Mme Oiseaux en France

Post Script

2011-07-21T04:47:00.007+02:00

I'm not sure you should do with a French blog after you have left France... write about nostalgia for French life? The pleasures of reuniting with your own country? The confusion and the emotion involved in flipping your life upside-down like a pineapple cake?

I could do some of that.
a) I miss the burning curlicues, the smell of Axe, the yellow kitchen, the walking everywhere, the soothing lull of the vowel sounds of the flowing French language.

b) I love the comfort of English, the nearness of family, the best friend reunions and gym inscriptions. My guitar.

It is too simplified. Let me try again.

The days leading up to the end were the longest and emptiest, the fastest, and the most fragile. I don't remember them anymore. I barely remember the packing up and the giving away, the emptying of the fridge and the returning of the key.

I thought I would go alone, but S ended up driving me. He came home from work and we cried in the room, seeing the awful emptiness that hadn't been, the significance of the symbols, the space I had occupied. The house walked out with us as I gulped air in shaky sobs, avoided eye contact, held it together.

A field was on fire just outside of Paris. We watched fire engines race to the scene in a futile attempt to reduce the damage.

We stayed in a hotel close to the airport, and it looked like a fancy tree house with its A-shaped frame. I thought it would be worse than it was, actually, because he finally forgave me and told me I could go. We talked and held hands until our eyes closed on their own.

He paid 8 euros for parking that morning. We clutched each other in handfuls, holding onto whatever we could, taking up space in front of the flipping Delta itinerary board. We tried to say goodbye, but he waited anyway; I told him, I won't be able to look back at you. He said it was okay; he would wait regardless.

I frantically searched for his eyes at every turn, needing to keep him in view, desperate to know that he was still there. It took me an hour to get to the counter, during which time my computer bag strap snapped and hit me in the cheek, and my luggage fell over, crushing the woman who was standing behind me.

We met up again before security, and laughed instead of crying.

He said, "I just feel like this isn't good-bye."

And so we said, "See you later," and smiled as if it were only Christmas.

flu/sick/migraine/horrible/sad

2011-06-25T10:58:00.005+02:00

I haven't slept for an entire night in three days. My tonsils are all inflamed and throbbing, and drinking water has become an excruciating experience. I decided this morning that I would go to the doctor, and then wasted two hours calling and calling with no answer. On a wild goose chase, I called another two doctors -- tried and failed. So I decided to go to a pharmacy, was turned away, and terrified when the woman said to me that a poorly treated throat infection can lead to cardiac problems. Go to the doctor's office just down the street and see if they'll see you; if not, we'll call the SAMU (15, the French equivalent of 911) for the name of the doctor on-call in M.

That's not scary.

So I walked home in my hurting shoes and called, talked to a gruff woman doctor who didn't want to take me, and then cried.

I got an appointment 25 minutes later, slunk my way two streets over, and shoved myself in the far corner of the waiting room that seemed too classy and luminous to be legit. The quick ritual was over rapidly, and I left with a small rectangle of scrawled prescriptions.

As I waited for the pharmacist to fill them, I felt a sudden blast of heat crawling up from my toes, like a swarm of bees trying to swallow me up. I realized what was coming just as it came, and woke up completely disconnected laying on the pharmacy floor. The first words I spoke were English, and then I remembered; they don't understand you. This is not the right code.

They brought me water and concerned middle-age women stared at me, commenting on the lack of color, the level of blood pressure, then asked me who could come get me, who they could call for help. I realized that there was no one; S was at the farm, and the only people whose numbers I had were out of the city at the time. My house was full of semi-strangers, not yet friends enough to have exchanged coordinates, and I was laying flat-out on a dirty floor.

A woman walked me the two blocks home and I decided not to cry until I was back in my bed.

The kindness of strangers can be so overwhelming, the sadness of my profound and lasting sense of loneliness equally so.

Volcanic hike, bike ride, banks-a-go-go, nacho cheese doritos.

2011-06-20T16:02:00.006+02:00

Friday. A day with no work, no classes, no grading, no lessons, not even a single exam to facilitate.

A 9-euro ticket and a thirty-minute train ride, an hour in a parking lot, reading in the shade of a twisty French tree, a picnic on a park bench alongside the Loire river, and an afternoon of leisurely pedaling along on a men's white mountain bike with dysfunctional gear shifter and extremely uncomfortable seat.

Home. A lasagna dinner (prepared the day before, simply requiring an hour of baking to make the layers of cheese and vegetables delectably malleable and melty) with all of our house, a big salad and French "apératif", and then an incredible home-made caramel apple pie with an enormous scoop of French vanilla ice cream for dessert.

A night of beautiful dreams and restful sleep. A trip down memory lane, a return to my first French home, the picturesque Puy-en-Velay. A volcanic hike on Sunday, a visit with my host family and a tour around the ancient fortress that watches over the sleepy city.

Long Weekend Numéro Deux: on a Dairy Farm

2011-06-14T17:31:00.011+02:00

I didn't understand until [Monday] as I was driving and listening to the radio as S slept like a pretzel in the passenger seat, his head precariously resting on the seatbelt strap, the actual reason why we had the day off of work.

But now I know, and I will tell you why.

In 2003, there was a major heat stroke in Europe that caused the death of lots of elderly people; in 2004, France decided to create "The Day of Solidarity" which is essentially a forced vacation day during which your normal salary goes into a fund for "actions in favor of elderly people" (an explanation of that, I cannot give). Thus, we were all on vacation yesterday, "working" for the elderly, but really doing whatever we wanted.

In my case, I was learning to make St. Nectaire cheese and running around a dairy farm in the Cantal. Sunday morning, S and I headed south to meet up with Dottie and a few of her friends from Bretagne for a picnic and a hike up the Puy de Sancy mountain. When we got there, we were surprised to see that "a few friends" actually meant fifteen.

Once we finished the ritual "bisous" on the cheeks, saying our names and barely registering those of the people smudged up against our faces, we chowed down on sandwiches and then started our ascent of the mountain via a precariously tilting cable car. We hiked the remaining 3 km to the very top, and delighted in a glorious view of Auvergne and its range of magnificent dormant volcanoes.

On our way down (we decided to walk, which was convenient since the cable cars had already stopped running) we crossed a massive herd of sheep who were grazing on the grassy ski slopes, herded by three dogs and a worldly-looking shepherd who lives in an aluminum trailer during the summer. We had to hurry because it was time to milk the cows.

We followed a rented van, and a car packed full of people, up twisty, tortured mountain roads, until we came to an intersection so acute it was physically impossible to make the left turn without driving past it, backing up to the right, and then proceeding left. Once the maneuver was complete, we found ourselves smack in the middle of a tiny village of six or seven houses, and a big cow farm, complete with a bunch of dogs, chickens, geese, and a cheese factory.

Before it got dark, we decided to pitch our tent along with the others -- inside of the hay barn. Practical for many reasons (no need for stakes, warmer than sleeping outside, lots of hay to use for making a cushion underneath the tent), this proved to be -- by far -- the most innovative sleeping situation in which I had ever found myself.

Once the base camp was established, I set off for the next adventure: a shower. Totally happy to find hot running water, I turned it up full blast -- and quickly discovered that I had unknowingly developed a very bad sunburn. A glance in the mirror confirmed: my nose and legs were burnt to a crisp, and the part on the left side of my head was closer to purple than red.

S was in worse shape than I was, having refused every offer of "crème solaire" all day long, and our two glowing noses led the way to a fantastic restaurant buried at the base of the mountains. We ate the specialties of the region, a delicious fondue and a delicious potato bake just covered with cheese! Despite the dust in the hay barn, I fell asleep quickly thanks to my last, precious Benadryl and didn't wake up until the rooster started trumpeting away.

I thought that roosters crowed once, to announce the rise of the sun -- but I was wrong. Or at least, I was wrong about this particular rooster. He crooned on and on, repeating his little three-note pattern a dozen times and then waiting a half hour or so before beginning all over again. By 8 am I completely gave up on sleep and left the hay barn behind.

On my way out, I ran into Dottie, who asked if I wanted to go with her to see the end of the morning cow milking. Beh... OUI! I hadn't visited the fields and was surprised to see how big (and how mountainous) Fred's farm actually was. By the time we arrived, the last cows were already in the process of being milked so we had to kind of imagine how it worked, along with his explanations. His cows were beautiful and I love the mystical tinkling sound of their various bells combined. He explained that the bells are meticulously chosen based on the size of the cows' necks; some cows are good for producing milk, he told us, and some cows are good for wearing bells.

We had a quick breakfast (I discovered that France has its own version of Fignewtons, which are called Fig-olus and are AMAZING) and then followed Fred to his little factory to learn how to make St. Nectaire cheese.

Here is the process, as I understand:

After the cows are milked, and their white gold is collected in a giant onion-shaped metal container, the milk is heated and then poured into a giant metallic cauldron. Two plates with vertical metal wires are used to reduce the cheese curd into corn-sized pieces. Once the pieces are the right size, the plates are replaced with one giant paddle which pushes all of the cheese together into one massive block.

The liquid is poured out of the giant vat, and then the cheese is put into squat cylindrical containers which are perforated with holes to both form the cheese wheel, and allow the excess liquid to escape. With a high-tech machine, the cheese is compressed into the forms and then it is the man power that comes into play. (For this part, I don't have any photos since I was busy working and covered in cheese!)

First, cheese cloth is laid across an empty cylindrical container, and the farm's personal label is applied. The compressed block of cheese is taken out of one container, completely covered on one side with salt, and then laid into the container covered with the cheese cloth. The other side of the cheese is then also covered with salt before being entirely wrapped up with the cloth. A metal ring is placed on the interior of the container, and the cheese inside the cloth is pulled up to the same level as the metal ring. The cheese is placed on a rack with metal plates in between, which compress the cheese, remove extra liquid, and make them all the perfect shape.

They are put into the cooling room, and then sold at the market, or directly from the farm.

I noticed that while we were busily working away, seemingly the entire population of the village -- dogs included --(and perhaps, even the surrounding villages) came by to say, "Bonjour!" and check on the cheese. It is nice to know that this essential part of French culture is impeccably cared for and preserved.

Bretagne!

2011-06-14T12:40:00.017+02:00

The ability to say "No" tactfully and inoffensively is a gift -- or perhaps a skill -- which would have radically changed the course of our long weekend last week.

However, neither S nor I possess this gift in the language of Moliere, and we found ourselves at 8h30 on Wednesday night, packed in a car with half of our roommate Flouf's stuff, and all of his infinite wisdom, a seven hour drive a head of us, and a packed schedule (of which we were, at that time, entirely oblivious).

Our friend Flouf has recently (ish) gotten out of a long (ish) relationship with a girl, a story which I do not know much about at all, except that for a month or so he has been miserable and mopey, irritated when we don't hang out with him, and very easily agitated.

In the week leading up to France's four-day weekend, S and I had tentative, malleable plans to visit Bretagne, but were kind of both waiting to see how things would go. In the meantime, Flouf began putting on the pressure with each of us, individually, to spend an OFFICIAL weekend en Bretange (one of the places I have long wanted to visit in France, but never had the occasion). Between his sad faces, and the logical reasoning of driving together rather than separately, we agreed, thinking we would stay the night in Lorient and then continue westward, picking him up on the way back home.

Thus, the voyage began, with S in the driver's seat, Flouf stuffed in the back, packed in between half of his personal possessions, and me, comfortably in the navigator's seat, watching the countryside pass by until the sun sank out of sight. I took my turn driving around 11 pm and lasted until 1, when Flouf took over and drove the rest of the way to Lorient.

We arrived at his parents' house at 3 am, an hour which I have not seen in a long time, and at which my French usually degrades into barely comprehensible bits of sentences, conjugations non-existent, and agreements between anything entirely rare. But at 9 am the following morning, I was up and irritating S with the sound of the hair dryer, marking the beginning of our official vacation.

A delicious leisurely breakfast under a sunny sky was cut short by an intense surprise attack by M. LeFlouf, the extreme travel planner and Bretagne connoisseur, who vividly shouted out names of places and sights, adding emphasis by throwing his hands in the air and wildly unfolding his stacks of maps, frantically highlighting sights, roads, and intersections like a mad man, rattling out rapid-fire explanations and suggestions, informing us of Our Weekend Plans, S and me, and the entire LeFlouf crew.

At first we were overwhelmed by this energy! What passion! What intensity! And then, we just never found ourselves able to say "no."

And so it was. We were off, two rusty bicycles pedaling towards the sea amidst Flouf, Monsieur and Madame Flouf, and Petite Floufette, his sister of 14 years. In a short but rapid journey, we found ourselves facing the Atlantic Ocean from a side I had never before seen! As they hurried us down onto the rocks that reminded me of Monterrey Bay, and the sun-bathing sea lions, the LeFloufs uncovered crabs and starfish, crayfish and mussels, displaying an impressive knowledge of the secrets of the sea. We pedaled around the touristy town, took photos of waves lapping against pebbled beaches, and reapplied sunscreen to our pasty skin.

We ate lunch on the deck of their backyard, the weather uncharacteristically incredible. Bretagne is known to be constantly grey and rainy, thus making it a rare and beautiful luxury for us to discover it under the reassuring rays of the constant sun.

Once the digestion process had set in, we all piled into the LeFlouf family van and head off for visits of nearby towns that I had neither the time to process, nor the access to the information necessary to associate meaning with the names. At rapid speed, we piled in, parked the car, piled out, ran around, and repeated the processes again.

S and I were constantly holding the group back, taking pictures at the walled-in city of Concarneau, watching the rehearsal of a random play group under a group of trees, browsing souvenir shops and mulling over the stocked harbor, endless white sails flapping in the breeze, just above impeccable blue-green waves that lapped up against the shore. At some point in the day, we visited the village of Pont-Aven which is where Paul Gaugin founded his artist colony. There was talk of ice cream, at one point, but evidently not enough time, and the LeFlouf van did not even stop to let the prized Flouf son find a bathroom. However, we did stop for fresh strawberries and onions, which were necessary for the evening meal.

Exhausted, sun-kissed, and smelling of salt and sunscreen, the LeFlouf family van returned to home base around 7 pm and it was time to clean up. Dinner was a delicious series of crayfish (I think) which required de-heading, and then were recommended with a dab of home-made mayonnaise, on fresh French bread (superb!) followed by fresh fish in a delicious cream sauce, and strawberries with cream for dessert.

We hadn't planned on staying with them on Friday, but again found ourselves lacking the gall to say "no" to the passionate and persistent LeFlouf family during breakfast. Soon, we found ourselves following the family van, loaded up with picnic supplies, beach towels, bathing suits and a celtic music CD that Monsieur LeFLouf told us to listen to on the way.

After visiting the harbor and fish market in Lorient, we headed off to the Point du Millier, a wonderfully secluded look-out point with private beach access depending upon the tide, and an adventurous descent which dissuades many tourists from flocking there. We had lunch and the brave LeFloufs went swimming in the frigid water. For me, after a very brief toe-test, I decided I would just admire it from afar.

We made the tour of the bottom-most peninsula of Bretagne with the LeFloufs, ending the day at the extremely well-known site of la Pointe du Raz. After all of the hype surrounding this famous place, we found ourselves a bit disappointed by its incredibly touristic nature (souvenir shops and snack bars a-go-go) but unable to leave unaffected by the incredible views of the rocky coastal cliffs and the powerful ocean below.

Having said goodbye to the LeFlouf crew, we headed off to a bed & breakfast which was found and reserved for us by the one and only Monsieur LeFlouf, located in the tiny town of Le Faou (pronounced like "le fou" which means "the crazy.") Tired and happy for a hot shower, we made ourselves presentable and headed into town for dinner. The recommended "crêperie" being full for the night, we settled on a "brasserie" across the way and delighted in the MOST delicious warm goat-cheese salad and pizza for dinner, with a superb chocolate mousse for dessert.

Saturday morning began with a trip across the brand new Térénez Bridge, a completely curved cable bridge that spans across the Aulne river. It was finished in April of 2011 and is glaringly new and modern and hip. Juxtaposed in the background, you can still see the old suspension bridge, a sad and faded forest green color, built in 1951 and no longer useful for any obvious purpose.

We went in search of the "boat cemetery" and were surprised to find that while this "Historic Site" was indicated on tourist maps, as well as street signs, there were no actual markings once you arrived at the site. And the three surfaced boats are so well-hidden by the trees lining the road, you can easily drive past it without ever even noticing. The only place from which the boats are visible on the road is clearly marked with "No Parking" signs, which is a further conundrum to the average tourist...

In any case, we abandoned the car and went on an exploratory hike which proved to be the first of the weekend to be relaxing and without a ticking clock. Having seen no boats, but one painter and the outside of an ancient abbey we didn't pay to visit, we headed back to the car and parked illegally for a view of the life-changing marine vessel resting place.

Then we were off to the two main cities on the Presqu'île de Crozon, Crozon and Camaret-sur-Mer. Armed with our Monsieur-LeFlouf-highlighted maps, we set off at our own pace to explore a few more scenic views and discover more Breton cities.

The day was filled with places and names, Pointe de Dinan and the Pointe de Pen Hir, spectacular views of cliffs and ocean, and we even observed a wedding procession which took place in an old mariner's church located smack in the middle of the harbor. We had a lovely dinner at a very busy restaurant in Morgat which took us three hours to finish, and which got us the bottle of wine for free, as a "thank you" for our extensive patience. "A votre service, bien sûr."

Sunday morning happened underneath rain clouds, which gave us a taste for what it is usually like in Bretagne. Having lost our patience with the crazy signs for the "Cap de la Chèvre" the day before (and having convinced ourselves that we had seen it all), S and I had abandoned our plans of visiting that scenic point. But the Parisian couple at breakfast raved about it, and so we decided to try again, finding it relatively easily thanks to the deserted Sunday town, but also finding it relatively uninteresting and definitely not worth all of that work.

Our last stop on the way back to Lorient was the highest point in Bretagne, and we made a quick detour to climb to the very top, watch a man fly a model airplane, and say "good bye" to Bretagne.

We arrived at the LeFlouf residence around 2:45 and were met with hot coffee, tea, and some of the regional specialities -- far breton, which is a delicious eggy cake with prunes, and gâteau breton which is like super-buttery shortbread, with raspberry jam in the middle.

We rolled out of Lorient at 3:25, with me in the driver's seat, and arrived home to M at 1:00 am. I have never seen traffic jams like what I saw on this very Sunday. For four days we marveled at a sea of salt, waves, and magical creatures lying beneath the surface; our last 9.5 hours were spent fuming over a painfully slowly moving sea of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Vive les vacances!

Talking to Strangers

2011-05-27T11:49:00.003+02:00

This morning I talked to a Communist for ten minutes on the street. He came up to me, his hands full of brochures and information pamphlets, as I was looking at the display window of a little bookshop next to the post office. In the beginning, I mostly followed: one bank in France, get rid of corrupt bankers, it is wrong to deny people small business loans which earn 5% because they can invest in the stock market and make 15%, but then he started talking about Russia and Karl Marx and I drifted off, concentrating on remembering my rhubarb cake recipe.

I think I am too young in some ways to know about this, and I sort of felt bad. But the dude was happy to talk and the least I could do was listen.

Up. Date.

2011-05-20T11:28:00.003+02:00

Since the last time:

1. The USA junior soccer team came to Moulins to play "un match amicale" against the French team. The entire city went to watch, and the Stars & Stripes held up their own to finish with a 3-3 tie.

2. My friend P went back to the USA, which was strange and surreal, watching the back end of the train disappear, like a gust of wind sweeping up a leaf, thinking how different an experience is for everyone involved... for both the observers, and the actors, everything we see is different. She had an enormous suitcase plus two duffel bags and a backpack, defying physics, forging onward to her future.

Cover Letter Insight

2011-05-03T16:44:00.002+02:00

I have been working on job applications, a process which feels to me both sort of impossible and arbitrary. Everything is limited, militantly organized (250 characters, no room for out-of-the-ordinary circumstances, out-of-the-country addresses) and pathetically impersonal. The genre rules of the cover letter dictate little personality, no humour, no color, just stiff and formal conventions. It seems disrespectful, maybe even purely rebellious, to traverse the boundary lines and do something different. (Elle Woods in "Legally Blonde" and her pink paper?)

French formats are different. Limiting, but different. Color is okay. A photo is required. No details or brief sentences lacking subjects. Cover letters are HAND WRITTEN, and white-out is not such a good idea... but after last year's experience of mailing out 30 of those bad boys, I can tell you, more than half of mine went out with a few little "whoopsie daisy" spots on them.

This feels suffocating. Teachers are supposed to come across as enthusiastic, optimistic, creative and patient... but we are not supposed to be too different, or too liberal. I want to say that I want motivated students. Because I do. But should I?

I want to be honest, and say that I want to teach them to learn from them -- but does that make me seem self-centered?

Is wanting to be a good teacher enough to eventually make you into one? I am struggling with the confines of this process.

French Voyage à Trois

2011-05-02T16:49:00.009+02:00

Like a true maximum-efficiency traveler, having spent every second of available time visiting, exploring, admiring, photographing or consuming, I fell asleep on my train home, awaking suddenly to the sound of a violent snore on my right, to several disconcerting regards. As inconspicuously as possible, I wiped the little pool of saliva from the corner of my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket and hoped intensely that the stares were in honor of my white-bearded neighbor and not for my sake.

The night was short, and despite a nearly direct route to the train station (the RER A to the Gare de Lyon, and then just one stop on the metro line 14), when I arrived at 7h45 I felt like it was going to be a long ride.

Reflecting back on the week while chowing on an American trail mix bar and resting my feet on my battered blue duffel bag, I watched the station fill up with families of all kinds. Having spent a week alone with my parents for the first time ever, I wondered how our family looked to other people... I was taken for a student in Montmartre, a painter offering a "student discount" for a portrait I didn't want, and then was later charmed in the language of Moliere at a restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower, the waiter suggesting that I need not translate everything to my parents, as we twirled our tagliatelles on our forks and ate in the solitude of an empty basement room.

A journey in a different country, in a different language, in a place that has become home for me. My parents found their way to M, after a small detour following a bit of confusion concerning the A5 and the A6 (no one should ever ask me for directions here. Ever) and an apparently pleasant pizza lunch at a countryside restaurant owned by a fellow Harley fan. After a visit to see my goat and a good-bye to a good friend, my dad set to work on lighting the grill in the courtyard while my mom and I worked on preparing chicken & veggie skewers, while my already-prepared strawberry/rhubarb pie baked in the oven. Two of my American friends came over for dinner, bringing with them the makings for Mimosas, and we spent Easter evening enjoying good food and good company, in my little happy home in the heart of France.

The following morning, my parents got a tour of M by day -- a deserted city, thanks to the national holiday of Easter Monday. After breakfast, we headed deeper into Auvergne, following the GPS's every whim, testing the turning capabilities of our rented Ford Focus on the twisting, tortured rural roads, and eventually caught our train in St Etienne after a rapid parallel parking job, and a short run to the platform. Seated across from us were two retired hikers, one of whom spoke excellent English and engaged my parents in friendly conversation about bikes, America and Robert Louis Stevenson. The train wound its way around a myriad of sleeping volcanoes, alongside the Loire river, glittering in the midday sun, cutting through tunnels and traversing impressive bridges built to facilitate the journey. I remembered taking that train for the very first time, exhausted from jet lag, overwhelmed by the language barrier, and terrified to be heading to the unknown place that would become my new "home" for 9 months.

Upon arrival, we met up with my host family and wandered around the city before stopping to "boire un coup" at a café conveniently located at the base of the cathedral. My parents were delighted to speak English with the parents of the host family, learning about their work as journalists and Sarkozy's "American film" visit to their town a while back. At the same time, I delighted in the constant chatter of "les enfants" who caught me up on all the details of their lives, and handed me a thoughtful gift of chocolate, reminding me that they knew me well: "on sait que t'es très gourmande!" And it is so true :)

After the family headed off to return to their jobs and their moving preparations, we finished our visit of the little city, climbing up the steps to admire the black virgin and then ordering the country's absolute best nutella crêpes from the little stand in the middle of the park.

Finding the bed and breakfast proved to be a great challenge, and we finally arrived at a welcoming farm in the base of the Allier department, more exhausted than hungry, and decided to skip dinner to go straight to bed.

We attacked the day early on Tuesday morning, enjoying a hearty breakfast before heading off to the land of the French châteaux. We started with Chenonceau, a sprawling castle with an incredible view of the Cher River as it extends across with its impressive arches, and a rich history (given to Diane de Poitier's by her lovah Henri II, then taken back by his wife Catherine de Medeci upon his death), our initiation to the crazy lives of the super wealthy French royalty had officially begun. Planning it just right to see the feeding of the hunting dogs at 17h00, we sped over to the castle of Cheverny.

A massive throng of people was crowded around the oval kennel, in the middle of which lay a massive pile of small animal corpses and dog food pellets. My dad suggested that perhaps it was time that I watch a dog eat (this was definitely not his idea of fun) and let me get as close to the front as possible... only to see that the spectacle was entirely less interesting than the guidebook made it out to be. A few minutes later, the dynamic had completely changed, as a nauseating stench had filled the air, and my only desire was to FLEE. How foolish we tourists can be.

The castle itself was pretty interesting and we took a nice walk around the grounds before heading further east to our bed and breakfast for the night. Housed in an ancient mill, on the grounds of a working farm and fishery, we enjoyed the charm of its historical value, as well as the superb cuisine and kindness of the farmer and his wife.

After breakfast with a couple of very friendly retirees (one ex-teacher), we got back in our car and headed for a troglodyte farm near the city of Saumur. This was a superb example of how resourceful people could be; building homes is expensive, so these people decided to simply dig their houses out of the limestone in the ground. While we learned about what it was like to live somewhat underground, we also learned about pre-19th century farming techniques and toured the now-empty homes of two farming families.

