College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."
Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.
This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.
I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?
Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.
I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.
If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.
Where does that leave me?
It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 05, 2016
Thursday, June 05, 2014
Open Your Eyes, 2007
“It's fine,” I yelled up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the converter. I don’t need it.”
She shouted to me as I opened the door to leave something about outlets and voltage. That was one thing I would sometimes get impatient with, all the shouting, not even anger, just loud voices; I loved her, but there was simply no way. Outside a jet black Buick honked notifying me of its presence.
“I have to go Katy.”
The creaking wood floors beneath her soft footsteps and the smell of her as she brushed up against me for one last embrace made me want to stay, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Again I opened our front door, which now seems not mine at all, but hers, all hers. We painted it the day we moved in. She told me on our first date that her favorite color was red, but not just red. She described it with her hands, brushing through the air of my imagination a violet-red-rouge color that at the time I never knew I would one day see. We painted our front door a year into our relationship later. She picked it out at Inman’s Paint on the corner of Ledge and Morningside just past Don’s Finest Foods downtown. I remember her coming home with three large cans for about six square feet. She always knew how to make me laugh, even if it was unintentional.
That was two years ago, and we were still in graduate school at Stanford. She was there for a Masters in Art History and printmaking. I was finishing graduate school and beginning the strenuous process of receiving a PhD in International studies. We met at O’Keefe’s, a local bar rarely visited by the loads of undergrad students who frequented the downtown scene.
***
She tapped on my shoulder.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
I turned around to find a short brunette woman smiling coyly. The freckles across the bridge of her nose danced as she smiled at me. At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette to give her — Parliaments, Virginia Slims, anything.
“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said. Feeling like an idiot for listening to the Surgeon General, I leaned back around to pick up my Heineken.
“Great. I don’t either,” she said taking the seat to my right. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t because man, I hate it...Hi, I’m Katy.”
“I’m James,” I said extending my hand.
And that’s how we started. Shortly after the pop quiz we left O’Keefe’s. It was only about 7 p.m so we strolled about looking into boutique windows and speaking about ourselves, then I walked her home. She gave me her number and we just sort of started being a ‘thing.’ At first she was pretty anti-titles, so I never called her my girlfriend and she never called me her boyfriend. We just sort of, were.
***
I got into the car bound for the San Jose airport to make my 10:53 a.m. flight. That’s one thing I never could quite understand, the way flight times are — never 11 a.m. or 6 p.m., simply 1:38 a.m. Be there or be square. I felt so old planning my flight, taking action in the decisions I know will affect me wherever I end up ten years from now. It’s May, and I just graduated. I’m now Dr. James Napier. I wasn’t trained to clean wounds or heal the lame, I wasn’t taught to listen to the problems of others or use a stethoscope. Being a doctor of International Studies, doesn’t seem like much of a doctor job. My specialty’s in human rights, while I mostly deal in issues of human trafficking in third world countries from Bangladesh to Laos. Straight out of the University of Chicago where I attended undergrad, I applied to work for the United States Peace Corps in Malaysia, but I pulled out after only six months on sight. Since then I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.
Even after I came back to the states and started with school again, I knew I couldn’t live as an academic forever, and Katy always knew I wasn’t planning on being stagnant in California forever.
“So where are you off to?” asked the driver.
“Going to Cambodia.” Hearing myself say it made the tiniest hairs prick up on the nape of my neck. I was surprised that my hands weren’t shaking, but as I repositioned myself in the back of the car I rubbed my clammy palms against the soft black leather seat.
The driver’s eyes darted back at me in the rearview mirror as I said it. “Off getting yourself a tan?” he asked.
I cracked a smile and said, “I can get a tan here. No, I’ll be going there to research human trafficking.”
“Oh,” he said. That was it.
“Have you heard of what’s going on over in East Asia at all?”
He seemed to be concentrating on the road as I tried to pry my way into his mind. Holding the wheel with two hands he slid in and out of lanes passing the green exit signs with caution as not to miss the terminal.
“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”
His voice seemed tired, slightly distressed and very uninterested. Glancing out the window I starred up at the clear skies and then down at the shadows of palm trees gliding along the pavement.
“Oh, it was nothing.”
***
When I got to Cambodia it was 96 degrees and the locals were getting ready for the autumnal floods headed their way over the next few weeks. I was stationed in the country’s capital to do most of my research through one of the NGOs I randomly picked after scanning through the list the previous spring. I chose the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association and when I told one of my professors of my decision to work there he told me it was the leading organization in the fight against Cambodian human trafficking.
The airport was a sea of colors and languages and music and animals. I had never seen anything like it. I got off the plane headed for the baggage claim along with the hundreds of other foreigners streaming into Cambodia’s singular international airport. “Sir, sir, sir, sir!” Those were the first attempted English words I heard people shout at me as I picked up my luggage in Phnom Penh International Airport. I suppose my dehydrated, pallid face nearly pristine white to them gave me away as an outsider. My pathetic attempt to disguise myself rather as an experienced traveler was clearly a failure upon arrival as my camping-styled Mountain Hardware hiking bag’s front pocket exploded with about twenty Ralph Lauren Polo socks. Immediately I was taken up by the flood of invitations from Cambodian’s to ‘come with them’ and ended up getting a ride to a hotel around the corner from my new place of business by way of a kind gentleman named Prahsuit. He seemed to know English well and after speaking with him for a few minutes I had found out about nearly his entire family and learned of how he had been learning English for the last fifteen years driving tourists here and there.
“Where you from?” inquired Prahsuit.
I hadn’t been expecting much conversation initially, but I answered plainly, “The United States.”
He laughed showing his rotted out gums reminding me that I hadn’t gone to the dentist myself in close to a year.
“I know you from U.S.A., but where you from?” he continued. “I know people who live there.”
Of course he knows people who live there. Of course, already I was the American guilty of underestimating the rest of the world.
“I’m from Michigan. It’s close to Canada.”
“Canada? Oh, Canada. Not French.”
It struck me as odd that he seemed to know a little about French colonization in the Western hemisphere. Taking out a reporter notebook I bought at Walgreen’s a few days before I wrote down the remark and placed a large star beside it. Below it I wrote to buy an international cell phone, but in the mean time to call Katy using the hotel line.
***
“James Napier?”
A loud receptionist at the head of the waiting room finally called my name. She said it like it was doubtful if I would actually be there or not—like they didn’t have faith that a real down on the farm Michigan boy couldn’t possibly find himself at the other side of the globe. Maybe it was just my insecurities shouting into my psyche.
“Yes, yes, that’s me.”
She nodded her head, which carried with it a code of ‘come with me.’ I followed the tiny woman to a small, vacant room with two chairs, one desk reminiscent of post-Soviet Union classrooms, and a small window that had large steel beams cross over it.
“Your advisor will be with you in a moment.” She left me in the room where I made myself comfortable sitting in one of the chairs. The linoleum floors and cement block walls reminded me of my first dormitory at UC. There were traces of foot prints and dust bunnies everywhere. Before I could speculate more Dr. Marvin Shuckhorn preceded into what I learned was his office.
“Hello,” he said extending his large callused hand. “So how are things so far? You’ve been here, what, a few days? Have you met your colleagues? How are they? Do you guys get along? Are you all here for the same purpose?”
After his machinegun shoot-off of questions I was finally able to answer.
“Things so far are, well, for sure they’re different.”
“Well of course they’re different,” he said with a Santa Claus-like twinkle in his eye. “You know it’s not USA college life out there, is it?” He trailed off laughing at his own ‘dad joke.’
“Yeah, it’s no USA,” I said skeptically. “Anyway, I’ve met a few people. I noticed that this is much more of an international workplace than I had expected. I was sort of thinking I’d be the only American in a predominantly Cambodian office. It’s interesting for sure.”
“So you think the ‘melting pot,’ if you will, works here? Good, I’m glad. You know, we were a bit worried that a multinational group would lose sight of the human rights for Cambodians would be a problem.”
“No, no, it’s good.”
“Good. Yeah, I guess it does work. Yeah, because, hey, we’re all people here. We all need rights, and have them, innately, that is. Hmm, so who do you have a connection with in the group so far?”
“Oh, well, I met a French woman named Marion Clair. She’s from the town in France my sister studied in.”
“Yeah, Marion, she’s a good girl. Very smart. Interested in reporting human rights issues, I hear. Good girl, yeah. Very pretty, too, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Oh, yeah, well, she’s fine, but I have a girl at home, so,” I said. Then trying to change the subject, I added, “So yeah, the other members are great so far too. I met a Belgian some other Americans and a few Spaniards—yeah, we all live in the same housing complex up the road.”
“Right, ok,” he said. Getting down to the real meat of the meeting, he said, “Now, let me see here...”
