16 Days and Counting!

Being one who aspires to live for today, I usually try to focus on the moment, here and now. But JUNE! Students and teachers alike across the Northern Hemisphere must feel my pain and agree that June is the slowest, hottest, ickiest, stickiest, most antagonizing and desperate of months. One can't help but dream about how great July will be, lament that it isn't here already, and count the days, hours, and minutes until it gets here!

I have been spending my days dragging myself from cup of coffee to cup of coffee to nap, living for my evenings (spent avoiding sleep with a book or my favorite news websites) and weekends, which are always over too fast, even when I skip Friday, like I did last week. June weekends are all about reconnecting with friends I don't want to lose after we part, and making sure I exploit the locales (Lyon, the banks of the Sorgue, the patch of grass above the Rhone my friends and I have shanghai'd from couples in love) which I will miss terribly the second they're out of my reach (well, except for Lyon). And it's only the 14th! Not-quite-but-almost halfway through this hellish nightmare. I am dreading everything about the next two weeks: packing, showing off my apartment to possible future residents (um, doing my rental agency's job???), shutting down accounts, getting my mail forwarded (can/do they even do that here???), working (ugh! still! i'm not clear yet!), cleaning, throwing things away, checking out of my apartment (what will she say about my broken bed and window?), and not to mention (dramatic pause and inhale): saying good bye to the people who have made this year...well, what it was. I won't complain too much, c'est la vie, after all. And I will shortly have Carcassonne, Biarritz, surfing, and eventually Cambodia with my dad to keep me occupied.

In honor of this impending change, things France has taught me (or rather, things I feel I've learned, or learned better, in the past year; France doesn't deserve all the credit, not a chance):

• How to be alone and like it. I love curling up with my computer or a good book (or a good miniseries!) for hours on end.
• How to be well-informed. What am I doing for hours on end online? Browsing Slate.com, thedailybeast, (in addition to MSNBC and CNN) or other people's blogs for the latest in news and opinions. Listening to the latest podcast of NPR's 'Wait Wait Don't Tell Me.' Crying if the internet wigs out. (Credit goes to Whitney and Steve for turning me on to these)
• That teaching is hard. And (probably) not for me in the long run.
  
• That being an American is cool again, or more accurately, that I enjoy being an American (thank you Obama and crew, Jon Stewart & Stephen Colbert, staples in my life as much as any 'real' news, and no thanks to Sarah Palin). Also, being an American gets you things, like border crossings within the EU where you should have had your passport but didn't...
• How to cook...a little. I can sautee veggies, boil noodles, use herbes de provence on everything, and make a bravas sauce. It's a start!
• That I'm not going to be friends with everyone I meet. Obvious. But still, a lesson driven home a lot recently. It pays to be discriminating: the good friends are REALLY good, and worth the time, effort, energy, thought. The others...will always be there, and are not worth getting too worked up about.
• That fresh market produce is always, ALWAYS better. Worth the difference in price. Worth planning out my shopping a little better (ok, I'm still working on that second part).
  
• That Oregon isn't inherently bad just because I'm from there. I'm really excited about coming home in the fall.

Annette, new and improved, everyday.

The Way We Live Now (how are British mini-series one of my favorite things about my time in France?)

Eerie when a British mini-series based on a book written in 1875 seems to be describing The Way We Live Now. Anthony Trollope's novel of that name about the Ponzi-scheming swindler Melmotte* seems to be the fictional inspiration for the real-life Bernie Madoff (at least from what I've read about Ponzi schemes and Madoff). One character even accuses him of being the cause of the suicides of some prominent financiers. Melmotte sweet talks and bullies his way into people's pockets, taking the money meant for a Salt Lake City-Veracruz railway (which struck me as a stupid idea anyways...go west! not south!) for himself while all the while attracting new investors and pushing stock prices up, up, up, insisting that profit, not charity, is the driving force of humanity. Your obligation is to make yourself rich, he says, and that will improve the world more than charity ever could.

