Crossing a Threshhold

I've spent the last two weeks wandering around France with three of my favorite Americans, and we had enough adventures and misadventures to fill several blog posts. I've been too distracted to record everything, but it's worth noting that navigating around the country proved that I have indeed made progress with my language and cultural comprehension. We dealt with difficult people, made new friends, navigated the highways, moved throughout two beautiful cities (Paris and Marseille), and saw beaches on the Southern coast, the Alps, and everything else on the road to the capital. My favorite stories from the trip involve interactions with difficult people.

A few weeks ago we went out in Paris, and at the suggestion of a new French friend, we jumped the turnstyle to avoiding paying for the metro. He told us foreigners that everyone does it (not that we'd never done it before...). When we reached our destination, we faced a number of ticket vendors and controlers waiting to give fines to people who didn't buy tickets. We weren't fast or smooth enough to sneak past, and the controler immediatly launched into a lecture about cheating the system. The Parisian accompanying us whispered that I should "bat my eyes" at the controler and talk my way out of the fine. Apparently, most controlers don't fall for bullshit, but I was able to use my best French to explain we weren't used to the trasit system because we're foreign. It finally paid to have one foot in with the culture and customs and one foot out -- not to mention the fact that I did bat my eyes.

In addition to our bad choices (like jumping turnstyles) the car proved to be a good source of trouble on this trip. I intended on selling it in Paris and stopped at a garage to have a required checkup the morning that two of my friends arrived. We planned on driving South directly from the airport. After taking my payment and explaining all my car's faults, the secretary at the garage realized that they gave my ownership card to another client. It is not legal to drive without this card, so the garage's mistake was stranding my friends at the airport and all of us in Paris. I've learned by now that it doesn't work to get angry in these situations, but I was able to calmly explain to the secretary that if they didn't find my gray card within an hour, my problem would become her problem. To passify me, she told me to go grocery shopping while I waited... This was just the beginning of our issues with the car, but they did retireive the card, and we left the following day for Marseille.

A week after the mess at the garage, one our way back to Paris from Marseille, someone rear-ended my car. Because my liscence plates were from a region to the far west, my accent betrayed my foreignness, and my ignorance about police reports was obvious, the man who hit me laughed in my face and insulted me. I had enough composure to argue with him, write down his liscence plate, and storm away before I myself broke down. Fortunately, there was nothing wrong with the car. Even though I was clueless about the procedure, and I rode away shaken, my girls were proud that I proved myself a "sassy bitch" even when dealing in French.

Despite all the minor disastors of the trip, nothing went horribly wrong, and it was wonderful to catch up with friends while touring France. We subsisted on baguettes and cheese and enjoyed French wine and French DJs when we partied. It was also exciting to me to have my language and cultural skills put to the test. I think I finally crossed a point with my comprehension that I wouldn't have discovered if we weren't so young and stupid and (mis)adventuring around with an old and shoddy car.

Jamaican Odyssey

A few nights ago I had the pleasure of chaperoning an outing with my students. Some of them spend the week on campus, because they live far away. Since we assistants have nothing to do during the evenings, we happily agreed to accompany the group to a nearby city for a presentation/concert on the history of Reggae. I don't necessarily feel old enough to qualify as a chaperone, but our main job was to make sure everyone made it on the bus and no one smoked any pot. Kelly accompanied a different field trip during which a few students had the nerve to smoke a joint in broad daylight, without the ambiance of Reggae music. Fortunately, I didn't have do anything but exhude the formidable presence of an adult.

I personally like Reggae a lot, and the presentation was amusing and informative. Imagine six dorky French guys acting out the history of Jamaican music, dressing as musicians and producers -- including hats with fake dreadlocks -- and speaking with various accents. They were all excellent musicians and played true to the style. My only complaint was that they did more explaining than music making. They couldn't oblige the crowd with an encore, because the venue and their scolastic sponsors required they finish before such-and-such time.

All the students were hyper on the ride back, and the oldest students took their fill of hard cider after the show. Staying true to my position as an old lady chaperone, I lost myself in nostalgia and memories from my time in Sénégal. My favorite nights in Africa were the Reggae soirées that started at midnight and went until the first Islamic call to prayer, around 6 am.

