the impossible turns, for lack of a better word, plausible, I acquire a nervous, indecisive aftertaste.

I finally got a new phone. I had had my old phone since 2005. It's not the latest and the datest. I mean, I use my phone for calling and occasionally texting. That's it. I guess it's nice that this one has a camera which I might use and a bunch of other capabilities that I probably won't.

One thing I haven't done yet that I will do today: Use some mango mandarin body scrub.

I wonder: What kinds of other people have Curious George as their computer wallpaper?

Flamenco

A handsome, eyebrow-pierced young Spaniard returns to his job at the cybercafe on a lonely corner in Salamanca.

Every once in a while, his thoughts turn to a quirky American girl with downcast eyes who came into the cybercafe one summer afternoon about two years ago. She sat sullenly, the only one there that day. He had some modern Flamenco on in the background. Suddenly, she inquired about the group playing, and he offered to make her a CD full of the music. Tears welled up in her eyes and she said she wasn't ready to leave Spain. She didn't want to go back to the States. He smiled and shook his head. What a silly little sentimental girl. He gave her candy and told her to keep her head up, that it's better to go through life smiling than crying. He gave her the CD, but not before he wrote "Flamenquito: music from Salamanca for a friend" on it. He then sent her off with his email address, more encouraging words, and oh-so-Spanish besitos on both cheeks.

Little does he know that the music on the CD he burned for her now gets its wear in a high school Spanish classroom thousands of miles away from his lonely corner. Students unaccustomed to such plaintive wailing, staccato raps and claps, and raspy guitar enter a new world for a few moments. Some, ever searching for an excuse, complain that they don't understand the words. "Maybe not," the girl, now a teacher, says, "but you can feel it."

Interview

Interviewer: So, how long has it been since you've been back from France?

Interviewee: Umm . . . let's see . . . it's been a little over a month now.

Interviewer: So, what's it like to be back? Do you miss it? Do you see yourself going back?

Interviewee: It's okay. I mean, I do miss certain things about it, but frankly, I was ready to come back to the States. That's not to say that I wouldn't like to go back to France. I would. It's something I'm considering. I just don't know when or how or under what circumstances. Sometimes I wake up with France on my mind. Often, it will bring me to tears. I think maybe, if I do go back, I should let enough time pass so that I don't feel like I'm slipping back into the grooves of my already lived French experience. When I go back, I want to go back anew.

Interviewer: What do you miss the most?

Interviewee: If I had to choose one thing and one thing only, I would say the Loire River.

Interviewer: You've truly lived a world-traveling life, haven't you? You spent years in Italy as a child, you spent time in Spain and learned Spanish, now you've spent time in France and you've added a second foreign language to your repertoire. What's the next step?

Interviewee: (laughs) I wish I knew. What I know right now is that I need to work. Thankfully, I've gotten a job as a Spanish teacher set to start next week, so I'm focusing on getting prepared for that. So, I guess I can say that for at least a year, the next step has pretty much been settled for me.

Interviewer: What is it that you want to do? If you could choose the perfect situation, what would it be?

Interviewee: (sighs) That's such a broad question. I don't know. I don't really know. I guess I just want to be where God wants me to be. I can't go wrong with that, can I?

This is going to sound kind of mean, but . . .

Okay, I had much loftier things to talk about, deeper things, discoveries, insights and stuff like that. But now I've been reduced to ranting.

I don't think I'm all that. I don't know what I can say to convince anyone reading this that I don't think I'm an untouchable princess or whatever. But I'm just going to be honest and say that sometimes it makes me . . . the only word I can use is 'angry' to describe the feeling that I get when someone that has absolutely no business trying to talk to me tries to talk to me.

I know, like I said, that sounds mean, but I'm serious. You are SO old, overweight, needing a haircut, looking like an extremely unattractive potato face, and you have the audacity to try to mack? Who are you? I don't even know who your nasty old self is. With your yellowing, inwardly turned bottom tooth looking like a fake wooden triangle painted yellow jammed into your mouth.

