The road is diverging.

A life in French feels mostly like a dream. Hazy, and distant, slow and impossibly fast.

If you ever mistake a Sylvain for a Simon by some weird accident, and you apologize like a moron insisting It's nothing, it's nothing, and he is delighting in your fumbling, not watching the country road covered with holes and then you SCREAM --THEREISAREDBIRDAHHHHHH and he brakes and you think you might cry for the millisecond of brilliant scarlet you saw just beyond the headlight, you stop in a cloud of dust, in a slow baseball slide, he reverses slowly and you say, You don't want to see it. But you look, anyway, and there is nothing to see. Your heart thumps out the rhythm of an unexpected two-step, you close your open mouth and sit unmoving until he slowly lets out the clutch, and you laugh about one harried minute, knowing the evening is going to unfold slowly, and you are going to pay close attention.

There is Simon and Edith and Sylvain, a pot of peas and a porkchop; you bring vanilla cake and talk about the evil gym teacher and her mockery of your pathetic biceps. There are phrases you don't understand, but you like the way they seem like brothers, the honesty in the simple dinner, the camp-style impromptu cooking, the bag of powdered milk for the baby goat who loves everyone.

There is dancing in 3/4 time, you are magnificently patient and proud -- you are proud! You are kind and you laugh, you dance and you dance and you dance.

On a Friday, you bake apples in buttery pie crust, roll it out with flour on a glass juice bottle and follow instructions so carefully. You honor the Moravians, your Grandmother, make the chicken in the buttery crust with the carrots and the mushrooms, the perfect brown of butter and flour, then heavy milk, the bouillon. It is a hopeful experiment, paprika and pepper, and you wait until Saturday to see if you succeed.

At the grocery store there is a line of people who buy beer, one inexpensive can at a time. The man behind you makes a joke you don't understand, smiles a brilliant contrast, and you look away because you think you should, afraid or ashamed of the liquor bottle inside of his coat. But when you leave, in the tranquil falling rain, you ask what he said, and you want to go back and tell him it's brilliant, his joke, magnificent even. It's just his French is hard to understand.

Early on Saturday, you fight the alarm asking for just a few more minutes, just a few... and then you are glowing and dirty, grease in your hair, thick dust on your glasses, soft fur of a baby calf against your blistery palms, all curls and closed eyes, too tired to even drink. A chorus of baby goats bleating little symphonies behind the sound of rain, tractor conduit around the yard, a tempest of hay and straw and millions of particles, you feed your friends with a pitchfork from a carpet of dehydrated plants. A hot shower, a delightful lunch, a tour of ancient mines, now filled in and covered up like a mistake, for scuba or living in houses that settle and crack.

A beautiful sleep welcomes in the next morning, a plateful of eggs and toast with raspberry jam, and a trip on a train to a city with a cinema and a beautiful river with big beds of buttercup flowers, it is spring in Auvergne for sure.

School is normal, students surprise you for better and for worse, and you slowly realize how the bell curve plays out, how you appreciate the work. You skip gym class to work on your resume, write letters of motivation using beautiful words that play part of a parallel universe. You try and figure out how it could work, how it works anyway, how you decide what is scarier, what is easier, what is better.

You don't know.

So you focus on the obvious things, the variables already given to you. Like Edith, and her half-sister who will probably be called Lilas. Another dinner, another dance class. Clay-red hair and olive eyes, the sweet smell of baguette and waking up on no-work Thursdays. An approaching visitor, an upcoming birthday, a harshly marked-up resume and afternoon tea.

A great sense of adventure abounds, unknown, possible, beautiful and indeterminate.

Positivity

What I like about weekends:

They usually begin with a tranquil afternoon

"No one would believe you."

Fact:

a) I have a friend that has a goat named Edith
b) I saw Renan Luce in concert
c) I drove two tractors last weekend -- WITH manual transmissions
d) I held a rope restraining a massive cow while it got its injections
e) I played with baby cows while trying to give them new straw beds
f) I watched Sylvain milk an angry cow
g) I fed a bottle of angry cow milk to a very weak baby cow
h) I read my first ever Tin-Tin comic (Tin-Tin et l'Etoile Mysterieuse)
i) I helped with an oil change that happened in the barn
j) I helped feed cows and clean the barn -- I seriously used a pitchfork!
k) I had a clean towel waiting for me in the bathroom
l) I witnessed the birth of a baby cow
m) I fed the farm's new and very timid pig
n) Sylvain & I went for a walk with Edith on Sunday morning
0) I drove in the countryside for almost an hour without stalling the car once!
p) We are going back to the farm again on Saturday! We're skipping a trip to the big city for a weekend in the country :)

Cow Wash

Sunless Sunday morning, 7:45, out of bed, into the breath-cloud cold.