In the afternoon, we headed to Villandry, which is rightfully famous for its incredible gardens. At the risk of being cliché, I found myself admiring the "love gardens" and appreciating the universality of this human experience. The gardens are divided into four different sections, each representing a different type or effect of love.

The "tender love" garden is symbolized by hearts which are separated by flames.
The "passionate love" garden features hearts which are broken by passion, sculpted in a form which suggests dancing.
The "fickle love" garden has four fans in the corners which represent the fleetingness of feelings.
And the "tragic love" garden has three knife blades which represent amorous rivalry.

For dinner, we drove to the town of Chinon, which boats a medieval castle which towers over the city. After a nice dinner and a perfect photo-op, we went back to the bed and breakfast for a night of restful sommeil.

In the morning, over a feast of home-made bread, jam and yogurt, coffee, brioche and orange juice, we enjoyed amicable conversation with the two hosts and the seven other guests. Our bellies full of nourishment, we headed to Chartres, the site of a magnificent cathedral which is fitted with magnificent stained glass. Currently, they are in the midst of cleaning the cathedral and the effect is truly night and day; the carbon residue left from the burning candles has darkened the inside so that some of the windows are barely visible, and the walls look as thought they are completely black. The section which has been meticulously cleaned using brushes, sponges and water, and vacuums, looks as though it is an entirely different cathedral, almost a peachy ivory color which reflects the light which filters through the brilliantly colored windows. I would love to return once the cleaning project is completed in a few years. I'm sure I wouldn't recognize it as the same.

The weather turned cold and rainy, and we headed for Giverny, hoping that it would change. Unfortunately, it didn't, and we marveled at his vibrant flowers, Japanese bridge, and lily ponds under a light drizzle. Despite this upset, we found ourselves extremely lucky to be there while they were setting up to film a made-for-TV-movie about Claude Monet -- and we saw him in the flesh!

We stayed in a bed and breakfast about 15 minutes from Giverny, in an enormous home with a fireplace large enough to roast an entire human being on a spit, and a two-story library which would make any bookworm envious. We had dinner in a mill-turned-fancy restaurant, and proved to be the only customers in the whole place. Needless to say, our server was attentive.

When the sun came up the next day, it was already Friday, and we were off to the Palace of Versailles. An enormous line snaked around the front of the courtyard, and we queued up to wait our hour-long turn before breezing through security, obtaining our audio guides, and beginning our visit of the over-the-top indulgences of Louis the XIV. In the afternoon, we visited the Petit Trianon and my favorite part of the grounds: the Queen's Hamlet. An afternoon of sunshine, fresh air, and history made me hungry for ice cream and so, following the style of the French monarchy, we indulged our craving from a cart just across from the canal.

Battling with the parking meter and then braving Parisian rush-hour traffic, we slowly made our way towards our hotel in La Defense, having ignored the insistent GPS who suggested over and over that we turn down one-way-streets, and finally giving in to the advice of the hotel concierge, who declared that backing up on one-way streets wasn't the least bit illegal... The car safely parked underneath the ten-story hotel, our bags stashed in our room and our stomachs grumbling, we jumped onto the RER to see Paris by night, and find something to eat.

Deciding to marvel at the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, which took 600 years to build, we took a few pictures and then ate at a restaurant just across the river, with a beautiful view of the massive structure. Absolutely exhausted, we went back to the hotel and I fell asleep listening to a play-by-play of the Royal Wedding, too tired to watch it, despite my curiosity.

On Saturday morning, we started with the symbol of Paris -- the lovely Eiffel Tower. After breakfast and a stroll around the Champs de Mars surrounding the base, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay and strolled through the Jardins des Tuiléries, before descending through the great glass pyramid into the Louvre. A visit to the Orangerie museum gave us a view of several original Monet water lily paintings, and we enjoyed the calm and quiet of Monet's personally-designed museum.

In a drastic change of scenery, we took the metro in the direction of Montmartre, the famous art district and site of the Basilique de Sacré Coeur. A short ride on the funicular and then three-hundred steps up into the dome, we got an incredible panoramic view of Paris, and watched as a rainstorm rolled in over the city, turning the sky a deep gray-blue. After descending the three-hundred stairs, and observing the artists, we decided to check out the Arc de Triomphe, and so, climbed back onto the metro.

Coming out of the underground station, the Arc de Triomphe loomed above us, located in the center of a gigantic round-about which unites 12 different streets. Three-hundred steps later, we were at the top of the arch, watching the cars -- and bicycles -- navigating the complex flow of traffic as the sun slunk down behind the horizon.

It seemed like a good time to eat, so we headed back towards the Eiffel Tower and went to my favorite pizza place just across from the metro station Bir-Hakeim. A chatty Armenian waiter and a delicious plate of pasta in a neon-lit, air-conditioned basement room in which we were the only customers made for a perfect evening meal at the conclusion of our trip.

Instead of dessert, we indulged on a boat trip along the Seine, delighting in two viewings of the sparkling Eiffel Tower, and excellent explanations of the historical significance of various bridges and buildings in the city. Returning to our hotel a little after midnight, we had certainly made the best of our day.

And then it was morning, my parents were heading back to the airport, reliant completely upon the GPS as the resistant concierge refused to give detailed directions, insisting that it was easy to find the way, and I was lugging my bag back down into the depths of the metro, happy for empty cars so early on a Sunday morning, ready to go home and go to sleep.

Honesty, Honestly

2011-04-06T16:24:00.006+02:00

To be a good ex-patriot, even a temporary one, you have to be willing to divide everything, make a life of fractions, of parallels. I see it like water skiing, that it's super fun until your thighs start burning, your arms beg you to give up, and the cracked rubber of your boots digs into your delicate ankles... at some point your weight distribution will become unbalanced, or you will do it yourself, having had enough, and the sudden change will be uncomfortable, unpleasant, painful. I don't know, but it feels like a divorce.

It feels dishonest to love people when I know I will leave. To allow myself to attach, to know them, to love them, only to leave. Even if I know it isn't worth less because it lasts less long, I don't know that everyone knows that. And I don't know that everyone believes that.

It feels disloyal to love a different kind of life, to have a makeshift family here, to feel adopted almost when I left my own perfect family back home, to have a sacred routine, familiar and comfortable, to feel divided in two and to imagine watching the scenery from the train by for the very last time.

(We talk of vacations, and "one days," but no one ever believes it.)

I feel such judgment, so much loneliness, knowing this is my decision in which everyone plays a part... everyone is heartbroken or happy, everyone sees with their own set of blinders, and NO ONE can be neutral enough to just sit with me in the sun, hold my hand, and tell me it's okay to want everything, it's okay to have been wrong, it's okay to have been away.

He will be okay when you're not there, when he buys bread by himself, when he feeds the 254 her chocolate without your polka-dotted boots. He won't be angry that you told him you could live forever in the farm house, chase the chickens and open a bed-and-breakfast that you REALLY WANTED TO DO IT, cut his perfectly wild loops of hair, and make cakes every Sunday with farm-raised eggs.

He will forgive you for your adventure, for your tourism in and out of his life, for your year in the house with green shutters and a yellow kitchen, for your free driving lessons, for his help with your French. He will push open the barn door that you almost broke, and one day think of it without feeling betrayed for himself, for his family, his generous parents who let you drive their precious material and play with their livelihood, who asked you about your own world, who cut articles from the newspaper about Americans who moved and married the French. His mother who hemmed your work pants and bought you new socks for Christmas because your boots were cold.

They will all forgive you for wanting more than that, for missing your own language, your favorite cereal, your best friend and your mom's home-made bread, your family vacations and your shared time-zone. He will forgive you for leaving one half of the closet empty, for ruining Nutella for a while, and mushrooms and brioche bread and a pre-programmed coffee maker. Every thing that will be sans toi, the running shoes, the broken bicycle, the colorless wall, the empty fridge. I thought I could do this. I thought I could be happy enough.

I feel so sorry about everything every time I have to think about it, the choice that I am making, that I have made, the first real time that forever means something other than maybe a lifetime together. Such a good team, such a pretty language, we might have been such solitary two.

But I'll be the one who walked away, the one to explain it stupidly, it's a very bad job, it's a very hard thing, it's so far away, it feels very lonely to put so much one one single person, there is so much responsibility. It feels like there is too much judgment, it's all easy on the outside, it all looks simple when seen one's own personal investment.

Why would you leave France? Why would you leave him?

Why would you stay? Why would you leave us?

It feels horrible to be intersecting in no other circles than my own, finding no one who GETS IT without gaining or losing, without wanting the scales to tip a little to one side.

And it all came out at 7:35 am, after breakfast, a fresh pot of coffee and a good night's sleep, because of a bitter housemate and a thoughtless landlady.

He doesn't want to think about that before his work day even starts.

I wanted him to KNOW IT every time I cried, I couldn't stay here, I couldn't do it.

I didn't want to have to SAY IT, I wasn't strong enough.

There is no way to understand it in an intellectual way, without feeling something horrible.

I will hurt him. I will hurt. Everyone will except America, and even they will when I am not happy, when I miss my farmer and my goats, his crepes and his jokes. They will feel like it's not enough, and it isn't enough -- I want the everything. The France and the America. The two lives melded together like two pie crusts with milk and a fork.

One day everything will be different. We won't even remember it clearly. We will start new routines with new people, will not think of our goats, of our house, of our beautiful future we created in our heads, of the possibilities, the perfectly possible forks in our lives. Or maybe we will be smart enough to think of it often, to remember that such greatness exists, is possible, and that we were lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, to be in the same little town, at a stupid German party on the same Saturday night, to both like cows and going to sleep early, watching old episodes of "Friends" and playing Bananagrams.

If we're smart enough, we'll think of it all the time, pay it homage by remembering it fondly and recognizing the unlikely odds that we would live such things together, that we would learn and change together, become better versions of ourselves before spinning off into our unknown futures, passing onto d'autres choses.

Pair a docks

2011-03-28T17:44:00.006+02:00

Your life is a pie graph, is a beaker full of golf balls and sand and spaces.

The work part is like looking out the window on a plane flying over the Salt Lake, and feeling sure you're going to crash down right in the middle of it.

The scene seems like one big monologue, always solitary, with a phone that rarely rings, singly running, singly shopping, singly working, singly walking.

The family tree branches don't stretch far enough to cover oceans, the friendship circle severely distorted and stressed.

But the weekends and the after-sevens are like hot pains-au-chocolat at ten am on sunny Sundays, like genuinely laughing, like drinking from the garden hose in a hot summer afternoon. We drive dusty tractors, often awkwardly occupying the space meant for one, a hand braced behind the seat back, a foot alongside the accelerator on the right. We pet baby cows that lick our coveralls like Popsicles and make cleaning out the pens impossible. I feed # 254 the biggest black pieces of "chocolate" I can find in the feed bin, and she looks for me when I walk in. Home-made meals and the beautiful routine of the farm, the tired drive home as we re-hash it all entre nous.

The baby animals at the best friend's house, the bike rides and coffee cups, the Friends episodes and red-wine dinners.

Like suddenly stepping off a scale, the needle swings violently from one end to the other, and the Absence Of is often impossible to consider. I find I'm often lacking creativity when it comes to realistically imagining my very own life.

Stories from the Mine Field

2011-03-24T17:10:00.003+01:00

1. It is Tuesday morning, and class is progressing relatively painlessly; a group of six students, sprawled out in their chairs, hiding cell phones behind school bags, in pencil cases, in coat pockets, uninteresting, unresponsive, disengaged.

There is a teacher, endlessly soliciting them for answers, "(translation:) What do we need after the 'HOW LONG' to complete the sentence?" her pale hands turned black with dry-erase marker dust, her clothes tired and un-ironed, unfashionable, unfitting. She asks one question, and is annoyed that the student ignores her, instead starts talking to another girl, sitting on the opposite site of the room.

The girl never looks at her, never hears her, and in one single blink of an eye, both adolescent girls are screaming, now standing, lunging toward another, and the clueless, powerless foreigner stands in the middle, trying to separate them, trying to DO SOMETHING.

The man next store rushes in and saves the day. What a hero. What a miracle. No, no -- don't send them to the Administration. He stands there, gives a nice speech about being respectful towards each other, about needing to grow up and the absurdity of leaving his 28 students next door all alone to come take care of a class of only six, imploring them, "Give us teachers some peace, for God's sake!" then promises that after class he will talk to the two snarling teenagers. He leaves. One girl leaves (where does she go?) and then she comes back.

Clueless as usual, the useless teacher continues her lesson, adrenaline surging through her trembling hands.

2. In the space of one hour in a class of only nine, the French equivalent of the F-word is uttered at an astonishingly elevated frequency. Without thought. Without consideration. At the end of a long day, hearing the word all morning in hallways, in the teacher's lounge, in the echoes spilling out from the bathrooms, the French F-word tolerance bucket has been filled to the b r i m.

The teacher says, "(translation:) Enough with that word. I don't want to hear it anymore!" And they say, in a massive jumble, how the word is not important; the word is just an utterance that they've used since they were tiny children; how she doesn't understand the real meaning because she does not come from the culture, and does not understand the real sense of the word.

Emerge the fire-breathing demon. "This is a word you will not use in my classroom. If you continue, you'll get detention."

Ten minutes later, first P-bomb explodes. Laadddiieesss and Gentlemen, we have a winner!

Two minutes and there is a second.

"You're going to have a blast together on Wednesday afternoon."

Austria, Germany, and the Ritual of the Return

2011-03-10T11:49:00.034+01:00

Yesterday, I spent six and a half hours on trains, crossed the border of two countries, took three metro trains and read 200 pages to finish my book. An S-Bahn train in Germany offered the possibility of six languages, but none of them explained the steps necessary for buying a ticket to train two stations up the line. Feeling lucky to have figured it out after letting only two trains pass me by, I stepped on and sped toward the Frankfurt station, where I waited and ate a superbly crumbly cranberry muffin.

Frankfurt is a city that feels familiar, but strange, with its big buildings and neon lights, its wide streets and new everything. We tried to think what it reminded us of: Chicago? Dallas? But we couldn't say. The restaurants around the train station represented a myriad of cultures, and the luxury hotels, huge banking centers stratified the populations. In a tiny corner of the renovated city sits a historic quarter, a collection of old German-style buildings that serve as reminders, as evidence, that despite the newness, and the American-ness of the rest of the city, you are, indeed, still in Germany, a place with long history and delicious apfel strudel.

It was the last stop on our trip, a hopping-off point for our two-pronged departure, and the return location for our unpolished yet luxurious Renault Laguna rental car, equipped with: leather seats, side mirrors that automatically retract, a rear-view mirror that automatically dims at night, an extremely useful GPS, excellent and numerous indications that the car requires Diesel fuel and an annoying insistent and useless system that detects objects in front of and behind the car, beeping hysterically at inopportune times (constantly during city driving, and always at stop lights) and unable to be disconnected.

J, C and Uncle S picked it up from the airport and met up with me in Strasbourg. While they were going through customs, rejoining their luggage and signing rental contracts in the early hours of the day, I was wandering about in the seat of the European Parliament, snapping pictures of bicycles pedaling past the Ill river which wraps around the city like a Christmas ribbon, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets and puffing out breath clouds like a little blue train, chugging along in the winter sunshine. There was some kind of fair going on in the space in front of the Strasbourg mall, and I bought a sugary pretzel which I devoured as I walked in front of window displays, avoided trams, and marveled in the German-influenced architecture while half of the city still slept.

At the hostel, I met a few interesting people, who affected me in different ways. In the 4-bed-female-dorm where I stayed, there was a Mexican student who was studying in Tours, an English opera singer who had come for a one-day audition that she apparently completely failed, and an Algerian scientist who was looking for an apartment. The shower was loud, but the bed comfortable. The singer was beautiful and serious, and understood what is it to find foreign places eventually completely familiar. We had breakfast together at 7 am, and saying goodbye felt like souls parting.

There was also an American English teacher from a university in Marseilles who sat with me at dinner, and tried to raise my teaching morale. I appreciated the gesture -- the uninhibited cafeteria approach, as I sat alone with my plate of limp pasta and he set his tray down across from me, using the formal "you" which was entirely endearing. We ate amongst groups of high school students on some kind of trip, and I wondered what kinds of students they were, what kind of teacher I would be for them. It was interesting, and refreshing, to meet once again with the familiar philosophy of teaching I met at the College of Ed -- the student-centered, sugary, silver-lined one that I witnessed run over in my rear-view mirror a few months back. I exasperated him, the energetic science man trying to explain complex atomic concepts to me, as I tried to convince him that his kindness and optimism was appreciated, but I wasn't going to promise myself a miracle over cold carrots and a stale roll. I liked meeting America again, a Georgia-raised college man, who laughed a lot and seemed genuinely happy. It pleased me to see, a few days later, a little "hello" from him in my e-mail box, wishing me good luck and lots of courage for the start of the new trimester. We can be such a friendly people!

I was freezing by nine-thirty a.m. and had already walked a fair distance around the city, so I sought shelter in book shops and internet cafes, and then found a sunny spot outside of the train station parking garage, and read until my family arrived several hours later. We discovered a delicious pasta restaurant in the center of the town, and delighted in spinach and ricotta tortellini smothered in a tomato basil sauce.

Our first Strasbourg discovery was the Cathedral Notre Dame in the very center of the town, and we listened a bit to C's downloaded audio guide on her smart phone before taking a tour on a glass-enclosed tourist boat. Aside from the cool views and the trip through the locks, the most impressive thing about the tour was how they managed to give an absolute minimum of details, filling the spaces with a maximum of muted pan flute music. It was warm, though, and our confused, hurried searching for which building the man was talking about provided a bit of humor to the endeavor; as soon as we had correctly identified the building, the explanation was already over.

The sun was setting when we returned to the cathedral to try and identify the religious symbols and scenes carved into the front, and we walked around a bit before stopping at a supermarket for picnic dinner supplies. After paying 15 euros for very few hours of parking, we drove about 60 km south to the town of Fouchy, where we stayed in an incredible wooden marvel of a farm house. The family had several horses, goats, donkeys, chickens, a dog and three cats, as well as a stone bread oven and extremely comfortable beds.

In the morning we had a hearty breakfast with home-made bread, local-made jams and the woman's own honey, which was an enigma... we searched the whole trip for an adjective that could accurately describe the taste, but I think Uncle S nailed it best when he said you could actually taste the bees in it. In summary, the honey was not well-liked, and it quickly become a reference point for comparisons of what we would call "Interesting" food.

While J, C and Uncle S wandered around the farm and packed up the car, I talked with the woman who owned the farm and delighted in friendly French conversation -- serious, honest, and philosophical despite the early hour, and the fact of being total strangers. She advised us to visit a castle nearby, and we did exactly that.

Le chateau du Haut-Koeningsbourg impressed us from the outside, but we didn't want to shell out the money to visit the inside. We were raring to go to GERMANY so we delighted in the view, piled back in the car, and headed for the border.

Before crossing over, however, we stopped at a Memorial for the Maginot Line. This is one element of history that I don't know much about (another thing to add on the "read and learn more about" list) and the memorial didn't really clue me in. Aside from the impressive portable gas stove on display, and the fact that so many men were cramped inside such a small bunker, I just left bewildered as to why the French thought it would work...

After thoroughly scouring the tourist guides, we decided to head towards a town called Freiburg to visit a cuckoo clock museum, as the Black Forest is known for its production of cuckoo clocky wonders. On the way, we passed through small villages, following a twisty road that snaked sharply around mountain curves and brought us to surprising places.

In one particular town, we noticed lots of people dressed up in costume, all heading in one direction. With our powers combined, we decided it must be something related to Carnival, and guessed that it might be a parade. A debate about whether to stop or not ended in a decision to keep going, so we followed the detour signs posted in the town. After advancing maybe 200 yards, traffic came to a stand-still and we waited inside of our car. In front of us, a man agitated in his driver's seat and we could see the pressure building up like a cartoon, his face getting redder and redder, the intensity increasing steadily until it shot him out of his car, and he charged up to the police man standing in the road, smiling, zen-like, with his hands casually in his pockets.

We watched as Anger Man gesticulated wildly, waving his hands about and opening his mouth wide, the policeman nonchalant and calm, seemingly unperturbed by this man's display. Their short conversation ended in Anger Man hopping back in his car, and zooming around the line, leaving the rest of us perplexed, idling in neutral. After a few minutes, I decided to try my luck -- with the possibility of two languages, I figured there was a chance we could communicate -- and lucky I was! He spoke French well enough to tell me that it was, indeed, a parade for Carnival and that there was only one way to get through town, which was blocked. We could either wait there in the car, or go and watch the parade.

We debated, driven by our desire to learn about cuckoo clocks and a growing need for a restroom, and decided to do a million-point turn around and ask our GPS to find us another way. It didn't want to, and kept insisting that we do a U-turn to take us back to the stand-still parade town. Instead, we forged on, ignoring all of its pleading, driving further away until finally it caved in. Man - 1, Machine - 0.

There must be some joke about driving a big French car on tiny German mountain roads, because it is something else. Whether it was worse for me as the white-knuckled driver, or the helpless passengers buckled in the back, I could not say, but we definitely learned our lesson about ignoring the magical man voice giving us advice.

We ended up arriving in the town too late for museums, and even too late to visit the House of 1000 Clocks, a famous shop that was ironically closed ten minutes before its posted hours ("You'd think they'd be able to tell time here...!"). We attributed this, as well, to the reason for the parade in the other town, as we encountered trucks-turned-parade-floats and costumed drinking people in the streets.

All is well that ends in dessert, so we decided to get some famous Black Forest Cake from a bakery that was praised in our guide book before continuing along our journey. Full of sugar, we got back in the car, and drove a few more hours to Füssen, a town near the famous castle Neuschwanstein, determined to attack early the following day. A clean and simple youth hostel that discriminates against people over the age of 27 with a three-euro price increase, we laughed a bit and got in some good sleep followed by some decent breakfast at this place.

The castle Neuschwanstein was, as Uncle S correctly predicted, one of the "highlights" of the trip. We arrived early in the morning, as the sun was climbing up behind the mountains encircling the ticket office. Standing at the base, we could see honey sun rays reflecting off fog, and the outline of a majestic structure jutting out from the mountain peaks, almost as if it were floating in mid air, or actually an inherent part of the rock itself.

Our stay at the youth hostel saved us 5 euros each off the entrance ticket, and we started the visit with the Castle Hohenschwangau, just a short distance from Neuschwanstein. A huge German man draped in a heavy black wool coat gave a succinct but humorous commentary throughout the yellow castle. The castle claims to be home to not only the first La-z-boy chair in the world, but also the first ever central heating system (impressive!)

A short but steep uphill walk brought us to the main event, the castle Neuschwanstein! Magnificent and enormous on the outside, I was surprised to see that it was very incomplete.

The rapid-fire visit snaked through very few but elaborately decorated rooms, and we were all truly enchanted by what we saw. The king's bedroom took four and a half years to complete because of the intricate woodwork everywhere inside. The rooms were light and airy, painted with brilliant colors in intricate patterns, and perhaps my favorite of all was the unfinished throne room which could easily be mistaken for a chapel with its gold-plated domed ceiling, rich colorings, huge chandelier, and mosaic tiled floor. The ballroom at the very top of the castle is truly a sight to behold, and I could imagine people dancing around its wooden floors in the golden sunlight, wearing elegant clothing, dripping in jewels, drinking fine wine and nibbling on expensive appetizers, laughing in an unburdened manner, carried away by the music, the beauty and the luxury.

Once we had completed the castle visit, we climbed up to Marienbrücke or Mary's Bridge, a precariously positioned pedestrian bridge that gives an incredible view of the Neuschwanstein Castle. I braved my way onto the snow-covered contraption for just long enough to take a few pictures and marvel at the view. As hordes of tourists poured onto the bridge like sand filling up a jar of marbles, I could no longer see the sense in that situation.

Our return to the near-by town of Füssen presented us famished visitors with a gift from the Gods, in the form of an authentic German lunch complete with spaetzel, schnitzel, sauerkraut, radler (beer mixed with lemonade) and apfel strudel. We stuffed ourselves and then went on a quest for a place to sleep in Munich.

After encountering numerous difficulties with the internet at the Tourist Info office, troubles with the phone card and a no-reservations-by-phone policy, we ended up finally making reservations for a hostel in central Munich. Upon arriving, we lugged our stuff up to the 3rd floor, and opened the door only to find... nothing. Except an empty condom wrapper.

A quick trip back to the welcome desk got us an actual room with beds, and accompanied by J, I carried all my dirty clothes to the laundry room in the back yard. Creepy statues, discarded junk and dumpsters led the way along the alley to the solitary room with three washers, three dryers, and a vending machine selling powdered soap.

While waiting for the load to finish, we went in search of something to drink and ended up in the McDonald's. Having successfully made my order in German (thanks to the incredible coaching of J-boy) I drank my apple juice happily, and watched as a series of strange events unfolded. Uncle S was the first to order, and carried his tray upstairs while the rest of us waited in the line. By the time we joined him, he had half finished his fish sandwich and had done some intense people watching.

A wafer-thin pre-teen girl came up to J, holding out 300 euros in cash, looking panicked and speaking rapid German. In a jumble of verbal exchange in two languages, I came to understand that she had found the money on the ground and thought it was his. J quickly looked for his wallet, verified its contents, and told her that it wasn't. In a succession of shrugs and German sounds, she took the money and descended the stair case, as we all talked about how weird that was. All the while, Uncle S started mentally re-tracing what he had observed.

"It was probably one of those Serbian guys that was sitting over there!"