Melmotte's M.O. was to close down shop and move on before anybody realized they'd been fleeced. In London, he gets especially power hungry and obsessed with becoming a real English gentleman, decides to run for an M.P. seat, wins (his speeches are scarily persuasive, of course), and thus ends up staying in one place too long. People start getting suspicious, and in a move that I thought was arbitrarily moral (he's been stealing people's money this whole time, after all), he fumbles the forging of his daughter's signature but gives up trying, knowing his getting caught is impending. What does he do? He commits suicide, rather than face prison and public humility. And then a young and foxy Cillian Murphy, who had been fuming that the railroad wasn't actually getting built, got his railway anyways. The American, Mr. Fisker puts it simply, probably even with a shrug of his shoulders: this is how things always work out, the first wave of investors get screwed, but the money from the second wave actually gets routed to the actual project that was supposed to be funded all along.

What the?!?! After watching this, I am as wary and suspicious as ever of stocks and bonds and money that I can't touch or even visualize (futures trading? Does any layman understand that?). Is this how the world works? Nothing risked, nothing won, I guess, but I think I'm going to stay away from anything other than a mattress (or maybe a Swiss bank account) to store my money.

The Way We Live Now was deliciously unsettling and off-balance throughout; I was always stressed about characters trapped in different perilous situations. The ones about to lose all their money. The two girls with the playboy Felix who was just using both of them but skates by with no consequences. The crazy pioneer American woman, who once shot and killed a man who betrayed her (where? Orygone, of course!) who ensnares. Women who dare put love before marriage, and others who succomb to put comfort and position ahead of love. And a young and foxy Cillian Murphy to top it all off. (Eowyn and Moaning Myrtle also show up!) Definitely worth a gander.

*An anachronism, I know. Charles Ponzi was circa the 1920's. Why aren't they called Melmotte schemes? His name is too reminiscent of a cuddly cross between a marmot and a muppet? 'Ponzi' just has a slightly more crazy and posh connotation? 'They' (whoever they are) wanted to name the scheme after someone who actually lived and screwed over real people?

A Good Day

Didn't Peter Mayle write a book, that eventually became a movie starring Russell Crowe, called A Good Year? (Answer: yes...oh that omnipresent Peter Mayle! He's everywhere here in Provence. I don't think I'll be able to read any of his stuff until I'm old, immobile, and have nothing else to do but romantically reminisce about my fabulous year in Provence-I think it'd be overload to read him now)

Anyways, my life on Sunday reminded me of this movie I've never seen:

The day started out bleakly: grey and too early. Steve, Zandra and I caught a 9am bus from Avignon to L'Isle, where we wandered around the infamous market and got drenched when the foreboding clouds finally burst. Then we disgruntledly tromped out to one of my teachers' homes, where we picked up her car which she generously lent us for the day to discover the nearby countryside. But only after drinking coffee and chatting it up with her for awhile, and learning that Provencaux are pretentious bastards, and the main reason she's so nice and friendly and welcoming to me is because she's originally Parisienne. (Suddenly, much about the last 9 months makes sense...)

Gordes
We made our way to Gordes, one of the most beautiful cities in France (according to themselves, of course, and some official list). We ate our picnic in the car because it was still drizzly (spicy olives, bread, goat cheese, strawberries, apricots, does it get any better?). We walked around. I saw a snail.

Rousillon
Known for ocres (ochre? ocre), brilliantly bright red/orange/yellow sand/dirt from which they extract fabric and paint dyes. We couldn't have planned it better: just as we were walking through the ocre park, and commenting on how it felt like we had been transported out of France, the sun decided to gloriously appear, making the breathtaking natural wonders even more breathtaking.

Apt
Underwhelming, but we stumbled onto some carny-infested, teeny-bopping, ghetto-ass fair in the middle of town, complete with a D-level parade with pirates on stilts, the Marquis de Sade, and an olive princess that entertained us for a time (yum churros).

Bonnieux
A drive-by photo-op, but I can say I've been there, done that!

Lacoste
Ditto.

Faire le stop
To top it all off, we got the car back to Dominique, a queen among women, right around the time the last train was leaving for Avignon. Let it get us down? Never! Zandra proposed we hitchhike the 20-odd kilometer trek, and so we did! The first guy took us only to the next town over, the second guy (originally from Reunion, an island off the coast of Madagascar) took us almost all the way, and then a young woman (about our age) drove us to the city walls. We are rockstars! Then we made enchiladas and watched some more of the greatest miniseries of all time: Angels in America.

Today Robyn (American baker) drove me and a Japanese pastry chef interning with her husband for a few days around Les Alpilles, and we checked out Les Beaux. Hooray for checking things off the list! Now I just need to get to the Chateau d'If (I've been here going on 9 months and still haven't gotten down there!), and I'll be content.