Adjusting his bifocals so they’d sit on the brim of his large nose rather than the tip where they continually fell, he said, “So, I see you’re a doctor?”
“Yeah, but not in the way you might think. I’m a researcher. I study human development and specialize in the human trafficking that has become a phenomenon over the past few decades.”
At this he gave me a half smile and said sarcastically one word, “Phenomenon?”
I had heard all the arguments before regarding the time period before, but I was prepared for Shuckhorn’s undoubtedly longwinded explanation of the time frame.
“Phenomenon?” he repeated. “Let me tell you something, human trafficking is anything but a phenomenon. It’s a damn catastrophe. I tell you, if people think major environmental disasters are a problem, think about the estimated 600,000 to 820,000 men, women, and children that are trafficked across international borders each year. I mean, Jesus.”
At that he placed both hands on his brows. His brown eyes darted from side to side as he meticulously calculated the amount of human suffering that must occur each day in this godforsaken world we live in.
“We live in a world where crafty businessmen think it’s their birthright to suppress the suppressible, stomp on the weak and sell the ones left over.”
As he said this I starred up from my hands which I had been cracking rapidly during his much deserved soliloquy.
“You want to see your life here researching ‘phenomenal issues’ matter?” he asked in a tone more like a statement. “Then don’t go on telling people things that are just plain false.”
For a while we both were quiet. I was back in my place as a subordinate to a much higher ruling party than I and was ready to receive information about my time constraints, financial measures and permanent living assessment.
“Now, you’re here to get your assignment and to explain your proposed research inquiry. At the end of your session here you will turn in a short report regarding your position on the issue of human trafficking in Eastern Asia, in specific regard to Cambodia.”
He stopped to breathe.
“Is this clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “It’s clear.”
“So, go ahead. Explain briefly your reasons in working for the CHRD.”
I was taken off-guard. I hadn’t realized until that very moment why I had decided CHRD, why I had decided on human rights. I couldn’t remember for the life of me why I was there, why I felt like I needed to make a difference, why my life could impact the lives of others. For a while, probably a few seconds that felt like a few hours we both sat in silence. Dr. Shuckhorn’s clothing smelled unwashed and faintly of river water and sweat. His odor made it difficult to concentrate. Perspiration pockets built up beneath my armpits and a single bead floated down my spine dipping into the small of my back.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You want me to explain right now my position on trafficking in brief and give a smaller version of my research topic?”
Shifting in his seat leaning toward the open window, he said, “Yeah, if you can. If you aren’t prepared or need a few minutes, that’s fine.”
“No, no, that’s alright. I can explain it now,” I said. Then it came to me. All my ideas surged out in one big splat of an idea. “Ok, so the United Nations has in the past put sanctions on Cambodia after various other nations have left their footprint in the Cambodian sands — well, the UN ruled under transitional authority from ’89 to ’93, but they left the country to the restored monarchy in ’94. That said, serious sex trafficking was witnessed and reported increases after peacekeeping forces moved in and after they left. I plan to explore the link between these peacekeeping forces like the UN and NATO and increased amount of sexual human trafficking in Cambodia, while also using countries like Bosnia and Kosovo as other examples.”
I came out like tidal wave of well-researched thoughts.
“What do you think?” I asked Shuckhorn.
“Sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you’ll uncover something those other payroll researchers haven’t yet.”
With that he stood up to shake my hand and bring me out of the office. Walking at his heels I noticed his balding blonde and grey swirl of hair on the top of his head and the sun marks like wrinkles and sunspots popped up at me. I suppose that’s what one would look like if they lived her for the rest of their days.
“You’ll need to set up an appointment for every third of the month to check up with research and theories. Let yourself out. It’s been nice meeting you.”
“Yeah, you too,” I said. “Thanks for the input on ideas. I’ll see you in a month.”
By then he was practically at the end of the hallway, but then turned around slightly to add in another tidbit of wisdom.
“Don’t forget what I said about phenomenon.”
***
I had been researching on the local trade culture regarding the deals involving slave trades or similar trades like sex trades and favors for about a month already. So far it didn’t seem anything out of the normal in regard to the nature of selling humans for financial gains. The UN had pulled out of the country just over a decade before and the bulk of my studies dealt with the overwhelming aftermath of their lack of paying attention, while they were in country, to the underground thriving industry of the sale of men, women and children. According to past statements they said the ‘phenomenon’ of human trafficking in Cambodia is relatively new, although globally it has been a problem for centuries upon centuries. The issue has come to light as a problem in the ‘90s, but very little knowledge of why it is occurring there or who is participating is known.
After reading up on the sexual exploitation of mainly women and children who live in the country region of Cambodia and their recruitment into this line of work under the guise of factory jobs I couldn’t look out my window without feeling like all of these people were victims. Even the victimizers have their reasons for exploiting others. It’s a cycle of country self-destruction forming from the alarming amount of poverty. For days at a time I couldn’t read anything on the issue without throwing up in sheer disgust and pain for the abused.
***
“There’s no way I can get into the field work part of the job and have it count as ‘research’ Shuckhorn? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I was pissed. After two months in country and after having read every article, book, seen every amount of video coverage and scoured the Internet for anything else I missed, the last thing I had to complete was to see it with my own eyes.
“I’m sorry James. It’s just not part of why you’re here.”
“Not part of why I am here? Not part of why I am here?” I was shouting now and couldn’t for the life of me come to terms with the amount of my very heart and soul I had placed in my work.
“I need to see it Marvin.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He left the sterile office from our first meeting and returned fifteen minutes later with a consent form and a visiting journalist named Brimt from Laos.
“This is Brimt, he needs someone to bring him up to speed in mini detail on the topic,” said Huckshorn, sighing in relief that I was no longer going to be at his heals begging for an opportunity to see the story I’ve been reading about before my eyes.
A week later I had filled in Bremt, no gaps without a line to fill it in. He was just as passionate about it as I was, but perhaps less, as I did have a much stronger foothold in the topic. We were set to leave for Battambang where sex trafficking has been known to occur and appear on and around the streets frequently.
***
“When are you going to be home James?” asked Katy. Her connection was going in and out. All week I had trouble getting a hold of her. She was either working or our time zones were off or the phone simply wasn’t working.
“Home?” I said. “Yeah, home, I should be home within the next month or so, hun. There are just a lot of new things happening every day.”
I sounded like one of those workaholic fathers that never got the chance to make it to one of their son’s soccer games. I never meant to become that guy, but while big things are going on its easy to loose sight of certain things, no matter how important what a person may be doing at the time.
“You’re not sure then?” she said. “Well, if you aren’t sure then I can’t figure out when to book your flight for and I don’t know if I should get you a ticket to Chicago to visit my parents over Christmas because if you do come then we have to go to Michigan because it’s your year.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Kate. The line’s getting fuzzy and I can’t understand everything you say. I’m getting about every third word or so.”
“O-K-well-never-mind-then,” she said slowly. “I-will-just-get-the-tickets-late-then-if-that-is-O-K-with-you.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go now Kate,” I said. “I, I gotta go. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she answered back. “Bye.”
***
Bremt and I boarded a bus bound for Battambang the following morning. He was to pose as a possible costumer at a local restaurant who was also looking for other types of appetite-feeding activities. I was his uninterested friend who was married with four children, just in case anyone asked.
“Hello, do you speak English?” I asked a waitress at the front of Angkor, a well-known eatery in the middle of the city. We would have stayed in the capital, but while I hadn’t been to every place in town, the identities of most of the employees working against trafficking are known among sellers, so we had to go outside the walls into more rural parts then into other slightly larger locations.
Entering into the restaurant was almost surreal. One moment we were offered a place to sit and offered beverages. As a side course the restaurant manager offered Bremt and I an added pamphlet.
“This is only for special costumers,” he said. “Special price, just for you.”
I looked at the paper written in poor English with little consideration as to punctuation, spelling or grammar, but these were the least of my worries. I handed the paper to Bremt. Then I proceeded to take my camera out and take a picture with the manager, smiling and posing as though we were interested participants.
“I bring you out three ladies, and you chose,” he said.
“Oh, oh, no, no, I am not interested,” I said, “but my friend here is.”
I pointed to Bremt, who was holding the pamphlet with an eager facial expression.
“Oh, ok, I bring them out for him.”
Ten minutes later a procession of three girls, eight, twelve and fourteen years old wearing thrice recycled clothing from when I was a boy came out of the back food preparation area.
Bremt and I looked at the faces of these three children. I took a picture of the girls without the knowledge of the manager so later someone would come back for them. Walking out of the restaurant completely famished and aching all over in pain and distress I got back on the bus to Phnom Penh with Bremt. Their faces were etched in my mind, and the last thing I wanted to do after I saw their faces was leave. I wanted to punch out the manager and raid the place in search of the multiple victims.