Just because you and some other lady sat near me at Starbucks and I moved my stuff out of the way doesn't mean you have a conversation opening. And just because you noticed my ringless hand doesn't give you permission to comment on my marital status, and ask if I have any children or a boyfriend when the lady gets up to go to the bathroom. And when I dumbly answer "no" to the last two questions, it doesn't give you license to inform me that you're single too and like younger women and wonder if I'm into older men. How dare you tempt my stomach acid to reflux in my Starbucksian sanctuary? How dare you impudently dare to think you even deserve wisp of a chance? And how dare you force me to revert into my uncomfortable nervous laughtering self, wanting to get leagues away from you, but somehow still trying to be nice?

With your sorry attempts to get faux intellectual with me just because I revealed to the lady that I'd traveled a bit after she asked if I were a college student and I told her I was a teacher and that no, I'm not from Montgomery originally. You Spaghetti-O and fried hot dog eating old man hat wearing over your needing a haircut head.

To talk to from time to time? No, mouth breathing jelly donut lover. Never. I don't think that's a good idea. And I actually said that last part out loud from behind my still trying to be nice nervous smile. Go back to your back room-dwelling, TV-watching life. Go back to lumbering around your flat, worn, all-too-familiar, cornbread crust world.

Let reality forge its way into your brain and focus your energies on finding a woman your own age and shoe size instead of licking your quadragenarian chops in wasting your easily spent energy in pursuit of "younger women." And you can bet your sweet potato face I'm not coming back to that Starbucks as you gullibly believed I would. Good day, sir.

Creative Nonfiction

I've decided that's what I'm going to do. Forsake all to become a creative nonfiction writer. ::insert huge chunk of I'm-just-kidding here:: It dawned on me while perusing my MFA published writer friend's library that that's the kind of writing I can do. My fiction attempts have been met with a teeny bit of success (I won a writing contest sponsored by 90&9 for this story 3 years ago), and I've written a bit of fiction for Word Aflame Press Sunday school literature for teens, but in all honesty, it's not great. My poetry attempts have been . . . dismal. But I think if I were ever going to pursue writing seriously, I would write creative nonfiction. It's a relatively new, open field, and I think I'd like to explore it a bit.

Here's a profound couple of lines from the end of a piece called "Mirrorings" by Lucy Grealy:

"I once thought that truth was eternal, that when you understood something it was with you forever. I know now that this isn't so, that most truths are inherently unretainable, that we have to work hard all our lives to remember the most basic things."

Wow. I thought that was pretty profound. It's true. Just because you understand something doesn't mean it's with you. Believing the truth is not a permanent magic moment. It's hard, elusive work.

Another thing I realized this weekend really made me think: The reason we are able to romanticize disaster is because the worst didn't happen. It is such a sobering thought. Not original to me, though I will write it in my journal, and I hope I always remember it.

Friends and Family

So, I got back Tuesday from seeing my caramel, dark chocolate, butterscotch, burnt sienna family. We're such a lovely kaleidoscope of earth tones. Check us out here. My first day in Philly I wolfed down a whole cheesesteak. With extra cheese. Y'all don't know nothin bout that!

Yesterday, I headed to the plains to see some grad school buds. It was such a nice reunion. We even crafted a video destined to go viral:

Now, I'm heading to Birmingham (otherwise known as The Ham) to see my homegirl and her fam.

I have to get all my friend visiting out of the way before the onslaught. Gotta get Rotary PowerPoint lined up, and Monday starts a little "not mandatory, but highly recommended" new teacher orientation. It's creeping up on me and before I know it I'll be thrown back into the tumble dry cycle of roughneck real life.

It's Official

A little while ago, I went downtown and filled out all the paperwork for my newly acquired teaching position. Signed that dotted line, son! Official report to work day is August 4.