Christmas in the Northwest/Traveling vs. Living

There's this really cheesy song my brother and I love to make fun of...the chorus says "Christmas in the Northwest, it's a gift God wraps in green." Well, it's true. While I was running (who are we kidding? jogging slightly faster than normal people walk) around L'Isle today I noticed a LOT of trees and plants and bushes and things that are much greener and fuller than 2 weeks ago, let alone 2 months ago. Winter gets pretty bleak and bare around here, even though it's sunny *most* of the time...don't let them fool you! Provence can still be ugly...mistraaaaaaaaal!!!! (accompanied by an angry-old-man-fist-shake) I realized that I'm used to green winters...when you're surrounded by coniferous trees, they stay green, even when it's cloudy and rainy for almost 9 months of the year. I guess it's give-and-take: sun and bare trees, clouds and full trees. I don't know which I prefer, I just know what I'm used to.

On another note I'm SUPER stoked to be heading to Cambodia in September to visit my dad, who retired there a few months ago (and not, as I had believed, in Thailand...apparently they're like, 2 different countries?!?!?). I'm a little disappointed that I'm only going to have 2 weeks and 2 days there, and then I was like: "Shut up Annette! You're going to BE there at least, you whore!"

I think I've realized in this that I prefer 'living abroad' to 'traveling.' Traveling usually involves lugging a lot of luggage around, rushing, stress. Living somewhere usually means you get MORE of everything. Recent examples include but are not limited to: random hiking adventure with some teachers once, getting to know the GREAT American baker in town, tutoring, free kayaking with Steve, meeting the US Consul General in Marseille (and NOT when she's having to negotiate me out of jail or something...that would just be awkward), sunning by the rivers, becoming regulars at the hippy co-op cantine and getting shushed every time we go, oh and did I mention almost all the under-12s in my town worship me? It's a rough life...

Why Americans are in France...why am I here?

There are different reasons why young college-aged and/or 20-something Americans come to France, and maybe I'm being unfair but I've noticed a few stereotypes running about (note--there are dozens of other reasons older-than-20-something Americans find themselves in France too...marriage, retirement, what have you, but I don't care about them here and now...they're old!):

• the art/history student - Western Europe is where it all happened, so of course they would flock here, but sometimes they're too obsessed with the Middle Ages, Gothic architecture, the Impressionists, or 16th century this-that-or-the-other-thing to realize that France is also a modern, 21st century power player on the world stage. They are enchanted by the chateaus, cathedrals, art and little villages from literature and Disney movies they came here to see, but are shocked and disenchanted by factories, blue-collar-people, autoroutes, immigrants, inefficient bureaucracy and sometimes-uncomfortable-politics (if and when they ever bother to pay attention). Also consumer culture (McDo, familiar brand names in the supermarket for sometimes double or triple the price) they find too imitative of America and somehow diluting of the 'Frenchness' of France.
  
• the language student - These people are the ones who, when given a 'choice' between French or Spanish back in middle school, (where was the Japanese, German, Latin, or hell, nowadays, Mandarin?) picked the prettier, higher-cultured option, such as they perceived at the time. French is the language of love, great literature (Hugo, Dumas, Flaubert, Balzac, Zola), and intellectuals (Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre, Proust?), while Spanish is (or was, by a stupid pre-pubescent me) stereotyped as a language for the working class, maids in hotels and produce-pickers in fields and orchards. How could Spanish ever come in handy on the West Coast of the United States? (HA!) These people were stubborn, and now find themselves working towards or having earned a college degree in French, which, unless they have their sights set on teaching French (and some of them do), they are at a complete loss as to what to do with it. They're hoping to figure this out in a French-speaking country, where they use their mad language skills to get directions, buy groceries, and every once in awhile, discourse with an actual Frenchy on life, the universe, and everything, or just the best music out there.
• the backpacker - Armed with a best friend or two, a backpack, their 'Europe on a shoestring' Lonely Planet, a Eurail pass, and an overly-ambitious itinerary, these people come through 'Europe!' usually in the spring or summer for anywhere from 2 weeks to a few months. These people sometimes have conversational French under their belt, but most of the time rely on their mastery of English (the new lingua franca!) to get them by. These people are annoying to those of us lucky enough (or proactive enough, or brave enough, what have you) to be staying in one place for more than 3 nights. They spend their time getting drunk with the new international friends they've made in their hostel, and hardly ever get the chance (or make the effort) to connect with 'locals' as they're rushing about checking off sites, sights, and whole countries from their To-Do Lists. If they're female, they usually do their part perpetuating the commonly-held belief that 'American girls are easy,' and if they're male, they usually do their best to get as much 'exotic' European tail as possible.
• the Hollywood starlet, hotel heiress, or chart-topping diva (Natalie Portman, Paris Hilton, Beyonce, do I really have to spell it out people?) - swinging through Paris or the Cotes d'Azur for a film festival or just a fab weekend, on their yacht and with their entourage and paparazzi in tow, and really, who am I kidding? Like I'm rubbing elbows with them, or believe they're experiencing any more than the 'amusement park' version of La France (I can talk about it like this, because I'm a resident). Anyways, they're kind of off my (and any) radar, really.
  

