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.