***
“No honey, I won’t be back for Christmas...Hello? Shit.”
Standing in the middle of Phnom Penh in a bad excuse for a telephone booth almost two months after I left California, one month over due to return home, I realized that I simply couldn’t leave yet. Katy and I just had our first trans-country fight. I skulked back to where other researchers and volunteers of the foundation were standing waiting for me so we could get back to the office.
“Are you alright?” asked Marion. “You look really upset. I can tell, because you have those concerned eyes. I haven’t seen them since the first day you got here.”
Opening my now quite worn Marmot backpack I grabbed one of the granola bars my mom had mailed to me earlier last week. Food like that here was a precious commodity, but in reality I actually didn’t mind chomping on curry at every meal, or trying new things when the option arose.
“Things are fine,” I said. “— No, they’re really fine — they’re fine.”
I tried to convince myself of this as I crouched down balancing on the balls of my feet, but I kept thinking of those children in Battambang. I rubbed the sweat beads gathering on my dusty forehead dripping down the sides of my bearded cheeks. After I broke my razor during the orientation days I skipped shaving entirely and instead favored a pair of Crayola scissors for mere trims.
“No, it’s just, my girlfriend. She’s there, and I’m here, and we’re not together. And, god I just don’t know.” I could have gone on and on like that forever. There seemed to be no way out of this perpetual letting down process I was doing to her, myself, my colleagues and to the victims of these violations of human rights.
She bent down next to me and placed her hand on the soft spot of my back in between my shoulder blades and rubbed her hand around like a mother after a bad day.
“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”
I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of sunlight coming through the splits between her straight honey-colored hair. All I could think was that she didn’t know how hard this was.
“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what I’m even talking about,” I said standing up leaving her on the dusty side walk.
I had met Marion on my first day of orientation at the foundation. Her French accent stuck out amid the numerous American’s, along with a few international citizens of humanity. I had studied in France for a semester during my sophomore year of college because I was originally an International Studies and French double, but mid-way through college I switched from French to Human Relations. Marion and I hit it off right away. She had been working there for close to six months at the time and had already invested herself in the people and culture much more than I could have thought possible.
I could hear the racing footsteps behind me as Marion came nearer. “You know, just because you think you know everything about me and why I’m here and who I am, doesn’t mean that you actually do.” She was out of breath and annoyed by the time I slowed down to hear her out.
“I may not know your relationship with this girl and what exactly you hoped to accomplish in a few months in one of the poorest countries in our world today, but you know what, fine,” she said, gaining momentum. “You’re an arrogant ass —”
Before she could go on and on and on, I said, “Perhaps, I don’t want to tell you everything or whatever, but you can’t just go giving advice without knowing something. What do you know anyway? We’re here in this country and it seems like no one cares and nothing is getting done and people are still being treated like cattle, and my girlfriend a million miles away is upset that I can’t foresee myself coming home for Christmas —”
She stopped to look at me again. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I just, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just never thought she could be so selfish.”
Marion stood up from where she was sitting and turned toward me.
“She isn’t being selfish James. She’s being, I don't know, a person on the other side of the world who just, just...she doesn’t know. That’s the fault of the rest of the world, and you’re assuming she has seen everything you’ve seen over the past weeks. You’re assuming she knows what its like to see thousands of women per day be scooped up from the streets and thrown into a situation where they’re forced to have sex or die.”
She sat back onto the curb outside a local pop shop. Clasping her hands together and placing them on her knee caps she starred back up at me. “She just doesn’t know James, and communication is key. That’s why my concentration is journalism and human rights, how to get the word out in an affective manner. People get desensitized. They can’t help it. If you’re not faced with it every day in a real way, then there’s nothing you can do but guard yourself against feeling.”
Putting my arms through the backpack straps I sat down next to her and didn’t say anything. Everything she was saying made so much sense. We sat and looked out onto the street before us bustling with farmer produce, animals, juxtaposed with the honking of several Honda’s in a long polluting procession of vehicles.
“God, the third world,” I said, half-thinking to myself.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
france
today i spoke french with a coworker. granted, he doesn't speak french, and i no longer speak it well. we tried for a few minutes though, nonetheless.
france me manques. les autres? vous la manquez?
5 things i love about france:
1. le jurancon sec white wine
2. paris, lyon, normandy and how small town feel they all are
3. roundabouts
4. high speed rail
france me manques. les autres? vous la manquez?
5 things i love about france:
1. le jurancon sec white wine
2. paris, lyon, normandy and how small town feel they all are
3. roundabouts
4. high speed rail
5. surrounded by the language
from my time in paris - - -
Monday, October 05, 2009
Twenty Questions on Steroids
So a few months ago I received a sort of questionaire from someone. I don't usually do these as they take me forever, but this one had some good questions. So, if you don't mind, here's the top 12: or at least the ones that best describe me.
1. What do you usually have for breakfast? Diet Coke and a Granola Bar running out the door
2. What characteristic do you despise? Thoughtlessness
3. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? France, or somewhere new
4. What was your most memorable birthday? My brother Sean's birthday when my mom had a penny treasure hunt in the living room.
5. Are you a morning person or a night person? Night
6. What did you want to be when you grew up? An actress or a singer, some sort of creator
7. What is your favorite candy? Kit Kats
8. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? The day I start classes at Improv Olympic
9. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Orange
10. Coffee or tea? Plain Coffee, Chai tea
11. When was the last time you cried? yesterday while watching
Brothers & Sisters
12. What are you afraid of? Not having any options
1. What do you usually have for breakfast? Diet Coke and a Granola Bar running out the door
2. What characteristic do you despise? Thoughtlessness
3. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? France, or somewhere new
4. What was your most memorable birthday? My brother Sean's birthday when my mom had a penny treasure hunt in the living room.
5. Are you a morning person or a night person? Night
6. What did you want to be when you grew up? An actress or a singer, some sort of creator
7. What is your favorite candy? Kit Kats
8. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? The day I start classes at Improv Olympic
9. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Orange
10. Coffee or tea? Plain Coffee, Chai tea
11. When was the last time you cried? yesterday while watching
Brothers & Sisters
12. What are you afraid of? Not having any options
Monday, September 22, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
French, so I love it.
"Those who believe they believe in God but without passion in the heart, without anguish of mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, and even at times without despair, believe only in the idea of God, and not in God himself."
I got this in an email from my dear friend Paul. It's a quote from someone named Madeleine L'Engle. She's french, so not only do I love her, but I respect her. This time last year I was just starting to get used to living in France. I miss it.
I got this in an email from my dear friend Paul. It's a quote from someone named Madeleine L'Engle. She's french, so not only do I love her, but I respect her. This time last year I was just starting to get used to living in France. I miss it.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Explanations
First thing's first. The photos in the previous post are of France. 1. Laura, Jenna, & Ben 2. View from a medieval chateau 3. Omaha Beach, Normandy 4. Apartments in Pau 5. St. Nicholas church, Pau
[Change in subject here]
After three weeks at home, I'm back in Iowa City. I'm back writing for The Daily Iowan. I'm back drinking coffee at The Java House. I'm back with the people I feel so comfortable with. But it's strange. Now that I'm here the one person I felt most comfortable with in Iowa City isn't here anymore. I know it may sound stupid and/or cliche, but that's how it is. Anyway, I got a new camera before I left for France (was stolen), then got another camera three months in, so I think I'm going to take pictures of Iowa City and the UI like I did while abroad. It seems sort of hilarious to take photos of the things that have become surprisingly familiar, but I want those shots anyway.
In other news, I begin my first DI stories for this coming week. One on the IC Yacht Club's 5th year anniversary and another on a bluegrass group headed for The Mill. It feels good to be back in the swing of things, but it feels different because things here are different, I'm different, and I miss that feeling of contentment.
[Change in subject here]
After three weeks at home, I'm back in Iowa City. I'm back writing for The Daily Iowan. I'm back drinking coffee at The Java House. I'm back with the people I feel so comfortable with. But it's strange. Now that I'm here the one person I felt most comfortable with in Iowa City isn't here anymore. I know it may sound stupid and/or cliche, but that's how it is. Anyway, I got a new camera before I left for France (was stolen), then got another camera three months in, so I think I'm going to take pictures of Iowa City and the UI like I did while abroad. It seems sort of hilarious to take photos of the things that have become surprisingly familiar, but I want those shots anyway.
In other news, I begin my first DI stories for this coming week. One on the IC Yacht Club's 5th year anniversary and another on a bluegrass group headed for The Mill. It feels good to be back in the swing of things, but it feels different because things here are different, I'm different, and I miss that feeling of contentment.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Lessons and Things
"She just said, 'How will you live?'"
