smoutch

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.” 

— Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

comme un zombie, je suis hypnotisée par les lumières

Christmas market and the lights... I could roam around the city center all night despite the cold. Just imagine... The smell of mulled wine, cinnamon churros, and spices (but not raclette, cause that shit's nasty) filling the air. Le sigh. Why don't such things exist to the same extent in the U.S.?

 Le Capitole

 noir de monde!

 ooo

 où est père noël?!

 selling everything from jewelry to spices to handbags to crêpes. if there's a 

heaven, I hope this is what it looks like.

 bondé

 centre-ville

 la croix Occitane au sommet

 Place Wilson

[meat] lover's [pizza]

<3

que ferai-je?

Ok, nerds. It's t-minus ten days till I'm state-side and I've been thinking about things I want to do in the limited time I will be home. Besides visiting people, I've made an itinerary:

1. Sleep in my big, enormous, lovely, pillow covered bed which does not turn into a sofa during the day. 

2. Two words: Mexican food.

3. Repeat one and two. 

Glorious. Am I missing something? No. Awesome. 

Bises

les fêtes arrivent....

it's chriiiiiiistmas time!

c'est l'enfer.

I walked towards a stout red-brick building with my heart already racing. "Hôtel des Impôts" the sign on the door says as it mechanically swings forward to let me in. I side-step a big white dog sitting outside who looks up at me longingly. "I know how you feel, man. I hate this place too."

"Hotel of taxes," I think to myself as I take my place behind a line of people waiting to approach the welcome desk. As I stand behind a mother with her fussy child in a pram, I occupy my thoughts with this absurd translation. Of course, it translates to "office of taxes" or "tax bureau" or something to that effect, but I would rather pass the time imagining what exactly a tax hotel would look like -- I suppose it would be a really unhappy place to visit, where the nightly rate is extortionate and nobody actually wants to be there. Ratty old bedsheets, gloomy housekeepers wandering around, and I bet the breakfast is probably really shitty too. Wait, they probably don't even have breakfast...

Suddenly, the woman behind the desk is looking up at me behind thick bifocals and waves me forward with an aloof and impatient "bonjour." My pulse quickens again and I start to panic.

"Bonjour..." I begin. I place my folder on the counter and take a deep breath. I start rambling something in French which I'm sure sounded like nonsense to her: "I'm here for to obtaining a certify for the exoneration on habitation of the taxes..." I'm not even listening to the words I'm saying, they just scramble out of my mouth and I hope that together they form something resembling coherence. She looks at me with a piteous smile and says "d'accord," as a ticket from the machine prints and she points toward the rows of chairs. "Vous attendez." Number 724, my ticket says, and I look for an empty chair amongst a group of bleary eyed people.

I sit down feeling defeated. Sometimes the French language hangs like smoke in my mind, and grasping the words that I need feels like trying to grab a handful of it. What was the word that that guy on the métro said yesterday, the guy with big mole on his chin? He was talking about social security... Décaisser, démarrer, déclencher... D-something... What was that verb....

I try thinking about how I'm going to explain my situation to the person who I'm about to meet. My thoughts quickly begin to trail off to the many times I've been in this situation before. At the URSSAF, the RSI, the CPAM, the list goes on and I don't like dealing with these government workers because they make you feel like you've gravely offended them simply with your existence. I decide wholeheartedly that I hate doing this and I would rather be warm in my bed or anywhere else, but I've got a bill from the French government asking me for an extravagant sum of money which I don't have, to pay a tax that I know I'm exempt from. And there's a really sweet coat that I would rather spend my money on instead...

I pick up my phone and start texting a friend who I knew was dealing with French bureaucracy at this very moment as well. "I hate doing this," I wrote. "Why do I always fall into these legal loopholes where nobody knows what to do with me?" He responded: "Because we're gringo feo and fajita loca and we never learn." I chuckle quietly to myself feeling a little bit better, but if I can't get this problem sorted, I won't be able to afford rent next month, let alone that coat or even Christmas presents for my friends. That thought quickly jolts me back to reality

Finally my number appears on the screen. I slip by and climb over people slouched over in their chairs, heavy heads pressed into tired hands, all staring vacantly at the blue screen flashing 724. I walk into the room and a petite woman is sitting behind a desk wearily. I offer her a different and hopefully better version of the same story I told earlier. This woman, though speaking to me as if I were a very slow child, at least is accommodating to the obvious fact that I'm foreign. She prints out a paper saying that due to my arrival in France in late 2009, I was exempt from the residency tax -- but next year, she warned, it won't be the case.

