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!"