One hour of road, through villages inhabited in increments of ten, nodding hello to oblivious sheep and birds and rolling farmland, thinking about springtime, fearing the persistence of winter.

Turn left at the green gates, and accelerate up the hill, on the dirt road rutted with a pair of deep parallel lines; arrive at destination, a series of giant aluminum barns, a handful of tractors and modern farming equipment, metal and painted, praying mantis and origami, several hexagonal containers of feed, tools for continuity, and a humble farmhouse, a floor mat out in front, painted shutters, and a series of clouds rolling out of the chimney.

It is unusually quiet, without the chorus of bovines, calling for nourishment, the occasional cluck of a chicken, bleat of a bearded goat. Expose American shoes to farm soil, and visit your baby goat love named Edith. She will nibble your finger and leap about, running courageously in and out of the enclosure with perpetually-angry bulls, frolicking and skittering on still-unsteady stilt-like legs, she will kiss your face and bite your sleeve, beautiful acts of farm affection, joy at having been liberated from the make-shift pen that prevents her from jumping into kitchen windows and eating fearless spring flowers.

Exchange regular civilian clothes for an ancient sweatshirt signed by supposedly famous football stars, the signatures washed out after repetition and usage, a navy blue quilted vest, and brilliant blue coveralls that tuck into polka dotted rubber boots. In the second barn, find the five freshly-shaven, sloppy pink snouts and big baby-doll eyes, powerful hooves and thick necks. Watch as the farmers hold their three-pronged forks, in a whirl of fluid movement and language, herd them into the open courtyard and close the barn door behind. Stand in awe at the massive presence of these "beasts" -- the heavy and serious clomp of enormous feet on the cement.

Once inside the fenced-in pen, observe the magical knots that convince the monster mammals to stay in place, roped to the iron gate, while the dish soap Sunday cow wash springs into action.

Three buckets of hot, steaming water. One bottle of brilliant-orange citrus soap. Three thick-bristled brushes. Six hands turning red from frigid air meeting damp skin, bitter winds, resistant cows. Dodge the cruel whip of irritated tail, the rapid pleating of thick knees, the impatient turning like a compass in math class. Watch thick pink skin shutter in winter temperature, transformation from beast to belle, a final rinse from the refreshing tap and the mad rush back inside.

A shower and a home-made meal, sausage and pork chop and chicken from animals that used to live in the yard; potatoes and raisins and endive salad, golden apple tart and scarlet red wine, a hot cup of black tea with two sugars, and a tiny dark chocolate to finish it off. Kind eyes and curling hair, airy laughter and steady questions -- a happy afternoon in a beautiful French kitchen.

pineapples & onions

It's surreal t to have separate lives on far-away continents in different languages. Sometimes the joy is overwhelming, and like magical realism I leap around, touch things that turn to flowers, taste the fresh crack and then the soft sponge of French bread, delight in the honey and clementine and fuchsia symphony of the sounds, the cloudy rrrrrrs and the slippery "s"es, the breath clouds in brilliant sun that hold like fermatas so I can draw geometry on them with my dry, peeling fingertips. Yet sometimes, it is a pointed kind of sadness, like a distant black and white film, blurs the lines between real and unreal, between better and best, sometimes a glistening loneliness, sometimes an underlined bliss, so much information, a constant whirl of decoding, dissecting and reassembling, to make meaning. It is a Chinese take-out kind of life, the sweet and the sour, the pineapples & onions.

+ snowboarding in the massif central, a picnic lunch and a piece of blueberry pie, planning ahead for the public bathrooms that re-define disgusting and bringing toilet paper and hand-sanitizer, successfully making one half-descent without falling, metal edges scraping across unforgiving ice, looking up and losing perspective, the hauteur of mountains disappearing into sky, one instant of blue and then return of blizzard, frozen snow on rosy, raw cheeks, welcoming warmth inside the car and the subtle sound of American sleep in the backseat two minutes after leaving the mountains, two quiet hours to home

+a superhero story, burning hair and brilliant blue pants, a terry-cloth cape covered with blue and yellow anchor pattern, a little red heart pinned in the middle and an armful of orange and yellow roses, an amazing display of speed and stealth, gliding over the high school walls, so high and hard to climb, simply to say, Happy international women's day.