That's it? I can go? It was hardly five minutes later that I was out the door, feeling positively buoyant knowing I wasn't going to have to live on baguettes and pasta for the next month. I called my friend, who had just received his official status as a French student. "Congratulations on becoming a french student!" I told him. "and you, congratulations on evading the tax system!" he replied. Oh you know, just another day in the life. Now if only I could figure out a way of avoiding these situations entirely.

Bises.

je t'aime... mais... je choisis la france.

i'm the dorky looking one.

I was going through old photos on my external hard drive the other day and I happened upon a very old picture from a winter formal in high school, I believe from 2002. I chuckled at my stupid dress and looked at the happy faces of the group of people I stood with. In thinking about how old this photo was, I realized one, two, three of these people were married, one of whom already has a kid, and another was recently engaged. I slapped my forehead in dismay.

I haven't been able to decide how I feel when I think about this sort of thing. On one hand, if I were to put myself into the shoes of the people that I went to high school/college with, I'd say that there's no way I could handle the possibility of marriage and/or having a child at my age. I'm far too irresponsible and I have problems enough taking care of myself. Secondly, I consider the fact that I could very well end up being the Van Wilder of the group of people that I grew up around. That is to say, I'll be the one who never really comes to grips with the fact that it's no longer appropriate to get rip roaring drunk in a foreign country with people I've just met and wake up in a strange girl's apartment missing a shoe. Fortunately for me, 23 is a good buffer age... But what about ::gulp::... 24? 25? 26?!! Bla! What if I'm still bumming around France well into my late twenties?

I started thinking during a walk around the city this weekend... While I of course think people are entitled to do whatever they want with their lives and I have absolutely no place to pass judgement, I have a hard time understanding it. How can they make such permanent and life changing decisions at this age? What's the rush, after all? 

Then suddenly, something hit me like a cold slap on the face. Lindsay, you're such a monster. What about what you did? Did you not make a decision that, while seemingly well-planned, was incredibly risky and would ultimately affect the course of your life? Move to a foreign country alone for a year with no job, no apartment, no friends... Sure yeah, because that's what normal people do! I bet if you asked your married friends, they'd tell you you were deranged for doing something so absurdly mental. I thought to myself, "but I was just pursuing something that I wanted, something that I knew I loved, something that I was so sure of that I could--oh, wait..."

I'm sure you can imagine the next thought that crossed my mind.

the tripod

I have a very dear friend who will be getting married in May next year and while I've ultimately come around to the fact that she can do what she wants with her life and despite not being 100% thrilled about it at first, I feel like I can finally embrace the decision she's making. Goodness knows she supported me when I told her about my borderline psychotic plan to move abroad -- she told me I was crazy (which, let's be real...), but she was still there for me when I told her about the nightmares and how scared I was to leave. I guess it's kind of two sides of the same coin. For me, I've always thought that it was because I couldn't imagine being so in love with another person that I would so easily commit to the permanency and obligations of a marriage at this point in my life. But in hindsight, I think that "person" already exists: my love-bitch,* France. I did after all give up everything I had back home and chose to live here. And it's clear that sometimes it isn't the healthiest of relationships. 

Bises. 

*I stole this term from A.Kolpak because it summarizes the sentiment nicely -- she's such a wise one. 

vie de merde, pt. deux

I'm going to write a book called "Everything I Know About Being Inconsiderate, I Learnt from My French Neighbors."

Here's a sneak-peek.

Chapter one: How not to own a dog.

First and foremost, remember that a dog is still an animal, despite how domesticated he may be. That is to say, even though he follows orders and understands words like, "walk" and "no" and "out", he still has no inherent concept of logic. For example, leave an excitable dog outside and it will bark. And bark. And bark. And bark and bark and bark and bark. You see, it doesn't need a reason to bark. It doesn't even need a reason to stop barking. It will continue to make noise until fatigue has set in and he becomes distracted by the idea of scratching himself. This rules applies regardless of the sleeping patterns of you or your foreign neighbor upstairs who thinks that 4:30 am is actually a really good time to be asleep.

Chapter two: Seeking medical help.

A cough can be pretty annoying, especially if you have to share a room with someone else -- you feel bad every time a coughing spurt creeps up and try to make as little noise as possible, even sometimes leaving the room so you can hack up the full extent of your throat's tickle. But hey, if you live alone, don't even worry about it. Seriously. Even though your nearest neighbor is just below you, they probably can't hear you. And since they probably don't even hear it, you don't need to worry if your cough persists for weeks. Months, even. Heck, you might as well just integrate it into your personality so you can be known around town as "that fun guy who's had the same persistent, hacking and upchuck-inducing cough for the last eleven months." Actually, on second thought, you should probably see a doctor. Please, for the love of god, see a doctor.