I didn't listen to much Reggae before I traveled, but I developed a taste for it in Sénégal, and the music and place will probably stay linked in my memory. I think those nights were special to me, because it was the first time in my life I was 100 percent our of my element and 100 percent OK with it. I made friends there who taught me about the music, Sénégal, and the solidarity between Jamaica and Africa. I would love to go back to drink their delicious coffee and dance all night...

I dreamt about Sénégal and going to Jamaica someday, while the kids screeched and sang in the back of the bus. I'm amazed at the cultural mélange I sometimes sort through in my head. Here I am in bus full of French students pumped up on Jamaican music, and my head is swimming with thoughts of Africa and the Caribbean. I didn't expect much from the "Jamaican Odyssey," but it definitely took me out of the tiny bubble of Confolens, France.

Anomaly - That's Me!

Within my travel experience I have become accustomed to standing out. I make an effort to assimilate, speak some of the language, learn the layout of the streets, but there is only so much one can do befor some ingrained habit (or accent, or physical trait) betrays one's foreignness. In Senegal and Haiti, it was normal for people to call out "toubab" or "blanc" after anyone with white skin. It wasn't offensive to hollar on the street, but it did force me to accept curious stares.

I would be flattering myself to say I attract special attention here in France, but I am often the odd one out. The French have seen enough of the world, and enough foreigners in their corner of it, to be generally uninterested by accents. Indifference doesn't equal acceptance, and I'm coming to terms with what it is like to be the only American in a small, isolated French town. Honestly, I am the ONLY American in this city.

The other night I went out for a quiet beer, by myself, at the only bar open on Mondays. I went to celebrate St. Patrick's day, and discovered quickly that I was the only one toasting that Saint. The bartender told me that they don't celebrate it because there are no Irish people in that region, but they all drink beer everyday and didn't need an excuse that night. Fine by me. It's not that anyone knew why I was there anyway, but my mere feminine presence was an anomaly. I was the only woman in the bar and the only 20-something. I got a few curious stares from the old men and teenage boys, but they left me alone, true to French indifference. After two beers, which I'm ashamed to say made me surprisingly tipsy, I swerved back home, happy I'd done right by my Irish roots.

International Soirée

You know you've been to a good party if your feet are sore from dancing. What kind of party is it if it's your shoes that suffered, and are covered in dried sticky booze and cracker pieces? I suppose it's just one that requires more cleanup. A few nights ago I scrubbed my feet to get rid of the the black stains from my shoes. Last night I spent about thirty minutes scrubbing the bottoms of those shoes that had seen the worst of the dance floor.

It might be a stretch to call the kitchen a dance hall, but the evening's festivities definitely constituted a party. Seven language assistants from four different countries threw a party in their collective kitchen, in an apartment building like a fat tiled obelisk attached to a high school of similarly bizarre architecture. They invited other assistants, teachers, au pairs, and acquaintances.

The girls made an interesting (rum?) punch, and stocked a bar/counter with various types of alcohol and juice, french cheese and crackers, and big cans of cheap beer. A Spanish assistant furnished the music, and the mix was all over the place. It was funny to see non-English speakers "singing" to The Beatles, Queen, Outkast, and other popular British/American music, but I know I did the same thing when I heard La Bamba, and other international hits.

The main language spoken was French, but the diversity of accents and physical statures was remarkable. I'm going to risk stereotyping, but a lot of the Germans were tall, the Spanish girls were short and dark haired, and the Americans were medium height with a spectrum of hair/skin types. There were a large number of French people there and assistants from all over Latin America. Almost everyone was drinking and spilling from their tiny cups, and by the end of the night we were sticking to floor. That didn't keep anyone from dancing.

The next morning, the clean-up required two intense moppings and the efforts of all the hosts to clean the rest of the mess up. Apparently someone threw toilet paper out of the top floors of the obelisk, essentially TP-ing La Tour ("the tower"). While the girls scrubbed the floor and picked up toilet paper and cups, most of their non-local guests remained passed out in the oddly angled corners of the building. I imagine that we all had clothes (and shoes!) to wash after such a soirée.