We further discussed, and then a very concerned-looking man came up the stairs, frantically searching for something. S asked him in English if he was looking for money and we figured out that he didn't speak English; J spoke to him in German, and that didn't work either... but eventually we figured out that he was looking for money, and S told mimed to him to go down to the counter for the money.

Realizing that he would probably have no way of communicating, Uncle S went down after the man to try and intermediate. When he came back up looking dejected, we realized our conjectures were correct: the girl didn't go to the counter, but instead took off with the cash.

This episode provided a topic of conversation for quite some time, during which I convinced myself that the little girl went home and told her parents about the serendipitous event (because she looked nice, and she probably had a nice family) and her mom told her immediately she would have to return it to the counter. Perhaps someone would come looking for it! And the next day, as soon as the McDonald's opened, the two of them returned the cash money, just in time for the man to come back in search of it, in the hopes that some honest person came back with his cash. What a happy ending.

In truth, I have no idea what actually happened; all I know is those salty, greasy, delicious McDonald's fries that Uncle S shared with me rekindled the American flame that I dare not indulge in France (the horror of affirming the stereotype!) and my clothes came out clean and dry, safely protected by the scary, cluttered courtyard behind our somewhat dumpy hostel.

The following morning, we started our day with fresh fruit and donuts at a local pastry shop, then wandered into Munich under one of the ancient gates of the ancient wall that once surrounded the city. An anti-climatic viewing of the Glockenspiel was followed by several visits to Baroque-style churches, and then we set off on a four-hour bike tour of the city.

Aside from the light and unorganized presentation of historical information, the smattering of bigoted and stereotype-ridden jokes, and the whole frat-boy feel of the -- yes, sadly -- American tour guide, the bike ride was wonderful, we saw lots of important sights in the city, and we managed to cover far more ground than we could have otherwise on foot. Highlights for me included the two lion statues in between the government building and a church, one facing the government with its mouth open (you should openly question and criticize the government) and one facing the church with its mouth closed (you should do the same to the church, but do it silently); the White Rose memorial for the students who protested against the Nazis; eating huge pretzels in the biergarten smack in the center of the English Gardens, with a group of beer-drinking musicians playing in the sunshine; the surfers playing around on the man-made wave in the river; and the Angel of Peace statue, in which she is extending an olive branch, offering peace, but holding a small Athena in the other hand. It was a beautifully sunny day, and I loved the idea of pedaling around a European city on a blue bike with a basket!

When the tour was over, we explored the open-air markets in town, got gelato (I had a disgusting mango chili flavor that truly had chili pepper in it! My lips were burning and I had to throw the ice cream away so I could eat the deliciously sweet and crunchy cone) and then headed back toward the hostel for dinner. We ate at a restaurant called "Movies" which was -- you may have guessed it already -- in the same complex as the cinema.

The following morning, we headed off to Austria, toward a city called Salzburg. Having found an enchanting bed and breakfast, we dropped our stuff off and then headed to the Steigl beer factory for a lesson in the process of beer making. The museum was fascinating, thoroughly translated into English, and full of cool beer steins, sound effects and old beer labels. The museum tour was followed by a beer tasting! Along with flat and salty beer crackers, we got to try the eight different types of Steigl beer offered at the restaurant.

Feeling good and ready for some exercise, we headed off for a walking-tour guided by the written wisdom of our trusted friend Rick Steve. I was surprised to learn that Salzburg is not actually a salt-mining town, but was named, instead, for the frequency with which salt was transported along its river. Aside from being the setting for "The Sound of Music" (Rick dispelled a lot of SOM myths for us, as well, during this trip), Salzburg is home to a fantastic imposing fortress that sits over top of the city, as well as some magnificent churches and a solely-musical Glockenspiel (no use in getting your hopes up there).

The Cathedrale Saint-Rupert in Salzburg is cool; if you stand in exactly the right spot in front of the statue of Mary, it looks as though the angels on the facade of the church are crowning Mary the statue.

To the right of the cathedral is a weird statue of a boy standing on a giant gold ball, looking perplexed; the story goes that this was the winner of a 2008 art contest, and the artist's statement explains that the boy is contemplating paying 10 euro for the funicular or making the difficult climb up the hill on foot. This is next to a giant-sized chess board, which is equally awesome, and across from an ancient horse bath which is currently under construction.

Our night in Salzburg ended with a fantastic dinner at an Indian/Austrian restaurant (thank you again, Rick Steves!) and a walk along the river.

The following morning, we had an excellent breakfast and visited a house where Mozart once lived. The museum was full of fascinating old instruments, books, letters and photographs. The audio guide was filled with clips of Mozart's music, which was awesome, but the actual information was extremely scattered and I think the audio guide assumed you already knew something about Mozart, which I definitely didn't. Random facts I did not know about Mozart: his sister Nannerl sacrificed her piano career for her brother, and his dad was a famous musician who published a famous book about violin.

We waved goodbye to the city of white gold, and then sped back into Germany, preparing mentally for a visit of Dachau. Half-way there, C discovered in the guide book that it is closed on Mondays so we pulled off at a rest stop, half-disappointed and honestly half-relieved, to come up with a Plan B.

We decided to visit the city of Ulm, somewhere between Munich and Stuttgart on the highway, which was famous for having the cathedral with the highest spire in the world, and being the birthplace of Einstein. Upon arrival, we discovered that it also was home to potentially the BEST food ever, and potentially the most magical thing I have ever seen -- an entire store devoted to Gummi Bears.

As the sun started to set on the city, we climbed back in the car and headed for Heidelberg, where J had reserved us two hotel rooms for the amazing low price of 19 euros each (breakfast included). For dinner, we went to a Thai restaurant, but I had eaten so many gummi bears at that point that I had no need of further sustenance.

Our day in Heidelberg started out with sunshine and good breakfast. We walked into the old part of town, exploring small streets, posing next to the weird monkey statue by the bridge, wandering through churches, creeping around the university library and, eventually making our way up to the Heidelberg Castle. Climbing around the ruins, wondering at the world's largest keg (amazing!) and meandering through the German Pharmacy Museum, we learned about the "love" story of Elizabeth and Frederick V and his monument to her that was built in a day, and drank in the breath-taking views of the city nestled in the valley down below.

When we walked down from the castle, we saw lots of costumed people everywhere, all heading in the same direction, and we all got a sense of weird déjà vu. Upon asking a shopkeeper, we discovered that there was to be a Carnival Parade in about an hour, so we found ourselves a spot along the sidewalk and waited for the festivities to begin. The costumes ranged from subtle to sexy, from offensive to endearing; just like Halloween in the US, there seemed to be certain go-to get-ups (cowboy, hippie, ghost) and the ages of costumed humans ranged from the smallest to the most elderly of all. One big difference between American Halloween and German Carnival? Beer. EVERYWHERE.

Once the parade started, we were pelted with hole-punch confetti. I could imagine on bad days the desk workers punch their holes and smile to themselves just imagining the day when they will not be working, but instead pelting others with loads of little paper circles, drinking themselves silly, dressed up as a brave knight or a dinosaur. Once the confetti passed us by, the marching bands came through, and the flag twirlers waved their heavy poles precariously close to the heads of vertically challenged spectators. Trucks/floats with techno music blasting and people costumed in crazy fashions rolled past, and even members of the marching band treated themselves to a little alcohol once in a while; one rebellious trombone player seemed to have forgotten the point of his marching down the street, having abandoned the idea of actually playing music and instead, lifting his hand only to put a beer glass to his lips. Ahh, life is good.

Candy also held a large role in this cultural event, as the parade stars marched by, crying something that sounded like "ey oh!", pelting us with candy, as children scrambled madly around us, holding out hats and bags, stopping at nothing to pick up every last piece of sugary confection. We got smarter as the parade wore on, and hid behind our hats and glasses as soon as we saw their arms wind up, crank back and start to realease, we ducked and waited for the painful rain to pass, laughing at the absurdity, the delight, and the beauty of the party Tuesday to precede calmer days ahead.

Near the end, after a cowgirl next to us got swept away into a make-shift jail cell on a parade float, S and J's noses were christened with sea foam paint from a little square sponge, slopped on by sea-foam green sea monsters that waddled past, their whole faces spray-painted with sea-foam green sparkles. At least they each got free beer handed to them during the parade!

When the last float had passed, we filed into a German bar/restaurant for some lunch. Again, leaving nothing to be desired, we ate delicious German dishes and washed them down with beer and passion fruit juice. A little girl played "keep-it-up" at a corner table with her family using brightly colored balloons, and once came over to us asking for her "luft ballon" that had drifted over near us. We really were in Germany.

As we trudged back to our car, we walked down the nearly-deserted streets, the discarded candy wrappers and tons of confetti littering the ground as if the city had been in a happy battle. The street sweepers would certainly be busy that night.

Once reunited with the car, we drove to Frankfurt, the final stop on our seven-day tour. We recapped the trip over two pieces of apfel strudel, and before I knew it, we were awkwardly hugging goodbye in our tiny hotel room in the morning, linking up the chain of a beautiful week-long circle.

Reflexes and Reflexions

2011-02-24T18:08:00.004+01:00

The day was off to a bad start, which I knew when I started talking to myself, when the students took 15 minutes to take out a notebook, and open to a clean page. When the students uttered more French vulgarities than simple words in English, and when I slapped two of them with two hours of afternoon detention, to be completed the Wednesday following vacation.

The day got worse when I got a hard-to-comprehend phone call in the teachers' lounge from a concerned Head Teacher about a mistake on the report cards currently sitting in the students' mailboxes. Upon asking another teacher to confirm that I had entered everything correctly (a 16/20 + a 0/20 does, indeed, come out to an 8/20) I discovered it is ILLEGAL for teachers in France to give zeros on assignments. I'm sorry, but what kind of country IS THIS?

I tried to psych myself up for my second class of the morning, but as soon as I discovered that my students could not print out their projects in the library as I had planned, and the Internet did not work in our impromptu new classroom, I realized that optimism and positive thinking were probably not going to help me very much in my mid-morning battle: me vs. the world.

The third class was honestly unlucky. Maybe if the day had started differently, I would not have been so irritated by the boy with the pen that has a tape measure in it, who seems convinced he is living in Star Wars land, and that the writing utensil is much more useful as a light sabre; and, maybe, the groups who did not listen as I carefully explained the assignment at least three times, but then proceeded to repeat the same dumb questions over and over again would not have seemed like a big deal; and certainly the ubiquitous cell phones popping in and out of pockets, hidden in pencil cases and just under the table tops would not have seemed like such disrespectful and insupportable irritations... but that is not how it went.

So when the bell rang, mercifully, at 12 o'clock, and I sat down to fill out the detention forms, I felt defeated. Not even having the time to eat the apple I had packed for lunch, I was whisked away in a group of angry teachers to a Grade Meeting that had as much of a negative vibe to it as the class dynamics, and my mood.

It was raining when I finally left, and I felt grateful for that, because at least things were consistent.

The good news is, tomorrow, after only two hours of class, I will be on vacation. For thirteen days, I will not think about school, or students, or grades, or obscure French laws I didn't know about, or lesson plans, or administration, or anything remotely stressful or unpleasant in any way. I will escape it all, go to Paris, take an airplane, visit a medieval city with my red-haired French love, feel lost in the foreignness of an unknown language, an unknown land, fall asleep in a hotel room, have big breakfasts, take lots of pictures, and buy presents.

I am LUCKY, and I know it -- I am learning from my challenges, and am proud of myself every time that I feel like I did this morning, and yet find the strength to stick it out, to wait for the three-toned signal that frees me, like the countdown on a rigorous exercise program, counting the seconds, thinking about the tricks that time play on all of us.

To be here in the first place is proof of my luxuries, my family, my education, my teachers, my friends. My backpack full of flags, my head full of memories, people, and language.

Here's to vacation, and to anyone who know what it feels like to have a morning like mine.

Here here!

Pro's of Half-Day Wednesdays

2011-02-23T17:09:00.002+01:00

I.
Click on homepage.
Open e-mail box.
See work e-mail.

CLOSE e-mail box.

II.
Toasty drinks at a cozy café with a good friend on a Wednesday afternoon. Strawberries pink like cold cheeks in winter, the deep red of a really good workout, smelling like the summer.
A peach-colored classroom on the ground floor, with a wall of windows that face a city street. Mid-sentence, in a jumble of language, there is someone standing outside, looking in. He has hair like snow, equilateral glasses, and a yellow umbrella. He stares at us like animals in a zoo. I am in mid-gesture when I see him, palms tilted upward, outward, seeking answers; I stop. He smiles, a jack-o-lantern grin, and taps his temples, then makes a thumbs-up sign. One by one, we start to laugh, and we laugh long after the man has turned on his heel, and continued on as if this were just an ordinary event in a usual day.

III.
An invitation to dinner. A reason not to eat alone.

What is real and just a dream

2011-02-10T17:21:00.003+01:00

In my head, I have started writing out my classroom rules, and absent work policies, organizing baskets and files and folders, dreaming of being able to reason with my students and laugh with them, make jokes and tell them stories, see them succeed and be happy for them, run into them at Meijer and have them say "hello" to me instead of ducking their heads and looking away.

I think about everything I have wanted to do as a teacher, the reasons I decided to make education my career. I remember writing out personal notes to every single one of my students when I was teacher assisting, staying up late before my last day. The cool projects my kids did, the amazing surprises I came across, the kindness and the curiosity.

I think about waking up early, and going into my classroom before the sun comes up, a little lunch and a bottle of ice water, posting student work and good quotes on the walls, playing classical music in the morning and standing outside the door to welcome them in.

I think about snow days and meetings, yellow buses and high school letter jackets, fancy dances, football games, the tennis team. Baskets of back-to-school supplies, new clothes, stacks of untouched paper. Parent-teacher conferences in English, parent phone calls in English, detentions and discipline ALL IN ENGLISH.

In my heart, it feels like springtime.

In my real life, I have just found out that because another teacher will be absent tomorrow and I have professional development, my students will not be coming to school (a decision made by the administration) and, thus, will not be doing any of the work I planned for them to have done. Thank you for the generous support, and for helping my students see the value in their education, as well as the utility of learning English. I also appreciate being included in the decision making process.

Etc. etc. These other teachers are amazing. How they have put up with this for so long is a total and complete mystery to me. That they have managed to do this while never holding it against their kids, hating their lives, or themselves, is a flat-out miracle.

My students are such angels. So stupid for spitting in the faces of those who do EVERYTHING just to try and teach them to think.

Happiness is...

2011-01-31T11:26:00.001+01:00

bundling up in lots of layers, then walking for an hour and a half around the sleepy town on a Sunday evening, buying a baguette and eating the whole thing together before even making it home.

week. end.

2011-01-30T15:19:00.002+01:00

It was a good end to a very long week.

Friday night, S and I went on what was a secret adventure for me. After almost 2 hours of whipping around switchbacks on country roads, weaving in and out of villages and agricultural landscapes, we pulled up to an iceberg of a building, colored lights reflecting rainbows up the side facing the giant paved parking lot. I thought it was a sports arena, and was convinced that we were going to a basketball game, right up until we walked into the main room, the house lights dimmed, a smoky stage illuminating patterns of light up across the sloping rows of stadium seats, while hooks of indiscernible instrumental music bounced between the walls.

Judging by my limited knowledge of French artists, and the demographics of the crowd (mostly families and middle-aged couples) I quickly narrowed down the possibilities and figured out the surprise! CALOGERO!

His show was incredible. Minimal. Solo. He demonstrated how he used technology to record patterns of percussion, piano, voice and guitar loops, and then repeat them all together so that it sounded as though he had a full band, rather than playing all by himself in his black t-shirt and bleach white sneakers.

The audience was almost as impressive as the musician himself; the first few songs were played in absolute silence, as the 3,000 or so spectators sat in their seats. After he launched into an up-beat song and a wave of teenagers and love-struck fans rushed the stage to bob around to the music, they all respectfully returned to their seats when he asked them to be courteous to the people behind them. ALL OF THEM. I had a good laugh imagining having the same kind of success in my classroom. If only.

On Saturday morning, the sun was shining when I got up for breakfast. After a wonderfully lazy morning, S and I decided to make the most of the sun and go for a run/bike ride. I borrowed his best friend's bike, and pedaled along behind him as he put his athletic legs to the test. As I avoided cow pies left in the road by traveling tractors, I watched his calves turn pink, confronted by the whipping winter wind.

Last night we made crepes and watched a crappy French film, doing laundry and appreciating the weekend!

Today has been a bit of a workday for me, as I finished grading and responding to one of my classes "Bac Blancs" which are practice exams for their end-of-high-school assessments, and planned lessons for the beginning of the week. When I took a break at lunchtime, S made me a 'croque-madame' which is my FAVORITE sandwich, melted comté cheese and ham on two pieces of whole-wheat bread, covered with a friend egg on top. DE-LI-CIOUS.

Happy Sunday :)

Lost in Translation

2011-01-28T16:49:00.003+01:00

"I was having trouble knowing who I was anymore. There was nothing familiar to reinforce my sense of self: no loved ones, teachers, report cards.... Certainly, the primary tool I'd always relied upon for the bulk of my personality -- the English language -- was no longer at my disposal much. What was really left of me?"

- Susan Jane Gilman, Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven

bluesy floozy

2011-01-22T10:23:00.007+01:00

Sunday

There is nothing better than the smell of home-made chicken soup bubbling on the stove all day, filling up the house with a thick garlic and vegetable smell, reminding me of grandmothers and mothers, wearing pajamas in the daytime, of watching "Ferris Bueller" and old episodes of television shows. Soup with crusty crackers, and eggs with ketchup and toast with butter and honey, a beautiful union of the salty and the sweet, all washed down with Ginger Ale mixed with Cranberry juice sucked through plastic straws stuck into Burger King turkey cups.

Feeling blue. Indigo. Azure. Cyan. Sapphire. Turquoise. A few hours of reading quietly, my back pressed up against the metal radiator, the house asleep as the sun slowly climbed the cold, still sky. A pot of tea, a bowl of cereal. A tranquil morning. A slow welcome to the Sabbath, in this country scattered with Catholic relics, the cathedrals that fill up with warmly-dressed believers. The church bells that bleat the beginning of mass. The breath clouds that form misty ovals in the golden sunlight, all of the cars parked along the curb like plastic beads strung on a necklace, their windshields like blank watercolor paper, covered in crystals, beginning to weaken as the daylight takes over.

A long to-do list, and a lack of motivation. A lot of silence and space, bad nights, too much dessert.

(Saturday)

A train ride yesterday, to the west. The doors that wouldn't open at our final stop; the momentary fear that the Plans would be RUINED! A large bowl of pasta in an Italian restaurant built in Germany-style architecture. Delicious cream sauce, the running yolk of an egg, ham, French bread.

A tour of the cathedral, detailed explanations of the symbolism of the 7 doors. The bitter wind so cold our jackets and scarves couldn't fight it, so after the 4th door, we turned and ran like frozen cowards. Why we didn't just explain it, I don't know. We are now the rude American girls who left and ran from the tour. The streets were teeming with people, shop doors open, pouring out heat, and light, and sound, next to bakeries with long lines spilling into the streets, the smell of butter, and baking, and chocolate overtaking the fuel smells from passing cars. Crepe stands with hand-painted signs popped up in different corners of the city, poofs of steam raising up as the thick, buttercup-colored batter poured onto the record-player-like griddles, and the crepe makers swirled them in circles, forming perfect geometric shapes, then flipping them with a rapid pass of a thin spatula.

We drank hot chocolate in an Irish pub, the only place with a table for three, away from the open door, and spoke beautiful English, words escaping lips and hanging in the air like a music score or subtitles, just below the action. It was a good day, and I made a new friend.

Now it's (Wednesday) and it feels like a big accomplishment that I have made it through the first half of the week. Monday started badly, a bad mood, a clumsy morning, the pathetic plastic tucked into the cereal box too empty for a Monday, and then I forgot my pencil case, and I forgot my French. The day eventually ended, and I went home, thinking of good reasons not to go to my gym class and finding none. I trekked across town, shivering in my ski jacket and mittens, then waited 20 minutes for a gym teacher who did not come. In a way, it's kind of nice when everything goes wrong -- once you're in your miserable mood, it's almost more annoying when something good happens so you can't really complain. Monday did me a favor in that way.

Tonight, I am having a good-bye dinner for two of my German roommates, so I will cook and hopefully clean this disgusting house a bit this afternoon. I have other things to do but feel like doing origami and watching TV, so I think that is what I will do.

I love Wednesday afternoons.

The Great Tartiflette Adventure

2011-01-17T12:48:00.005+01:00

"So, what'd you do Friday night?"
- Oh, y'know... just watched a goat have a sonogram.

After a long week of parent-teacher conferences, and "Conseils de Classe" where all of the teachers meet to discuss the students' progress/grades/behavior/etc., I was thrilled to see the clock strike 11 on Friday morning; that, for me, means the beginning of the weekend.

The afternoon was filled with knitting, catching up with a friend, and doing errands. In the evening, S and I went to visit our friend Simon, who had borrowed his veterinarian father's sonogram equipment to find out if his two goats and his sheep were preggers.

For dinner, we made "tartiflette" which is a delicious mixture of potatoes, cheese, and bacon (usually onions but they kindly left them out for me) which bakes into a melted, cholesterol-filled casserole of joy. (While making this, I fondly remembered my friend "Raleigh" who I met on the airplane going home for Christmas two years ago. He lived in Grenoble, and discovered these incredible tartiflette t-shirts. And motivated me to start running.)

While it baked, the boys attacked the task at hand, having absolutely no idea what to look for on the little black and white screen. In the process, we discovered two things: 1) the sheep's fleece feels exactly like one of those memory-foam pillows, which we would never have known otherwise, as she never lets people near her, and 2) there is a reason vets are paid good money to do their jobs.

On Saturday morning, we went to the farm for a day of precious sunshine, fresh air, and cows. In the afternoon, between feedings/cleanings, we played Scrabbled with S's intensely competitive mom, who destroyed us both, as mom's seem to do. (I would like to see ONE person who can beat his/her mom at this game; I never have.) My absolute uselessness at Scrabble in French was made clear, but thanks to my friend the dictionary (and S and his mom's explanations of the passé sample) I managed to lose by only 100 points. This was a victory from my point of view.

Sunday was freakishly warm and sunny and perfectly low-key, so we decided to make the most of it by beginning our day with a 50-minute jog around the village where Simon lives. To recover, we spent the afternoon cooking, lesson prepping, knitting and watching cult French films online.

This morning, I had three hours of class (three detentions given, sadly) and now face an afternoon of grading in-class essays, and planning for the rest of the week.

Things I'm looking forward to:
1. gym class tonight (it has been over a month since I've been able to go!)
2. hair cut Wednesday
3. finding out for sure whether the partial B-Fam European Reunion is happening or not in February

A side note --
I just have to say, I always laugh when I read old friends' Facebook posts longing for "France" and equating it with vacation, baguettes, accordion music and bicycles.

I was elated last week to finally receive an envelope with my social security card. Our washing machine broke, so we did laundry at the farm, and S remembered to buy more bananas last week when he went to the store. People have the same problems everywhere, and the only way, seemingly, to avoid the "Greener Grass Syndrome" is to be colorblind.

Old Men, the Métro, Parent-Teacher Conferences and Two Books in Two Weeks

2011-01-10T14:34:00.005+01:00

With one of my classes away on internship right now, my daily schedule has become wonderfully less hectic. And thus, my resolution to keep up with my blog, infinitely more achievable.

I'm not sure it's necessarily a good idea to write a blog about teaching, when I know that anyone, anywhere, could read this, judge me and potentially prevent me from ever teaching again... but at the same time, the more I see films like "Freedom Writers" and "To Sir With Love," the more I feel like it is important to share a different truth about teaching, one that has NOTHING to do with such frustrating, Disney-fied versions of "Reality."

For instance: last week, instead of meeting in the high school as usual, one of my classes met at a transportation company of some sort everyday. The good side of this was that the students learned to drive forklifts, which they enjoyed and which might very well serve them in future internships/jobs. The bad side was that all of the teachers were obligated to teach in a corrugated aluminum box with more students than we usually have, with a very inconvenient layout and a room full of students who had the impression that they were NOT in class. Far away from the watchful eye of the administration, the students all felt invincible and thus, were INCREDIBLY difficult and annoying. Instead of being able to show them pictures, and give an inspiration speech which changed the course of their lives, I suffered through two hours, trying to make them learn about how to use the imperative, while they slept, threw pieces of paper at each other, and resisted working/learning/thinking with all of their might. Upon returning to the high school, I was met with stories that echoed the same thing -- it was chaos, such a bad idea, impossible to control, etc. etc. etc. The only resolution that came out of all of this was that "next year, hopefully they won't do the same thing."

This past week was the week of rebellion for everyone, apparently, which even reached, unfortunately, one of my normally mostly well-behaved classes. When given a new seating assignment, I was met with hostile resistance, endless complaints and overall negativity. Four of the students refused to change places, and after wasting a few minutes of class time, I finally let it go and continued on with my class. At the end of the hour, I asked the student martyrs to write me a one-page explanation of their personal definition of "Respect" to be handed in on Monday. One girl laughed and said to me, "I'm telling you right now, I'm not doing it."

Not only did she not do it, neither did the other 3. When I asked one guy why he didn't have it, he said because doing it meant that they were children. And, apparently, they are not. Because they are 18, they are wise, independent Adults who see the big-picture and get to make all of their own choices, never dealing with things they don't like. He was always respectful in his explanation, applying his own version of logic to his discourse and remaining appropriately calm, ending the whole thing by saying, "We know that you're the one in charge." When I said to him, "Apparently not, though; I ask you to do something, and you don't do it," he just shrugged and smiled, and I told him to leave.