Chapter three: Being [legitimately] Crazy

Let's say you really, really want to piss people off. And not just get them angry, but you want an instant livid and irate rise out of them. Well, let me tell you -- nothing enrages people quite like being woken up at ungodly hour... on the weekend! So here's what you do: around 2:00 am on a Friday night/Saturday morning, stand outside an apartment building and buzz every single resident until someone lets you in (note: the older the building, the better. This is because the noise they hear when a person buzzes to come in will sound like someone gave a mosquito a megaphone and turned the volume up to "bleeding ears"). Next, take a heavy metal object (it doesn't really matter what sort), and choose an empty apartment. Now, start banging said object on the door, really have at it and chip away at the wood as best you can. Once people are awake, they'll leave their apartment in their pajamas and start shouting at you, shouting at each other, then dogs will bark and children will cry; these are all signs that your plan is working! At some point, they'll call the cops and have you removed but remember: be persistent! It helps if you come back and restart the whole process around 4:00-ish, because it'll really drive those suckers batshit crazy. Careful though, at this point you risk arrest and possible jail time. But it's totally worth it, cause nothing infuriates people as effectively as psychotic and illogical displays of violence and noise when they should be sound asleep in their beds. 

Actually, I don't think I could make this stuff up. 

this is not a two-way road.

Recently, one of my students sent me an email, something that I originally thought was a cute joke but ended up causing more grief than I'd like to admit.

He wrote to me "il faut que tu travailles un peu ton français, moi aussi je te donne des textes à lire" (you should work on your French a little so I'm giving you some reading materials too). He included a short article from a French newspaper and I laughed to myself because I sometimes send him articles in English that we discuss later. I shot him back a response, a short one-sentence email where I said (or thought I had said) "wow, how considerate! Should I summarize the text and send you my reaction? :P" to show him I thought his joke was funny. It was a joke, right?

In his response back, he corrected what I had written in red font and added "regarding your sentence, I hope you didn't learn me english with as many mistakes!" 

My jaw dropped. What the fuck! I thought it was really cheeky of him not only to correct what I had written but acknowledge my mistakes again in reference to my ability to teach him English. I was genuinely offended so I wrote him back "no, I don't teach you incorrect English but I also don't correct every small mistake because if I did, you wouldn't be very motivated to speak it with me." I continued to be more than a little peeved with him over the next few hours but in the back of my mind, I really hoped that I didn't come to regret my response to him later on.

I got another response: "1- 1 ok I'm going to work on Rrrrr... [he has problems with the "r" sound in English] I joke, nevertheless, I believe you have the opportunity to be in France, so, it's gonna be a real pity if you won't speak french fluently."

At this point, I was thinking, Ok. Here's a student of mine, someone who hired me to teach him English. We don't speak French together because he's an English student and that's, after all, what I'm getting paid to do -- and I don't remember asking for help with my French. Why is he even bothered? 

Over the last year, one of the biggest things I've learnt about teaching is the importance of positive reinforcement. A lot of people (myself included) don't generally like having their faults acknowledged without some kind of encouragement as well -- if you don't have a balance of both, you'll have a skewed view of where you really are. While this guy's level in English really shouldn't affect my reaction to his emails, he often makes mistakes speaking English and that's natural for any non-native speaker. As I said to him, if I were to point them all out, he would quickly lose confidence and feel inadequate and that's simply useless to everyone.

I began to feel so stupid. It's taken a seriously unfortunate amount of time for me to get over my irrational fear of making mistakes publicly and I suddenly felt like I had been pushed back a few steps. I considered writing him back: "well ASSHOLE, I didn't ask for your goddamn help, you fat turd!" but that had a pretty much instant guarantee of regret, so I didn't. I didn't actually write anything back, deciding instead to ignore it. I have no obligations to this guy, he's not my friend and he's not someone I will continue to talk to when I leave France. 

Was I wrong to react the way I did? It's pretty stupid really, if I were to try to put myself outside of the situation. But I maintain that it was still cheeky of him. And frankly, I'm a little tired of excusing behavior that I can't rationalize as simply "french" and therefore, beyond my understanding. Because there are shitty ways of behaving, no matter what your language or age or culture or gender.