March!

I just had my first week back at work, and while it was a good one, I can't help thinking that in five weeks I'll be back on vacation. I'm not exagerating when I say that the French are serious about their vacation time. March will be the only month when I don't have any official vacation. In October/November I went to Germany, in December/January I spent three luxurious weeks in the States, in February I went to Spain, and all the in between time included weekend and day trips around France.

To break up the month of March I think I'm heading to Marseille with my roommate for a weekend of cheap tourism. Fortunately, if we go in two weeks, we'll have a three day weekend because of some random holiday. When I applied for my assistantship I selected Marseille as my preference to work and live, but I got tiny tiny Confolens. It's supposed to be France's "second city" after Paris, full of contemporary culture and ancient history (i.e. Roman ruins).

Hopefully, I'll also get rid of my car this month, and I found a potential buyer near Paris. If everything lines up, then I'll probably make a trip to Paris to sell good old Anita and collect the money for her. Though that trip is not so much pleasure, as business. I'm getting tired of the responsibilty of having a car here, and even little things like changing the oil, or the liscense plates (which I had to do when I moved), are expensive chores.

I hesitate to talk about the weather in a blog, because 1) I don't want to be boring, and 2) I don't want to brag. I'm going to take a risk anyway, because the weather here has been unbelievable. I had three weeks of sunny, warmish weather last month in France and Spain. By February 20, I was taking walks in a tee-shirt and jeans and singing to myself, since it felt like spring had come a full month early. Trees have started budding and blooming; crocuses and dafodils have opened up a little. It's been cloudy this week, but still incredibly mild, and I can't help hoping that winter is over. (I apologize to readers in the midwest.... I know Spring seems far away for you guys!)

March is my first and last full month of work, and hopefully the weather will keep me motivated. I'm feeling refreshed from February's vacation, as well as the wonderful mail I received for Valentine's Day from my family friends and boyfriend, and a long-distance celebration of my one-year anniversary with Ben. I also have April to look forward to which brings a reuion of my oldest girlfriends, here in France. And the day my contract ends, April 30, my family will arrive for a visit and tour.

Out of Money

I've reached an all time low in my financial valley, but thus is life with a salary like mine. Visiting with other assistants is some consolation, as we're all in the same rocky boat being tossed around by the terrible exchange rate and our limitations on further work. Technically we're not allowed to find another job, unless it's under-the-table waitressing, babysitting, translating, or something along those lines. I've just about reached the limit on my credit card (thankfully, no interest applies yet), so that can no longer be my crutch. Live and learn to live more economically, I guess.

I'm leaving Paris today so Celine can get ready for her boyfriends visit later this week. Her school schedule doesn't align with mine, so when I restart classes, she'll have her official vacation. I would like to wander around Paris for the next few days, but that just isn't possible with my lack of funds. I have a plan to help me cope with the rest of my time on my meager wages. March will be my month of economy, so that when my girlfriends come in April I'll be able to show them a good time. (We'll have a good time even if we're couchsurfing and subsisting on baguettes and butter).

In happier news, I figured out how to post pictures and you can see a sample of our week in Spain. ≈

When in Spain

Party like the Spaniards! Last night Celine and I joined several members of the local couchsurfing community for drinks, and ended up bar hopping until four in the morning. We were waiting for a few bars to open (at 4 AM!!) when we decided to head back and sleep. Half American, half French Celine wasn't the only dual citizen, and when we started the night our group included my American self, our ex-pat French host, two German men, a young Sweedish woman, a local of Cuban and Spanish parents, and one born and raised Spaniard. By the end of the night we had picked up an Indian man, and a very annoying American girl.

Our first destination was packed due to their 1 Euro beer special for Valentine's Day. The crowd had piled into the street, and included a huge number of study-abroad American students. The Spanish-Cuban teaches classes to American students at the university in Alicante, and was embarrassed to happen upon his students. I was also embarrassed by some of the Americans on the street, including one girl who said, "Don't you just miss America? I mean, they do, like, everything better there." The same girl grabbed the shimmering sport coat of a passing local and shouted with an awful accent, "Mee goostah les sparkles! Mucho!" Meaning, "I, like, really like your sparkles."