+eggs and toast with rhubard jam on fresh, French baguette

+dryer sheets all the way from America, keeping the static away one sweater at a time

+living in a place with 6 roommates from all over the world, dinners in French, films in French, coffee & tea in French, watching films while preparing lessons at the wobbly table in our hospital green kitchen and laughing at the Ch'tis

+going to bed at ten o'clock

+being excited about teaching the geography of "AMERICA" in a Go Fish game of cards, eagerly awaiting the delivery of an online indulge (merci bien amazon.fr) of "The Scrambled States of America" and its sequel, "The Scrambled States of American Talent Show"

+a haircut appointment made one day in advance

+a freshly cleaned bathroom, productive morning, a rack full of drying rainbow clothes, bran flakes & raspberry tea, the persistent ache of tired muscles having worked hard at the gym

-if I ask a Buddhist he/she will tell me that the problem is always the same; a problem of attachment. These routines, these magical days and minutes, are what I count on, what I love, and the thought of losing them is just as hard sometimes as the thought of staying for them

Witch with a Broom.

Some days, you stand in front of your students, a red board marker in your right hand, and you stare out at this crowd of adolescents before you, literally unable to believe the audacity of their pre-pubescent mouths.

And then when your colleague says to the student, "I can understand that you didn't appreciate her attitude," you just laugh because what else is there to do?

It all happens in French. It's like the weird ski lifts at the Massif Central that are brilliant orange conveyors -- they keep rolling on, despite the bitter wind, the

Growing up is...

eating Brussels sprouts and finding out you actually like them.

saturday goat box book paris

cows on saturday. (brilliant boots in an incubated barn, beautiful pink snouts and eggshell-colored bodies, soft ears that flick back and forth, the earthy smell of feed on my hands, clouds of dust that float off the giant wheels of hay that unfold, heavy, impressive, compacted; the stretched out throaty calls bouncing off aluminum walls, brilliant blue of my coveralls and faded gold of feed, vibrant red twists of his hair standing next to the baby who is learning to eat, the solid mademoiselle who eats the brown pieces from his hand, an enormous pink tongue slurping back and forth across the rough upturned palm of a well-worked hand, a chorus of bon appétits and a sinking sun dropping off the edge of the earth like a coin into a magical wishing well)

baby goat. (i love her, spindly legs, unsure of world, bleats of joy and sloppy love. i will leave all of my worldly possessions in france in exchange for this baby goat love, take her home on a plane with me and sneak her past the customs gate, "je ne parle pas anglais, excusez-moi, je ne comprends pas!"

head in box. (a haunted church with a box of bones, stick your head inside and all of your cranial problems disappear, headaches, migraines, craziness... "we do not recommend participating in this tradition" which, of course, everyone does.)

good book. (i just re-read "the girls' guide to hunting and fishing" by Melissa Bank, en français and i don't understand one chapter at all. i wish i could call her up and ask her directly, "What happened with Nina?" i think it's a print shop problem.)

train tickets to paris. (for my first American visitor! EGG in france in april! hooray!)

Eastern Block What.

Enfin, bref. (I summarize)

Belgium is:
cold, full of waffles and strange language, and free roadways of Michigan quality

The Czech Republic is:
recovering, kind of closed, beautiful in an archaic way, quaint, and full of dumplings

Hungary is:
happy that communism is over, and in the process of redefining itself

Ce qui veut dire...

Belgium has forgotten what the sun is, maybe since the winter waltzed in. Snowflakes swirl around the old city, over thick red brick roads and endless roofs of waffle stands, over the Mannequin Pis who continuously pees aloofly in all weather. We arrive and it is night time, and the city's enormous Atomium glows blue in the distance, like a jumble of illuminated, larger-than-life rubber band balls.

Breakfast is without sunshine but with heart-shaped peanut butter chocolates. We climb inside the Atom, learn about bilingual women who worked as travel ambassadors in Brussels, wearing smart wool suits and burgundy-colored hats, directing tourists around the 85 World's Fair. We explore a giant brick church that is ugly, supposedly derived from the Notre Dame in Paris, but interestingly failed in a very obvious way. There is a frigid wind that makes my ears hurt, and we have no map. We drive through the sleeping EU city, a dark blue ant crawling through a glass-and-metal forest. We find the grande place and then the comic museum, take photographs of Tin Tin and feel like we are children, climb a giant cartoon statue and seek solace in steaming cups of tea. It takes courage to go out even when a Mexican restaurant awaits, covered in conspicuous touristy decor, like an Applebee's across the border.

St Valentine's Sunday begins with a bus tour of Brussels and a warm breakfast. One hour's drive north, and we are in Bruge, like a little Amsterdam I imagine, canals sneaking through narrow streets lined with A-shaped buildings emanating warmth and color and life. We soak in the romance of the city, the open square and the distant steeples of churches, eat mussels and escargots and Belgian fries before heading back to the capital and watching French television.