I'd been out of the United States boundaries for a little over one hour when I began to speak with the person sitting beside me. She was about 5'6, pretty, olive skin, dark hair, topped off with a straw cowboy hat, university-aged to be sure. She looked like an all-American girl. Her name was Antoinette, I learned, and she was returning home to her native France after three months in Montana working as the American version of an au pair.
The child across the aisle on the United Airlines flight was starring at us strangely as I butchered French and Antoinette attempted to translate my Franglais into something with substance.
The five-year-old asked me again, "How will you live?" but it sounded more like "Comment tu vivras?" Antoinette waited for me to ask for help while the flight attendants fluttered about handing out safety packets in French and English and the pilot announced our ascension in two languages. Hovering above "The Land of the Free" for a few more hours before sailing over the ocean only to traverse across France, my first savory flavors of French conversation were underway.
Continuing on toward my new home, I attempted to translate the conversation the 5-year-old, called Marie, was having with Antoinette. She had realized my less than proficient skills, and therefore abandoned me. Yet, every few minutes she took pity, tapped me on the shoulder to ask questions regarding my final French destination.
I responded like her 3-year-old French little sister would have.
"I come from Chicago. I'm going to France. I am going to Pau. It is in the South."
She looked on with silent laughter, and then leaned over me to speak with Antoinette. I could understand her, just barely.
"Qu'est ce qui se passe?" or rather, "What just happened?"
The two giggled in what I deemed to be the way only French girls giggle, turned to me and continued feeble chitchat.
"Does your mom live in Pau?" Marie asked. I shook my head. Mortified she responded like any child would. Apparently worried about my future livelihood, she asked again, "How will you live?"
I had no answers. Five hours later and probably five French vocabulary words stronger, the plane landed in Paris.
Just like in all cities, neighborhoods are scattered throughout this couture glittered paradise, and similar to London, big name museums and monuments lie near the rushing river. I came to St. Michel, an area for straggling tourists searching for Notre-Dame, students on their way to the Latin Quarter, and Parisians. I was attempting to look like one of them, one of the French, but my small orange backpack pointed out student and when I opened my mouth, the words pointed out tourist.
Peaking over the small four story apartments directly next to the river stood the Victor Hugo-famed cathedral. I'd heard of it as a child in my catholic Sunday school lessons, as well as seen Disney's Quasimodo-induced "Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Just down a ways was Le Louvre followed by the Champs Elysées, le Musee d'Orsay and barely visible on a clear day was Paris' international namesake, The Eiffel Tower.
After nearly a week of site seeing in the city of romance, speaking almost entirely in Franglais, I had survived. I was completely full with the essentials, food and water.
But international cities aren't like small town anywhere. In New York, Rome, London, Tokyo, Madrid and Los Angeles, one can get away with not speaking the native tongue. It's too easy to pass through the large city gates of the international arena. In order to know any country more than a flighty tourist, it's essential to live outside of the box, even if you feel further away from the action.
This is what Marie meant by, "How will you live?" The moment I arrived in the quaint city of Pau in France, I noticed even the French people are different than those I found in Paris.
Sure, the streets were just as confusing, each called Rue Something French or Something Else in French, winding in circles, squares, triangles and sometimes, just straight lines out to nowhere, but the attitude simply feels wrong to a stranger.
"Depuis combien de tu es ici?"
"D'où est-ce que tu viens?"
"Comment s'appelle?"
These questions all seem unfamiliar, but they're nothing more than conversation starters: How long are you here? Where are you from? What's your name? And when that's all you've got to go on people take notice.
"Bonjour, je m'appelle Brigid. Je suis etudiante etranger. Je viens de Chicago."
I was running out of steam and fast! These were the only things I knew how to say with any clarity. When I said these things I knew what I was saying, all other times it was a guess, a shot into thing air. I knew my name, that I was a foreign student and that I had a home in the states.
"Bonjour Brigid. Je m'apppelle Florence, et je voudrais prendre votre baggage dans ma voiture."
I think she is my host mom, and she might have wanted my luggage.
Standing in the parking lot of the University of Pau's dormitory, I was meeting my host mother for the first time. It was sweltering outside; the palm trees were beginning to droop with the early September heat, while the sun perpetually beat down onto the tops of our heads.
I turned to wave goodbye to my companions, but no one waved back as they too were meeting their families for the first time.
Two weeks in, my conversation starters began to completely wear. I could just hear my host mother repeating to herself. ''Yes, I know you're name and that you come from Chicago.'' But I had no time to learn practical questions. I needed to finish my homework. We'd been learning the passive tense along with the conditional tense in class; so I my speech became limited to indefinite shoulds, woulds and coulds or things that I had done. Rarely did I venture into the future without my trusty 'going to go' phrase.
Sitting in my sunlit bedroom for most of the afternoon, Florence came in to pose a question.
"You would like to take our meal with us tonight? If it pleases you, of course."
Her short brown haired head popped through the cracked open door. I was granted eight meals with the family per month as part of my rent. But I had learned to conserve each meal and limited myself to around two each week.
"Oui. I would like. Yes. But, tomorrow, no for me. I would not like to eat tomorrow."
Florence's lean frame gained firmer entry into my room as she listened to my response.
"You will not eat tomorrow?"
"No, I will eat, but not here tomorrow."
"I don't understand why you will not eat."
We went on like this for another minute until I had to stop her. Consulting my dictionary, I said I'd talk to her in a few minutes. Or at least, that's what I'd meant to say.
Scaling down the spiral staircase into the kitchen I nearly bumped into her as she placed the warming plate onto the table next to the pâte and couscous. Sweat beads formed across my brow as I attempted what felt like the impossible.
"Je ne voudrais pas manger avec ta famille demain parce que je vais aller chez mon amie. Ça va?"
"Oui. Ca marche. Bon."
So this is what success felt like, I thought. No, I would not like to eat with your family tomorrow, because I am going to go to a friend's house.
She turned to stir the soup some more. I walked out of the kitchen glanced at the pealing lavender wallpaper and continued to walk up. In my head I repeated the words to make sure I said exactly what I meant. It was right according to my grammar book, dictionary, countless handouts and Rick Steves. But there was no applause at the end of my simple declaration. It was a victory only I could see.
"C'est normal," Florence said to me at dinner a few weeks later. "C'est normale que…ben…that you more learn now."
We had just finished a minor conversation about life goals and third world countries. We, meaning my host mother, host grandparents, host sister and my biological parents. They were visiting France for the premier time, and neither spoke a lick of the language.
''Bon, it's very normal that you like France,'' said my host grandfather to my dad. Jean-Claude, apparently Claudy to his friends, announced this in French. Larry Marshall did not comprehend.
Instead, he starred off in the direction of the cast iron stove and asked in crisp English if it was wood-burning.
''Désolée, Florence. Il ne parle pas Français,'' I explained to my host mother his lacking French oral skills. She winked at me, went over to the stove and began to place pieces of wood into the burner.
''Yes, Dad, it's wood-burning. They don't call it a Franklin Stove here either.''
My mother was on the other end of the table speaking Spanish to my host grandmother, Victoria. I vaguely heard something about my host little sister Lukia and the education age.
She turned to look down the table at my father and Claudy breaking down the differences between the United States social security system and France's Securité Sociale.
''Brigid, can you, well, how do you? I'm just, how do I say that the US system of government is actually well-thought out and George Bush gets a bad rap?''
The only thing that came to mind was, is my 55-year-old father really asking me to translate and defend the US government? I had no qualms with what he wanted to explain, but I had never been the one to drive a conversation involving two cultures, languages and generations forward.
''Sure, yeah, with pleasure,'' I said. Leaning closer to the two men I began my thorough and incomplete explanation, pausing to give each party a moment to understand.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, the appetizers had disappeared along with four bottles of the Southwest of France's finest Jurançon Sec white wine and some sort of Irish Whisky.
''Brigid used to be a little shhh,'' Florence said holding her pointer finger to her lips. ''But, I think she knows better now French.''
''Oui, oui, Florence, c'est vrais, yes it's true,'' I said. ''But, you said, tu as dit, 'c'etait normal.' It was normal.''
I translated for my parents Florence's next words. ''Oui, it is quite hard to be living with new people and not know what to say. You don't know them, and it can make you nervous, but it is good to practice with them.''
On the way back to Pau's Hotel Bristol my mother hummed along to the French music playing on the cab's radio, as my father attempted to re-explain France's social security system. I simply looked out the window and understood what the lyrics were to the music.
I'd been out of the United States boundaries for a little over one hour when I began to speak with the person sitting beside me. She was about 5'6, pretty, olive skin, dark hair, topped off with a straw cowboy hat, university-aged to be sure. She looked like an all-American girl. Her name was Antoinette, I learned, and she was returning home to her native France after three months in Montana working as the American version of an au pair.