C'est tout. bisou.

my general attitude towards jerks.

franglicismes

Ok, here's an update on things. 

1. I'm working at two schools now -- the new school is located in the city center in a rather swanky sort of area (there's a Louis Vuitton literally downstairs) and is much, much more legit than the other place. Because it's mostly for working professionals or people preparing for the TOEIC/TOEFL, it's more credible, the students have a better level and so, what I'm really trying to say is, I get paid better. Also, the view is pretty BAMF*
2. I'm still working at the other school doing more or less the same amount of hours I had last year. The only difference is that I have my own class of children who are aged 3-4 and there are eight of them. It's been rather... Hmm...  I'm looking for a good euphemism for fucking terrible. Between the crying and getting spit on and the yelling and hitting, I guess it's bearable. But I'm not really that great with children and I'm in it more for the experience (read: higher pay).
3. Since I've been working more and have been able to put aside some money after Barcelona left me rather broke, I've been a little bit more adventurous in terms of cooking. I can afford better food, and more of it, so it's not such a disaster when I screw things up, which is actually most of the time. I made meatballs over tomatoes the other night. Woof, they were pretty gnarly. In my defense, the recipe came from a cookbook for English people in the 70's. So there's that. Maybe I'll try them again -- I'm optimistic. 
4. I recently enjoyed the perks of having my parents visit which was wonderful. They brought pumpkin spice candles and other autumn goodies which I nearly wept for joy at, I miss fall so much. Not to mention, they were here during the mid-season sales so I got to splurge on some fancy French clothes which I sorta feel like a bad ass wearing. From time to time, I realize that everything I'm wearing has been bought in France and then I don't feel like such a schmuck who can't dress herself.
5. I've been putting in a genuine effort into my French. Often I'll have a string of really busy days of teaching and afterward I'll realize the only French I've actually spoken is something artificial like "une baguette, s'il vous plaît." So I'm really trying, forcing myself to listen to at least one podcast everyday, even trying to sit through some bad French TV (what a brat I am -- ugh, I have to sit and watch TV!?!).
6. I'm starting to think I'm fundamentally incompatible with French men. I'm so Anglo, it's stupid. 
7. It's cold now. Being in denial about wearing a coat is no longer an option. And my sandals no longer sit next to the corner of my bed -- they've been sent back to the dark corner next to my very dusty boots. I fear the tights will soon have to make a debut. Sigh, another cold season... Here we come.
8. Lastly, today marks one year ago that I moved into my little studio and I'm actually not really sure how I feel about that.

*

laisse-toi aller et n'aie pas peur

As I sat in the lavarie, watching my purple sheets toss and swirl in the machine while filling in a sudoku puzzle from the morning's newspaper, I got a text message. "Foot ce soir à 18h si ça te chauffe !" It was from a friend who I sometimes play soccer with when he's in town.

Zut! I thought to myself. I would so love to play soccer tonight but I had classes in the afternoon and evening. I wrote back that I had to work and added "peut-être la prochaine fois!" Shortly after, I started thinking about my first year in France and how passive I was about making plans with people -- if someone didn't invite me to do something with them, I hardly ever was the one to suggest something. And to be honest, this is something I'm known for doing back home too. I'm just lazy, I guess.

So, a few days later as I was killing time between lessons with a chocolatine, I decided to write him back suggesting that we hang out before he goes back to Paris. I initially met him through a friend of a friend, and we'd hung out several times before over the summer (amongst other people, mind you) so I thought, it'd be nice! Right?

I got a text back -- "Tommorrow night afterwork from 19pm... I pick u up ;)" And I thought, hey great!

...Oh, that smiley is winking at me... Why is that smiley winking at me...

I ignored it and answered back if we could meet a bit later as I had things going on before. He replied with two more winking smilies. And then a worry-knot began to cluster in my stomach. Is this a date??? Oh god, Lindsay, you idiot.

So I panicked for a while and I talked to a friend who told me that maybe I might be over-thinking this. I have a habit of doing that, but when a guys sends you multiple winking smilies and is very direct with you, not even asking if you're free... Well, I mean... I'm not a totally self-absorbed person, ok guys!?

I go downstairs on time to wait for my ride and stood there nervously for a few minutes, picking at my nails and swaying back and forth. I was now dreading this situation that I had knowingly and willingly put myself in, cursing the fact that I decided to be so forward and direct. Have I learnt nothing about French men?!