Perhaps I should re-introduce myself to you all, because I think you know me in a different context. And if you read all of this, I'm not sure who you would think I was. Just as to them, I am not a sister, or daughter, or girlfriend, or student... I am an evil, demanding, authoritarian English-speaking demon who makes them work harder than they want, and actually THINK, and read texts that are difficult and then -- can you believe it?! -- speak in front of others. Put themselves out there and risk being JUDGED by their peers. I am not a person who likes giraffes, and making cakes, and eating popcorn and Diet Coke in movie theaters. I do not worry about things, cannot have my feelings hurt, have no sense of modernity and never have to do anything I do not want. I have one sole purpose in life, and it is simply, to ruin theirs.

With all that said, lately I am feeling better about my teaching. I leave school daily feeling like the most hated teacher in the whole place, knowing that if I see my students in the grocery store or in the city center, they will dash behind a sign post or squeeze behind a lamp post to avoid saying "hello," and that makes me feel like maybe I can eventually help them. I hate dealing with discipline, and find myself constantly surprised by their audacity to defy, their disrespect, and their attitudes... but the more I see that, and the way that other teachers react (or don't react), the more I feel like I'm doing the right thing. OF COURSE they hate me -- I challenge them to behave properly. I force them to learn what it is to "Be an Adult" and to face up to their decisions.

It is a miserable process.

In other news, S has recently entered into old age, finding himself too old for a train reduction card, falling now into the overwhelming category of 26-59. We celebrated on Friday with a few friends and the BEST French invention ever -- raclette. There is a heating device which is placed in the middle of the table, and each person has a little teflon tray on which to place the raclette cheese to be melted. The cheese is then poured over boiled potatoes, fresh tomatoes, all sorts of deli meats and sausages, bread, pineapples or salad. I made him a chocolate cake for dessert, and our roommate arranged the 16 candles we had in the shape of a "26."

On Saturday, we took the train to Paris to meet up in the Latin Quarter with an old roommate for a drink. An hour of RER travel later, we were at his brother's house for his 30th birthday celebration. I met their mutual friends for the first time, delighting in an evening of "Good Wines," superb quiches and excellent company. Sunday after breakfast, we headed toward Notre-Dame for hot chocolate and a walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg. There was a magnificent Christmas tree in the square in front of the cathedrale, and it was a happy feeling to see the red and gold decorations sparkling in the golden winter sunlight.

I finished a total of two books since my return on the 1st of January, a record for me since I started the school year in September. The first was, "The Love Goddess' Cooking School," a story of a woman who takes up her Italian grandmother's pasta shop and cooking school in Portland after her life takes an unexpected turn. This book could easily become a film, and potentially a very disappointing one... but the talk of cooking and recipes filled me with joy, and I found some of the characters to be endearing.

The second is called, "Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven," a story about a woman and her friend who decide to travel in China after graduating from Brown University in 1985. When I started reading it, I worried that it might be a memoir with absolutely no point, a traveling story like any other -- but I was wrong. Aside from a few things I entirely identified with, her experiences were totally foreign and interesting, and her writing style fresh and very relevant, with lively characters and an interesting plot line.

My thoughts are now concentrated on Parent/Teacher Conferences, which continue this week. Last week, I met the parents of two of my classes; tomorrow, I will meet with two more, then Thursday one more. In two weeks, they will finally be over, but I will withhold from saying "Best for Last" for fear of that definitely not being true. So far, I have really enjoyed meeting with parents; for the most part, my students have fessed up to their behavior problems right away, and the parents have really supported me with my suggestions and visions for how to proceed. It is interesting to see the way my students interact with their parents -- and it definitely reinforces the need for me to remain strong with my insistence upon discipline. It is equally a PLEASURE to tell parents of star students that I adore their students' insightful comments and willingness to participate, and delight in seeing them every day in class. This is true, and helps my morale just as much as it does my students in saying it out loud.

Happy Birthday S

2011-01-07T10:41:00.001+01:00

A New Year

2011-01-03T18:13:00.003+01:00

My hands smell of bleach and I am fighting jet lag, which is proof of two things:

1. My bathroom is clean
2. I was home for the holidays

I have goals for this year and already feel that I am working my way towards creating greater balance, which is a good feeling for it being only the third day in.

Tomorrow night, I have my very first parent-teacher conferences, in French, which takes a scary thing and makes it exponentially more terrifying... but also gives me hope that certain conversations will lead to significant improvements in terms of student behavior and academic performance.

My upcoming plans include beginning to attempt a new knitting project, revamping my teaching style and approach to my students, and finishing the novel I started in the airport on Saturday. S's birthday is Friday, so I will also attempt to create a cool 26th celebration of life gift for him in my two afternoons off this week... creative inspiration, you would be warmly welcomed in the near future.

Bonne année, bonne santé et meilleurs voeux à tous.

Discovery of America

2010-11-04T16:51:00.015+01:00

Day 1.
One Friday afternoon, one tired teacher, done with school, cleaned the house and packed French wine in bubble wrap and old clothes. There was a phone call from a crying girl with a medical problem and a language barrier. Thus, a cup of tea, a few more phone calls, and an hour in a waiting room later, a miraculous do-good doctor came to the rescue of the Damsel in Distress.

The one-hour drive to work happened two hours behind schedule. A tired man with a "USA" sign was waiting outside of a dark office, tired of waiting, tired of working, ready to be on vacation. A pair of ham and cheese sandwiches, made with love, and a few hours' drive to Paris for a late-night reunion with the second T brother in his Roman Forum Parisian apartment transformed what was a bad beginning to the start of a beautiful trip.

Day 2.
One forgotten sandwich in the backseat of the car, parked in the empty lot of a community swimming pool. A pair of suitcases marked with pink tags. A short night on an air mattress, an apple in the morning, an almost-missed 6:43 RER train paused beneath a giant analog clock in a train station in the midst of making progress.

A train strike at the Gare du Nord, interrupting the route to Charles de Gaulle. An angry American, cursing the French; a French man, much amused.

After a smooth arrival at the airport check-in, we discovered that S was missing an ESTA. This was an unhappy surprise, as we had not thoroughly researched the necessary steps of traveling to the US with a non-US passport, and I was nervous when they refused to put the security sticker on the back of his documents. A fast trip to an Internet station in the terminal, a 6 euro usage fee, a 14 euro ESTA fee, and a page full of personal information gifted to the US government. Behind us, an angry woman waited, yapping incessantly and trying to rush us, as the 30 pre-paid minutes ticked away.

Once we had passed through security, we were met with a wall of glass Eiffel-Tower-shaped perfume bottles and things for sale. Easily mistaken for a mall, this extremely commercialized part of the airport was quickly left behind as we hurried towards our assigned gate.

Waiting at a strategic point near the counter (always in the peripheral vision of the gate attendants, far enough so not to bother them but not so far as to be forgotten), I couldn't help but overhear disconcerting discourse: a group of American women lamenting their extended 2-day quest to get out of Paris, the gate attendants muttering our last names with discouraging shakes of the head. With mass confusion and jumbled information, we were suddenly presented with a single choice: one seat on the planned plane, with the possibility of another to the other side of America. With very little time to really think it over, we decided we shouldn't let the seat go empty. S was walking down the ramp and I was waving to him, then running to a plane headed for Utah with half an apple in my hand and my passport in the other.

Once settled in my seat next to a computer programmer on his way home to San Francisco, uncomfortable realizations started to settle in my stressed-out head: a nine-hour flight, a French man in America with no cell phone and a stand-by ticket, no American money, and absolutely no back-up plan. This plus my 11-hour flight, my possession of everything except a way to find S should he lose at the game of Stand-By Roulette, and the anxiety just started mounting. With no other ideas of what to do, I sent a text message to America, pleading for help and rapidly explaining the gist of it all: I was on a plane going to Utah, and S was heading for the originally planned destination. I had no idea how this would work out at all.

My first hurriedly-dialed phone call after the plane touched down on American soil brought incredible relief knowing that a welcome-committee was en route to the airport to pick up S. He had had a miraculous connection and perfect placement of French-speaking angels on consecutive flights; a true stand-by standing ovation.

With no way to get back home the same night, I paid 40 dollars for a hotel room near the airport. A two-hour wait in the cold and the rain for the hotel shuttle, a very hot shower and a dinner consisting of Red Vines, preceded a 6 o'clock bedtime in a king-size bed.

Day 3.
Unable to sleep past 3 am, I watched a few hours of infomercials and then took the shuttle back to the empty airport, got a Frozen Chai Tea Latte and a banana and watched some wonderfully American news reports on the airport television sets. The 7 am flight got me home at 12:30, and I was surprised to see my traveling Uncle and grandma waiting at the gate. We met up with my parents and S and headed to the city for a Mexican lunch in the Fiesta Town and a walk along the River Front.

I got my fix of Michigan fall with a trip to the local cider mill, a few doughnuts and a visit to the little farm.

Day 4.
With my parents both having the day off work, we went to visit a bit of history at the Henry Ford Museum. S discovered lots of "A-MAAAAZING" American things like the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile and the Dymaxion house, and helped to build a Ford Model-T. For lunch, we ate enormous hot dogs smothered with chili, nacho cheese and jalapenos, which seemed to appease his appetite.

Day 5.
Tuesday revolved around a trip to the Ford Rouge Factory. My translation skills were seriously put to test with the specific vocabulary surrounding the "living roof" and the detailed F-150 assembly process, but regardless of the difficulty, we spent 3 rich hours soaking up the Michigan history. I was often impressed by his questions, and found myself paying much closer attention to exhibits and information than I ever would alone, in knowing that I would be responsible for transmitting the information afterward.

We left the factory a bit behind schedule, and headed for the supermarket to buy the necessary ingredients for our Boeuf Bourguignon. Once at home, we attacked the process but were not able to break our record; it wasn't ready before 10 o'clock, so we held true to the French tradition with a very late -- but delicious -- supper.

Day 6.
In keeping consistent with the Ford theme of our week, on Wednesday, we went to Greenfield Village on what was, potentially, the windiest day I have ever experienced. The beautiful autumn sunshine glowed gold over the eccentric collection of houses and history, cornstalks and carriages, and we, once again, repeated our routine of information, translation, discussion, and inquisition.

Deeply impressed by the looms in the weaving shop, and the tin smith pounding out cookie cutters and wind-resistant lanterns, we spent a significant part of the day in one tiny section of the village.

During the afternoon, we learned about Orville and Wilber Wright by visiting their childhood Ohio home and bike shop, as well as Thomas Edison in Menlo Park, and various other segments of American history sprawled throughout the village. Although all of the village employees emphasized the fact that Ford believed in hands-on education and wanted to preserve the American spirit, we started to piece together a slightly different reality based on things we had picked up during the previous visits to the museum and the factory.

Undoubtedly, Ford did great things for the city, not to mention basically building Metro-Detroit, but he there is a seriously dark side to his Fordified history. S compared him a bit to Louis XVI, pointing out that somehow, people who attain a certain level of fame and success truly seem to lose all sense of reality. A crazy man with lots of money and influence over other people. We are lucky that he, at least, used some of it for the legacy that we spent the week visiting.

Day 7.
Thursday morning, we got an early start, heading to the high school to visit two French classes that are doing exchange projects with my students. I saw my very first French teacher and thanked her, and then we went into P-town for some coffee. It was very important, however, that this not be just any old coffee -- I wanted to share the Starbucks experience with S.

Eight dollars later, we were full of pumpkin spice lattes and looking forward to taking a guided tour of the city with my uncle and my dad. We had lunch at a fantastic creperie called "Good Girls go to Paris" and then began our whirlwind tour of the D.

Following the suggestion to cross into Windsor for a view of the river front, we headed into Canada where we were detained and questioned by Customs officers before being released with fresh-ink stamps in all of our passports. I hated Canada for a full fifteen minutes.

Once again back on American soil, we saw various famous buildings, passing through areas of all socioeconomic levels and of varying degrees of upkeep and decay. I had a hard time assessing whether or not S was seeing what he had expected to see or not, but I felt like we got a pretty good idea of reality in the D (and its surrounding super-rich areas).

At the end of the day, my dad made American cheeseburgers and my friend J came over for dinner. We drank Michigan "witchbrew" wine and S ate corn on the cob for the first time ever. Serious American classics!

Day 8.
Exhausted from the crazy pace of the week, plus the linguistic efforts and jet lag, the day got off to a rather late start. We took a mandatory trip to Target, during which I surprised myself by buying absolutely nothing, and then we went to Meijer for postcards, before heading to the center of the state to visit Miss G and her first grade class for their Halloween party and parade. After an enchanting afternoon with the rambunctious and incredible kids, we went to a coffee shop and then visited her apartment. We made the hour and a half drive home, and then were at the world's most delicious Chinese restaurant, for S's first taste of fortune cookies and cashew chicken.

After a quick trip to the grocery store, we were 6 pumpkins heavier, and we began our pumpkin carving ritual back at my house, another American first for S. By then, we were well into the Halloween spirit and ready for the holiday weekend!

Day 9.
In the morning we went to the post office to send off the cards, and took a trip to the public library. My dad's Halloween concert started in the early afternoon, so we rummaged through our costume closet in the basement and each found our perfect disguises. The concert was a lot of fun, and a few of my friends came to enjoy it with us.

After a quick clothing change, we headed over to a friend's house for dinner with her family, and had a wonderful evening with an incredible meal and great company.

Day 10. HALLOWEEN!
Sunday morning came at an impossible speed, and to make the most of our last day, we woke up early and headed to the golf course. It was already closed for the season, so we went to the driving range for S's first attempt at the deceptively simple-seeming sport. His amazing natural athletic ability served him yet again as he pretty easily got the hang of it and sent the pock-marked white bullets soaring.

In the afternoon, we decided to celebrate another great American tradition: Thanksgiving. In honor of our guest, and the fact that we won't be together on the real day, we dove in, leaving no detail overlooked. Pecan pie, turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberries, dumplings and peas made for a beautiful table and an incredible meal.

Still full from the feast, we stuffed ourselves into our costumes and filled up the Halloween bowl with several bags of candy, ready to welcome the neighborhood kids. Amidst phone calls from far-away family members, and visits from close friends, the trick-or-treating hours flew by, as our 72 visitors slowly emptied out the contents of the bowl.

A game of scrabble seemed like the perfect way to wrap up the week. After losing miserably to my mom, we dragged our feet as we repacked our suitcases, feeling the impending end sneak up and guffaw in its underhanded, mocking way.

Day 11.
After sad good-byes, security craziness and a trip to a few airport stores, we were waiting at the gate almost an hour before take-off. Luck seemed to be on our side as we were not only assigned seats, but seats that were right next to one another.

A few minutes of waiting in our seats turned into a lot of minutes of waiting, when the captain reported some mechanical problems but assured us that they were trying to fix them. We waited for almost an hour before he said everything was good and we were ready to go.

The plane took off without problem, but once in the air, was making quite a bit of noise, which the captain attributed to a panel having been left open by the mechanics. He landed the plane and told us that they would try to fix the plane or look for a replacement.

About half of the passengers angrily de-planed while the rest of us stuck it out, only to wait for an hour before being told that we all had to get off the plane. Since they had not canceled the flight, we decided to wait around and eventually they found us another plane.

They sent us down to a different gate, where the clueless gate attendant was attacked by irritated passengers. A missing stewardess delayed our boarding for another half hour, and little by little the pressure was mounting: it was getting closer and closer to our scheduled departure for Paris, and we weren't sure we would make it in time for the connection. We finally decided to just try for it, and sure enough -- we missed the flight.

We sprinted off of the airplane as soon as they opened the cabin door, but our flight to Paris had already left three minutes earlier. Discussing our back-up plans, we decided to try going through Atlanta, and take the late flight to Paris. The odds didn't look very good, but our odds were favorable for both flights earlier in the day, and neither of those had gone very well.

We waited anxiously, once again faced with a tricky decision when the flight attendant told us that there would probably only be one open seat; the question was whether or not to split up. Luck intervened once again, though, and two seats opened up thanks to a few unlucky people who didn't make it on time.

Once in Atlanta, we waited at the gate with hordes of people but lost almost all hope for getting a seat when we saw that they had delayed the flight by one hour to accommodate a flight that was coming in from JFK with 30 passengers. At that point, there was nothing else to do but wait, so we did -- and once again, it paid off.

They started boarding the plane, saying that the flight from JFK had landed, and we watched as seat after seat filled with more people. Three flight attendants arrived and seemed extremely annoyed that the gate agents had not understood that none of those 30 passengers were actually on the plane from JFK.

In a glorious moment of joy, all of the stand-by passengers were awarded seat assignments like golden tickets. We were even seated next to one another.

Day 12.
Our plane got into Paris around 11 am, and we split into our separate Customs lines. By the time I finally got through, almost all of the passengers coming from Atlanta had gotten their luggage -- but our bags were nowhere in sight.

Warily, I trudged to the baggage service desk with our luggage claim tickets in my hand, prepared for the worst. The woman confirmed that our luggage did not go with us from the first airport to Atlanta. My heart sank and I cursed the airline silently. In two languages.

But then, instead of handing me a stack of papers to fill out and asking for luggage descriptions and details, she picked up the phone. I heard her explain that there was a note in the system requesting a RUSH delivery to Paris for our bags, and she inquired whether or not they had actually arrived.

A few minutes later, out they rolled, all beautiful and beat-up on Carousel Quarante.

A call to the US, and 30 euros in metro tickets later, we were on our way back to the center of Paris, then out the other side, almost to the end of the line. S's car was safely where we had left it, the sandwich still sitting in the backseat.

The last 48 days

2010-10-20T12:22:00.004+02:00

1. Can be explained by the extended silence, the absence of English.

2. The proof that you are changing: you don't even crave Macaroni & Cheese, and sometimes you think about making mashed potatoes.

3. The feeling of failure: like standing in a spotlight surrounded in blackness, in the center of a whirling storm. The sound of your own voice repeating over and over the same simple things, disappearing into an orchestra of adolescent chaos, visions and values distorted through eyes like wide-open apertures. A chancre sore on the inside of a lip, a rip in dust-colored knee-highs.

4. Surprise sounds like: Pavlov's dog bell bleating in 55-minute intervals.

5. Vegetarian chili: everything good about the approaching winter. Also see: knitting, long johns and home-made cornbread.

6. Countdown to my return home: 3 days, if the French strikers manage to calm down.

The other side of the chalkboard

2010-09-02T18:32:00.005+02:00

1. Last weekend can be summarized as follows:
tennis racket buying, sleeping-in, tennis playing (on a members-only club, of which we are not members and for which we did not pay), airplane take-off observation at a minuscule airport near M, marveling at the car club where people spend probably thousands of dollars on fat tires just to burn them up on a twisting test track, canoeing in icy waters with the new roommate, dinners with a spirited German family, crazy debates about taxes in France vs. Germany vs. America (I'm definitely siding with the US on this one, just as everyone individually stood strong for his/her roots), and "Top Gun."

2. Monday involved lots of lesson planning and equal amounts of stress. I got a call from a teacher friend from last year, who invited me out for a drink with the other teachers. I hesitantly decided to go and had the craziest conversations about destiny, and teaching, and our region of France.

3. Tuesday involved a meeting for the new teachers, lots more lesson planning and stress, and a lightning-fast tour of my new school. I came home after 2.5 hours of constant information, and felt like I had run a marathon. But, of course, I couldn't sleep regardless of the exhaustion. Because...

4. Wednesday was the whole-day whole-staff meeting. It was an entire workday of rapid-fire French, filled with acronyms that made no sense to me, forty-some new names (and sets of two pecks on the cheek to go along with each) and tons of information that seems, now, as though it's stuff that I'll have to learn as I go along. I took pages and pages of notes, sat right up in the front of the room, and did the usual new person routine (lots of standing around, trying to look occupied and not as awkward as it felt) and also tried just being myself, which was hard because a) I quickly realized that I am the ONLY 'debutant' this year, even though others are new to the particular school and b) it's hard to speak French when I am nervous. So, I did the best I could and found myself admitting my gut-wrenching fear, which I'm glad I did because...

5. Today was the first day of school, and lots of the teachers came up to me asking if everything had gone okay. It meant so much to me that they showed so much support and encouragement, especially since I don't know anyone (except one lady that went to the gym with me last year). The director terrified me yesterday by clamping her hand on my shoulder, sitting down next to me and asking if everything was okay. I was so unprepared for this unsolicited act of kindness, I couldn't even bring myself to formulate a clear sentence. Today, she performed an encore, and I reacted much better this time.

Despite the one hour of miserable sleep I got, having woken up gratefully to the sound of the alarm that jolted me from a terrifying nightmare about illegal immigrants stealing my passport at my hometown library then making me pay to get it back and consequently being held hostage because the police caught them and were about to export them, despite the stomach-churning fear and the headache I've had all week, my pounding heart and trembling hand, I stumbled through my first class okay, and then went onto a much better follow-up to finish up the day with a student who actually said he is looking forward to English class. Having now officially taught two classes, I think I can now call myself an actual teacher.

6. Prayers to the sleep and sinus gods have gone out, as I desperately want a night of good sleep and a nose that will stop running. Perhaps I ask too much, because I would also like tomorrow to go well, as I meet two more new classes... and a good Monday would also be really nice, because I have 6 classes and a very full day.

Otherwise, my roommate is making crepes tonight, I got an amazing package in the mail today along with several very encouraging e-mails before school, and I can now say that I have finished my very FIRST first day of school in my professional teaching career. :)

Tchin-tchin!

Year 3, Day 1

2010-08-27T12:59:00.003+02:00

Hello, again my virtual readers.

I'm back in M, a few days into the time difference, still jet lagged and totally tête-en-air, like the person from the medicine head commercial. Or maybe the flip-top toothbrush head guy.

I arrived safely, having made the second flight to Ohio, and the continuing flight onto France. In the morning, I met three people:

1) a man who is starting a job with ComAir, who was trying to fly there for some kind of security procedure but who kept missing flights, thus delaying his start date for the job. He didn't seem to like flying stand-by, but I appreciated the fact that he had absolutely nothing with him. No carry-on bag, no horseshoe-shaped neck pillow, nothing with wheels or straps or handles or tags, not even a paperback book or crossword.

2) an American-looking man from Oklahoma wearing a baseball cap and a few days' worth of stubble, who had a deep southern drawl so thick that I nodded in feigned comprehension when he said, "I work for sdlfkjsdf and it's a slkdjfkljsdf" and had no idea what he was really saying. But I did understand the story of his trip to Maui with his wife and their $1800 plane tickets, their missed connection that he had predicted, and his disgust with airlines in general. He had accepted their bribe of some-hundred dollars and a free hotel stay in compensation for an over-sold seat the night before, and the man hates "The D" in a way that seems unfair. I tried to argue for the two blocks of really nice city, which -- I think -- is proof of future improvement, but he wasn't taking the bait.

3) a ComAir stewardess named "Deb", perfectly-curled hair and classic eye make-up, a subtle brown with specks of gold swept evenly across the eye lid, a little gold pin on the lapel of the navy-blue blazer. She surprised me with her stories, her 3 grown children, their firefighter wives and corrections officer occupations, her best friend the ex-husband and her new plan of going to Paris for her birthday. She apologized for the desertion of a woman in a wheelchair, who missed her flight because she went in search of change for a tip for the wheelchair driver instead of going right to the gate, and the consequential five-hour layover she would have to endure. But it wasn't her fault at all, and the whole thing seemed very unfair to me.

On the first plane, I sat in the window seat next to a serious-looking business man and pulled out the safety information card. Half-listening to the flight attendant's speech, all of a sudden I heard, "...the flight destined for Puerto Vallarta" and my head snapped up. She laughed, ridiculously, and continued on. "Now that I'm sure to have your undivided attention..."

She got me again later as she said something about getting drinks from the swim-up bar, and I thought that maybe this woman was once a very effective educator.

On the flight to Paris, I had the good fortune of an empty seat next to me and tried my best to sleep a bit, since the crossword was impossible and the in-flight entertainment, "The Bounty Hunter," too mind-numbing to entertain anyone. I read a bunch more of "The Winds of War" and was nearly poisoned by the cardboard/egg sandwich they flung at us at 5:30am France time.

The sweltering customs line moved painfully slowly, and a hot 1.5 hours after landing, I swiftly rejoined my luggage and my red-haired French man. A broken GPS, a bottle of Coke Zero and a map with far too little detail for reliable navigation led to an adventure in getting out of Paris. But, eventually, with a little wave to the asparagus-shaped tower in the distance, and a turn off the Porte d'Italie, we were on our way towards M, speaking jarring, sometimes-invented French and filling in the details of four and a half weeks of our separate lives.

I allowed myself a 55-minute nap, which I regretted ending so painfully I almost wished I had never indulged to begin with, and then we headed off to the grocery store. In the foreign foods aisle, I was contemplating tortillas and asking for a second opinion, which I didn't get, which made me laugh. One month isn't THAT long. And this woman said to me, "Sometimes things just aren't worth worrying about. You have the right idea," and it made me laugh even harder. We kept running into her in different aisles, full of cheese and frozen things, the vegetable section with the new ingenious item-detecting scale, and it made grocery shopping seem as fun as jet skiing or making Christmas crafts out of pipe-cleaners and plastic beads.

I am nervous and anxious and very much looking forward to school starting soon.

A cosmic favor, please, Universe

2010-07-19T12:01:00.003+02:00

Dear Universe (Specifically the Travel Gods),

Please let me return safely to the US of A without delay. I would really like to be sleeping in my old bed by ten thirty tomorrow (Tuesday night).

I would NOT like to be stuck in Paris because of air traffic control strikes, or full planes.

I would also not like to be stuck elsewhere in the US, in an airport, or a budget hotel somewhere.

A swift and stress-free return with one magical connection would be enormously appreciated.