The child across the aisle on the United Airlines flight was starring at us strangely as I butchered French and Antoinette attempted to translate my Franglais into something with substance.
The five-year-old asked me again, "How will you live?" but it sounded more like "Comment tu vivras?" Antoinette waited for me to ask for help while the flight attendants fluttered about handing out safety packets in French and English and the pilot announced our ascension in two languages. Hovering above "The Land of the Free" for a few more hours before sailing over the ocean only to traverse across France, my first savory flavors of French conversation were underway.
Continuing on toward my new home, I attempted to translate the conversation the 5-year-old, called Marie, was having with Antoinette. She had realized my less than proficient skills, and therefore abandoned me. Yet, every few minutes she took pity, tapped me on the shoulder to ask questions regarding my final French destination.
I responded like her 3-year-old French little sister would have.
"I come from Chicago. I'm going to France. I am going to Pau. It is in the South."
She looked on with silent laughter, and then leaned over me to speak with Antoinette. I could understand her, just barely.
"Qu'est ce qui se passe?" or rather, "What just happened?"
The two giggled in what I deemed to be the way only French girls giggle, turned to me and continued feeble chitchat.
"Does your mom live in Pau?" Marie asked. I shook my head. Mortified she responded like any child would. Apparently worried about my future livelihood, she asked again, "How will you live?"
I had no answers. Five hours later and probably five French vocabulary words stronger, the plane landed in Paris.
Just like in all cities, neighborhoods are scattered throughout this couture glittered paradise, and similar to London, big name museums and monuments lie near the rushing river. I came to St. Michel, an area for straggling tourists searching for Notre-Dame, students on their way to the Latin Quarter, and Parisians. I was attempting to look like one of them, one of the French, but my small orange backpack pointed out student and when I opened my mouth, the words pointed out tourist.
Peaking over the small four story apartments directly next to the river stood the Victor Hugo-famed cathedral. I'd heard of it as a child in my catholic Sunday school lessons, as well as seen Disney's Quasimodo-induced "Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Just down a ways was Le Louvre followed by the Champs Elysées, le Musee d'Orsay and barely visible on a clear day was Paris' international namesake, The Eiffel Tower.
After nearly a week of site seeing in the city of romance, speaking almost entirely in Franglais, I had survived. I was completely full with the essentials, food and water.
But international cities aren't like small town anywhere. In New York, Rome, London, Tokyo, Madrid and Los Angeles, one can get away with not speaking the native tongue. It's too easy to pass through the large city gates of the international arena. In order to know any country more than a flighty tourist, it's essential to live outside of the box, even if you feel further away from the action.
This is what Marie meant by, "How will you live?" The moment I arrived in the quaint city of Pau in France, I noticed even the French people are different than those I found in Paris.
Sure, the streets were just as confusing, each called Rue Something French or Something Else in French, winding in circles, squares, triangles and sometimes, just straight lines out to nowhere, but the attitude simply feels wrong to a stranger.
"Depuis combien de tu es ici?"
"D'où est-ce que tu viens?"
"Comment s'appelle?"
These questions all seem unfamiliar, but they're nothing more than conversation starters: How long are you here? Where are you from? What's your name? And when that's all you've got to go on people take notice.
"Bonjour, je m'appelle Brigid. Je suis etudiante etranger. Je viens de Chicago."
I was running out of steam and fast! These were the only things I knew how to say with any clarity. When I said these things I knew what I was saying, all other times it was a guess, a shot into thing air. I knew my name, that I was a foreign student and that I had a home in the states.
"Bonjour Brigid. Je m'apppelle Florence, et je voudrais prendre votre baggage dans ma voiture."
I think she is my host mom, and she might have wanted my luggage.
Standing in the parking lot of the University of Pau's dormitory, I was meeting my host mother for the first time. It was sweltering outside; the palm trees were beginning to droop with the early September heat, while the sun perpetually beat down onto the tops of our heads.
I turned to wave goodbye to my companions, but no one waved back as they too were meeting their families for the first time.
Two weeks in, my conversation starters began to completely wear. I could just hear my host mother repeating to herself. ''Yes, I know you're name and that you come from Chicago.'' But I had no time to learn practical questions. I needed to finish my homework. We'd been learning the passive tense along with the conditional tense in class; so I my speech became limited to indefinite shoulds, woulds and coulds or things that I had done. Rarely did I venture into the future without my trusty 'going to go' phrase.
Sitting in my sunlit bedroom for most of the afternoon, Florence came in to pose a question.
"You would like to take our meal with us tonight? If it pleases you, of course."
Her short brown haired head popped through the cracked open door. I was granted eight meals with the family per month as part of my rent. But I had learned to conserve each meal and limited myself to around two each week.
"Oui. I would like. Yes. But, tomorrow, no for me. I would not like to eat tomorrow."
Florence's lean frame gained firmer entry into my room as she listened to my response.
"You will not eat tomorrow?"
"No, I will eat, but not here tomorrow."
"I don't understand why you will not eat."
We went on like this for another minute until I had to stop her. Consulting my dictionary, I said I'd talk to her in a few minutes. Or at least, that's what I'd meant to say.
Scaling down the spiral staircase into the kitchen I nearly bumped into her as she placed the warming plate onto the table next to the pâte and couscous. Sweat beads formed across my brow as I attempted what felt like the impossible.
"Je ne voudrais pas manger avec ta famille demain parce que je vais aller chez mon amie. Ça va?"
"Oui. Ca marche. Bon."
So this is what success felt like, I thought. No, I would not like to eat with your family tomorrow, because I am going to go to a friend's house.
She turned to stir the soup some more. I walked out of the kitchen glanced at the pealing lavender wallpaper and continued to walk up. In my head I repeated the words to make sure I said exactly what I meant. It was right according to my grammar book, dictionary, countless handouts and Rick Steves. But there was no applause at the end of my simple declaration. It was a victory only I could see.
"C'est normal," Florence said to me at dinner a few weeks later. "C'est normale que…ben…that you more learn now."
We had just finished a minor conversation about life goals and third world countries. We, meaning my host mother, host grandparents, host sister and my biological parents. They were visiting France for the premier time, and neither spoke a lick of the language.
''Bon, it's very normal that you like France,'' said my host grandfather to my dad. Jean-Claude, apparently Claudy to his friends, announced this in French. Larry Marshall did not comprehend.
Instead, he starred off in the direction of the cast iron stove and asked in crisp English if it was wood-burning.
''Désolée, Florence. Il ne parle pas Français,'' I explained to my host mother his lacking French oral skills. She winked at me, went over to the stove and began to place pieces of wood into the burner.
''Yes, Dad, it's wood-burning. They don't call it a Franklin Stove here either.''
My mother was on the other end of the table speaking Spanish to my host grandmother, Victoria. I vaguely heard something about my host little sister Lukia and the education age.
She turned to look down the table at my father and Claudy breaking down the differences between the United States social security system and France's Securité Sociale.
''Brigid, can you, well, how do you? I'm just, how do I say that the US system of government is actually well-thought out and George Bush gets a bad rap?''
The only thing that came to mind was, is my 55-year-old father really asking me to translate and defend the US government? I had no qualms with what he wanted to explain, but I had never been the one to drive a conversation involving two cultures, languages and generations forward.
''Sure, yeah, with pleasure,'' I said. Leaning closer to the two men I began my thorough and incomplete explanation, pausing to give each party a moment to understand.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, the appetizers had disappeared along with four bottles of the Southwest of France's finest Jurançon Sec white wine and some sort of Irish Whisky.
''Brigid used to be a little shhh,'' Florence said holding her pointer finger to her lips. ''But, I think she knows better now French.''
''Oui, oui, Florence, c'est vrais, yes it's true,'' I said. ''But, you said, tu as dit, 'c'etait normal.' It was normal.''
I translated for my parents Florence's next words. ''Oui, it is quite hard to be living with new people and not know what to say. You don't know them, and it can make you nervous, but it is good to practice with them.''
On the way back to Pau's Hotel Bristol my mother hummed along to the French music playing on the cab's radio, as my father attempted to re-explain France's social security system. I simply looked out the window and understood what the lyrics were to the music.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
C'est presque fini...
I'm nearly finished with France. Rather, I'm nearly finished with my first go at France. I'm confident in my will to return to this country. Honestly, I really like France. I may not be shouting at the top of my lungs for Pau, but I certainly have enjoyed being away from home, both Chicago and Iowa City.
It seems surreal that I've got little over one week left here. I'm rehashing the sentiments of my last posts, but wow. You come to a country, know it really isn't home, but just when you've begun to call it that, the rug's snatched out from beneath your feet, and you're left with a bruise on your rump.
Would it be a terrible cliché or something like that if I said Pau will always be a bruise on my ass? Probably, but I've gone and said it anyway.