Suddenly, a car full of people screech to a stop in front of my building and my friend pops out, shouting "Hé! Leen-say!" Relieved, I run up to the car and see there are three other people inside: my friend's brother, his old roommate (both of whom I've played soccer with before) and this girl I've never met, who turned out to be the most bubbly and outgoing Spanish person I've ever met. I faire la bise with everyone before climbing inside and he explains to me that we're going to this place where girls get in for free and there are free food and drinks until 10 pm. And I thought, Fantastic, I love champagne. Let's do this, nerds.

And a few hours later, as me and this girl, who I've just lent my sandals to in exchange for her tall, black, and uncomfortable pumps, are dancing to Alors On Danse with everyone around us, I felt stupid and completely unreasonable for having been so afraid of what might happen if I put myself out there. I began to laugh at myself, realizing the extent to which I let a little fear control me. 

I can say without fear or hesitation that a life of adventure and total accidental awesomeness far beats the boring life I left behind a year ago.

bises

nos peaux d'été

There is something about the changing seasons that makes me feel really nostalgic, particularly the transition from summer to fall. I guess I still haven't really come to grips with the fact that I'm not in school anymore and la rentrée (what the French call back to school) is for something that no longer affects me the way it used too -- it's not the same being a teacher and going back to school.

It seems within the last ten days, autumn has suddenly befallen this city which is very strange as I remember it being pretty warm up until mid-October last year, and even swimming in the sea. It could be because of the rainy weather, but I also sense the way the light is changing and how the days are gradually becoming shorter and the mornings... Colder...

image from here.

Brief story: In my apartment, I have an window which essentially takes up a whole wall with a sliding glass door to the terrace and there are these big heavy metal shutters that roll down and they kind of look like the big metal doors outside a bank when it's closed. The idea is that they block out light, which they do rather effectively (read: they make you feel like you're sleeping in a coffin like a vampire -- right, Kat?) so for the summer when it was 35°C/95°F degrees, I began leaving one shutter half open to let some air in. It means it gets super light super early which took some getting used to but it made me feel much, much more normal (this would be another thing I would add to the list of weird things about french people -- why do they all have those shutters that block out the light? I guess it's great for taking naps... But it seems totally disorienting waking up at noon feeling like it's 4:00 am because it's pitch black)

I digress. Anyway, I've been sleeping with one sheet on my bed, the shutter up, fan on and the window open since June and I've been loving it. Loving it. I didn't even care that I don't have air conditioning because it was nice waking up with the fresh air (despite the mosquitos). This morning, I woke up and it was 7°C/44°F outside and I was in my shorts and tank top shivering underneath a little sheet. And that's when I realized... Oh no... I wasn't expecting the sunshine to go away! Now every time I go into my closet, I can tell my coats are beginning to eyeball me, as if to say "...it's coming..."

Noooo, please! I can't take another season without sunglasses! What am I supposed to do with the sandals I just bought! The swimsuit! The cute tank tops!

With the weird weather and things suddenly becoming colder and the whole yearning that comes with the changing seasons, I've honestly just felt like sitting around in my snuggie (yeah, whatofit?!) watching movies like Garden State and listening to Ray Lamontagne and desperately trying to figure out how I can get my hands on something resembling a pumpkin spice latte, not to mention thinking about that plane ticket that's waiting for me on December 17th... But of course, life doesn't really work that way. And December is kind of a long ways away. Blurg. 

bises.

félicitations à moi

So, I've been in France a year now and that's been making me feel sorta... Uneasy, amongst other things. I mean, wow. A whole year... I was planning on doing other stuff after a year here. Well, actually I don't really know what I was planning on doing. But the midnight coronaries are back (what I call waking up in the middle of the night out of breath and heart racing) because I'm still bugging about the whole, "oh my god, what am I doing with my life!"

But I talked to someone recently who really put things in perspective. A year ago, I was living at home, waiting tables at my neighbors restaurant, doing the same exact thing I was doing before and during college. And that the whole summer, I was thinking that it sucks being broke and unhappy and doing something that doesn't even require my degree -- I wish I could just go back to France and do something with more purpose. I want to really live there, I want to improve my French and I want to do something awesome!

And so, a year later, here I am. Albeit my bank accounts are a little bit lighter than when I left, but I'm still here. And really, despite the midnight heart attacks, the occasional spout of homesickness, the bad moments I sometimes have with French people and the constant longing for Mexican food, I realized something so embarrassing that I can't believe I didn't realize it before.

I totally reached my goal, nerds!