Respectfully,

J

Mathematics, and other surprises

2010-07-13T16:43:00.008+02:00

Mathematics:

The variables

(x) the phone call - 'you are not qualified, and the man is on vacation'
(y) three days of no phone calls after the Great Staff Scramble (a Wednesday meeting for the directrice and her colleagues)
(Z) knowledge of a Monday meeting for staff; Friday night and still no word
(h) certainty of not getting the job

The equation

x + y + z = h

The amazing surprise

Monday morning in the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport, after four hours of metro and train travel with overloaded suitcases and hot city air, I found out I actually got the job; my math was all wrong.

A crazy day of movement, shock and pain, no cell phone, dirty pay phones, a train station and an abandoned hot pink suitcase, a reunion at Le Train Bleu, a Christophe Mae CD in the car, Paris traffic, a u-Turn, a kebab at a restaurant off the high-way where we ate once before, a frosty bottle of water for 18 centimes, a hot shower, big sunglasses, huge sweatpants and sleep.

The good news

A locker with my name on it, a real walking, talking, breathing job. Profession: teacher. Another year in crazy M, my French life with S and farm Saturdays, goat cheese and blackberry jam, vegetables from the garden, and bread.

The bad news

Missing my family beach trip. Crab hunts and magic sparking sand, severe ocean storms, card games, family dinners, buttery sunscreen, frigid air conditioning, burning sand, swimsuits, shrimp cocktail, my favorite bookstore in the world.

The paperwork

Two hours in an office; half a forest of destruction.

The French holiday

Bastille day. A late Cornflake breakfast in the sun. A trip to a zoo and theme park; amorous giraffes, tree-climbing bears, a threatening thunder sky, one stab of lightning, a seal show, a roller coaster, a ham & butter sandwich. Spaghetti dinner and Twilight: 3, then falling asleep to the sound of fireworks somewhere outside of my window.

"Birds of America" Lorrie Moore page 80

2010-07-09T14:32:00.003+02:00

"When she packed up to leave, she knew she was saying good-bye to something important, which was not that bad, in a way, because it meant that at least you had said hello to it to begin with, which most people in Cassell, Iowa, she felt, could not claim to have done."

Manifesto

2010-07-08T15:12:00.003+02:00

Life is always complicated and confusing. There is no simple answer, ever, so basically it's just a question of learning from mistakes so you avoid repeating them, and make new and different ones instead.

The problem is honestly, no matter WHAT you have, what you do, where you are, you will always always always want something else. And I hate the thought of living my life that way -- never making the most of what I have when I have it, but rather always mourning something that once was and no longer is.

It's the relay-race of life, the non-ending race to get more, or better, or who knows what, and trying in the midst of all the stupidity, all the efforts to escape the pain, the reality, the RESPONSIBILITY we all have for our own existence, and find MEANING under it all. Find WORTHWHILE endeavors to pursue, ways of growing and becoming more USEFUL, more human, more aware.

I think it's too simple what they say in Buddhism, "All life is suffering" because honestly, it's not; life is full of joy and non-suffering, but as soon as that goes away, what's left is suffering, the shadow of the Once Was and the fear of the Never Will Be Again.

The only people who are worthwhile in life are the ones who worry about that. The ones who face the hard questions, who confront the reality and wonder why the hell anyone is doing what they're doing, why we don't all just stop & let chaos reign? What's the point of it all?

Seize the day. Ceuillez le jour... simply, honestly, BE ALIVE.

And also, a metaphor:

we are cheese wheels, and life is one [giant and heartless] grater.

stupid stupid stupid

2010-07-08T12:29:00.003+02:00

Does an existential crisis exist in the 21st century if it's not announced on Facebook?

Do we exist if we're not on Facebook?

Every day is starting to feel like a Last Day. It makes me CERTAIN I would never want to know when I was going to die, because no matter how you cloak yourself in sunlight and swallow fist-fulls of optimistic rhetoric, the sadness stands like a vicodin-induced hallucination in the corner of the room. The countdown. The shittiest New Year's Eve of all-time.

I waited two months for one day that passed without the phone ringing one time. I watched tv and finished a knitting project, failed to crochet a dish rag, did laundry, cleaned the bathroom, went to the grocery store, ate lasagna, had a headache and waited. S got home and asked me with this totally inappropriate, genuine grin on his face, "So do you have any bad news for me" which I didn't even understand because it was a REAL sitcom smile, and I told him that "all life is suffering" and why should mine be appeased after only one day?

He said the meeting probably ran long. I should give it 'til Friday, in case she is just being a total bitch and increasing the intensity. I think it's called denial, really, but I wasn't ready to leave yet. He went to Paris for a two-day business trip (he asked me last night if God would forgive setting fire to the Death Eaters of Education building, if it were done with pure intention) and the logistics seemed difficult. Messy and tearful good-bye at the airport? Followed by a torturous day of learning the finer intricacies of SAS (I told him I used that in college, and he thought skipping out in lieu of private lessons would be totally reasonable). I don't know -- it didn't seem right. It just doesn't seem FINISHED. Plus, I still have 40 some euros in a bank account that I want back (the bank charges me 5,70 each month just to have a stupid debit card).

We went back to the parking lot of the Arboretum and ate mozzarella and tomato sandwiches last night, while the bugs tore apart his skin. I think the remnants of the poisonous bottle of rosé we had drank the night before, still stubbornly attacking my body, namely my head and potentially liver, scared them away. Smart little annoyances.

My roommate I don't like left me a note about a bbq that none of my friends are here to attend. She still has my towel after a week and a half of keeping it hostage; the situation is so awkward, now, I'm not even sure how to handle it.

Anyway, I'm thinking of skipping the bbq and going to see my baby goat instead. She can have children by the end of September, which shocks and annoys me.

Why did I only focus on what I was missing? What am I doing?

D-Day (J-Jour)

2010-07-07T08:51:00.003+02:00

I want to learn to crochet a dish rag, so I can use up the rest of the yarn. But I pull the yarn too tight, or I hold it too loose, and since 5 pm last night, all I have managed to complete is a chain of four loops.

Instead of being happy last night, we decided to cry for a little bit, then make risotto and drink 1.5 bottles of wine. We decided to get married, and I told him I'm just waiting for everything to turn wrong; it's greater than you and me, but it always happens eventually.

I have a head like a rotting cabbage today. Tonight, picnic and bowling.

Bad news

2010-07-06T08:52:00.003+02:00

- Hello, someone called me this morning?

Hrm, yes, it was my colleague; she's currently on the line with someone, would you please mind holding?

-No problem. Thanks.

[three minutes and 16 seconds of tinny, repetitive, predictable noise]

Hello, miss?

-Yes?

Yes, hi. Okay, your document... hmm, let me see... it's somewhere here...

[shuffling papers, the sound of futile efforts at organizing life, at making sense of chaos, tidying up the infinite mess]

Oh, yes. You have applied for two positions, one is "English" and one is "English Letters" correct?

-Right.

Okay, well, the problem is you are not validated for "English Letters."

- [stimuli entering auditory receptors, bouncing around ear canals, coming into contact with gray matter, synapses, dendrites, axons, the Myelin sheath, gelatinous fat surrounding them]

What?

Well, you are validated for "English" only.

[six seconds, six days, the time to destroy the cuticle of my middle finger]

But I sent your documents today for validation.

-Oh...

[stupefied; a hairdryer in a bubble bath, a pile of anthrax inside a love letter envelope]

...thank you. Do you have any idea of how long that will take?

No clue.

[the quiet cracking of winter ice, slow and low, and scary]

But, the Man Who Validates is on vacation until September.

-...

[the sound of a tree falling in an empty forest]

... Really?

Yes.

Oh, merde.

In summer, we come alive

2010-07-05T14:18:00.004+02:00

Friday night, in the grocery store, the check-out line with the clock that never changes (it's always 2:55; the longest days happen in this lane). A home-made pizza thick with mozzarella and bleeding button mushrooms, and "Bruce Almighty" in French (until I fell asleep).

Saturday morning, awoken early by birds and brilliant sunlight, a shower, an hour drive through the country side. A hot day at the farm, in the tractor with the dripping A/C system, lilting fields lined with parallel, unyielding hay stubs, the heat and the slipping conveyor belts in the hard-working, long-suffering red mouth machine, eating up and spitting out at an impressive pace; risk of fire, good for burning off chicken feathers.

Navy sky rolling in after lunchtime; it had been raining in Paris and the bad weather usually hits not long after. Endless radio songs with mind-numbing lyrics; it's easy for French people to write in English because no one here minds the painful stupidity of useless words. I think that offended him, even though I prefaced it with a disclaimer. "Can I ask you a question?" -- high school and animals, the difference between grains and harvesting, a story of my motorcycle parents that made his dad's eyes sparkle (even bovine farmers in the middle of France dream of Harley Davidson drives sometimes).

Saturday night, armed with cauliflower and zucchini from the garden, a sun rash spreading wild across my thighs and a tenancy to poorly conjugate even simple verbs, we drove under a pink sky, a tomato sun set, cotton candy clouds and finally the evening breeze.

Sunday morning, lazy. Lucky that the Monoprix is open until 12:45, and not 12 like all of the signs say on the sliding entry doors. Distractions, disputes near the million kinds of butter and cheese, a difficult choice between white wines when our only rule is 'one that costs between 3 and 5 euros,' a guy in a gray shirt at the check out line and his million-year-old friend a few people back in line; I didn't know you worked here, dude? Yeah... five years (you moron).

One home-flipped crepe with egg and tomato, ham, mushroom and cheese for lunch, followed by a viking-hat-shaped one with blackberry jam for dessert. The sun in solid form, old episodes of "Jag" on the television, a housemate making a black beaded necklace outside under the little grove of shade trees. Iced tea, a few pages of a book, and a detailed "Party Planning" list in my little blue spiral notebook.

We went on an afternoon adventure, visiting the outside of a perfectly private and hard-to-find castle, surrounded by a moat just like I like it. We stopped in the grassy, shaded botanical garden parking lot, watched a group of beautiful, well-dressed Parisians say good bye, and peeked in the windows of an ancient Citroen Deux Chevaux then pulled out his fluorescent ski vest buried somewhere under farm boots and camping gear in the trunk, and sat on the ground, talking.

At 5:30 we began preparing for the ultimate French 4th of July party, starting with the appetizers. We folded up chunks of brie with dabs of blackberry jam in pockets of pastry crust, made skewers of ham and herb goat cheese, stuffed mushrooms and arranged them just perfectly on plates. S cut the pineapple while I mixed the brownies, sliced up plump tomatoes and fresh-from-the-garden lettuce leaves. Once the fire was lit (a few birthday candles, some cardboard, an excessive of smoke and a bunch of luck later) we finished cutting up the fruit salad, took the table outside and rolled up silverware sets in paper towels, posing them in a dark wicker basket, as if for a picnic.

Every one of my friends showed up carrying a bottle of wine; one even brought a bouquet of dried lavender, tied in the middle with earthy thread. Seated in plastic lawn chairs sipping kirs (white wine and blackberry syrup) and iced tea, the evening unfolded with stories of vacation and movies, my unknown future, the magic of our inner-courtyard house. Four middle school teachers, a high school principal, a bovine geneticist, an unemployed ex-patriot, and an Austrian Bosch intern toasted "les Americains" and ate hamburgers with their fingers, refused wine 3 times before accepting (a new rule I just learned) and stayed until long after the stars came out, faces illuminated only by the occasional flicker of the tea lights glowing on the cluttered table.

My first dinner party ended with a severe headache and a long discussion about the quality of the wine, and then a smooth fall into a beautiful slumber, lulled to sleep by rustling curtains and the quiet murmur of late-night conversation somewhere outside of my window.

Beautiful things

2010-06-29T18:43:00.004+02:00

Two warm loaves of zucchini bread.

124 pages into a good novel.

A man like that who trusts me to cut his hair.

Rollin' the Hay

2010-06-29T14:25:00.010+02:00

At high noon on Friday, I could be seen inside of a dark blue American car, speeding away from the "city," getting further and further away from telephones, and desks, and documents, trading it in for cows, and home-grown cauliflower and open air.

Three marvelous days of countryside, summer sun, tractors and tangible progress. Of learning and adventure, new life experience and delicious, pure silence.

For example:

Saturday morning I waved to my farmer man as he was kicking up clouds of dust behind his big red tractor, turning over the hay that had been drying already for a few days in the field. A bottle of water at my feet and a book open on my lap, I listened to a rural symphony, the mumbled engine hum, chickens clucking and pecking at the ground, the occasional call of cows.

His aunt and uncle (The Gardener and The Hunter) came by sometime into chapter 22 and so we talked about the Aunt's business trip to Chicago in 1984, the South American family she stayed with, and the notion of talking about religion, while the dog Elliott ran back and forth between the empty house and the shaded table, bringing solitary slippers and making eventual pairs, blissful in his pilfering.

In an unspoken order, the processes begin; one drives away, the orange light flashing against the cornflower blue paint of the oldest mechanical machine. Giant metal butterfly wings unfold into circular rakes that make the grain swish like a satin gown, spinning in carousel-fashion and finishing in parallel lines. The other fires up a ruby engine, a giant wheeled square trailing behind filled with hidden conveyor belts and lime-green netting that work in magical tandem, spinning 300-kilo wheels of golden cereal grasses, every once in a while opening up its giant red mouth and spitting out super-sized PacMan pellets.

The fields are cleared this way, leaving organized space where there once was chaos. He says, "We can feed the cows for 41 days now," and it has meaning, suddenly, the work we have done.

It is 9:00 in the evening and the sun hangs low in the sky, the horizon purple and calm, an enormous relief as the heat finally breaks.

Sunday is a half day of work, and we finish one field before lunch time. The fields speckled with yellow bits of geometry need re-arranging. I drive the tractopell to the field, and then we change machines; I pilot the tractor with the two connected wagons behind. He uses the yellow pitchfork to spear his victims like medieval jousting, and then pose them in perfect pyramids of a base of 8, with 3 on top. It is a question of physics, of atrophy, of balance and harmony and patience.

He navigates the narrow gates that enclose the pastures, and it makes me think of watching people put their boats into water.

We return to the hangar where his father disconnects the parade floats stacked with feed for the winter, and reconnects us to two empty others; the process repeats as we return to the field.

In the afternoon, we to the site of an ancient and long-destroyed abbey. Neither of us listens to the 3D film we watch, too distracted by our gratitude for the refreshing cool of the thick stone walls and the shade. The language ancient and specific, words unfamiliar and demanding energy, I look at the pictures instead, and invent my own stories.

We laugh at our glasses, squarish and black and very un-stylish, the red-haired guy reading a book by the window that we thought was a mannequin, and stop in the gift shop to read almost an entire ancient Bourgogne recipe book. We sneak into the stables and pet a horse's soft nose before being asked to leave, then drive to a near-by village to find his grandfather's former, now-empty, vineyard.

My train leaves on Monday at 12:23 and he drops me off at the station before heading off to his work lunch not farm from the phantom abbey. His mom has made me a little picnic lunch and I would like to take a picture of it, to kiss her and everyone who ever makes picnics for travelers, as I eat my bit of baguette, my pasta salad and the remnants of the cherry flan she had made for dessert the day before.

I start a book in English, and feel grateful for the familiar words; exactly 7 of us descend from the train upon arriving in M, the terminus of the train. At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder what they are all doing there, coming or going, making a stop along the way or arriving, finally, at the sacred destination.

As for me, I am going home, back to a quiet house and my room in the attic, an immense load of laundry and a semi-rotten banana, an In-box littered with e-mails carrying love across the ocean, and a mailbox with my name stuck onto the front, white letters on brown tape, the product of an efficient label maker.

Questions

2010-06-24T17:14:00.002+02:00

1. Does that final confrontation indicate a total lack of respect for me like I think it does? Should I take that to mean she values me as much as telemarketers and dog crap on the sidewalk?

Or should I not feel special, should I just accept that everyone is going to treat me like that and just take it, resign myself to shutting up and just toughing up? Is that even reasonable?

2. Since my clothes smell after having theoretically been washed, does it mean I forgot to put soap in? Or is something wrong with our washing machine?

3. How can they make lasagna noodles that don't need to be pre-cooked? And further more, since they don't actually work as far I can tell, how do they actually succeed in selling them?

4. How important is the order of mixing ingredients when baking a cake? I misread the recipe as I was multitasking earlier, and mixed everything as it was listed in the ingredients section rather than as it was explained in the minuscule print.

5. Why was my friend A crying on the street today, when I saw her near the clock tower and she told me she wasn't coming to our last dance class tonight?

So many things I don't know.

Administrative Baseball

2010-06-24T12:37:00.006+02:00

Strike 1: The Telephone

In rounding the bureaucratic bases of this miserable game, I had no choice but to make phone calls.

There is a Woman who works in the Big City in the government office in charge of private education who has a kind of Sally Field multiple personality disorder/ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde kind of thing going on. As in, the first word, "Bonjour" comes out nicely. And my response, "Bonjour, je m'appelle..." solicits the great change, the sudden power failure flip, the hair-dryer in the bathtub energy surge and she becomes The Directrice.

There are two things to consider from my point of view. The first is that talking on the phone is scary already; talking on the phone in French, with people I don't know, can't see, and am not used to conversing with, is straight-up terrifying. So, I am scared every time I enter the situation.

Secondly, this fear/anxiety causes me to speak more slowly than usual, to need more time to think and collect myself.

And the more I pause and stutter, the more frustrated The Directrice (and most government employees) become, the louder and faster they speak, and the more they interrupt me.

I have called The Directrice probably 5 times, and I have rarely ever been able to get out one complete sentence without her shrill voice cutting through mine in an incontestably patronizing tone.

Now imagine the same scenario, but replace The Woman with The Directrice.

I have begun to equate the telephone with the dentist's drill, giant spiders, and posthumous readings of my personal diary.

Strike 2: The E-Mail

Whenever possible, I skip the telephone and go straight to the Internet. Spell check, Wordreference.com, and the ability to carefully construct and revise what I want to say put me significantly more at ease in the communication department. Normally.

There is, as always, a complex Administrative Map that intricately links the millions of distant, disconnected acronyms of organizations through which one must pass in order to achieve whatever goal one is aiming for. Of course, this magical map is unattainable, found "nulle part" and, seemingly, unfamiliar to everyone who works anywhere in France.

Two of the sloppily and loosely-connected dots on my version of this map are the "Catholic House" and the "Death-Eaters of Education." One is close to where I live, while the other is far. One is directly linked with the government, and the other, is seemingly linked with God. They don't communicate, and I have the impression that they don't really get along, either.

However, one must navigate the complex task of forcing communication, bridging the link between them somehow, while not knowing for certain which organization is ultimately responsible for what, and how much power the individual has versus the organization to jump start an unnecessarily-long and complex process.

The result is that one contacts everyone, often, with endless questions. On the rare case that a response is actually granted, one isn't sure if it's the big or little 't' Truth, if it's a pot of Fools' Gold or the real, sink-your-teeth-into-it deal. Being unfamiliar with the endless organizations that take care of one minute detail, one tries -- without guidance -- to figure it out all alone. One tries, even, to anticipate future complications and ask forward-looking questions to evade further potential problems.

But, as "The Catholic House" informed me last Friday, highlighted in yellow and written in bold red text, they have other things to take care of besides me. I am wasting their time by "constantly soliciting information during this extremely busy period of time."

Sorry; I thought it was your job. My mistake.

Strike 3: The Face-to-Face Exchange

Having checked off every little box, filled in every minuscule detail and have fought a bloody battle to get it all done, I finally succeeded in completing the application. The last step of the process would be to print out one more form, basically repeating all of the information I had already filled out numerous times, and deliver it to the school where I was applying.

So, on this sunny and summer-like Thursday, I marched confidently to the High School with my printed form in hand, feeling relief that the last item on the list was about to be marked off.

The woman at the office sent me to the secretary, who sent me directly to The Directrice. She invited me into her office and looked at the paper.

Did you apply for both posts?

-Yes.

Well, why is there only one copy of this form then?

-Oh... well, I didn't realize I would need to fill it out twice, since --

This is ridiculous. I will give you a receipt for one application only, since I only received one document. [beat] Did you hear back from the "Death-Eaters of Education?" Did you get validated to teach in France?

-Well, the "Catholic House" told me I was validated only for middle school but I --

That is no use to me. There is still the problem of your nationality. Did you find out about that?

-I don't think there is a problem... when I went to the prefecture they said all I needed was a contract in order to extend my Visa.

I explained clearly to you that it was a problem! [Sighs a great sigh, and picks up phone; begins to dial] Hello, M. B? This is "The Directrice Reincarnated" from the High School and I am calling you concerning Hopeless-American-in-Country-France. I am SO sorry to bother you. It seems that she has been validated only for middle school. I need to know about the problem of her American nationality. [Glares at me, scribbles on a sheet of paper; hangs up]

You need to send this and this, samples of your DNA, your mother's favorite perfume, a promise for your first-born, and maybe the problem will be fixed.

-I don't understand; I already sent that--

I HAVE HAD IT! [screaming] IT'S YOUR PROBLEM IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I CANNOT DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU. (me sitting there, with a bewildered stare) IT'S ENOUGH THAT I AM ALREADY SPENDING SO MUCH TIME ON YOU. EITHER FIGURE IT OUT ON YOUR OWN, OR JUST FORGET ABOUT IT.

some more loud and angry words, and finally, almost like an excuse

FRENCH ADMINISTRATION IS IMPOSSIBLE!

(I stand up, turn and head out the door. Without looking back, I tell her simply,

- Thank you.)

You're out.

One little word

2010-06-11T08:48:00.003+02:00

I read an e-mail yesterday thinking it said I was approved to teach in the middle schools here. Good news!

But then I re-read it, and realized that I had skipped over one very small but important word; only.

In the middle schools ONLY.

As in, the potential high school teaching job I have been hoping for is now on the other side of an impasse, and the foot bridge between it and me is all burned and broken.

The question is: now what?

Update: catching up from the past to the present

2010-06-08T13:20:00.001+02:00

Monday morning run (the beginning of a new healthy regime): a discovery; the M town firefighters also motivate themselves to exercise, running circles around the M town pond.

The power: went out as I was filling in French unemployment stuff. The oven doesn’t work, now, because no one knows how to reset it. It seems so banal and normal and uninteresting, but it took me a few minutes to recognize that it could – and did – happen in France.

Our freezer: full of ice, inches thick, like frozen quick sand. An opened Styrofoam tray of white fish was stuck up into the layer coating the top, the thin plastic wrapping torn open from when someone, at some time, ate the other filet. Because of how it was wedged into the freezer snow, I mistook it for a mechanism and was unhappily surprised to discover how putrid fish can smell, even when frozen.

A gift of German gummi bears: candy is for children. Long live Peter Pan.

Canoeing on the Sioule River: an adventure greater than (and not equal to) all other canoeing adventures I have ever had. Experience involves rapids (large boulders and series of stones obstructing the pathway), a floating plastic container for goods, no helmets, and ice water. And a crazed, splashing, stubborn steer-er in the rear, responsible for intentionally over-turning the canoe and soaking the precious and delicate seer in the front.

Tractors with legs: S can drive one. With a giant scoop with claws on one side, a rotating chair, and a bulldozer-like snow scoop on the other. The machine is multi-purpose, able to pick up things like hay-rollers, and giant wooden wagons, and hay bales, etc. I can drive it, too, I discovered; but under the watchful eye of M.T and S, it is a terrifying experience.

Giant freezers and food orders: potentially the next step in my short-term summer career. It is 3* C in the freezer, and my one concern is that I will die of hypothermia. Aside from that, it would allow me to pay for my ticket back to France and give me a hope of going home for at least a little bit in the summer. So, let’s all pray to the Freezer Gods and the French Employment Gods and everyone else who might be helpful in getting me this odd opportunity. (note: did not come to fruition – do not waste French or Freezer prayers on this one)

Cherry picking: perfect activity for a grey, Sunday afternoon, smashing blood-colored fruit in the grass under our feet, eating one, picking two

The high school Director: see also powerful and manipulative and dictator; from my point of view, my perfect plan could have worked out if everyone had been willing to make a little bit of a compromise. And when I say ‘everyone’ I mean, The Director. I wanted a few months in America, my old gym, cheddar cheese and the ability to eat McDonald’s French fries without feeling responsible for reinforcing negative stereotypes about Americans, people speaking my native tongue and time to delight in the company of family and friends, with maybe even make it back for part of my never-missed week at the beach. But, The Director says that hiring a person “halfway around the world” is preposterous; if one wants to teach in France, one must be willing to make choices. Indeed.

Pilgrims, by Garrison Keillor: an utter disappointment (in English) that cost me 20 euros.

Mary Higgins Clark: author of Je t’ai donné mon coeur or, in English, Just take my heart (translations that do not match up nor mean the same thing at all) my first MHC novel of all time. I am very confused by “Easton” whom is mentioned often in chapter 10 but whom I have no memory of, and whose name I can’t seem to find in going backward in the book. A true mystery, indeed. Not bad, so far.

Vacuum cleaner and/or dishwasher: after not having one for 7 months, when I use it, I feel like a serious queen, like the luckiest and most spoiled person In. The. World. I don’t know what that means for feminism, but for housework, it means efficient and less time-consuming.

Patience: something I am destined to one day develop. Life is always helping me work on it, whether I want to or not.

Newness

2010-05-27T15:57:00.004+02:00

Hail stones come down through our chimney. I can't figure out how to open the dishwasher, since Caroline du Sud broke the handle on it and no one has filled me in on the secret. I finally learned to use the rectangular can opener last night. My street number stayed the same, but instead of a man's name for the street address, my new one involves an animal.