The guy in the sparkly coat worked for a nearby bar offering free shots, so we followed him for the glowing green freebies and cheap beer. This is where we picked up the Indian and American, and lost our host and one of the German men. We headed on to a jazz bar for another beer, where it was quiet enough to get background from everyone in the group. At that point, Celine and I were the only two who had met beforehand, and it was fascinating to consider how this group of interesting strangers ended up drinking and getting to know each other. The other American girl monopolized her corner of the conversation chattering nervously about her bad Spanish and her frustrations with Spanish banks.

I don't mean to get on my high horse, and I could sympathize with this girl's anxiety, but talking to her took every ounce of patience I possess. I tried to avoid walking next to her, but when we fell in stride together I couldn't help making conversation. She explained to me that her study abroad program arranged everything for them -- something that always makes Celine and I jealous, since we're on our own in France. When I asked why this girl had a Spanish bank account even though she didn't work here she explained, "Well, like, my dad gave me 5000 dollars CASH before I left, and I just didn't want to worry about all the exchange fees. I mean, I can only withdrawl, like 200 Euros a day, and that is, like, not THAT much. It's kind of cool that I can use my SPANISH debit card when I go shopping. But my dad puts money into my American account too, so it's kind of frustrating to have to transfer THAT. And I went to three branches of my bank and NO ONE speaks English. I'm like, come on, you guys."

And I'm like, who IS this girl? She doesn't know where she is, or who she's talking to. I personally think 200 Euros is a lot of money, as it's a QUARTER of my monthly salary. Her manner of speaking and ignorance also made me hope that no one would group us together as "the Americans." I hate pretension, and I don't think I'm better than anyone, but I have seen some of the world, and I would hate for anyone to imagine her as a representative of young American women. After this exchange, I did avoid her, and Celine insisted that she pay for the tequilla shot she took with us (she didn't offer, despite her reserve of thousands of Euros). That conversation and my irritaion was tangential to the rest of the night, and I spent most of the time enjoying the down-to-earth members of the group.

The last bar we went to was celebrating it's 10 year anniversary and giving out free gifts with every drink. I won a lighter with the mark of a popular rum from the Dominican Republic, and with my personal appreciation for Caribbean rum, I was more than happy. My prize was coveted by some of the smokers in the group, but they all won T-shirts and keychains. Spain is known for being lax about marijuana consumption, and I watched people roll splifs (cigarettes with hash, or marijuana resin) on the street and in the bars. That is not something you see in France, and certainly not in the States. The night ended with Celine and I dancing, then a stop to try a Spanish favorite, red wine and coke, which we shared as we walked through the streets.

Celine and I are not used to such late nights, so we slept until 3:30 this afternoon. When we woke up, Celine had all the symptoms of a bad cold. We spent the afternoon getting some fresh air, and stopped at a pharmacy, where Celine went in for decongestant and left with an anti-itch allergy treatment. That's what happens you don't speak the language and have a bad dictionary! Tonight we took it easy to spare our immune systems and our pocketbooks. We leave tomorrow after a last look at the city and a last taste of it's cuisine.

"I bought me a ticket; I caught a plane to Spain..."

I'd like to thank Joni Mitchell for inspiring my current adventure. "California" on her Blue album calls me to Spain (or France, or Greece). I arrived in Alicate, Spain early this morning with my good friend Celine. We found the cheapest tickets possible to the warmest destination available on Ryanair. The official price of our tickets was two cents, round trip (taxes/fees amounted to about 30 Euros each). With such cheap air fare, we didn't expect much, and actually had to take an hour shuttle to the airport, which isn't in Paris at all. Checking in and waiting was a bit chaotic, but nothing painful. We were delayed due to a strike at another airport in France (strike? in France? surprise surprise). Despite the zoo at the airport and our late arrival, we were well received by our host last night/this morning.