I'm sorry if this seems arrogant or too self-congratulatory, but I think everyone should feel good about the things they've accomplished, and there's no shame in being happy for oneself. So, here's to me and my backsliding bank account. Even though I'm far away from being anything that could resemble successful, I'm still here. And I have two great jobs and I can carry a rather interesting conversation in French, if I do say so myself :)

go me.

Now, back to the bitching and moaning 'cause that's always more interesting to read about.

bisous

le dimanche soir

The sun is setting in the corner of the house as sheaths of light streak through the window and shatter on the mirror into hundreds of pieces across the ceiling. I smell curry stirring in the orange crock pot and she's running around the kitchen, flicking poppadums in and out of the toaster oven. The cat darts around the floor, stopping only to wipe her greasy face against the side of the refrigerator in a plea for one more handful of her favorite kibble, leaving behind a dark smudge in the same corner of the fridge that has been accumulating her fur dirt for far too many years. 

My mother's heavy plastic bottom slippers scrape across the indian tiles as she goes back and forth from the oven, to cupboard, to stovetop and around again. "DER!" she yells. "Could ya gi'us a hand, please!" My dad, who is busy choosing music in the other room, closes a CD case, presses play and adjusts the volume on the large music system. Dire Straits' "So Far Away" starts over the speakers as he dances his way down the corridor, and says, for what is probably going to be the eleventy-billionth time, "What! But I'm not s'posed to hafta skivvy -- that's a woman's job! Evvvverybody knows that!" My mother has been ignoring this crusty and overused joke since I was about eleven and it shows -- the words drift by unnoticed and he begins to pour drinks on the countertop. A tall pint of his homebrew and a Strongbow for my mom. "One for me too, please!" I chime in. In the other room, my sister sits on the couch wearing an old high school soccer t-shirt and sweatpants. "Strongbow!" she suddenly shouts, throwing her book to one side, hurrying into the kitchen. I nod overenthusiastically with a big toothy smile at my sister, who returns the ugly grin and we watch as the cider fills the glasses. 

The table is set and my mother covers her hands in a dishtowel to carry the steaming pot of chicken curry to the table as I slap the knob on the wall to turn on the light above the table. The sun has almost disappeared behind the mountains leaving behind traces of the desert heat. "Mango chutney, cucumbers, a bit of tomato, poppadums and rice," she says, making sure everything is accounted for. "Serving spoons!" she chirps, to which my dad points his index finger toward the ceiling and turns back into the kitchen. The drawers in the kitchen pull open then shut again as we all take our places at the table. 

He returns and he raises his glass: "I propose a piece of grilled bread to us -- here's to us, and those like us: not many, and they're all dead!"

je suis etrangère

"The funny thing is, with the passage of time, something does happen to long-term foreigners which makes them more like real exiles, and they do not like it at all. The homeland which they left behind changes. The culture, the politics and their old friends all change, die, forget them. They come to feel that they are foreigners even when visiting “home”.

Beware, then: however well you carry it off, however much you enjoy it, there is a dangerous undertow to being a foreigner, even a genteel foreigner. Somewhere at the back of it all lurks homesickness, which metastasises over time into its incurable variant, nostalgia. And nostalgia has much in common with the Freudian idea of melancholia—a continuing, debilitating sense of loss, somewhere within which lies anger at the thing lost. It is not the possibility of returning home which feeds nostalgia, but the impossibility of it.

But we cannot expect to have it all ways. Life is full of choices, and to choose one thing is to forgo another. The dilemma of foreignness comes down to one of liberty versus fraternity—the pleasures of freedom versus the pleasures of belonging. The homebody chooses the pleasures of belonging. The foreigner chooses the pleasures of freedom, and the pains that go with them."

From an article entitled "Being Foreign: The Others" published by The Economist

on verra

Despite being absolutely, painfully and pathetically (yet simultaneously, hilariously) broke, I decided I needed another holiday. I think maybe the French mentality of needing a holiday every few weeks has corrupted my American work ethic... In any case, one of the several things I initially set out to do once I arrived in Toulouse was to go to Barcelona. Well, nearly a year later, I was beyond excited to finally go!

I spent a full week there, which was very fun, very exhausting, and very financially unwise for me. Yet sooo worth it. Spain made me realize a lot of things about France. Namely, how unFUCKINGbelievably expensive my life is in France. It's seriously no wonder I'm broke, I pay so much for everything. I was practically crying tears of joy when every night I paid an average of about 9E for an amazing meal with starter and drink included and when coffee was about 1.20E and nectarines were 89¢ a kilo (compared to 2.89 in France).