B Family France Bonanza

2010-05-26T15:47:00.004+02:00

(Thursday). I almost missed my 6:28 am train to Paris, leaving my house at exactly 6:23 am in an exasperated panic. Having studied the directions given by the hotel several times, I proceeded to get lost, mistaking the “Boulevard Lenoir” for “Rue Lenoir” exactly as they had warned not to do. Finally, I found the minuscule “rue” right where I had been at the beginning of my useless quest. As I concentrated on the slowly increasing street numbers, I almost didn’t see my sister, cousin and uncle standing across the street, huddled around a pay phone.

Jet-lagged but motivated, my fellow travelers energetically leaped into our joint beginning of a 10-day vacation throughout northwestern France. The first stop on our trip was, wonderfully and predictably, the magnificent Eiffel Tower. Amongst mobs of relentless black-market souvenir salesmen and a schmorgisborg of spoken language, we gawked at the tower’s imposing height, great Gustav’s engineering marvel of 1889, the Parisian icon that was once detested and nicknamed the metal Asparagus and is now a must-see attraction for every curious tourist.

After escaping the masses, we clambered aboard a train and sped towards Versailles, place of decadence, history and inspired gardens. Exploring room after room of indulgent décor, each with luminous windows gazing out over the perfectly-sculpted hedges made our eventual step into the garden a highly-anticipated moment. Rented bicycles zipped along the pathways while paddle boats lazily floated around the pond and ice cream cones melted onto slowly freckling skin.

Following the road nearest the grazing sheep, we came to the Queen’s Hamlet, or at least the thick stone wall that enclosed the ground’s best-kept secret. Having passed on the opportunity to buy a ticket for only 3 euros earlier, and facing an inflated double-digit sticker price, we found a loophole and K-B and J-boy scrambled over the garden wall. While I delighted in my temporary EU residency which whisked me inside for free, Uncle S took advantage of afternoon sun and an empty park bench, and fell into a well-deserved, time-zone confused sleep.

Stumbling upon this protected haven felt like falling into a fairy tale, complete with enchanted rose bushes and straw-roofed cottages set behind gnarled, twisting staircases subtly decaying in the center. The fruit and vegetable gardens were bursting with springtime promise, the rhubarb growing leaves the size of small children, the thick, ruby stalks whispering scarlet lipstick “make a pie with me.”

Fatigued but determined to make the most of a day in Paris, the courageous travelers agreed to a stop in Montmartre, where we discovered a café-concert/restaurant where a dark-haired woman’s honey voice filled up the wood-paneled interior before spilling out onto the bustling street. After inhaling a respectable 11 Euro boeuf bourgignon, we made our way up the grand Amelie Poulain steps until we were looking out over the Parisian landscape, the looming Sacre Coeur basilica at our backs. Amidst the portrait painters scattered around the main square, and the school groups and families that huddled around their wooden easels, we found the perfect crêperie where J-boy and K-B and Uncle S all ordered en français.
After a trip down the funicular and a few changes of the metro later, we were back at the 10-euro-a-night hotel that Uncle S found, one that offered the gift of sleep and a hot shower, plus a bonus enormous black spider outside of the bathroom; everything one could expect for such a price.

(Friday) morning began with croissants and a sardine can ride on the metro to the Charles de Gaulle airport. The adventures began bright and early as we tried to locate our rental car reservation, which had been booked online through a third-party website that was doubling as a direct rental agency. Having first been given useless information as to the location of our non-existent third-party website desk, and making a few ridiculous trips between the red and blue levels of the airport, we eventually discovered that our reservation actually had to be pre-paid, and thus, was good for nothing.

Luckily, while on the phone with a very kind man from the third-party website, I got a tip as to the best rental car agency at CDG and pleaded my desperate case with them to try and get the bargain price that we had planned on paying. After a lot of language switching and phone-passing across the counter, we headed out with a set of keys for a silver car that would be our pumpkin for the week.

Our first stop was Giverny, the site of Monet’s house and famous water lily garden. Having beautiful weather made for an ideal experience, and aside from relentless allergies working overtime, we were all in awe of the famous painter’s residence.

We spent the night in the city of Rouen, which is nearly impossible to pronounce and kind of hard to navigate, in a budget hotel with an amazing tree-fort like structure. Katie and I called dibs on the top level right away, leaving the boys to the normal-looking hotel room floor.

After a dinner at a Moroccan restaurant doubling as a discotheque and selling “home-made pastries” which tasted like stale bathroom cleaner, followed by a good night’s sleep, we headed off in our ironically American rental car further north, towards the city of Caen and the beaches of Normandy. (Saturday). A few scenic stops along the coast, and a poignant visit to the American cemetery left us all deeply impressed by the bravery and the enormity of D-Day.

Our first stay at a magical French “chambre d’hôtes” (bed and breakfast) was just south of Pontorson, a city just south of Mont St. Michel. We totally got lucky with a beautifully restored 11th century fairy-tale stone cottage, complete with fireplace and home-made jam in the morning.

(Sunday). With the sun shining and all of us buzzing with anticipation at finally visiting the amazing abbey of Mont St. Michel, we headed out to tackle our first adventure of the day: refilling our rapidly-draining fuel tank.

During the days prior, we had attempted several times to fill up but couldn’t figure it out – the nozzle wouldn’t go into the gas tank. I had remembered a rental car from last year having some ridiculous safety feature involving a key and a weird cap, and searched for the manual in the glove box for some clues; however, instead of finding the Ford Focus manual, I discovered that we were graciously gifted with a manual for a different vehicle. How very useful.

Asking the man on the other side of the pump resulted in no better answers, so I had gone sheepishly to the gas station attendant to seek her professional advice. She knew no better than we did, so we drove off, feeling lucky to still have gas remaining in the tank.

Finding a pay phone and calling the rental agency’s help line was of no use, either, with the man on the other end condescendingly suggesting that our inability to put gas in the car was a simple result of stupidity. He seemed completely unconcerned by the fact that we hadn’t been given a relevant manual, as though that were a ridiculous thing to expect when renting a car. He had no advice for us, and merely suggested that maybe we needed to stick the key below the opening for the gas, which made no sense but we had already tried once before. I had hung up the phone, exasperated and tired of speaking French.

All of those misadventures led to the discovery of the funnel in the glove box. What a weird thing – no manual for the car, but a magnificent black plastic funnel, the perfect size for inserting into the gas tank with just the right space for the nozzle. What a clever machine! Strange, but useful – no one would ever be able to put gas into the car, or siphon it out of the car, without this nifty piece of plastic. This was the answer to the gas tank mystery.

So we proceeded to fill ‘er up, feeling pleased that we were able to solve the problem, and we hopped back into the car to make the 5 minute drive across the bridge leading to fabulous Mont St. Michel.

On the way, we noticed an unusual jerkiness to the ride, but all simply unanimously – and silently—attributed it to my cousin’s sometimes-choppy driving. After a minute or so, though, my cousin mentioned it, and we realized something was amiss. It seemed that it was no coincidence that the problem came right after the gasoline miracle. Was it possible that, perhaps, our car had, in fact, a preference for diesel?

Pulling into the parking lot, the atmosphere was one of intense emotion. Did we just put regular gasoline into a diesel engine? Did we just completely destroy a car? Could the rental car agency REALLY have not told us that we had rented a diesel car?

The walk to the monument, and to a payphone, was a vivid juxtaposition; a funeral dredge in the foreground, and the finish line of a Marathon race in the background, electronic music pumping and wild fans celebrating the accomplishment of something quite improbable.

Several phone calls, a few hours and an exciting tow-truck ride later left us on the side of the road in front of a deserted Peugeot dealership (no one works on Sundays), across from endless green fields, the meticulously-placed plants tranquilly wavering in the breeze.

Twenty minutes of desperate waiting led to the arrival of a fascinating taxi/ambulance/hearse driver, who drove us to the airport in Avranches, site of the only open rental car in the area where a judgmental worker and a new rental car awaited us. The ride, for me, was a fascinating adventure full of stories of a man who has met a lot of people, and covered a massive number of kilometers. Driving a woman to her assisted suicide in Switzerland, two Belgian deaths in one week needing transports home, injured Marathon runners, Portuguese assassinations, cell phones in Eastern Europe having been sent without their proper instruction booklets – this was a man either with a lot of life experience, or a magical imagination.

In our new, French rental car – with “diesel” clearly marked in several places on the vehicle, PLUS the proper manual in the glove box – we headed off to Saint Malo, the walled city where we would spend the day. Feeling stupid, deceived, financially unsecure and stressed out, we all did our best to put our worries aside and enjoy the remainder of our trip, but the first half of the afternoon passed in a fog.

After finding a new “chambre d’hôtes” in the home of a friendly, retired couple, we ate savory crêpes and walked around, trying to leave the events of the morning behind us.

The next morning, (Monday) after a breakfast of homemade Far de Breton, a scrumptious flan-like cake with prunes inside, and home-made crêpes with home-made jam, we headed back to Mont St. Michel, ready to experience it the right way – fully enjoyed, and slowly savored.

The audio guides bursting with information, and school groups hopping around us in the light Bretagne rain, we stumbled around, trying to imagine the history, Mont St. Michel as an abbey, as a prison, and now, a tourist stop, and snapping photos of the breath-taking views.

Relieved to find our rental vehicle still in the parking lot where we had left it, not having been washed away by the tide, we wolfed down a picnic lunch and headed off towards the Loire Valley, towards new adventures and a total change of scenery.

Our first stop was Tours, a city centrally located amidst the numerous and vastly different chain of châteaux. We scoured the guide books, seeking some insight as to how we could choose what to see in a short three days, while we had so many possibilities to pick from. A study of the map and some agonized decision-making led to the development of our grand plan.

(Tuesday) we first headed out to see Ussé, the castle that inspired Charles Perrault’s “Sleeping Beauty.” We were awe-struck by the exterior, with its sloping, slanted roofs and thick, ivory-colored stones, but dumb-struck by the interior; cheesy mannequins sported strange fashions from an awkward selection of random time periods, all scattered about in a very sparsely-decorated palace. Perhaps the best (and worst) feature of our first château was the presence of the staged scenes from “Sleeping Beauty” placed around the higher outer-most levels of the castle; indeed, we brushed up on our knowledge of fairy tales, but were unprepared for the cheap and tourist-trap-like feel that this potentially-magical place presented us with.

Next on our agenda was Azay-le-Rideau, a magnificent castle surrounded by water, the prototype of magical, fairy-tale castles. The visit through the inside was random and scattered, but interesting. For me, the highlights were a tapestry in the billiard room that somehow managed to keep all of its rich colors intact, the first time that I have ever fully understood the potential beauty of the many ancient weavings I have seen, and a painting in the last room that we visited, of a woman bathing naked. It was explained in the audio guide that at the time of the painting, French tradition was too prudish to allow figures to be naked without reason, but that the piece was inspired by the Italian tradition; in order to justify the figure’s nudity, she had to be placed in a bathing scene. While I was learning about art history and studying the painting, two middle-aged men walked by, commenting absurdly, “Nice rack.” Unforgettable.

(Wednesday) morning, we set off to see Chenonceau, a magnificent castle surrounded by exquisite gardens, with a long, glass-paned section of the palace stretching across the serene river. The bottom floor of that section contains an enormous black & white tiled ballroom that makes for incredible dreams. K-B was our resident expert on Chenonceau, having studied it in her high school French class, and her explanations of the complex history made for a fascinating visit. In addition, the interior of the château was decorated with perfection, with even the kitchen being perfectly stocked to account for any inability of human imagination to consider what life would be like in this place. I would willingly sign up!

The second stop of the day was Leonardo da Vinci’s resting place, called the Clôs Lucé. His house was filled with fascinating inventions as well as pieces of his art, leaving us all in awe of this man who got paid to live there and just talk to the king. If only we could be so lucky! The sprawling gardens enclosing his modest but amazing home, were scattered with giant working models of cool and useful gadgets that he designed.

After a full day of exploring, we headed to a gem of a B&B that we found, not far from Azay-le-Rideau. It was a little cottage with a loft and a working fireplace, and very generous hosts that gave us exquisite “maison” whole-grain bread and home-made jam, while the other guests explained the Catholic holiday of the “Pentecost” while simultaneously insulting all Catholics. Strange. In the evening, S came and met up with us, just in time for some celebratory home-made cidre that we had bought in Bretagne, and a game of Spades that neither he nor I ever came to really understand.

(Thursday) Thus, we were 5 and multi-national, off to explore a mushroom farm, or a “champignonnière” as the French somehow, miraculously manage to pronounce (I can’t). The tour was rapid, the explanations without pause, and solely en français, so for me it was a jumble of words and interpretations – things I missed, and misunderstood that were explained back to me after as I struggled to keep up with the “Champignons de Paris” and the “Shiitake” and the “blue foot mushrooms.” It was bizarre, and cold underground, but interesting – they beat up the shiitakes because they need a physical shock to be more productive, and the mushrooms grown there get transported to grand chefs in major Metropolises around the world like London and New York because of their steep prices.

I think I should never return to a mushroom cave again, though, because I became rapidly ill afterwards like a significantly intensified version of allergies, and I would suffer for a few days from inability to breathe normally and constant exhaustion. But I didn’t know that yet.

After emerging, once again, into the sunlight, we sped off to the château of Chambord, permanent home to the double-helix staircase, and which was once home to Louis XIV (who, according to the tour guide, was responsible for the eventual French Revolution) and temporary hiding place of artwork from the Louvre including the Winged Victory and The Mona Lisa. It was massive, jammed with people, and impressive, a highly anticipated point of our trip that was overshadowed by the modest authenticity and tranquility of Chenonceau.

On (Friday), we decided to head to the final château of our tour, one much closer to Paris – Fontainebleau. On the way, we stopped in Orléans to visit a cathedrale with stained glass featuring the Sun King’s distinct wild hair and illustrating the story of Jeanne d’Arc on the other stain glass panels, and tried to visit the house where she once lived – but it was sometime in between noon and 2 pm, so the house was closed for lunch.

After a parking nightmare and a quick picnic, we wandered around the interior of Fontainebleau, with its double horse-shoe staircase and extravagant opulence. We all agreed that there is a certain charm to Fontainebleau which Versailles lacks, and that it is perhaps even more impressive to see since it lacks the horrendous crowds and is of a much more manageable size.

We strolled around the gardens a bit and fed ducks the rest of our baguette before heading our separate ways, the boys returning to Paris for their impending return to the states, and our journey towards M where we would discover my town.

During the 4-hour drive back, I read the guide book’s extensive summary of French history (20 pages total) which left me inspired to refine my knowledge of French history. K-B slept in the backseat, as per usual, while we talked and listened to mediocre music on the radio. K-B’s first night in M began with a quick 5-minute tour of the lovely lycée and finished with a pot of pasta & tomato sauce at 11 pm, and a very good sleep in my little green room.

(Saturday) morning we slept in as I tried to recover from my mushroom-induced illness/allergies, and then we headed to the farm for lunch and a tour of the grounds. S made us crêpes for dinner, which were delicious and significantly better than all that we had eaten in Bretagne (eat your hearts out, Bretons).

On (Sunday), I was still suffering and glued to the Kleenex box, so we decided to stay in and make chicken soup, while watching movies. In the afternoon, S took us to see Edith and the baby goats, which K-B fell instantly in love with. We gathered up a few of the eggs that Rousette and Colette had graciously laid, and headed back home for an evening of “Hors de Prix” a classic French film with Audrey Tautou.

(Monday) we explored a bit of the city, beginning with a visit to the Illustration Museum. Surprisingly thorough with a truly impressive collection of Russian children’s art, K-B and I were delighted by the exhibits well-displayed in a majestic building that is art enough in itself.

Our (Tuesday) plans of visiting the Costume Museum were foiled because of a change of exhibit, but luckily we were in good spirits and didn’t let that get us down. A delicious picnic lunch by the river was the perfect alternative, and we spent our afternoon engaged in one of our favorite activities: baking. We used frozen berries, plus fresh rhubarb and a couple of apples to make a delicious crumble for dessert that we would eat along side of S’s famous chicken fajitas à la française with my friends at his house. Everyone was there for dinner – even Simon came to meet us – and we spent the evening in a whirl of language and a lively exchange of stories over a picture-perfect meal.

(Wednesday). Five a.m. came far too soon and K-B was off, heavy suitcase in hand, stocked with Nutella and home-made jam, some French cheese plus a few other surprises for people back home and I was waving goodbye, soaking in the bittersweet moment on the side of the train tracks as she set off for other adventures, leaving me to continue creating my own.

Firsts

2010-05-23T16:57:00.002+02:00

I put a blue bowl upside down into the dishwasher, and realized that it was the first dish I would wash as a resident here.

Midwestern Visitor!

2010-04-28T14:27:00.004+02:00

____April 4_____ At the Races ________

Something amazing about living in France is that nothing ever seems normal to me. There was a wine & cheese 'dégustation' that began at 10 am on Easter Sunday, just before the races. Everyone who was able to drag themselves out of bed showed up on the steps in front of the swimming pool and walked over together for our first equestrian race ever. Colors, french fries, cold rain, the hollow sound of hooves on hard ground, an incomprehensible commentator rambling on in rapid phonemes. I won on my very first bet, one I was sure of: Oh My Love.

____April 5 ____Scoot's Honor______

After a long period of sitting still and solitary in the garage, the brilliant orange scooter made her maiden voyage of 2010. I drove all the way to Carrefour, respecting the city speed limit (the scooter can't go faster than 50 km per hour) and causing major traffic back-ups all over M.

___April 7____ What comes first? The Emily or the Egg____

SNCF, the train company in France, always strikes before/during/after a school vacation. So, of course, preceding Egg's arrival, the strike began, just in time to interfere with every perfectly planned aspect of the trip. After a day of waiting at the station, she finally arrived at 9:30 pm to the lovely, sleeping town of M where it felt like a dream to see my French life and my American life come together at last.

In what must have been a haze of jet lag and a jumble of language for Egg, we spent a few days in M, checking out the sights, spending time with my friends, visiting my Goat Baby Love, discovering the random giant golden Buddha, bowling, taking goofy pictures and catching up.

Saturday, we made our way up to Paris sitting on the floor of the tightly-packed train, a few hours later than we were planning. After a crazy trip through the Métro and up a billion stairs with a heavy suitcase, we finally found our hostel where we stayed with crazy, smiling neighbors but had delicious and free breakfast. Our days in Paris were spent walking along the Champs-Elysées, discovering the Louvre, eating Nutella crêpes, sandwiches and sushi, strolling through the gardens of Versailles and marveling at the Sun King's indulgence, taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower and soaking in the budding Spring.

Luckily, she made it back to the US before the crazy volcano explosion.

___April 17____Farmers R Us____

Comme d'habitude, we went to the farm on Saturday morning for a day of driving tractors and transporting cows from barn to pastures.

In the evening we went to see a basketball game, which was a total blast!

While my co-pilot slept in the passenger seat, I drove the 2-hour trip home to M, feeling like a total rock star.

___April 21___French Inquisition_____

On Wednesday, I had my first French job interview. Angleterre and I went to Clermont together on the train, and she did some shopping while I was pitching my positives and down-playing the imperfections. I hate job interviews, as usual, but found that somewhere along the way, I have learned to be frank and honest in a way that I am quite fond of. Apparently, they are also fond of it, because I have a second interview tomorrow.

In the evening, Sylvain and I went to his parents' house to pick up a tent and had a very nice dinner with his parents. It marked my second night drive of the week, and was pretty amazing until I stalled as I parked. Haha there is always room for progress, alors.

___April 22___ Birthday Girl___

I'm 25! Lots of "hellos" from friends and family, plus a dinner with my M friends and an evening at our favorite bar made me a very happy Birthday girl.

____April 23___Bicycles, Baguettes and Beautiful Weather____

With a car packed full of clothes, sleeping bags, a tent and food, we went out West in the little blue car headed for La Rochelle. After six hours of driving, one hour totally lost in the ridiculous city of Poitiers, we arrived to the touristy town and meandered around the coastal town. Before the sun set, we drove onto the island, across the 3 km bridge, and made a temporary home on the packed Earth of the camp ground.

An incredible weekend ensued, filled with picnics, salty air, sunshine, bike rides all over the island, oyster farms, a lighthouse, little villages, lots of stick-shift driving practice and beautiful weather.

While packing up the tent, we peeled off a dozen miniature escargots, happily oozing their way along the seams.

_____ April 28____Meander my Way____

I was a chaperon for a school field trip today. The 7th grade students went to study the meander in the Allier River, learning about erosion and deposition, calculating the speed of the currant, and taking field notes on meticulously-constructed work sheets. I was impressed by the teaching skills of Monsieur Le Stagiaire, and now I am exhausted from the histamines going crazy from the butter-cup colored Colza fields, plus the dandelions and trees and every other beautiful thing that my body mistakes for the enemy.

Tomorrow I will return to Clermont for a second interview, and then attend what could be my last dance class.

Friday is the end of my contract, and the beginning of my journey into the Really and Truly Unknown.

Poisson d'Avril: Les Experts

2010-04-02T13:59:00.003+02:00

Poissons d'Avril 2010:

1. Simon shows up to work like usual. He takes his time using the tractor to distribute food to all of the animals, just like usual. And then he receives a phone call from a colleague, Frank; the neighbors' tractor has broken down, and they were hoping he could come with the tractor and help them. The 5km journey is long in a heavy and slow-moving machine, and when he finally arrives, Simon sees that the animals are all happily feasting, the work already done.

2. Simon arrives at the dance studio in M at the same time as Sylvain. He tells him he has some really bad news, confirming Sylvain's greatest fear: in the middle of the afternoon, Edith was leaping around like baby goats do, and the rope collar around her neck got caught on something and it strangled her. It is cruel and horrible, but it is a complete and total Poisson d'Av.

3. Dance class is finished, Sylvain is stark-raving mad and Simon wants to do one last bit of damage before the day is done. And he wants to implicate me in the mess, to make it more credible.

I call Frank using Sylvain's phone and it helps that I hate telephones and am very nervous, because I stutter and hurry my words in a very panicked way.

Hello, Frank? Hello, this is a friend of Sylvain and Simon. Tonight Simon came over for a party and he drank a lot -- probably too much. I should have stopped him from leaving, but I couldn't and he just called me saying he has driven into a ditch. He's okay but he needs someone to help pull him out. I tried to wake up Sylvain but he only said to call you, and he said, "tractor" and then passed out again. Simon is just outside of St.M near the little bridge, I think. Can you help him?

I get discouraged at some point when he starts to say, I don't know, I got him pretty good this morning & I think this is a Poisson d'Avril. And I say, No no! I really don't think so, he seemed totally freaked out and I can't drive. Please, go help him!

We aren't sure if he is totally convinced and stand around talking about it for a while before deciding to go see for ourselves. We drive to St.M but since it's about 15 km away, when we get there, Frank is no where to be seen.

Half-way to Frank's house, Simon receives a text message saying, "Simon, I just got a call from Sylvain's girlfriend saying you were stuck in a ditch. The thing is I'm at my parents' house 150 km away and I can't get there right away. Plus, I think it's a Poisson d'Avril. But call me back if you're really in trouble."

For about 10 seconds, we all believe it -- and then decide it is total crap. The boys want to go see if his car is still warm, proof that he has actually gone to look for Simon. The problem is that it is cold enough that even their cars cool down almost immediately; they must think of another plan. They sneak up to the house and look in the windows, which allows them to discover Frank on the couch, comfortably watching television.

4. Disappointed over having absolutely no way to know for sure if he has gone or not, Simon decided to go with Plan B: close the always-open driveway gate with a million yards of twine.

While I wait for them and the execution of their million plans, I lean against the car parked quietly in dark mud, amazed by the millions of brilliant stars that appear so far away from the city, and bask in the chorus of cows murmuring in the night.

Scrambled in Translation

2010-04-01T11:41:00.007+02:00

The gym teacher is insane. My friend said to me, I took this class so I wouldn't have the Crazy but she is always the substitute for the normal teacher! What luck. I know. "You detest her." I do.

As a language teacher, I also have come to detest online translators. (But when I read stuff that was obviously translated online, it makes me think of a friend from high school who learned this lesson the hard way and it makes me laugh -- everyone has to learn for him/her self, I guess).

To fully understand the skill and precision of online translators, I present to you a post translated completely by WorldLingo.com:

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
"Yesterday evening after quickly to have taken a shower and looked at my letter-box always without albums, I found myself in the car of my adorable farmer on the way of going to Simon and Edith.

But one would make another adventure before arriving there. We have took the small street on the left with the panel marked “goat's milk cheese” and a splendid drawing for those which do not include/understand the text. While leaving the car, I was struck by the odor of farm, however this one of goat! Behind a carpet which was suspended sky, one discovered a room full with goats and small kids. It was true a symphony to bleat.

After my jacket was bitten by kids which was very hungry, one went to see where they were milked. It was an incredible machine which really went without problem. The goats went up on a punt-form raised by a gate on the right. There were as many goats as the places with the grain than they would eat. As soon as they had entered on the spot and they have put their small heads between the bars to obtain food, there was another bar which is descended to keep them in place.

While they ate, the lady which deals some with the production systematically attached a machine to milk on the goats and all milk was collected in a large container by some pipes. They seemed to be content and after everyone finished, they had left to leave the place to the others.
I was really impressed by the speed with which the lady did all. Forcing, after having done that twice a day during I do not know how much years it learned its trade well. But for me, it was really something to see!

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
It turns out that in this ridiculously small world, Simon's boss, Jean-Yves, is the father of one of my students. After our visit to his wife's goat-cheese factory of wonder (in which he participates obviously very minimally -- the moral support, perhaps?) he invited us all for an "apératif" at his house about 10 minutes away from the farm. So off we went in a nearly-torrential downpour, to a beautiful, recently-renovated country house for sweet white wine & freshly-made goat cheese. My student was there with her sister, and she seemed --understandably-- totally surprised to see me. I'm not certain that she ever figured out what my connection was exactly to her dad and her living room, since the boys & their boss mostly talked about work stuff and people I don't know, while I semi-listened and feasted on fromage.