I've got so many stories about what's happened over the last few days, weeks and months, I don't think that when I tell them that anyone aside from those involved will get it. Maybe. But it's an extremely strange concept.
Some things I'm looking forward to comes next Sunday, December 23rd:
1. MacBook Pro
2. Sledding in 12 inches of snow
3. Christmas, for perhaps the last time at 995 Beverly
4. Speaking French when annoyed
5. Passing the time slowly
6. Taking showers at night
7. Central Standard Time
It seems surreal that I've got little over one week left here. I'm rehashing the sentiments of my last posts, but wow. You come to a country, know it really isn't home, but just when you've begun to call it that, the rug's snatched out from beneath your feet, and you're left with a bruise on your rump.
Would it be a terrible cliché or something like that if I said Pau will always be a bruise on my ass? Probably, but I've gone and said it anyway.
I've got so many stories about what's happened over the last few days, weeks and months, I don't think that when I tell them that anyone aside from those involved will get it. Maybe. But it's an extremely strange concept.
Some things I'm looking forward to comes next Sunday, December 23rd:
1. MacBook Pro
2. Sledding in 12 inches of snow
3. Christmas, for perhaps the last time at 995 Beverly
4. Speaking French when annoyed
5. Passing the time slowly
6. Taking showers at night
7. Central Standard Time
Monday, December 03, 2007
Inevitable Excitement
Over this past weekend I booked it to Amsterdam. I left Friday morning and arrived Friday night. My friend, Rebecca, from home, has been student teaching in London for the past month and was granted a week off to travel around. She met me there and now will be in Paris until Thursday. It was so refreshing to be with someone from home. I miss that familiarity a lot as every day since I've been here I've been forced to deal with the unfamiliar. Plus, she totally gave me an ego boost when I called her hotel to make sure the reservation was still on. I spoke to the concierge in French. It was actually kind of rewarding.
My parents are on their way to Pau right now from Paris, where the flew in a couple days ago. I love Paris. I'm going back with them for the weekend as well as going to Normandy on a day trip. Should be really fun. I just love history, and in Pau; there is some, but it's from medieval/renaissance periods. I love learning about the world wars and all that here. It's totally different from learning about them in the US. The history is right here. I can't wait to see the beaches made famous on DDay (Decision Day), June 6, 1944. I really can't wait.
It's so strange to think I have only three more weeks left, when just what feels like a little bit ago I was saying I only had three months left. What's more is that the French students haven't been in school for the last 3 weeks. What's up with 3's?
It's weird that all my big trips are finished as well. The Netherlands was the last country I was to visit. Obviously otherthan continuing to live in France. It's weird that I can legitimately say, 'Yes, I lived in France for a little while.'
I just, I don't know. I do know that I'm excited for things though. Excited for Normandy and excited for Christmas and excited for Meagan Ekberg's wedding and excited to see people again and share stories and live life at a slower pace for a while. It helps that my class schedule for Spring is ridiculous. MTW class at 1:30, none ThF. Seriously? Seriously, this is my life. I just can't believe I need to get a real job with health insurance and a dental plan and an apartment or condo and blah; blah, blah. I will have bills to pay.
But it was inevitable. Just like everything else.
My parents are on their way to Pau right now from Paris, where the flew in a couple days ago. I love Paris. I'm going back with them for the weekend as well as going to Normandy on a day trip. Should be really fun. I just love history, and in Pau; there is some, but it's from medieval/renaissance periods. I love learning about the world wars and all that here. It's totally different from learning about them in the US. The history is right here. I can't wait to see the beaches made famous on DDay (Decision Day), June 6, 1944. I really can't wait.
It's so strange to think I have only three more weeks left, when just what feels like a little bit ago I was saying I only had three months left. What's more is that the French students haven't been in school for the last 3 weeks. What's up with 3's?
It's weird that all my big trips are finished as well. The Netherlands was the last country I was to visit. Obviously otherthan continuing to live in France. It's weird that I can legitimately say, 'Yes, I lived in France for a little while.'
I just, I don't know. I do know that I'm excited for things though. Excited for Normandy and excited for Christmas and excited for Meagan Ekberg's wedding and excited to see people again and share stories and live life at a slower pace for a while. It helps that my class schedule for Spring is ridiculous. MTW class at 1:30, none ThF. Seriously? Seriously, this is my life. I just can't believe I need to get a real job with health insurance and a dental plan and an apartment or condo and blah; blah, blah. I will have bills to pay.
But it was inevitable. Just like everything else.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Continuum
Yesterday I went back and read most of my blogs that have led me up to where I am now. It was odd. All the ones of last year had to do with my impending life here in Pau and the impossibility of fitting everything into 24 hour days. How did I let myself get so busy? And how in the world was I able to enjoy anything with that much on my shoulders? It's only weird now because here in France it seems I have all too much time and none at the same time. I can't really comprehend this notion that has seemed to plague me throughout my university years. This same problem, I fear, is going to follow me everywhere. It's here in that I have nearly 23 hours of class per week, so I don't have enough time to spend doing other things (such as travel as much as I'd like or simply pass the time with new friends). There doesn't seem to be an even playing field for all the things I'd like to be doing versus those I must. In anycase, I'm bothered.
On an unrelated note, I have just over one month left of my study abroad experience, and it's as if I have nothing to show for it. Things have happened, yes, but at the same time it seems that everything is exactly the same, even though I know it isn't. One of my best friends has gotten engaged while I have been away, I have visited many places and met a lot of interesting and fun people, but I still feel as if I don't really know anyone. It's unsettling. What's more, is that the friends I have at home have gone on without me, not that they had any choice either. And I'm certainly not asking that they stay in the same spot I left them. No. That'd be unfair and impossible anyway. It's just odd.
It doesn't help anything that all of my expensive items save my hair straightener have been stolen. First it was just my iPod and camera, but once I got back from London I found my laptop and jewelry had vanished as well.
Anyway, I'll be sad to leave Europe, but it won't be that hard to leave Pau.
On an unrelated note, I have just over one month left of my study abroad experience, and it's as if I have nothing to show for it. Things have happened, yes, but at the same time it seems that everything is exactly the same, even though I know it isn't. One of my best friends has gotten engaged while I have been away, I have visited many places and met a lot of interesting and fun people, but I still feel as if I don't really know anyone. It's unsettling. What's more, is that the friends I have at home have gone on without me, not that they had any choice either. And I'm certainly not asking that they stay in the same spot I left them. No. That'd be unfair and impossible anyway. It's just odd.
It doesn't help anything that all of my expensive items save my hair straightener have been stolen. First it was just my iPod and camera, but once I got back from London I found my laptop and jewelry had vanished as well.
Anyway, I'll be sad to leave Europe, but it won't be that hard to leave Pau.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
My Professor called me jaded. I called myself honest.
It’s almost a certainty that I neglected to give France a chance. Sure, I went to Paris. I saw that Tour Eiffel, no really, I did, it just, well, it wasn’t a big deal. Clearly, this is not true. I mean, yes, I saw the Eiffel Tower, and it was great, but it is a big deal. There’s one thing that hits you though when you go to anywhere in France that isn’t near the Eiffel Tower — and that thing is that, mostly France is just like Iowa or some other plain state. There are loads of farms. I’m not quite sure, about how I managed to edit out that France is world-renown for their cheese. And that cheese comes from, yes, farms.
Driving to the south of France after five days in the City of Love was like a dream. Nearly six hours went by and still, Pau felt no closer than when I’d left Paris. Upon arrival it occurred to me straightaway that if we’re talking distance, Pau is closer to Spain than it is to France’s capital city.
The Palois, the citizens of Henry IV’s Pau, have dark hair and tanned skin, and speak French, but many know Spanish, including the French host mother who was to take me in as her own for the next few months. We’d met outside the University of Pau dormitories. There were palm trees and it was hot, but not the kind of hot that forces one inside, the kind of hot that makes you excited to jump through sprinklers no matter your age.
Everything seemed surreal. She was Florence and I was Brigid, but I didn’t know she was Florence, and she had really no idea who I was. Thanks to confusion brought on by a small slip of paper describing my host situation I’d assumed the surname of Madame Carde was her first name. Two weeks went by until she finally mentioned that her name was not in fact Carde, game or any other sort. This is normal, though. There’s an unwanted unfamiliarity once one is thrust into it. No matter how prepared I thought I was, what with my travel towel and 20 pairs of underwear, for my voyage across land and sea, there’s no way to really get it.
No, not until I was here for over a month did I fully comprehend that France, even with it’s Eiffel Tower, mountain stretches, crepes and cheese, is just another country. The same things happen, people pass their time, students go to school, adults work, and life presses forward.