I also began to realize how uptight the French can really be. I've spent the past seven months straight in France, not even leaving the country once so I suppose I got used to it. But the Spanish are much more expressive, they're loud and they're not afraid of making a scene or wearing bright vibrant colors. It was actually refreshing -- for the first time in a while, I didn't over-think every thing I wore or worry about being considered too silly in public (oh, how I miss dancing in public...). I came back here, and I actually kind of resented the French for being so old-fashioned (also paying an arm and a leg for fruit).

PAELLA YUMMY NOM NOMS!

Barcelone, je vous aime

let's plage it, shall we? "let's shall."

(side-note: the headwrap, aka the shirt I wore to the beach, was due to the terrible sunburn I got on my scalp from the sightseeing of the previous days)

Parc Güell

Anyway, while I was in Barcelona, I got an email a few days earlier than I expected and I didn't get the scholarship I needed in order to go to university in England. Which blows. Cause even though I tried my best not to get my hopes up about anything, I really did want to try a year in England and I simply cannot justify spending what it would cost for me to be an international student. I've decided to defer acceptance and make the decision in another year which may allow me to try to save up some money. We'll see.

I hate that: "we'll see." I'm tired of it. Gimme some direction already, universe! I don't wanna come up with my own!

In the meantime, I'm just gonna go back to paying for overpriced chocolatines and enjoying what's left of the summertime. 

bisous

je divague

I just made a playlist entitled "what the flip am I gonna do with my life?" If anything, I think this summarizes my sentiments as of late. I guess it's about time for my biannual what-has-my-life-come-to pseudo-meltdown-but-meltdown-isn't-the-right-word-because-it's-too-melodramatic. I'm sure you have them too, just maybe not as often. Don't lie.

Maybe it's the common dilemma of the twenty-something these days, the feeling of uncertainty and self-doubt. Always wondering what exactly it is we're after and even if you think you know what you want, you sometimes feel like it isn't the right thing or maybe you start to wonder what else is out there. Is it because we have so many choices? And the overwhelming options somehow cripple the ability to make any decision at all? Maybe it's just me. I think I'm insufferably indecisive.

executive decision: why can't i just do this all day?

I think it's good to have a lot of irons in the fire, so to speak, in terms of making life choices. That's mostly how I do things -- I'll go for all the things that I have convinced myself that I want because inevitably, none of them will work according to plan. Then usually the thing that I least expected to happen happens in a completely messed up and even more twisted way.

This allows the universe to make my decisions for me. I kind of hate that I'm becoming that person -- the kind of person who thinks there is some kind of order to the universe, like someone is actually pulling the strings to my life. But how can I help it? Sometimes certain things just feel right. I get asked all the time here why I chose Toulouse. And my answer is honestly, I didn't -- Toulouse chose me.

Ok, maybe that's little dramatic. But, I remember last summer when I was desperately checking my email every two seconds for someone to respond to the hundreds of CVs I was emailing, the one of two responses for a job interview was in Toulouse and at that time I was staying with my sister in Atlanta. I hurriedly went to google to find out more about Toulouse and I remember one of the first things I read was that it was Atlanta's sister city. And I was like, "SIGN! It's a sign!!!!"

Anyway, so here I am by some twisted fate of good timing and a convenient google search. But now, I'm in a similar sort of situation. I'm FUNemployed and trying to figure out what to do next. I enjoyed teaching ESL for a year but I'm not sure I want to do it again. I'm sort of itching to do something different.

here's a picture of me on a cow for funsies.

I'm still waiting on financial news from Uni which will arrive on August 2nd and until then I get to sit here twiddling my thumbs like an idiot -- I don't want to invest myself too much in the idea that I'm going to pack up and leave come September, simply to avoid disappointment. Is that immature? A friend of mine called me irresponsible when I told him my decision making process. He told me disappointment is inevitable and that I was being stupid for not making the decision for myself, that it was childish to leave this up to fate.

Sadly, I think he's right. I don't feel like I'm responsible enough to be making these kinds of decisions about life. Move to England? Stay in France? Find a real job? Continue with ESL? Go back to the states? I'm sitting here looking at the "module" selections (that's apparently British university talk for "classes") for my potential M.A. in English Literature and I'm like oh hey, a 15,000 word dissertation? omgwtfhahaNO. I'm waaaay too irresponsible to even be using words like dissertation and modules.

I'm going to leave this post with a web comic I came across. It's an absolutely amazing blog that this silly and funny girl writes and draws and it has so far caused me to continuously and actually laugh out loud and not just lol. I recommend you check it out. Anyway, here's how I feel about life at the moment. bisous à tous.