When we got to Simon's around 10:30, beautiful Edith and her little sheep best friend were asleep in the yard on a hay stack. They woke up as soon as we got there, my little queen and her Mignon. We ate porkchops and green beans, red wine and brownies, and then I fed Edith & the sheep a bottle before leaving, happy to know that Edith's half-sister (and potentially half-brother) will soon be joining the Simon's Animal Family, along with the baby chick that was given to Louisianne as a totally absurd Easter present from her students.

Countdown to Egg's arrival: t-minus 5 days.

The road is diverging.

2010-03-31T13:43:00.005+02:00

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

2010-03-29T20:21:00.002+02:00

What I like about weekends:

They usually begin with a tranquil afternoon

"No one would believe you."

2010-03-25T13:43:00.018+01:00

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

2010-03-15T09:57:00.004+01:00

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

2010-03-10T20:35:00.005+01:00

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.

2010-03-08T21:16:00.004+01:00

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...

2010-03-04T13:05:00.003+01:00

eating Brussels sprouts and finding out you actually like them.

saturday goat box book paris

2010-03-03T06:59:00.004+01:00

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.

2010-03-01T21:22:00.005+01:00

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.

If you give a beautiful French man a very crumbly peanut butter cookie...

2010-02-09T17:26:00.009+01:00

Time is passing quickly, relatively, as life's routines barrel onward. Monday comes before Sunday gets a chance to shine, and before I know it, Friday is back again, dancing a jig and flailing her arms around.

Last week I was busy, first learning to make crêpes and then practicing a few nights in a row, turning the kitchen into a mess of egg and flour, plate-sized pancakes flying everywhere in a decadent culinary nightmare. When not in the kitchen, I was dancing the mambo in the second-floor studio, and visiting a chateau with a group of middle school students, being led around by an elaborately-costumed pork-bellied man who made them laugh and taught me loads of medieval things I didn't know. The weekend was split between watching episodes of "Grey's Anatomy" and every Katherine Heigl film I could find on streaming, attending a 6-hour ballroom workshop that focused on Latin dances and introduced the Argentine Tango, and finally mastering the art of the Chicken Moravian Pie!

Last night, I also re-focused my efforts on learning the 96 departments of France. So far, I've got about 22 down, and still three months left with which to achieve my goal.

Resume-revising, job searching, and finishing the second "Twilight" book in French have also consumed massive amounts of my time, both proving to be relatively frustrating and way more work than necessary.

School has been frustrating, and I've been totally bummed out about work lately. But today was a really nice change! My classes went sailing by in a whirl of English words -- hardly any of which were spoken by me. Half of the time was spent playing, essentially, "Catch Phrase" and the other involved playing an adapted English version of "Unanime" that I made up after playing this in French with The Host Family a few weeks ago.

After finishing my day at work, I came home and made an awesome omelette (kind of more like scrambled eggs because of our stubborn non-Teflon pan) with green and red peppers, grilled onions, garlic, tomatoes, mushrooms, ham and cheese. Délicieuse!

For dessert, I attempted a recipe I found online for chocolate peanut-butter kisses. They taste fantastic but the consistency is not cookie-like at all; they don't hold together even long enough to pick them up off the plate. I'm going to lance myself into some culinary research to find out if there is a way to fix the remaining batter for better future batches, or if I just have to accept the fact that these cookies require forks.

Plus.

2010-02-08T18:19:00.003+01:00

Last week was sweet.

I made crepes, and learned the Mambo. Then I went to visit a chateau and successfully made chicken Moravian pie for the first time ever. (It was definitely the chicken broth I attempted to make last time, without instructions or any general idea of what I was doing).

Yesterday, I dragged myself out of bed at 6 am and after a 2.5 hour car ride, spent the entire day at a ballroom workshop, doing the Salsa, Cha Cha and Rumba in the morning, and then working on the Argentine Tango, the Meringue and the Argentine Waltz in the afternoon. I met a whole bunch of super nice people and we ate like kings. It was basically impossible to stay awake on the ride home, and despite my efforts, I'm pretty sure I left Joelle toute seule for a good minute or two along the way.

When I got home at 9:30 I went immediately to bed, feeling exhausted and a little bit sick (afterwards realizing it was probably because of the bouquet of flowers we brought back in the car -- gooo figure.)

Reunited, we stand

2010-02-02T20:12:00.006+01:00

This weekend got off to a good start with a delicious dinner of potatoes, pumpkin soup and apple-raspberry crumble followed by a night of dancing to a mediocre Reggae band, made better with the simplicity of the lyrics.

Saturday morning, my alarm sang shrilly just before 6 am and I rushed into my morning routine, packing my bag, inhaling breakfast, making a lunch for later and wrapping up the bouquet of butter-colored flowers I bought for Isabelle the way that Mom used to when I would take flowers to school for my teachers, dampening a paper towel and then wrapping it around the bottoms of the stems, placing them into a plastic bag and wrapping a rubber band carefully around it all. In a cinematic manner, I arrived at the train station JUST before it chugged away, leaping on with only seconds to spare. Then I settled in for a 6.5 hour journey, my backpack and the springtime bundle balanced on the seat across from me, back to le magnifique Puy-en-Velay.

By the time I arrived, I was sneezing approximately once every 10 minutes and my contacts were screaming to be removed -- I had forgotten the incident of the bridal bouquets in the car in the summer time, and the fact that my body considers flora the enemy.

But despite it, I got off the train, and felt a sense of familiar relief fill me up. I looked for a familiar face, a swarm of winter coats and breath clouds and baggage fluttering around me.

And then I saw them -- E's red glasses and brilliant gold hair, Tt's toothy grin and muted gray jacket, and The Host Dad's kind eyes that towered above them both, all in an instant of recognition.

The 30 minute car ride to their new house passed quickly in a flutter of questions and answers, a few photographs and a snowy road. When we got there, T was still sleeping, so I got the grand tour as The Host Mom artfully arranged the tired-looking flowers into a chic vase on the new kitchen table.

Saturday passed in a whirlwind of activity and information -- Tt's new social life, and his aptitude for dancing like Michael Jackson, E's recent access to MSN and skill of making boondoggles, and T's ever-constant love of attention, food and hugs.

We went to the cinema to see "Océan," a documentary about -- you guessed it -- the sea. When we came out of the theatre, we walked into a perfect snowfall, the thick flakes glistening beneath the faded gold of the street lights. A raclette dinner warmed us up, complete with vanilla yogurt for dessert, something that has become a bit of a French comfort food for me since last year.

After getting into pajamas, E started reading "Le Petit Prince" out loud as the boys played NBA 2009, REFUSING to be the Detroit Pistons in lieu of the Chicago Bulls despite my insistent pleas.

Sunday morning passed quickly, filled with board games and more of the story, a bit of hide & go seek, and breakfast together while The Host Mom slept -- everything so fantastically familiar.
We all played "Unanime," a game involving one card with a word and corresponding picture on it that everyone responds to by writing 8 words that are inspired by the picture. For example, "Pig" could inspire "three, little, pink, farm, cow, bacon, ham and pork." You earn points for words that other people also had, with a linear relationship existing between the number of people who had the word and the number of points awarded. This was ultimately fun and delightful, except for E's petite crise and obsession with winning (perhaps you remember that I vowed to never play Monopoly again with her because of her ridiculous and conspicuous cheating).

The Host Dad took me to the train station, and as we pulled out of the driveway, a sea of small hands painted invisible rainbows in the doorway, a few minutes of hugs and "à bientôt!"s behind me and a few hour's travel ahead.

Snoeshoes, picnics, queen, pastries

2010-01-28T17:32:00.004+01:00

the rentals (and renter).

ice skates & skaters

This week of infinite speed, and its brief resumé:

Saturday, after my whirlwind baking, some of the other assistants came over for tea and then we went to see an intense film called “Welcome,” the story of an Iranian teenager who is desperate to get to England by any means possible, even by swimming the English channel. It was so uplifting that later in the evening, the only film I found the courage to watch was “Billy Elliott.”

Sunday morning, 8:30am. It was grey and raining, but I layered on my long johns and workout clothes, and Sylvain & I headed off to Mont-Dore, a ski station just outside of Clermont-Ferrand (about a 2-hour drive from here) that is significantly larger than any ski station I have ever seen. It was foggy and partially snowing when we arrived, and when craning our necks all the way back, we could only see half the hauteur while the rest disappeared behind the mist.

We rented racquettes (snoeshoes) and established our craziness in a tangible way, climing UP the mountain, while everyone else was taking advantage of gravity and whooshing downward. After about an hour of sweating beneath the layers and dodging on-coming traffic like MarioKart on a vertical expressway, we stomped over to a patch of perfectly pristine snow just behind a closed run, and ate a picnic lunch of goat cheese & ham sandwiches with chocolate-apple cake for dessert.

Another hour of trudging along more reasonably-sloping runs, and we had basically racquette-ed ourselves out. We returned our rented equipment, and headed into the lower-elevated town to see what we could find. There was an enclosed patinoire just near the bowling alley, and we decided, in sticking with the winter spirit, to test our skills on the ice.

It was a total blast! We figure-eighted our way around, and fell a few times, and laughed anlot, and then walked away mostly undamaged. We stopped at a café not far down the street for a chocolat viennois (hot chocolate with whip cream on top!) and then put our faith back in the French version of Magellan (Marcel?) who got us safely back, with only a few moments of hilarity and panic in between.

Monday and Tuesday passed quickly, as I spent the days at school. I came home to make a card for Louisianne, an American assistant who was celebrating her 23^rd birthday that night, before heading off to the teacher’s lounge for a celebration of the galette du roi.

This is one of my favorite French traditions, because it involves royalty and cake. For the 6^th of January, the Ascension, boulangeries all over the country begin selling these flaky, round cakes usually made with frangipan. They have a very sweet flavor, and can contain all kinds of different things from chocolate chips to fruits and nuts. The one thing that remains constant is that each cake has a little fève inside, usually a porcelain figurine, and the idea is that whoever receives the slice with the fève inside becomes the queen or the king for the day. Every cake is sold with a paper crown (Burger King style haha) and this is often just a good excuse for people to get together again.

I was lucky enough to find a small dog in my piece and wore my crown with pride.

We stayed until 7:30 and then rushed over to Louisianne’s for her birthday dinner. She made traditional chicken gumbo (without ham, for our friend who doesn’t eat pork) and it was deliciously hot! We met her Quebecois roommate, and ate delicious salmon and spinache quiche (à la Sylvain), and chocolate cake that I whipped up (thanks to a box mix, some eggs, and some butter) for dessert.

L had put her iTunes on shuffle during the dinner, and it made me laugh as we listened to “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” in the middle of France, while eating Louisiana chicken gumbo, with a small-scale representation of the United Nations.

Wednesday morning came way too soon, after getting home at midnight the night before. My three morning classes were stressful, but okay, and then I spent the afternoon in a three-hour meeting. It was kind of interesting, but most of the problems they discussed were the same ones I’ve heard discussed at every school I’ve worked in. Technology is always tricky because it’s unreliable, and learning to use it efficiently is the key – otherwise, people resist it because it creates more work. The question of individualized education is always discussed, too, as teachers waver between the ideal situations and the realities, and try to come to some kind of workable solution. I was happy to understand mostly everything, and to be as equally bored as I would have been in any other staff meeting in America.

I went to the gym straight from school, arriving just in time to use their disgusting bathroom to change, and then to lance myself into an hour of leg-raises, squats, and sit-ups. After a quick shower, I went into the kitchen and used up the rest of everything I had to eat – a zucchini, a package of mushrooms, three cloves of garlic, an onion, and two carrots. Louisianne brought over a can of curry sauce that I dumped into the vegetable mix, and we ate the mixture over a fluffy bed of white rice.

Two squares of dark chocolate for dessert and a sink-full of dishes later, my night was basically over, the French-language processing element of my brain totally used up, and every muscle in my body sore; in short, it was the perfect conditions for ensuring a good night's sleep.

Bon appétit! Butter and cornflakes and chocolate -- oh my!

2010-01-23T12:54:00.005+01:00

This morning I woke up at 7, and went to the boulangerie across the street, as the sun was struggling to drag itself up, scarring florescent rose against the soft blanket blue. My hair was disgusting, as it always is after sleep, and I had just thrown on the same clothes from yesterday, still smelling of garlic & noodles & an evening meal spent with friends.

I picked out the perfect pain au chocolat, and bought a croissant à l'abricot before I could stop myself, then headed back to my little French kitchen for a quiet breakfast while the rest of the lycée slept.

After a bit of cleaning up in my room, and a long, hot, shower, I watched some Julia Child episodes online, did a massive search for recipes involving "chocolat" and then headed out to the discount supermarket for missing ingredients. Seven euros and one shopping bag later, I was back in the hospital-green kitchen, pouring over recipes. Eggs, milk jugs, packages of butter, flour, sugar, salt jars, measuring devices, bowls, spoons, a cereal box, and various mixing tools were spread all across the table, artfully askew, ready for action.

I decided on two recipes: a chocolate yogurt cake, and cornflake cookies. It was a tough call between the banana-oatmeal cookies and the peanut butter ones, but I was too afraid that my lack of powdered sugar would seriously ruin it all and I would just be upset. So those will be for plus tard.

In other news, this afternoon I'm going to see a film with some of my friends and then tonight is home-made crêpe night -- finally!

My cooking last night was a success... Sarah and I went to the grocery store at 5 and, thanks to previous experience, I found everything I needed almost immediately. I left the store with only one superfluous item -- a bottle of Coke Zero -- but I felt it was well-deserved.

With Sarah's help, the tomatoes, aubergines (eggplant), champignons (mushrooms), and courgettes (zuccini) were peeled and thinly slice, the ruffly noodles boiled to perfection, the cheeses, crackers, and eggs all blended into a smooth consistency, and then the tout was put together in careful layers. After an hour of baking, the lasagna came out thick, rich, and bursting with vegetables. The bread sticks were nicely seasoned and golden brown, and a bottle of red finished everything off perfectly.

Between 11 international friends, around a table covered in pink and blue tea lights, two pans of pasta were devoured in the space of an hour, and best of all, I received a "chapeau!" the highest of all culinary compliments.

Progress exists! C'est la preuve.

How to spend the greatest weekend ever in Paris

2010-01-20T14:12:00.015+01:00

1. Know someone who knows someone with an available apartment in the only affordable part of Paris -- one hour outside of it

2. Use your 12-25 discount card to reserve train tickets two weeks in advance, guaranteeing seats that face "le sens de la marche"

3. In preparation for the trip:
a.) Pack your backpack solely with essentials: hair dryer, straightener, make-up, extra socks,
two t-shirts, a pack of cards, a few pieces of fruit and a camera
b.) Research rules for 2-player "Gin"
c.) Take a shower for freshest appearance -- Paris is a big fan of first impressions
d.) Arrive at train station at least 25 minutes in advance, and verify 30 times that you are at the
correct platform. Just to be sure.

4. On the train:
a.) Play lots of Gin... mostly until you are equally successful, or tired enough of keeping score to
care
b.) Feel lucky to be facing forward, and not needing a vomit bag

5. Upon arrival:
a.) Forget immediately the directions to your destination
b.) Squeeze onto métro just before the doors slam shut, shoving strangers like sand grains
together and watching a miracle occur, as a guy with a backpack gets half-stuck in the uncompromising door, having lept on one milli-second too late, and a hiply-dressed stranger gives him a friendly shove, letting the doors close calmly behind him
c.) Almost die of something like mustard gas in the Paris Gare du Nord station. Cover your
mouth and nose
d.) Arrive, exhausted, finally at the far edges of the Paris map

6. First day of exploration:
a.) Try to wake up at the crack of dawn. At the sight of rain, sleep in a bit longer
b.) Take a few trains into a cinematic dream; Montmartre. Enter the Basillique de Sacré Coeur
and stare in awe at the luck, the hope, the history, and the mosaics.
c.) Explore the artists' quarter and find your favorite one, who represents in a remarkably realistic way, building fronts from the chic city
d.) Take photos on the famous stairways, high above the sprawling city
e.) Make your way to La Villette, the station for the Cité des Sciences et de L'Industrie
f.) Learn about mathematics, challenge your knowledge of sound and volume and geometric
thinking; explore the pros and cons of the world's building materials and try to wrap your
mind around the size of space, lazily reclining in a bluish pool of light, safely inside of the
planetarium
f.) When you feel like you can no longer stand it, pay 7 euros for a splash of coffee and a Dixie cup
of tea
g.) Fill your mind until the coat check is about to close, and then run out into the serious weather,
huddled beneath a polka-dot umbrella
h.) Walk to Notre Dame at night, then cross the river and stop at a brasserie for a solid red and a
substantial dinner
i.) Take the subway to the symbol of the city, and stare up as the 300 meter marvel lights up like a red-carpet sequined dress, or the world's most gigantic collection of tinsel
j.) When you are thoroughly tired, soaked and sort of cranky, return to the métro in hopes of a
direct train back to warmth and home-made crêpes; when you realize there are no more
after 10:30 pm, and you are both very irritated, laugh instead and admit it was a really
good day
k.) Watch through the window as the train speeds by and your friend falls asleep, half on your
hand, lost in some kind of dream of motion and weather and language

7. Sunday:
a.) Leap out of bed in a room full of sunshine; shower rapidly and throw all belongings in the
backpack before inhaling some toast and sugary tea, then closing the blue door, number 15,
behind you
b.) Fumble around with an unclear ticket machine and a tourist map, discussing and
hypothesizing until you finally ask the friendly worker at the desk
c.) Sit in stillness as you barrel towards the city center, bet on ETAs and find that you average
out perfectly
d.) Descend from the métro, underground, just around the corner from the lovely Eiffel's
construction; gasp in awe as you climb up to the street level and see her poised gracefully,
as if waiting patiently for you two to meet
e.) Find your friend's kindred, a man of striking resemblance, a little bit taller, with different
colored-hair and lighter eyes, on the phone with his mom, explaining, "She called just to see
if the family was still alive."
f.) Eat lunch and laugh often, about France and travel and education, and feeling at ease
g.) Take pictures, and start walking, with 4 hours left in the city and no particular plan in mind
h.) Stop at the Grand Palais, across from the place where little Napoleon was buried in a gigantic
tomb
i.) Stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries, until it pours out into the courtyard of the Louvre
j.) Take pictures of people & geometry, watch as the emergency exit doors rise up from the
cement, like weird ghosts resurrected
k.) Continue on the sides of the Seine, following the cobble-stoned lines, stopping occasionally to
look back at where you have already been
l.) Stop at Notre Dame and go inside, tiny atoms of a massive, complex molecule forcing its way
through the imposing ornate doors
m.) Listen to the organ echo, the golden pipes like bubbles of hope stretching endlessly up
n.) Find a cafe with red fabric and orange lights, hot tea and delicious crêpes; through the window, watch as people file past, stop and use the free self-cleaning port-a-john; pay the check and feel grateful for "madame"
o.) Pick up the pace as you near the station and the clock hands accelerate
p.) Find your seats, and fall asleep, awaking later to wonder if it was all just a dream.

Arguments for Addition

2010-01-20T13:47:00.005+01:00

Once upon a time, I read a magazine article about a bucket of marbles.

The idea was that every time you were happy, you would add a marble to the jar. If you were sad, you would take one out. And maybe the numbers would vary according to the intensity of the emotion. Days could range from a +5 on the marble scale to a -2; the actual breakdown wasn't clear. But the idea was that you are consciously identifying in a concrete way how you feel and what sorts of things cause those specific emotions.

At any one time, in order to make something happen regarding the bucket, you have to identify your emotions one by one, think about every single thing that happened in the waking space of your day, and then weigh it out, making you the final judge and jury. Your days become mathematical equations, an average of pluses and minuses, the space in between the highest ups and the lowest downs. And essentially, your attitude determines the weight of your bucket in the end.

Et voilà.

I thought about that idea because like basically everything, the plot thickens in the gray area. The thread of the story makes stitches at the ends of the bell curve, the bounds just outside of the easily quantified, the simple. The things that happen in the middle, the splotch of toothpaste on your t-shirt, the act of breakfast without rushing, the luck of not finding a spider in your shower, or coming home to a radiator that is busily battling the cold -- they rarely even earn honorable mention. It's a contest for attention, kind of... the most bizarre, the most extreme, the most memorable are what stick around.

Now I'm totally off track.

Little Miss Peter Pan & the question of "Verglas"

2010-01-12T19:42:00.003+01:00

I wonder why it seems to be a universal human need/impulse/desire to talk about the weather. Does it make us feel appropriately humbled? Is it because we are enthralled to know that regardless of progress and technology and invention, there is always one thing we can't willingly control?

It all becomes better when you live in a place that is totally unprepared for snow. Like North Carolina. Or M, France. Because here, one centimeter of snow provokes the equivalency of 80 meters of panic. And the first fat flocon de neige that floats down from the gray overhead is like a doomsday prophesy just waiting to be fulfilled.

I love the vocabulary of weather. It is a subject easily broached. No one hesitates to give an opinion. And even someone who lights up when the snow falls (like moi) can openly admit it, if he/she accepts that she will then have to take all blame for anything that ever happens afterward as a direct (or indirect) result of the phenomenon. I don't mind. It reminds me of Michigan.

Today I learned something that I did not know: an average full-time teacher in France works 18 hours "in front of the class." (I work 12, so TECHNICALLY I'm more than part-time. How do you like them apples?) A teacher who has completed the more challenging concours works 15 hours but makes more money than the others.

Another teacher told me today, as she was disgusted -- and clearly irritated-- by the fact that I told her the average American teacher probably works 3o hours in front of the class, "Well, life is for living -- not for working away."

You said it, sister.

Garlic Hands, what's the plan?

2010-01-10T14:34:00.004+01:00

I'm starting to get bummed out by my attempts at cooking. Yesterday, all I wanted was a nice ratatouille, warm and full of flavor, and what I ended up with was a totally bland, overwhelmingly-herby pan of mushy vegetables. Delicious.

However, it is all in hindsight.

Epic failure of the culinary sort

2010-01-06T20:47:00.002+01:00

On Thursday of last week, my grandmother made her delicious Moravian Pies, which were doubtlessly devoured while I was seated above the clouds somewhere between Atlanta and Paris.

It seemed like a good American meal to make for a Frenchman's birthday, seeing that it A) involves meat, and usually what I cook does not; and B) it closely resembles a quiche, which is very reassuring to a highly skeptical and -- let's just admit it -- completely snobby audience. I have also had a few cans of unsweetened evaporated milk in my pantry since Thanksgiving that I didn't know what else to do with.

The recipe was there on my computer, all neatly typed & organized into (seriously) my favorite Christmas present of all time: the B Family Recipe Book full of delightful and delicious ideas, that leaves out many important obvious-to-anyone-who-knows-how-to-cook steps that I, clearly, do not know.

But, fearless, and armed with pre-made crusts (I know) I attacked.

And got the crap kicked out of me.

I don't know exactly where I went wrong. But I think it began with my first step. I put the butter and the flour into the pan at the same time. I realized almost immediately that I probably should not have done that, because it became kind of like a paste and I thought I remembered this being kind of like a sauce. (A roux, in fact). But alas, it melted into a consistency kind of like the coconut frosting for German Chocolate cake, and it seemed okay.

So then I added the evaporated milk, and it turned into a consistency like cookie dough. And I panicked (naturally) and just started pouring regular milk into it until it looked more normal. Then I added what I thought was chicken broth, but was actually a weird gelatinous form of what I think was concentrated chicken broth. But I can't be sure. I added three of these, because the recipe called for 1 cup and it seemed like three packets would be the equivalent of that. But as I was doing this, I asked myself if I should add water to the packets. If maybe that would be more sensible.

But those thoughts did not stop me from forging ahead and indulgently pouring the ingredients into the pan.

And I didn't think to stop and taste it, either.

No, no. Blind faith in cooking, is what was happening. Or I don't know what, really. Disaster, more accurately.

After the addition of a lot of milk, the consistency seemed okay so I added in the 6 euro chicken breasts I had cooked, and had myself a taste...

of salt.

It was like an entire salt colony decided to go for a swim in a buttery sea of cookie dough, with an overwhelming aftertaste of chicken, backstroking their little granulary selves around at leisurely speeds. I could see them vacationing in my depressing sauce pan, the grease-covered yellow backsplash light their fake sunshine hovering above the miniscule space.

At this point I kind of realized it was futile, but I remembered that a) I am impatient and b) I am quick to become a bit hysterical when it comes to cooking. My instinct is not to think cooly and collectedly to find a logical solution, but instead to assume it is all irreparably damaged and destined for the garbage.

So, I thought to myself, there must be something someone could do about a salty sauce pan of an otherwise totally delicious mixture. And I decided that in cookie recipies, one adds salt to accentuate the sugar. But at the same token, when I make chicken adobe that is too salty, I eat a substantial amount of peas with it so the sugary taste balances out the savory.

And, thus, I concluded that the only hope for my Moravian Disaster was a MASSIVE bag of frozen peas. In they went, and the weird chicken paste at least looked prettier, like a birthday, or a weirdly textured sweater with a bunch of craft pompoms knitted in at random.

Into the oven she went, and 20 minutes later, with a very brown crust, back out she came. The recipe said specifically 30 minutes, but I was afraid it would burn. And it looked nice.

But, as the saying goes, don't judge a pie by it's beautifully golden-brown crust.

I took a bite.

The saltiness was still overwhelming.
The disgustingness still undeniable.
The peas and chicken delicious, if consumed without the sauce.

And the worst of all, is that the bottom crust was totally raw.