Alicante doesn't have too much to offer, but it's the perfect spot for a five day vacation. We're here to relax, visit the beach, enjoy some wine, and see a bit more of the world. Today we slept in until lunch time (Spaniards eat lunch around two PM), then headed out to see the city. My roommate taught me a few phrases in Spanish, and miraculously, they worked! I can ask for the bathroom, the beach, and the bus station, and decipher the response based on hand gestures. I can also order wine and coffee and ask how much things cost. Greetings and thanks have been well received, and I'm enjoying pretending that I understand another language. I bought some groceries with my credit card, and somehow understood that the cashier needed to see my ID for the purchase. Not that I understood any word that she spoke beyond, "Hola," but context is crucial.

Today we took a few hours to eat lunch, indulging in the menu du jour (tapas, entree, dessert and coffee, plus wine), then wandered to the beach. It is by no means warm enough to swim, but we left our coats at the apartment, and I took my shoes of to feel the sand. Alicante isn't much of a tourist destination, but there is a huge fort that towers over the city that we plan on visiting. We have no intention of setting our alarms in the morning, and tomorrow may hold another bottle of wine and another walk on the beach. We'll figure out how to post pictures too, and then I'll share a bit of the mountains and sea with you all. Viva l'espagne!

La France, pays des luxes

France is definitely a culture that values luxury. They they take their meals, vacation, and any other leisure time seriously. Once a week I join my collegues for lunch in the school cafeteria. The sectional for teachers is separated from the rest of the dining area, and we're allowed to hop in line in front of the students. The food is served in separate dishes for each "course," and almost everyone eats one dish at a time, first the entree, then salad, cheese, fruit and dessert. Some teachers also sip on a small glass of table wine (something that would never happen in the States), and after eating, everyone chats and drinks coffee to finish the full hour alloted to the meal.

Last week, when I sat down, the professor next to me was shuffling some papers around and complaining to everyone at the table. "What is this?" She asked angrily, "What kind of institution is this?" I asked her what was was wrong and she explained that the secretary had put out an outline for a meeting later that day, "On the table! During the meal! That's scandelous!" Another prof. chimed in that they should boycott the meeting since the administration had the nerve to trespass on their lunch hour and dining space.

It's impossible to buy anything (unless you're at a restaurant) between the hours of 12 and 2 pm. Everyone is eating lunch for two hours. It's also difficult to buy anything, with the exception of fresh bread, on a Sunday. Much is closed on Monday too, but boulengeries are always open limited hours to furnish French meals with fresh baked goods. They don't eat stale baguettes here.

Yesterday I drove to Paris, and I had to stop in Poitiers (where I lived last fall), to change my license plates. I left the car at the garage for an hour and wandered around. I stopped for a snack and took my time mapping out my route to Paris, trying not to miss my former navigator/boyfriend too much as I did it. When I finally felt comfortable with the trip, I checked my phone and realized that I couldn't make it back to the garage before noon.

The thought of delaying my trip two hours lit a fire under my ass and I started walking as fast as I could towards my car. I knew that most things close for lunch, how could I have lost track of time? I was cursing myself and lugging my bag with all my valuables that I didn't want to leave in the car, plus the atlas, plus a litre of water I was too cheap to dump, and all the while praying that this garage was an exception. And heaven smiled down on me, because when I arrived breathless, my car was ready, and the cashier showed no sign of closing. I know if I had chosen a private or local garage, it wouldn't even have been open on a Monday. I went with the chain that doesn't offer close for lunch. Maybe meals are sacred here, but I'm glad that some businesses opt for less leisure when it comes to their hours.

Existential Crisis

Fueled by a caffeen and sugar rush (diet coke and cookie dough -- counter-intuitive, I know), a long conversation about social injustice, and about ten minutes of pacing, I have a huge desire to express myself. My head might explode if I don't vent my current thoughts, and since I'm not at home with my journal, I'll share it with anyone who cares to read my blog.

Kelly and I just had a long conversation over dinner that started with her description of classicism in Columbia. That forced me to recall the economic disparity I witnessed in Haiti and Senegal, as well as a few articles I've read about corruption in several African countries and international drug trafficing. When I was in Jacmel, Haiti, almost every night a black hummer would cruise around the streets with a party in the back seat. That never failed to upset me, because it stood in stark contrast to the glaring poverty that ravished the country. Someone explained that the owner of the vehicle was most likly involved in cocain trafficing.