But back to this point that I didn’t give France a chance. Because I didn’t. There’s wasn’t enough time, but then again, that’s all I and my fellow study abroad classmates had. We had time to run to the supermarket to nick a 30 centime baguette and some frommage de Chevre. We had enough time to practice French with each other, while trying to introduce ourselves to each other at the same time. There was time for all that, but none to process it. That simply doesn’t happen until a few months in, when the honeymoon wears off, so to speak.
Something has to happen to make the flick switch. For me, I was faced with the seriousness of thievery, and for others it was simply that they were homesick and felt left without a paddle. The thing is, this unnaturalness of living with someone, having friends, yet completely being alone. It’s the realization that, although you may have shared your life story, there hasn’t been enough time for people to process, to get who you are or where you’re coming from. And, while I might be speaking English, it doesn’t matter, because I’m speaking another language.
Going from point A to point B isn’t difficult, it’s comprehending the journey, and after nearly a semester’s worth of driving forward, there’s a lull where the only thing I am capable of doing is thinking. These are the things people tell you, but remain impossible to decipher until the moment comes upon you, like it did for me, starring at the expanse of mountains from a small green bench overlooking the Pyrenees Mountains in the south of France.
Driving to the south of France after five days in the City of Love was like a dream. Nearly six hours went by and still, Pau felt no closer than when I’d left Paris. Upon arrival it occurred to me straightaway that if we’re talking distance, Pau is closer to Spain than it is to France’s capital city.
The Palois, the citizens of Henry IV’s Pau, have dark hair and tanned skin, and speak French, but many know Spanish, including the French host mother who was to take me in as her own for the next few months. We’d met outside the University of Pau dormitories. There were palm trees and it was hot, but not the kind of hot that forces one inside, the kind of hot that makes you excited to jump through sprinklers no matter your age.
Everything seemed surreal. She was Florence and I was Brigid, but I didn’t know she was Florence, and she had really no idea who I was. Thanks to confusion brought on by a small slip of paper describing my host situation I’d assumed the surname of Madame Carde was her first name. Two weeks went by until she finally mentioned that her name was not in fact Carde, game or any other sort. This is normal, though. There’s an unwanted unfamiliarity once one is thrust into it. No matter how prepared I thought I was, what with my travel towel and 20 pairs of underwear, for my voyage across land and sea, there’s no way to really get it.
No, not until I was here for over a month did I fully comprehend that France, even with it’s Eiffel Tower, mountain stretches, crepes and cheese, is just another country. The same things happen, people pass their time, students go to school, adults work, and life presses forward.
But back to this point that I didn’t give France a chance. Because I didn’t. There’s wasn’t enough time, but then again, that’s all I and my fellow study abroad classmates had. We had time to run to the supermarket to nick a 30 centime baguette and some frommage de Chevre. We had enough time to practice French with each other, while trying to introduce ourselves to each other at the same time. There was time for all that, but none to process it. That simply doesn’t happen until a few months in, when the honeymoon wears off, so to speak.
Something has to happen to make the flick switch. For me, I was faced with the seriousness of thievery, and for others it was simply that they were homesick and felt left without a paddle. The thing is, this unnaturalness of living with someone, having friends, yet completely being alone. It’s the realization that, although you may have shared your life story, there hasn’t been enough time for people to process, to get who you are or where you’re coming from. And, while I might be speaking English, it doesn’t matter, because I’m speaking another language.
Going from point A to point B isn’t difficult, it’s comprehending the journey, and after nearly a semester’s worth of driving forward, there’s a lull where the only thing I am capable of doing is thinking. These are the things people tell you, but remain impossible to decipher until the moment comes upon you, like it did for me, starring at the expanse of mountains from a small green bench overlooking the Pyrenees Mountains in the south of France.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Goals:
1. Wing things more often. IE: just buy a ticket to go somewhere and figure the rest out later
2. Concentrate on remembering the details, so later I can think about how awesome everything is.
3. Know French more, speak with my French family more, and not be afraid of my new conversation partner.
So far, that's it.
2. Concentrate on remembering the details, so later I can think about how awesome everything is.
3. Know French more, speak with my French family more, and not be afraid of my new conversation partner.
So far, that's it.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
France & it's Effects
So, I've been in France now for a little over two weeks. Hard to believe it. I've been taking a Travel Writing class as part of my requirements at the University of Pau. Here's a story I wrote about one of my experiences thus far.
So, here we are:
To say that France is on the other side of the world is geographically incorrect, but to say that it's barely, mildly, minute detail-y correct with regard to cultural differences, Fine.
But that's it.
__________
Something like Wal-mart should have been familiar, but then again, it was just something like Wal-mart. And France's chain super store, "LeClair" isn't Wal-mart.
Yeah, it's got Neutrogena body products, back packs and a fruit section, but it's also got an unrefrigerated milk section and security guards prepared for those inevitable thieves: French masterminds and foreigners alike.
Fifteen minutes until class was certainly enough to scour the store for delicious French pastries and delicious French pop, soda, coke, you know, with delicious French sweets practically popping off the shelves every which way.
Hypothetically, fifteen minutes is enough time for everything including the trudge across what often feels like a super highway spanning two directions and a grassy island in between, but is really just Alles Condorcet. Hypothetically.
But it's not as if you've got a French mindset telling you otherwise, meaning the truth that fifteen minutes is not enough time.
So I took my chances in search of that delectable delight of a Fruit tart a friend and I had for the last two days. Who am I to break my new found tradition. Three's a charm right? Or is that just a phrase fitting in the United States (Aux Etats-Unis, I mean.)
Friend in tote, the two of us paraded down the stretch of side walk separating the French version of Walmart and the French version of college.
It's not like we looked suspicious, no, we didn't look suspicious at all. So, we were matching. It's not like we had planned it. There were no calls made: white "T" with jeans, gym shoes, yeah, any color.
We were in a rush, but honestly, we were American, and looked it. They don't make short red-heads in France.
Marching toward the back wall, nothing but an aisle of diapers between us and les sucres, we eyed the lower shelf. Yes, it's us again our faces said to the French women who now recognized our salivating mouths.
"Oui, bonjour! Je voudrais un tartilles, oui, un euro, quarant centiemes. Oui, merci."
I had barely noticed my friend announce her choice, reoccupied with my pending joy.
"Oui, moi aussi, mais je voudrais un tartilles, un euro. Merci beaucoup!"
In unison: "Je paye ici."
"D'accord," they said in return.
"Merci!"
We needed to get back though, we had learning to do. Oh, no, 4:20, I mean, seize heures, vente.
Glancing at the pastry box in my friend's grip, we walked out through a non-exit. She bustled through without a hitch. She didn't look like a thief, but neither did I. Beep, Beep, Beep. Three seconds later my small orange bag was shuffled through as if I was a common criminal by the security guard.
Taking each item out one by one and starring suspiciously at that MADE IN AMERICA SPF 55 Neutragena sunscreen. I could tell he thought, that pale skin doesn't fool me Miss USA. No one in France ever carries sunscreen apparently, only if they've thrown it in their bag without paying at LeClair.
"Come with me" he said in French. This is the most action he's gotten all week. No, my friend couldn't come in the back room to get searched like me. Padded down at a grocery store, LeClair doesn't fool around. No, definitely not.
He left me alone for about ten seconds and eyed me as I attempted to sit down. Five seconds after that a smiling blond French woman came toward me with a metal detector. "You can have the sunscreen!" I said in my mind. "You don't need sunscreen, get burnt!"
"Where did you get your pants mademoiselle" she said in French.
I panicked, "H et M." That was a lie! They're American made, GAP.
My mind flashed questions: Do they have firing squads in France? Did that door lead to their secret shotgun room?
"When did you get those pants?" she followed up.
"Yesterday," another lie. I got them two months ago.
Apparently I hadn't cut off the metal security protector mischievously hidden on the left inside pant leg. That GAP employee is laughing now as they think of their customers pent up in bag rooms at French super stores.
"You can go," I heard them mutter in disappointment.
"I can have my sunscreen?"
"Yes."
Exiting the death chamber the color in my face returned.
Is it warmer out here? My breath wasn't white as it left the confines of my lungs.
"What happened?" Concerned friend.
She hadn't eaten her tart. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.
Placing the crumbling crust, melting custard and sugar coated fruits onto my tongue, I thought, "French pastries are worth the interrogation."
So, here we are:
To say that France is on the other side of the world is geographically incorrect, but to say that it's barely, mildly, minute detail-y correct with regard to cultural differences, Fine.
But that's it.
__________
Something like Wal-mart should have been familiar, but then again, it was just something like Wal-mart. And France's chain super store, "LeClair" isn't Wal-mart.
Yeah, it's got Neutrogena body products, back packs and a fruit section, but it's also got an unrefrigerated milk section and security guards prepared for those inevitable thieves: French masterminds and foreigners alike.
