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.

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.