Just a few days ago the local paper put out an article about the triangle drug trade that involves French "beurettes," or female of North African descent, who go to South America (probably Columbia, in fact) to collect cocain, stop in Haiti or the Dominican Republic, and then return to France to sell the product. This kind of trade is disturbing to me not because cocain is illegal, but because it involves the exploitation of vulnerable third world economies. The thing is, that kind of exploitation is occuring everywhere, and with the legal consent of much of the world.

Kelly explained that much of the trade in her country and other Latin American countries is run by companies in the United States. Columbia has more to offer than cocain, and their other exports (coffee, oil, etc.) are monopolized by North American capitalists. Apparently there is an offer in motion from a large investor hoping to purchase land from a national forest preserve in Chili. How easy will it be for a desperate economy to refuse millions of dollars, even if it means sacrificing an area of sacred land?

Rich North American's are not the only ones seeking profits in such slippery ways. Another article that shocked me, this one from Le Monde, France's national newspaper, revealed the findings from a French investigation of corruption in five different African administrations. These presidents and their families have invested obscene amounts of money in Parisian neighborhoods and hotels. The investigation uncovered multiple French bank accouts for each of the chiefs in question, as well as purchase records for multiple luxury cars. No judicial action will follow these discoveries, because Sarkozy has backed down after the Africans protested with cries of "neo-colonialism" to the corruption charges. The French are basically paralysed, since they can't step in as if they know what's best. The only hope now is that the UN will get involved.

I can't help but feel scandalized when considering all these issues simultaneously. I'm reading Camus' L'etranger, and the combination of his existentialist musings and my current bewilderment are wreaking havoc on my conscience. After four years at my private liberal arts college and six months of world travel (Haiti, US, Egypt, France, Spain, France, Germany, France, US, France), I have spent (and borrowed) a very large sum of money. You have to admire the irony of my current crisis... It was my education and travels that have allowed me to really understand the injustices that I've outlined above, and yet the money I've dispensed on myself could go far in a place like Haiti or the Congo or Columbia.

Camus says the world is absurd, so I won't try to rationalize these exploitations and the consequences evident everywhere. He also says we should enjoy what is beautiful in the world and do what we can to make it more just. I think I often appreciate beauty and experience la joie de vivre (love of life), but I'll have to post later if I figure a way to fight injustice. Right now, my head is empty and pounding, and my blood sugar is taking a nose dive.

French Kissing

I think I've finally gotten the hang of French bisous. When you greet and say goodbye to friends here, you always kiss both cheeks of your companion. When you meet a friend of a friend, you kiss them too. I'm never really sure which side to start on, so I usually just follow the lead of my friend or new accquaintance.

This weekend, I had the oppourtunity to practice this custom when my roommate and I attended a soirée each night. On Friday, we joined a lively but small group for delicious French and Spanish appetizers, wine, dessert, and coffee. I never really imagined that teachers got drunk together and went out to bars, but now it's not all that surprising. Kelly and I were easily integrated into the group of French teachers and often asked to compare America (or Columbia, in Kelly's case) to France. We talked about education, taxes, and music, before we went out for another drink and dancing. I believe I was the only sober member of the party (I drove), but that didn't limit my fun. We left when Kelly started falling asleep at the club and finally went to bed around five. A good night overall.

On Saturday night, we joined a German assistant, and made crepes at another teacher's house. It was a low key, and delicious meal. We didn't do anything besides eat and talk, but with four people from four different countries and cultures, the conversation was constantly stimulating. I left that night with a list of musicians from France and elsewhere to look into and expand my own music collection. The night ended with farwell bisous, as to be expected, and an early bed time after the previous nights adventure.

I feel very fortuate to have been included this weekend, and I think I've learned something about the French. They are constantly stereotyped as cold and snooty, but I think that once you get passed the formality of introduction, you're "in." As Kelly's friend and roommate, I was immediately accepted and included into two intimate gatherings this weekend and didn't catch a glimpse of the famous French frigidity (if that is a word). I think kissing on the cheeks is a good marker of that kind of openness. They aren't immediatly open, but if you can get into the network, you're a part of the party!