What slightly gets on my nerves is some people's reactions when they ask where I'll be working and what age I'll be working with. They wince or chuckle smugly saying, "Good luck with that." Let me passive-aggressively tell you something, since I probably won't say this to yo face. I know the public school system around these parts doesn't have the best reputation. But I DON'T CARE. I knew what I was getting myself into when I applied. I originally got my certification to teach high school . . . that's what most Spanish teachers do. My last elementary/middle school gig was kind of a rarity. Just be glad I have a job. Shoot. I am. And I have a Master's degree now, too? Aw, shucks. Y'all don't know nothin bout this!

Come to think of it, some of the same types of people made annoying comments when they found out I was going to teach at an elite private school. They'd affectedly raise their eyebrows and say, "Ohh, Miss Private School. Too good for us now?" Just go saddown somewhere, please.

Anyway, for the next few days we're taking a little family trip to Philly for a family reunion. Isn't it ridiculous that this will be the first time I've ever been to a family reunion? Ah, well. There's a first time for everything.

I finally finished

that wretched essay, which in retrospect, wasn't really that wretched. I always do that. Procrastinate till kingdom come and then when something finally ruffles up my spirit (click here and scroll down to 3.2.231) to get things done and I do them, I realize it wasn't that bad and should have done it eons ago. I faxed it along with other final report stuff to the Rotary Foundation, and washed my hands saying, "I find no fault in these papers." (Click here for the fun of it.) Now I have to put together a pretty little PowerPoint to share my French experience with my sponsor club.

I also stopped being lazy and standoffish and called people back to chit chat and set up coffee dates.

Before I plunge into reading one of the only Jane Austen novels I haven't read yet, Persuasion (I think the only other one after that is Mansfield Park), I started formulating a little multiple choice lifemap in my head. Here are the ideas that have been juggling around, in no order of importance after my high school Spanish gig is up. Which will be the road less traveled by? (Click here)

a. Go to France and teach English for 7-9 months

b. Teach in the DoDDS system (the schools on American military bases abroad, the kinds of schools I went to back in the day)

c. Join the Foreign Service

d. Go to the Urshan Graduate School of Theology

They're like little crystal balls being juggled around in the back of my mind a la the Goblin King:

Should I do a grand expedition of going for them all and seeing where the chips fall? Or should I just relax and take things one day at a time?

I vote for the latter.

A French Memory

June 21 was a yearly all-night music festival celebrated all over France called Fête de la Musique. There are music performances all day and music played in the streets all night. I was out, laughing at the antics of my friends to the oh-so-European techno music blasting from a cafe near the river. A man walked up to me out of nowhere, startling me. He leaned in and told me in French, "Just to tell you that you are pretty." And before I had time to react, to even say thank you, he walked away. He didn't look back.

Focus, focus.

There are 3 people I need to call back who have tried to get in touch with me since I've been back. Why haven't I opened up my beat up, ghetto phone (yes, I still have the same one) to return their calls?

Why am I being lazy and standoffish and not feeling like dealing with people? No, sir. I don't want to call you back so I can come over and translate during the course of what I'm sure is going to be an awkward, money and/or living arrangements related family matter. Make that 4 people I'm supposed to call back.

I guess part of me doesn't feel like getting together with folks because I don't want to have to pay for doing lunch during a time of current financial strain, and I just end up giving banal answers to "How was France?" anyway. Plus, people I haven't seen in a while inevitably ask me about boys. And since I'd been in France for 6 months, surely there was somebo—No, really? Must we? I'm back, so if I did "meet anyone," he must not've been convincing enough for me to stay.

I'm so mean. And I still need to write this wretched essay. Oh, and I need to get a PowerPoint together to share my French experience with my sponsor club. Focus, focus.

I confess that

I cry easily, and often despairingly. Like the world is broken and irremediable and that I must bear the burden of a generational shift. Like my life is doomed to an unstable series of unfulfilling endeavors and as if every decision I make will be forever etched in stone. I cry because I never want to say goodbye. Because things always come back to "this." Because I was suddenly overcome by a maddening mix of nostalgia and melancholia. Because I wish I had never. Because I wish I had. Because of recurring interconnectedness between beauty and sadness.