Fifteen minutes until class was certainly enough to scour the store for delicious French pastries and delicious French pop, soda, coke, you know, with delicious French sweets practically popping off the shelves every which way.
Hypothetically, fifteen minutes is enough time for everything including the trudge across what often feels like a super highway spanning two directions and a grassy island in between, but is really just Alles Condorcet. Hypothetically.
But it's not as if you've got a French mindset telling you otherwise, meaning the truth that fifteen minutes is not enough time.
So I took my chances in search of that delectable delight of a Fruit tart a friend and I had for the last two days. Who am I to break my new found tradition. Three's a charm right? Or is that just a phrase fitting in the United States (Aux Etats-Unis, I mean.)
Friend in tote, the two of us paraded down the stretch of side walk separating the French version of Walmart and the French version of college.
It's not like we looked suspicious, no, we didn't look suspicious at all. So, we were matching. It's not like we had planned it. There were no calls made: white "T" with jeans, gym shoes, yeah, any color.
We were in a rush, but honestly, we were American, and looked it. They don't make short red-heads in France.
Marching toward the back wall, nothing but an aisle of diapers between us and les sucres, we eyed the lower shelf. Yes, it's us again our faces said to the French women who now recognized our salivating mouths.
"Oui, bonjour! Je voudrais un tartilles, oui, un euro, quarant centiemes. Oui, merci."
I had barely noticed my friend announce her choice, reoccupied with my pending joy.
"Oui, moi aussi, mais je voudrais un tartilles, un euro. Merci beaucoup!"
In unison: "Je paye ici."
"D'accord," they said in return.
"Merci!"
We needed to get back though, we had learning to do. Oh, no, 4:20, I mean, seize heures, vente.
Glancing at the pastry box in my friend's grip, we walked out through a non-exit. She bustled through without a hitch. She didn't look like a thief, but neither did I. Beep, Beep, Beep. Three seconds later my small orange bag was shuffled through as if I was a common criminal by the security guard.
Taking each item out one by one and starring suspiciously at that MADE IN AMERICA SPF 55 Neutragena sunscreen. I could tell he thought, that pale skin doesn't fool me Miss USA. No one in France ever carries sunscreen apparently, only if they've thrown it in their bag without paying at LeClair.
"Come with me" he said in French. This is the most action he's gotten all week. No, my friend couldn't come in the back room to get searched like me. Padded down at a grocery store, LeClair doesn't fool around. No, definitely not.
He left me alone for about ten seconds and eyed me as I attempted to sit down. Five seconds after that a smiling blond French woman came toward me with a metal detector. "You can have the sunscreen!" I said in my mind. "You don't need sunscreen, get burnt!"
"Where did you get your pants mademoiselle" she said in French.
I panicked, "H et M." That was a lie! They're American made, GAP.
My mind flashed questions: Do they have firing squads in France? Did that door lead to their secret shotgun room?
"When did you get those pants?" she followed up.
"Yesterday," another lie. I got them two months ago.
Apparently I hadn't cut off the metal security protector mischievously hidden on the left inside pant leg. That GAP employee is laughing now as they think of their customers pent up in bag rooms at French super stores.
"You can go," I heard them mutter in disappointment.
"I can have my sunscreen?"
"Yes."
Exiting the death chamber the color in my face returned.
Is it warmer out here? My breath wasn't white as it left the confines of my lungs.
"What happened?" Concerned friend.
She hadn't eaten her tart. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.
Placing the crumbling crust, melting custard and sugar coated fruits onto my tongue, I thought, "French pastries are worth the interrogation."
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
France---well, almost
I have just about 4 days before I depart for France.
Honestly, I haven't made a lot of time for myself to think and plan and all that. I mean, I made probably 10 To-Do lists. I've counseled my University Studies Abroad Consortium (USAC) packets an innumerable amount of times. There doesn't seem to be much more to do, yet I feel incredibly anxious and unsure and to be honest, a little scared. Obviously these are all normal and even natural feelings. Of course adjustment to another lifestyle, language and set of people to hang out with will be most likely trial and error. But, I imagine all will work itself out.
One thing that I touched on briefly while chatting with someone about my extended out-of-country experience, was the possibility for things like illness and death and all of that. It freaks me out to think of what could happen. Brian said that as far as that's concerned I shouldn't be with it. He's right, because it is true that even if I were in Iowa I'd have to come home. The only difference is a pricey plane ticket. Everything else will hurt just the same.
Anyway, there are certainly a zillion things I'm looking forward to. Examples:
1. French Cuisine
2. French Couture
3. French Culture
4. French Language
5. Travel & Adventures!
6. New people
Right now I'm just thinking about how much I already miss my friends who have returned to school without me. Plus, I think that working at my father's office has brought on a little boredom with life in Lake Forest. Not that it was ever that arresting.
On a completely unrelated note, I want a new computer. Mine is no good. However, this far I do not have the proper finances to afford the MacBook Pro. It'll have to wait as I'm planning to spend my cash abroad.
If any of you don't already have my mailing address feel free to shoot one my way.
Brigid Marshall
C/O Robina Müller
Bureau 136 Faculté des Lettres
Université de Pau
64000 Pau, FRANCE
Au revoir mes amies.
Honestly, I haven't made a lot of time for myself to think and plan and all that. I mean, I made probably 10 To-Do lists. I've counseled my University Studies Abroad Consortium (USAC) packets an innumerable amount of times. There doesn't seem to be much more to do, yet I feel incredibly anxious and unsure and to be honest, a little scared. Obviously these are all normal and even natural feelings. Of course adjustment to another lifestyle, language and set of people to hang out with will be most likely trial and error. But, I imagine all will work itself out.
One thing that I touched on briefly while chatting with someone about my extended out-of-country experience, was the possibility for things like illness and death and all of that. It freaks me out to think of what could happen. Brian said that as far as that's concerned I shouldn't be with it. He's right, because it is true that even if I were in Iowa I'd have to come home. The only difference is a pricey plane ticket. Everything else will hurt just the same.
Anyway, there are certainly a zillion things I'm looking forward to. Examples:
1. French Cuisine
2. French Couture
3. French Culture
4. French Language
5. Travel & Adventures!
6. New people
Right now I'm just thinking about how much I already miss my friends who have returned to school without me. Plus, I think that working at my father's office has brought on a little boredom with life in Lake Forest. Not that it was ever that arresting.
On a completely unrelated note, I want a new computer. Mine is no good. However, this far I do not have the proper finances to afford the MacBook Pro. It'll have to wait as I'm planning to spend my cash abroad.
If any of you don't already have my mailing address feel free to shoot one my way.
Brigid Marshall
C/O Robina Müller
Bureau 136 Faculté des Lettres
Université de Pau
64000 Pau, FRANCE
Au revoir mes amies.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
1,000 Beats Per Minute
Yeah, that's how fast this summer seems to be going. I can hardly believe how quickly May, June and now 1/2 way through July, have gone. Everyone is getting ready to move out of their current place of residence onto another venue to place their weary heads. And here I am, doing the same, but I don't even know where I'll be resting this next semester, or if I'll even have time to.
So far almost everything for my semester abroad has arrived. The only things left are:
1. obtain a visa (long stay, student visa)
2. find out who I'll be living with (for my home stay)
Plus a few left over dollars have first to be earned and then paid.
I'm starting to become really nervous actually. I told my friend Megan that I thought I'd be a terrible French person and the epitome of all things horribly American. She laughed and said I had anxiety issues, and basically, I'll be fine. So what if I have slight anxiety, I mean, who wouldn't? But it's the good kind, the kind that's justified, because everyone's a little scared of the unknown, but not everyone's willing to try it out.
Studying abroad is a pretty good step in the direction of living fearlessly, and I'm really excited for it. But of course, things will continue here, and when I return many things will have changed, but for now, I hope that not everything changes. I'll really miss life here, and it's a good thing that I recognize that now. The only thing that makes it rough is there's a life I'll be leaving on hold.
So far almost everything for my semester abroad has arrived. The only things left are:
1. obtain a visa (long stay, student visa)
2. find out who I'll be living with (for my home stay)
Plus a few left over dollars have first to be earned and then paid.
I'm starting to become really nervous actually. I told my friend Megan that I thought I'd be a terrible French person and the epitome of all things horribly American. She laughed and said I had anxiety issues, and basically, I'll be fine. So what if I have slight anxiety, I mean, who wouldn't? But it's the good kind, the kind that's justified, because everyone's a little scared of the unknown, but not everyone's willing to try it out.
Studying abroad is a pretty good step in the direction of living fearlessly, and I'm really excited for it. But of course, things will continue here, and when I return many things will have changed, but for now, I hope that not everything changes. I'll really miss life here, and it's a good thing that I recognize that now. The only thing that makes it rough is there's a life I'll be leaving on hold.
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