Seven and a half hours back to M, we pass through Paris and different departments, and I am constantly quizzed -- 59 Nord, 62 Pas-de-Calais -- and he learns English in little ways; grapefruit, and green beans and peach and peas.

I sleep in my own bed, do a little laundry, and then travel north to Paris. Under a hopeful blue sky, I wander the city in search of English book stores. The first is new, the books all beautiful and expensive, piles of impeccable paperbacks stacked on wooden tables, lined up neatly in alphabetical obedience; I adore the smell of undiscovered stories. Without shame, I leaf through a "Let's Go To Paris on a Budget" guidebook, and write down the addresses of two other stores, which I eventually find.

My bag a little heavier, I soar above the Eiffel Tower, climb the skies in a pink & purple airplane and then later touch down in a puritan's paradise, a landscape of endless snow, under infinite lines of cotton-candy clouds. I am in Prague!

After a questionable monetary exchange involving insertion of euros, and expulsion of Czech krohns, plus a bit of luck with public transport, I reunite with my traveling uncle and we set out on the city. It is frigid and I feel hungry, but I look around and feel an immediate sense of home. The moon-shape of my face and looping, frizzing, wood-colored hair make me unmarked here, like suddenly I am hard to point out. We find cheap Czech food, and I am now irreversibly in love; dumplings of all flavors nestle in steaming, stainless steel bins; strawberry, blueberry, plumb, raspberry, abricot!

In the space of two days we try and experience the entire city. A free walking tour led by a Scottish guide takes us back through time, back to not-so-distant reign of communism, to the building of the Astrological Clock, the days of "defenestration" and Kafka and back to concerts of Mozart. In addition to mushroom soup and bagels, this three-hour promenade reveals to me some fascinating stories, one of my favorites involving a famous (and impossible to find) church. Inside this church, a statue of Mary came to life and grabbed the arm of a thief who attempted to steal her golden necklace; her iron grip was so unrelenting that even the priest couldn't liberate the appendage. In order to save the sorrowful theif, the priest sawed off the his arm. Just as the last seeping tendon was shredded apart, Mary released her grip and returned to her meek and prayerful position. The priest decided to hang the shriveled limb in the church to dissuade others from following in his one-armed footsteps, and it can be seen even today, dangling above the congregation.

Lots more Czech food, a sobering visit to the Communism Museum (inside the giftshop of which I found Obama playing cards for sale??), walks around the castle grounds, including an impressive demonstration of the changing of the Czech guard, studies of the statues on the Charles Bridge, a few cups of hot tea and a hundred pictures later, it was already Saturday and we were leaving the city.

A 3-hour bus ride on Saturday afternoon led us to the fairytale town of Cesky Krumlov, home of the most delicious blueberry dumplings known to man, and some of the most picturesque views I've ever seen. The town was quiet when we arrived, and completely asleep on Sunday. In the morning the sun was out, proudly showering the small village in a trillion sparkles as the snow melted off the steeply-slanted roofs in violent mini-avalanches. We explored the quiet, marveled at an incredibly accurate sun dial, and enjoyed the warmth of our cozy cottage hostel.

Monday morning came and the travels continued, first with a bus ride to Cesky Budejovice, the original home of Budweiser. A switch of a train, a ride to Brno, a Czech city that seems to be remarkably missing a vowel. Another train switch, and we were en route to Hungary. It was already dark when my feet touched the Budapest cement, and I marveled at the openness of the streets, the lights of the bridges, the half-moon of Heroes and the red-dirt glow of the castle looming above.

In a whirlwind tour, we visited a vibrant indoor market, teeming with rainbows of produce and varying degrees of horrifyingly easy-to-identify meat. Not far from the market was the Jewish synagogue and museum, the second largest in the world, the first in which I have ever been. After a quick sweep through the cathedral, a mini version of Rome's St. Peter's with red and green (and not purple) marble, we headed toward Parliament and then onto the castle district, stopping for hot tea and strudel after trying to follow a useless walking tour in our guide book. The day melted into night and then I was on my way back to the airport.

I ran into Laura and Eleanor, two curly-haired, make-up-less American women we had met earlier in Prague, and sat next to them on the airplane. The fascinating duo entertained and inspired me with stories of MFA's and Ivy League teaching, three months in Amsterdam and a life rich with experience. I made a phone call for them and felt proud of my French, found our way into the city and then went for a kebab at my favorite place in Paris, where J and I used to go every time we returned from one of our European adventures.

It was nice to be home, back in sweet, sunny France, and I spent a very good two days in my bed, enjoying a relaxing end to a very much appreciated vacation.