(http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com)

vie de merde

I realize that I haven't really done much actual updating -- that is to say, you probably have no idea what I'm up to these days. I'ma tell you!

The school where I teach is now closed for the summer, so I'm effectively unemployed and relying on my private students for income at the moment. Thanks to an ad for lessons I put up on the internet, I've also been doing some teaching work here and there, but nothing really stable. I'm hoping that I'll get this really sweet job that I interviewed for about a month ago but they're still in the process of interviewing so I guess I won't find out until mid-July. Also, I may end up going to Uni in England but I'm waiting on financial information to make up my mind one way or another.

Basically, I have no job, I have no plans and I have no idea about any of it.

Anyway. I'm really bummed. I was supposed to go up to Paris this weekend to see a really good friend from USD and it didn't work out. I've talked briefly about how much I hate the SNCF (the French national railway service) -- well, I have about eight more reasons to add to the list. (I'll try to condense the story as much as possible)....

I booked a 6:08 am train to Paris on Saturday morning but thanks to the delayed metro here in Toulouse, I ended up missing it by mere seconds. I literally watched the train leave and I was so upset I let out a big motherfucking f-bomb in the middle of the station. Still panting and sweating, I went to exchange my ticket for the next train which would leave at 7:17. It was going to be ok, even though this train wasn't a TGV, I was still going to Paris, albeit a little bit late. The train left and everything was fine until we hit Limoges.

You can see, it's just about halfway between Paris and Toulouse -- it took approximately four hours to get there. They stop to tell us there's a problem on the train and we're going to be stopped indeterminately. Heavy sigh. A few minutes later, they said, sorry guys the train is not functioning, you'll have to go to the station to get your tickets exchanged for another train. So everyone gets off the train and forms a very long line in the station, sweating profusely (this is France in the summertime) only to be told that there was no more room on the trains to Paris until tomorrow morning. You can either stay the night in the station or you can go back to Toulouse and, oh yeah, the train to Toulouse is leaving now. Like, right now.

Haaaoooh. I let out another f-bomb, and made the decision to just come home and try to get the next train the following morning. I really wanted to see Stef and I spent a lot of money on this trip -- so, another four hours on the train (two of which I had to stand due to there being no seats) and when I got back, I tried to change my ticket again. I waited in the line and the woman was an absolute troll to me. She told me because I had missed my original train this morning that I had already benefited from the "generosity" of the SNCF and I'd need to buy another ticket. But it's not my fault the train broke down, I didn't make it to my final destination and that's your fault, I told her. At this point, I was so weary and upset and hungry, I started getting emotional. She told me to calm down and then told me that there was another train in 40 minutes. I was absolutely livid. I told her that I just spent the entire day on the train and had no intention of doing it again at which point I just walked away, but not before dropping f-bomb number three.

So, I spent 150E (including the hostel which I had to cancel) on a weekend in Paris and here I am. I got home and did what any self-respecting girl of 23 does when everything just seems to go wrong. Which is get absolutely pissed drunk. I passed out at 6:00 pm, missed the Spain/Paraguay game and somehow managed to trash my entire apartment when I woke up at midnight starving hungry.

What a depressing weekend. And I miss air conditioning.

quelque choses que j'aime bien

i like biarritz for the unique culture

i like the man-love here

i like entertaining people with my skillzzzz of a rapper.

i like (making fun of) interpretive french "hip-hop"

i like close-ups of your face

i like being entirely inappropriate

i like rainbow flag parades

i really really like the world cup

i like sunny days

i like when we can all enjoy a good sex joke together

i like when french people make me LOLcats

i liked this cow a lot but had difficulty expressing it

i like their point of view

"don't look at me, just suck on it."

:)

ma petite puce

Natasha
Tash
Tashie
T.B.
Tubercu(losis)
Tash Babe
Beebee
Tabeebs
Scabby Moggy
Scabs
Moggs
Moggulmus
Moggsy

you were always good at putting yourself in extremely inconvenient places, like amidst everything I needed to go to work.

or in shoebox covers that you didn't actually fit into

or in drawers full of clean, white clothes.

or in suitcases when anyone in the house tried to pack.

or sometimes you just looked completely creepy and weird, but in a cute, non-threatening way.

and you were especially good at appearing incredibly uncomfortable and lying in awkward positions

like when you literally sat in-between my sunglasses? I wonder how you even managed this one.

you were sooooo awkward, kitty.

but that's how I knew we were meant for each other.

"gimme food."

i'll miss you, kits!