I laugh easily, and often boisterously. With my head thrown back, clutching my gut. Doubled over, covering my wide-open mouth, wiping away tears. I laugh because of the simple, amusing things that parade across our lives every single day. I laugh due to old inside jokes remembered like a welcome friend. Because of absurdity that would otherwise be surreal. Because of clever puns, children's speech and conceptions of the world, spot-on impressions, the theatricality of politics, the confusion that results because of cultural and linguistic difference. I laugh when my friends label real life people and situations with literary and cinematic references. I laugh because of my brothers' exaggerated accounts of what happened when we were kids.

I'm naive. I trust easily. I'm taken in by things I consider exotic and different and foreign. I romanticize. Fetishize. I construct impossible ideals only to knowingly watch them fall apart.

I'm a critic, sometimes a cynic. I notice everything out of place. I question relentlessly. I analyze choices to the point of paralysis, oblivion.

I smile a lot and often really hard. Sometimes pictures of myself scare me because of the ability to literally count my teeth because they're that big and defined.

I'm a procrastinator. I let things build up into a time-crunched frenzy, and eventually complete the task in a tiring, unnecessary marathon, propelled by the adrenaline-rush of a looming deadline.

I always take the long way. No matter what it is, it seems like there was always a shorter, more efficient way to do what I just did or to get to where I just arrived.

Things are usually not as complicated as I make them out to be.

After all these years, I still don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.

Return to American Life: Day 11

What am I going to do with me?

Take my pick of lifecream flavors: Double fudge teacher with high school Spanish chunks? Strawberry traveler with a wanderlust ribbon? Rocky road(s)? Birthday cake to 30 and beyond? Truffles, splits, fill-in-the-blank chocolate chip.

There are so many. But I have to savor them one at a time.

I actually had a couple of interviews today. One downtown at the main big dog mcdoggy Board of Education, and one with an individual principal at an individual high school who was "interested." In truth, I applied for an English as a Second Language (ESL) position, but I was told that they were very limited and that they always have a general posting on the website. (Read: there weren't really any ESL positions open, but they like to keep it up on the website because it looks pretty.) What they had available was teaching high school Spanish. Like Mr. Schuster on Glee.

I wanted to try something different with ESL, but I do love Spanish. And the only age that I don't have professional experience with is high school. It'll be another notch on my belt. I will be able to say I've taught at every single level. For real. I taught elementary, middle school, and university, so high school's the missing link. I will be able to say I've been all things to all men.

The principal said he was very impressed with me and said he'd think I'd be a good fit. There are a few administrative wrinkles to iron out before he can formally offer me the job, but he basically let me know he wanted me and I basically let him know I would accept. So, we'll see.

I always have my little plan. My little checklist. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. But here it is anyway:

My Future Checklist

þTeach high school Spanish for a year

þSave up money

þPay off loans

þGo back to France and teach English

So, I found this little program with the French Embassy for candidates between the ages of 20-30 to teach English in France for either a 7 or 9 month period. I'll still be on the green side of 30, I've always wanted to work abroad, I want to improve my French even more, so why not? The application process starts in October, and if I were selected, I'd find out in April.

I have decided that I just have to go out and do stuff. If it works out, it works out, and if it doesn't, it doesn't. I'm tired of being both paralyzed and driven by fear. I really am. It's an exhausting and ultimately destructive way to live. I can't let that stuff control me any longer. I refuse to.

I could take a painting class. I could take up tae kwon do again. I could take guitar lessons. I could start learning another language. I could plant an herb garden or cultivate a patch of sunflowers. I could move to another city. I could fall in love.

There are so many things I could do.

I felt really American when . . .

I ordered Starbucks through the drive-thru.

I ate Burger King for lunch and had Papa John's pizza for dinner.

I threw away a Sprite can.

My mom and I drove in separate cars to the same place.

I ate a bagel for breakfast.

I listened to NPR.

I didn't have to pay for a plastic bag and the cashier bagged the stuff at Publix.

I took a long, hot shower.

I forgot to turn off a few lights around the house.

I talked on a cell phone with a cell phone plan.

I helped the youth sell fireworks for the 4th of July.

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.

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.