Car Troubles

I decided to sell my chaming and fickle car a few weeks ago and posted an ad on Paris' Craig's List. That's where we found it in the first place, so I felt comfortable seeking a buyer online. The car immediately brought several inquiries, all of which were from people with relatively poor grammar and typing skills. I'm not one to judge typing errors and poor translations, but the lack of professionalism made me a little wary. I eventually settled on a buyer, a foreign man (not French, British, or American) looking to buy his girlfriend a car for her birthday.

I tried to cover all my bases to avoid scams, and I was pretty sure that the buyer was serious. When his assistant wrote me a check almost ten times the correct amount, I knew that somethig was up. After apologizing for the "inconveince," the buyer then asked me to transfer the money to a third party. I have no idea how he was planning on working this sale (or swindle), but the involvement of his annonomous client and the pressure to hurry the process "for his girlfriend" was too suspicious. I tore the check up yesterday and backed out of the deal, explaining with proper grammer and spelling that I won't deal with such complications. There is no harm done, but I can't help feeling irritated that I was halfway to a sour deal. God knows paperwork is complicated enough here, and the last thing I need is to get screwed out of money and into a beuracratic nightmate.

I have another interesting car misadventure that I neglected to include in my last post, but it's worth recounting now. When I was in visiting my roommate last weekend we went out to a bar with several other language assistants. The group consisted of six Americans, including myself, and three Spanish assistants from Columbia and Mexico. We were waiting on a narrow street to enter a bar just across from a Kebab resturaunt. The restauraunt had just opened, and the owner was immpatiently trying to move his car so he could start serving people. In his rush through this very skinny street he tried to push through my group. Before anyone really realized the danger, he'd essentially run over an American girl who started crying and swearing in shock.

A crowd gathered to check on Jessica and scold the driver, who eventually took her to the hospital. Before she left she was laughing at the absurdity of the situation and still swearing at the inconvenience. The man whi hit her didn't make any sales at his restaurant that night, and I can't imagine that he'll be so careless next time he moves his car. Aside from a sprained foot, nothing came of the accident, but it was a disturbing event that put a damper on the evening.

I guess these problems happen all over the world, but I'm looking over my shoulder now for loose-cannon drivers and "buyers" looking for an extra buck.

Overdue

I've been meaning to post for at least a week now, though I struggled to find something interesting enough to merit a few paragraphs. I started exploring the coutryside, and saw a family of muscrats paddling around after a storm. The weather's been rainy, mild, and cold in the that order. We've finally had a few frosts that remind me that it's winter and not a bizarre combination of autumn and spring.

Honestly, for awhile I didn't have much more to write about other than the weather. My fortune has changed in the last few days, however and I have a few new sources of excitement. I now have a roommate for half of every week. She's from Columbia and does the exact same work I do, except with Spanish students. She spends the rest of her week in a nearby and livelier city. I think I can get along with almost any assigned roommate, but I already feel lucky to have Kelly as my chance companion. When I met her, it wasn't five minutes before she invited me to stay with her this weekend and attend an international comic/graphic novel festival.

So, I spent the weekend in Angouleme, looking at expositions and visiting with other language assistants. It was a welcome break from the tranquilty and solitude of my own apartment. Not only was I able to meet and converse with lots of different people from all over the world, but I was able to do it in French (since that is the only common language for all the assistants). By the end of the weekend I was thinking almost exclusively in French. I was happy to get back to my own bed, and off the floor last night, but it was great to spend a weekend socializing and digging into a new aspect of French culture.

In other news, I have found supplemental employment in a small restauraunt waitressing for a retired British couple. I'm happy to have the experience, a little pocket money, and the acquaintance of a halarious set of people. I was deemed the "colonial" when I introduced myself and listened as politetly as possible to complaints about pensions in England. My new employers were fun to sit and talk with, hopefully they'll be that nice when they boss me around.