Actually, that is not the worst part. The worst part is I tried to actually eat it.

Haha here's to hoping that try # 2 goes a little bit better than this one.

Bonne année; meilleurs voeux!

2010-01-05T14:00:00.006+01:00

I am happily back in France after a wonderful two weeks in the U S of A, surrounded by family and friends and the effortless act of English, my warm clothes and good food.

After a brilliant New Year's Eve party, and a few hours of sleep, I embarked on what woul be a seriously PERFECT traveling experience. (And I can tell you, that -- no offense -- perfection and travel rarely go together where Stand-By or Delta are involved).

My 7 am flight out of Greensboro left without any problems. I watched the sun rise through the olive-shaped window and marveled at the cool whip clouds, the speed of invention, and the constanly increasing stress level of a totally vocal and totally irritating woman behind me. I felt very, very bad for her husband.

Once I arrived in Atlanta at 8:30, I had 7 hours before my flight to Paris was scheduled to leave and I filled them with visits to every single shop in the E Concourse, a bunch of phone calls, a few laps around the airport and more pages of Christopher Moore's "Lamb." In my exploration of ATL, I discovered a very disturbing collection of confiscated items brought in from exotic lands. The two most unsettling were a large -- real-- elephant foot and a giant, disgusting tarantula right outside of the women's bathroom. I had a sympathetic nervous response every time I passed that thing.

After trying to go unnoticed in the boarding queue, I was "randomly selected" (EVERY TIME) and patted down.

But then I got into business class and felt like a celebrity. The girl next to me was from Nigeria but had lived in France for her whole life, so we spoke French and I was undoubtedly glowing with GLEE at the feel of French phonemes leaping out of my mouth. I got some quality sleep and woke up as they announced our descent into Paris.

PARIS!

I was preparing myself on the plane for an unplanned day in the city of lights, thinking that they may have left my luggage in the sunny southern United States... but alas! There, on carousel 43, my lovely green suitcase came cruising out on the conveyor. Whoever inspected it seriously needs to learn how to re-pack...or to care about other peoples' crap. But I'm guessing he is just some dude, doing what he has to, living day to day. He is the unknown who works behind the scenes, sticks the official TSA "We Inspected Your Bag" flyer inside, and doesn't think any more about it either way. To him, I am simply the owner of a few sweaters and a hair straightener, a couple of novels and a jar of peanut butter, a chocolate Betty Crocker birthday cake mix, and a very nice pair of long johns.

The train station wait seemed long; the Gare de Lyon was frigid and I concentrated on breath clouds as I waited an hour and a half before my train's depart. But again, no problem, I read on the train, finished my book, and forgot my water bottle, leaving it alone to travel onto Clermont. Bon continuation, chère bouteille!

When I got home around noon, I ate a sandwich and then went in search of groceries. My "short nap" turned into a 5 hour sleep, interrupted only because I got a phone call. So I woke up and ate dinner, then went back to sleep until noon the following day.

Yesterday, it started snowing! It was beautiful, thick flakes like at home, and it felt like I was walking through a post card, the pristine dusting on the accute hats of the cathedrale and the church Sacré-Coeur, the smell of French pastries and fresh air, and Christmas lights lingering on various trees throughout the town.

It's a good time in my life. I feel renewed with the fresh snow that keeps falling, and the complaints that surround me from the drivers that are all afraid. It seems sometimes like I am in a crowded place, walking in the opposite direction of every single other person around me. And I like it; with some Phoenix playing on my ipod, I think of it all, the possibility, the unknown, and the five more European months that hide ahead like shadows, heavy with potential, a complete mystère to me.

Crazy Sunday, Nothing Monday, Sick Tuesday

2009-12-15T11:31:00.009+01:00

My friends :)

Me & the bonhomme de neige

Xmas tree at my friends' house

Eggplant Parmesean

After typing away Saturday morning/afternoon, I sauntered down to the kitchen and whipped up a beautiful eggplant parmesean complete with compté cheese, chopped mushrooms, sliced tomatoes, Ritz crackers, tomato sauce and seared eggplant slabs. After putting it all together, I decided I wasn't really hungry so I put it in the fridge to serve later for dinner.

Then I went off to do some shopping in town with my flat mates. We went back to the marché de Noël and hit up some of the stores in the centre ville (including my new favorite optician who gave me a free travel-sized bottle of contact solution for my journey home). I did almost all of my shopping, and even had time to stop by the market for some fresh fruit to last my final few days in M.

When I got home, I put the eggplant in the oven & had a nice dinner with my friends, then retreated to my room and played my guitar for probably about 2 hours. (I also discovered that my practice sessions echo throughout our linoleum household, and everyone hears everything -- must be fun for them when I get stuck on the Lynrd Skynrd "Sweet Home Alabama" riff and play it 50, 000 times). I was also embarrassed when I realized it, but no one seemed to mind. Anyway, it put me into the holiday spirit and made me TOTALLY excited that our friend Pierre was bringing his guitar to the party.

Unlike my posh flat mates, I did not don a fancy dress & beautiful boots for the grand celebration; I opted instead to keep my Salvation Army sweater & ancient jeans & EcoSneaks, grabbed my guitar and headed to the kitchen to pick up my banana bread.

Mid-cut I realized that this bread was made for me, and for no one else -- my brilliant idea of adding a fourth banana to the recipe (why? WHY?) was not so brilliant, in fact, and made my bread into "delicious banana purée" as Sylvain so tactifully described it later. So I went to the party with nothing to offer except the sweet sound of resonating strings, and a package of inexpensive Christmas bulbs for decorating our illicit tree.

Rachel & I decorated the tree first thing when we got there, after depositing our gifts for the "tirage aux sorts" underneath its spindly branches. And the fête began!

The boys made the vin chaud more like vin soupe, and it was literally undrinkable, unless you are habituated to drinking liquid fire. We all danced and ate and opened our presents, and then Pierre & I got out the guitars probably around 11 or so. We played for a good hour or hour and a half, and it was really fun! I need to learn the musical language here because we had a bit of a barrier as I was calling out "C!" and "G minor" and he was staring at me with the universally understood symbol for, "What?" Anyway, it was awesome, I was happy, and I have an official project to prepare a few songs for the soirée boeuf in the future! Yay!!

I had some big plans for Sunday but ended up not doing much at all. The interruption of my sleep pattern, plus the desperate feeling of impending sickness made me totally off-balance. I finished my Christmas cards, and then saw the craziest thing I've ever seen in France -- a truck with a bunch of trumpets on it, BLASTING music around town! I discovered it on my way over to Sylvain's, and then convinced him to go chase it down! We found it in the middle of the marché, and took a bunch of pictures in front of it. Then we went in search of Coke, a good French DVD, and came back here to watch what is, so far, my favorite film français of all-time. It's called, "Ensemble, c'est tout" and it has Audrey Tatou from "Le destin fabuleux d'Amélie Poulain" and "The DaVinci Code." It also convinced me that I am a film genius because I predicted much of what happened just based on the character's regards. (trop forte! haha)

Yesterday I woke up feeling a bit worse than I had felt on Sunday, but I managed to go to school regardless. I even dragged myself to the gym at night, and suffered for an hour leaping around like morons with my two gym-class heroines.

Last night I went to bed early, knowing today would be a long day. But I had a hard time sleeping at first, and then at 3 am I woke up covered in sweat, doubled over in pain. It was the second worst pain I have ever felt, an exact replica of the nightmare I experienced at my grandmother's house maybe 6 or 7 years ago when I passed out in her bathroom-- Revenge of my Ovaries Partie Deux.

Except here, I was alone, and DYING, and sweating profusely, unable to leave the bathroom or do anything but cry, afraid that if I tried to get up off the floor, I would pass out and no one would find me (Mom was there last time). Luckily, I had some left-over pain & fever medecine and I took it and just waited. Eventually I could move, so I crawled back in bed with a washcloth and just waited for relief, or for sleep, whichever came first. Suddenly, I was sweating and FREEZING so I went in search of everything warm, piled on an extra blanket, and somehow, miraculously, finally fell back asleep.

Obviously, I wasn't going to school today after that... I don't know what I would do if it happened while I was teaching. So I slept until 11 and I'm going to go back to bed soon. My train leaves for Paris tonight at 6:30 so I can sleep for at least a few more hours before I have to double check my suitcase & get myself out of here.

I think this is going to be a very, very long journey home. All I want for Christmas is to calm my freaking ovaries DOWN so I can feel like a normal person again and not spend the 8 hour plane ride home in the bathroom.

Lazy Saturday

2009-12-12T12:48:00.006+01:00

When I woke up yesterday morning and stumbled into the bathroom, I had a bit of a shock when I blearily looked in the mirror and realized that I had chopped off all my hair. The surprise was a hundred times better when I discovered that my morning routine has been significantly shortened. More sleep time! :) Yay!

The pumpkin pie Thursday was the best one I have ever made. Too bad the French people think it's really weird, and they don't allow themselves to like it. Tant pis pour eux. I think I might have perfected the art of making home-made pumpkin pie!

Yesterday night, after baking a loaf of heavenly-smelling banana bread, I met up with mes copains, and we all went out to a crêperie in town for dinner! It has brilliant fuschia and plumb walls with colorful abstract paintings -- seriously, the perfect décor for my taste :) And I indulged in perhaps the most delicious thing of all time -- raclette inside of a crepe! It was called "Alpage" and inside it had the raclette cheese, boiled potatoes, and then there was ham and sausage on the side to mix with it. The green salad and four pitchers of cidre made a fantastic 2-hour dining experience! They definitely know how to eat here in France.

We visited the marché de Noël and took pictures by the giant tree, drinking vin chaud, standing with a snowman! :) It really feels like Christmas!

Today I'm going to attempt an improvised eggplant parmesean, go in search of some last-minute gifts & necessities, try to clean my disaster of a room, and do a bit of DRIVING! I got to drive my friend's car yesterday and I didn't even stall!! Trop forte :)

Haha the taste of progress is so delightfuly exquisite. Happy Saturday, mes amis.

Bed-Side, Bad Side

2009-12-10T16:15:00.003+01:00

I woke up this morning on the very, very wrong side of the bed.

It is rare, but it happens. And when it happens, it is bad.

This is the bad side of the story. But there is also a good side.

After a few hours of extra sleep, some laundry, some breakfast and the courage that only a good friend can give, I marched off to the hair dresser and chopped off my lovely locks.

It is drastic. It is DELIGHTFUL.

It reminds me that I am malleable. That I am changing, and not stagnant. That I am in charge sometimes. That I can be brave, and I take chances, that I am not living in "Repeat Mode" and I am definitely not living for anybody else but me.

It is a miraculous thing to experience again a reminder of how very alive I am today.

C'est moi, le chef

2009-12-10T15:50:00.003+01:00

My friends, a change has occurred. A great, and obvious change: I have learned to LOVE to cook.

I love to plan what I will make; I love to spend time thinking about the intersection of flavors and textures, of compliments, and contrasts, of chemistry and artistry. I love to think about ingredients, and then go search for them, filling my reusable grocery bag with loads and loads of specific elements that seem so small when they stand alone, but will become something altogether different and better, Gestalt Theory in real and actual practice. I love the anticipation, the messy hands, the piles of dishes, the small talk on the cold tile, the oven warming the whole house, the feeling of comfort and drama and suspense.

It has reached such a limit that on Monday night at 9:00pm, after having completed a particularly arduous hour at the gym, having cleaned myself up and settled into comfy sweatpants, I decided to bake a pie.

I cut out the bad spots on the brilliant orange fruit, put the pieces into a giant boiling bath, and covered it with the upside-down frying pan. They boiled until 10:30 when I was too tired to wait anymore, and I left them to rest until the following day.

At 8 am on Tuesday morning, I found them right where I had left them, obediently waiting in the red chili pot. I separated the skin from the flesh, filled a plastic container with pumpkin substance, and then went off to school.

A few hours later, with the help of an electric blender, the stringy pumpkin stuff became a sleek, pumpkin goo, ready to be spiced up and stirred around, then poured into a flakey home-made crust. That didn't happen until 7 pm, after I finished my afternoon of classes, and then it didn't go as smoothly as I was hoping. The crust was hard, and cold, and resistant to being rolled outo with my glass-bottle-rolling-pin. I gave up, and covered 7/8 of the pan, "on s'en fous de ça," leaving one corner crust-less, which I should not have done.

I mixed the ingredients, turning it into a beautiful autumn burnt orange, and poured it into the crust to bake and solidify, while I made game cards for my classes with my international roommates, awaiting the drawing for our "Secret Santa" matches.

The pie burned a little, but was mostly fine. The drawing resulted in an ironic happening, but I am not at liberty to say who I have.

Wednesday, I took the pie to school and the teachers ate it. The part with the crust was delicious, but the part without, disgusting. My favorite person of the day was Claire who said to me, "I have always hated pumpkin pie. I tried yours. And I still hate it," which made me think of the Meijer commercial with the little girl and the spinach. The honesty was beautiful. And she was the first one to say "thank you" for my efforts. :)

After coming home, I did some extraordinary recipe research and compiled an enormous grocery list. Armed with my 1,20 Euro bus fare, I got on the Bus and headed for Carrefour Market, the giant American-style grocery store on the edge of town. I found everything except cottage cheese, which I didn't think I would find, anyway. There was a good-looking grocer in the dairy aisle, so I decided to ask; it was a good decision.

I inquired if he knew where I could find it, showing him what I had written as I pronounced the words, "Fromage blanc à gros grains ou lait caillé." His face was covered with a mixture of shock and disgust. Apparently, he had not seen it and I would probably not find it anywhere. I said "Thank you, that's what I was thinking," and smiled at him, having already decided to use mozzarella, émmental, and parmiagiano-reggiano instead.

Cooking began at 6:30, when my friend's house was empty except for me and my giant grocery bag full of ingredients. I boiled the lasagna noodles, at the same time that I made the dough for the bread sticks, letting the yeast feed on the sugar, creating a grayish bubble bath beneath the striped kitchen towel that was covering the bowl. I mixed the cheeses, riccotta, mozzarella, and émmental, with the two eggs and the crushed Ritz crackers that I found in the snack aisle, miraculously. I peeled the eggplant, and cut it into thick slices, then sliced the button mushrooms and added flour to the dough.

By 9:30 the kitchen was toasty with the smell of butter, and garlic, and tomatoes and cheese. The table was set, the red wine opened, and the candles lit. My newest favorite thing -- cooking for friends, and then delighting in the payoff, an evening together, slowly savoring a home-made meal.

Sunday Recipe

2009-12-10T13:39:00.005+01:00

How to make a Sunday:

Reserve a train ticket on Saturday night, after drinking half a bottle of wine. Fail to notice that the ticket must be collected before 6 am Sunday morning or else it will be invalidated.

Arrive at the train station 7 minutes before train is supposed to leave and attempt to collect your ticket. Panic a little when it is refused. Run to the counter, learn about your mistake and attempt to buy a new one... only to realize you can't remember the name of your destination. Attempt to call your farmer friend, who will not answer because he is sleeping. Increase the level of panic to add interest to the situation. Return to the man and ask him to help you. Tell him your final destination, explain that you know there are no trains that go so far but there is a station about 30 minutes from there, the train is scheduled to leave in 4 minutes, and you know the station begins with the letter P.

Succeed in collecting ticket. Run to train and leap into seat.

Ride tranquilly for 59 minutes and descend at a sleeping station in the middle of no where. Wait for your recently-awoken friend for 15 minutes, while listening to the sound of your stomache grumbling.

Upon your friend's arrival, make him feel guilty (just a little -- not too much). Visit a dark and empty cathedrale. Look at swans. Walk in the rain. Stop on a bridge. Take pictures of green eyes and fire hair. Quiet dimples. French things.

Look for food, without success. Abandon hope for finding anything until 7 pm... because you're in France. And there are rules here.

Drive to a Buddhist temple. Walk in silence, listening to cables clinking against flagpoles, rainbow squares flapping in the crisp breeze, the crunch of gravel beneath wet sneakers. See a peacock, and take its picture. Talk about family names, the pronunciation of Harry Potter characters, the hope of one day being believers.

Drive to the ruins of a roman ampitheatre. Play human chess on the salmon garden squares at the basin like children. Stretch your legs. Laugh. Ignore the football players across the street, and instead watch the little girl in the knit pink hat standing alone in the grass.

Visit 3/4 of a crumbling rectangle. Take a picture with the sign that warns of danger, of the possibility of falling rock. Ignore it and read in two languages what the stones mean. What they used to be.

Drive for 20 minutes to follow the running route of your ambitious friend who trained "a little" and finished in 55 minutes, then couldn't walk for three days. Up a mountain, around a lake, to a towering stone cross with a view of the shivering city and its elegant cathedrale surrounded by pink, sparkling trees.

Cut down a Christmas tree and stuff it into the backseat. Make a promise to clean the car... someday. Delight in the smell of pine, and holiday, and happiness. Breathe deeply, and descend near the cathedrale.

Walk the insides and marvel at the efforts, at the age, at the symmetry. Think a prayer or two, the smell of wax, and cold air settling into your steady lungs like a ghost, like a cloud, like sleep.

Then fight the fatigue of white pavement lines against the 5pm darkness, and the hard edge of your tone, the biting sarcasm that feeds on your hunger, a genetic fault. Try to be nice. Laugh at your own faiblesse.

Drive to the home of 150 cows, 4 goats, 8 rabbits and 10 chickens. Fill your belly with a hot cup of peach tea, some home-made goat cheese and fresh bread, a portion of potatoes&eggs made with motherly love. Feel so much better, and say you're Sorry for being so ridiculous.

Don a bright blue suit, and a pair of pretty polka-dot boots. Follow your farmer friend into the barn, and listen to the symphony of moo's, hungry cows, waiting for farine. Feed them out of a small pot, like for noodles, one at a time while your friend feeds six times as fast. Say "Hello, mesdames" and "Bon appétit" as the farmers laugh and say, "You know, it's not necessary."

Meet his mother, a mini version of the same exact face but with glasses and darker hair. She is quiet, like he is, and laughs when you are awestruck by what is so ordinary to her. Learn about routine and history, visit the goats with her, listen to goat cheese instructions and summer time differences, watch him work for her while we stand stagnant, while the cows eat, while the night sky settles in for good.

Feed the baby cows, feel bad for the ones who feast on twice as much ("They don't have much longer") tell them, "Enjoy your food -- I'm not kidding. I'm sorry," and watch the roll of hay come out, the grande fourche separating clumps of it, learn the difference between le foin and la paille, (the f means "plus fort" so I can remember it next time) and do not help anymore, solely take photos. The shy farmer will turn away every time, but you pay attention. You will remember.

Take a visit to the rabbits, and touch the soft black one who is cuddling against the wall. Look at the chickens, then go have a cup of tea. Discuss the problem with Canadian cuisine, the beauty of Niagara, the difficulty of the décallage horaire when you come back. Wait until you are warm and tired, look in the freezer for an icy pig snout without any luck -- "I'll take a photograph if I can find it" -- and say goodnight.

Stay awake all the way home, take the tree out and put it into the vestiaire. Realize size is extremely relative in nature. Be afraid of the radiator; try to cut the bottom branches with kitchen scissors, with no luck. Figure out what to use as a base for the tree, settling on a cardboard box lined with a plastic bag full of tap water. Fear reasonably the possibility of the tree falling over, and the water spilling everywhere. (The recipe for Monday involves discovery of this exact phenomenon).

Eat spinache and saumon quiche. Feel happy and full, wash off the vache smell under hot water and peach soap, then fall into a beautiful sleep.

Best enjoyed if savored slowly, having marinated in the colors and the verbs. Pay attention to every flavor, every subtlety, every little piece of luck that seasons the life you lead at present.

Bon appétit.

Warm Wine, Ferris Wheel, Saturday

2009-12-06T10:25:00.003+01:00

Clermont-Ferrand was like an ant colony yesterday. Except it was animated by santa-hat-wearing, shopping-bag-carrying people packed in thicker and thicker as the sun dropped down behind the mountains, and the town became a twinkling dream.

The ferris wheel "The WonderWheel" cost us 3,50 euros and looped around almost 10 times. The sapin de noel, standing as tall as the buildings lining the street, shrunk Charlie Brown sized below us as we rose and rose and rose, watching its gold, glittery Christmas glory remind the city that it's December.

We saw a fiddler on a roof, heel-clicking as a camera snapped away, bright fluorescent flashes against a shark blue sky. He danced above Clermont, unseen by the living streets, the foire du miel like a honey bee's heaven, dancing and leaping and laughing.

In the center of the market, we drank vin chaud spiced like richness and decadence, warm in our Dixie Cup holding hands, ate steaming churros trolled through lakes of Nutella after the man confirmed it: they're Spanish, yah, we're multicultural here, say it in German if you want.

The French man with the shamless scheme, standing in his portable wine caverne with everything but the mustache ("Zhis izzz strong and not afraid... like me") and his friend with the red beret. We were inside of an absurd cartoon, as he refilled the plastic goblets, "Taste the best one!" with abricot nectar and strawberry delight, mulberry fusion, an explosion of extended fruit.

What happened?

I left with two presents.

I received a present from the Post office, when I asked for stamps to the US of A, he said to me, "This is for when you open your mail," and gave me a pac-man shaped disc, with a razor where its mouth should be. "Merry Christmas," he said, and smiled. And my heart melted, as I walked away.

10 o'clock dinner was home-made salmon & spinach quiche, followed by oven-baked filets of fish with carrots and onions. One bottle of red wine and some left over Thanksgiving cranberry-orange sherbet perfected the balance of flavors, made even more perfect by the fact that my sole contribution was shredding the carrots (shred one, chomp one) and chopping the onions.

Today it is Sunday and, for the moment, is not rainy.

Today, I am going to visit a farm.

Voyage to Clermont-Ferrand!

2009-12-05T10:13:00.003+01:00

In reflection, I realize that I really take myself too seriously sometimes. Haha and that poses a serious problem when you are trying to live your life in a second language. Mistakes, linguistic and cultural, are as guaranteed as taxes and eventual death. I thought I had learned to laugh when I wanted to cry... but apparently this past week, I forgot all of that.

Mais bref.

The scar on my hand is healing slowly, and I'm hoping it will find some motivation to speed up the process because I'm going to make pumpkin pies on Sunday and I am a little afraid of repeating the same mistakes as before. One pie is going to be for my dance class, because I love them and this upcoming class will be my last one before coming home (!!) and the other is for one of my schools, because I have to un-do the damage caused by their "Thanksgiving" at the cantine.

At class this week, we started learning the Cha-Cha. It's really strange because the counting in French seems different than the counts I learned on the cruise ship, with my dad, or in the ballroom class at school... haha but maybe it's because instead of "One, Two, Cha Cha Cha!" it's "Un Deux Cha Cha Cha." I totally love the Latin dances, though! I was really happy because we spent probably an hour doing the Salsa & Cha Cha. We learned a new spin for "Rock" (Swing) and I tried to help people with the Country dance, which seems impossibly hard for a few people.

The temptation to climb up on stage & grab a guitar is getting greater every week at the open mic night. I'm thinking maybe next week... but we'll see. I need more practice.

Today I'm going to Clermont-Ferrand with some of the other assistants! There is a Christmas market there, that is supposedly really cool & beautiful. Plus, I'm starting to get a bit antsy... I want to get out of town for a minute. Yay for a visit to the big city! :)

Last night, I stayed in with the girls and worked on my scarf while watching "Alfie" en français with a bowl of popcorn and a bunch of chocolate. I regret having sabotaged all that I have done for myself via the gym and dance classes... but it was delicious. So tant pis.

Happy Saturday, everyone!

*j

Local Color

2009-11-30T18:16:00.006+01:00

Last week I was "interviewed" for an article in the local paper, an ordeal which made me basically the laughing stock of my school.

It was the brainchild of the principal, who called me on Tuesday night and left a message saying, "Hey there is a journalist coming tomorrow to interview you and ask about Thanksgiving." No "Please" or "Would you mind if...?" because she is The Principal and there is No Discussion Necessary.

Maybe a different person would be excited? But for me, it was the exact opposite. I was seriously overwhelmed with dread.

But then I told myself maybe I was exaggerating. Maybe I should be excited! Appearing in a French journal! That's kind of a sweet and rare thing.

Mais... non. Au contraire.

First of all, the principal hadn't actually scheduled an interview. So after calling me into her office at 9 am on Wednesday, she then called the journalist and demanded that he come to school a few hours later. I quickly realized that this was not the result of a curious and inspired journalist, but a hard-headed, manipulative woman who not only strong-armed me into doing an interview, but also persuaded a totally uninterested journalist to actually write it.

The "interview" consisted of the principal asking me questions she already knew the answers to, while the journalist interrupted me, made sweeping statements about America (the principal encouraged these kinds of ideas, saying, "Oui, oui, c'est ça!") and made it clear that he was totally uninterested in me and the idea of writing an article about me and my take on my country's holiday. The longer he kept talking, the more and more more stupid, frustrated and defensive I became. Very nice qualities to highlight in a foreigner who is TRYING to integrate seamlessly into the society, fighting the countless stereotypes that already exist for Americans.

Everyday last week, I went into the teacher's lounge to be greeted by "It's the local celebrity!" or "Can I have your autograph?" Every day that a journal appeared without the article, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking maybe it had gotten forgotten. Or maybe some freak technological error had erased the text and eliminated the photograph, so it could never actually make it to print!

But alas. This morning I get a text message from a friend saying, "I sent you a present! Check your e-mail" and there it was in its blue, bold, underlined glory -- a link to the ridiculous article, appearing with a raspberry-red reproduction of my face, smiling dopily like a moron.

Haha oh well. I just wish he had at least made the whole thing a mockery, with a caption like "The immortal lobster, imported from America... just one example of some of the local color."