All in all, my life seems to have taken a turn down a more interesting road, and I'm happy to have people to talk to and things to do beyond my apartment and this small village.

I am Legend, or Not

I made my first trip to a French movie theatre yesterday to see Je suis une légende, a French dubbed version of the new Will Smith movie. It was a good transition into French media, because there wasn't much dialogue. There were however, a lot of zombie-like creatures, and I was not expecting this to be a scary movie. I spent a portion of the movie crouched in my chair peeking through my sweater.

Despite my anxiety during the film, I did find myself identifying with the main character. He lives a solitary life with no one to talk to but his dog. I live a solitary life with no one to talk to in English. He likes Bob Marley. I like Bob Marley. He's trying to save the world from a deadly/zombifying virus from which he happens to have immuniy. And, I guess that's where our similarities end. None the less, I felt a connection.

I'm noticing a trend from my limited human to human intereaction. I've begun relating to the media in my life much more. The last few nights I've had dreams inspired by The Simpson's (it was a cartoon dream, I kid you not) and the so-bad-it's-good dance movie, Center Stage. I just started reading Jane Austin's Mansfield Park, and I can already relate to the heroine's shyness and feelings of displacement.

I also felt a bond with Greg Mortenson, a hero of a man who builds schools in Pakistan. I finally finished the book about his work, Three Cups of Tea, and felt both inspired and consoled. He spends months out of every year doing amazing work on the other side of the world, away from his American family and friends. I'm not building schools, or saving the human race. And let's be honest, I am not Legend, but I guess if all these real and fake heros and heroines can make it, I shouldn't have any problem comforting myself in French movie theatres.

Welcome (Back) to France

Traveling all day is inevitably taxing, but changing time zone takes the disorientation to a new level. I left the States yesterday, and while France is buzzing along at it's usual midday pace, my body's clock is aligned with the midwest. And it's very early there.

My intercontinental travels have lead me to sleeping pills which help aid the transitions and minimise my jet lag. For this trip, I don't think they helped do anything but further disorient me. I squirmed in my seat for what felt like hours until I finally pqssed out like a light. When I did wake up, I had only twenty minutes to prepare for landing (which meant rapidly getting ready to re-enter a foreign country and operate entirely in French.)

When I landed, I was not surprised and not happy to find my phone totally drained of battery. That being the case, I had no way getting in touch with my friend/hostess. At least though, I knew where I needed to go from the airport. So I wandered with 70 lbs of luggage to the metro and headed towards Celine's neighborhood. I must have been a sight with my huge backpack, a duffle, a shoulder bag, and a mandolin. I know I looked as dazed as I felt, but since I knew where I was going I could move quickly.

Moving quickly didn't last long, as it soon lead to a blister on my foot (it's quite a hike from the metro stop to the apartment). Navigating Parisian sidewalks also involves much sidesteping to avoid constant piles of dog shit. So after an hour train ride and a half hour walk with all my heavy belongings, I was overjoyed to see my car -- sans parking ticket.

It was a physical and mental relief to unload my bags and lock them in the car. It was another blessing that my car started on the first try. Hooray. After that bout of relief, my good luck ran out.

I had no way to reach Celine and no way for her to reach me. I think it was to much to hope that she'd be home when I knocked, especially since my flight arrived late. I went to move the car closer to her house to stake out the door in case anyone came home, only to realise my joy about the car was premature.

Sometime in the last few weeks, someone hit the front of my car knocking off the grill and busting the brights. She was already in bad shape and the lights were already weak. Now Anita's even losing the dignity of her good looks. Before vacation, I bent and chipped the side trying to get out of a narrow garage. After this recent hit-and-run she looks gap toothed, and the former highbeams flop around like googly eyes.

I think I'm going to adopt a new mantra for my daily life that sounds something like, "Things are bound to go awry, right?" I started thinking that while traveling around Haiti, since transit is so unreliable there. It has continued to help alleviate any surprise or frustration I have when my flights are all delayed, or my car is busted, or I look and act like a zombie for lack of sleep, or there seems to be even more piles of shit in my way than usual. I think things will look up after I get some rest, and if nothing else, my zombie atributes will be reduced.