Sometimes you can tell some things about people by the length of time and reason that they're here, or that they've stayed here; study abroad students, language assistants (read: temporary underpaid workers, on weird temporary visas), married or PACS'd or divorced ones (but they came, or stayed, for some loved one), U.S. Foreign Service Officers, working here in an official, well-paid capacity, (has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?), and other random reasons...

Of course these categories are fluid, and not exclusive. An individual can identify with multiple caricatures simultaneously or at different points in their life/Europe experience. In fact, I hope it's become clear that I have been at one point or 'tother a little bit of each of the aforementioned caricatures. So what do I think sets me apart from these 2-dimensional stereotypes? I've usually gone with the idea that I'm only in France because French just happens to be the language I studied, through high school and college, par hazard, and that if I had studied something else and stuck with it, I'd be in that (those) countries (and when I studied Spanish, which I'm planning on picking up again someday, I did go live in Chile for 3 months). But what if there's more to it: what if (gasp!) I actually do feel some sort of connection/affinity to this country? Not that that would be the end of the world, it's just not how I have understood my relationship to this place to date.

It is easy, natural, nay, perhaps even impossible not to fall in love with France (bias, bias!): for all the reasons above, plus the wine, the cheese, the bread, the joie de vivre, the fashion!, the seemingly never-ending parade of (often Catholic) holidays from work, even the social welfare state (depending on whether you're paying tons of taxes or benefiting from said taxes...I'm hoping to be on the receiving end...come on CAF and the aide a logement!). It is a deeper and purer, realer affection I and some close American friends (Whitney, Steve, Zandra, Jennifer) have for France. We love it for the obvious reasons, and the not-so-obvious ones, and in spite of the hassles that arise: even when French lovers are faaaaaaaar less than fantastic (or too persistent when their attentions are unwelcome), even when incompetent whores keep you running around for months for your carte de sejour (green card), even when old ladies on the bus refuse to even try to understand what you're asking them, even when it's raining and mistral-y (read: really windy) in Provence (which was supposed to be sunny and gorgeous 24/7/365, wasn't it?), even when the majority of music on the radio is bad French 80's, or cheesy English/American 80's (seriously, when it comes to some things, the French seem to be culturally 20 years behind), even when restlessness and worrying about the future threatens to overtake your present contentment, even when your accent's laughed at and your kids are making you feel guilty for sleeping through class the week before!

I also think I've actively resisted "loving" France, just like I used to resist improving my French accent...I spoke horrible French because I'm American, why deny the fact? But just as Jay and a fabulous Phonetics class convinced me to at least try (even though I still have an accent tres fort), I'm finally coming to terms with the fact that I love France...even if that superficially lumps me in with all the aforementioned yahoos at whom I look down my nose. But now the question becomes: do I love it so much I feel the need to stay? Do I love it just enough to return and retire here someday? Or will it just be a favorite vacation spot throughout the years? In that vein, is the way I feel about France the same or similar to how I feel about the US, and my family and friends there? I love it and them, but that doesn't mean I feel the urge to settle down there, or see my family everyday, or even every month, yet. I've got many more international adventures in me yet...

Little Town Life

When I look back on my year in L'Isle sur la Sorgue...well let's just say I think I'll be rocking some metropolitan areas for awhile! Little towns would be nice if I had a family and a job/career and was looking to 'settle down,' but as a 23 yr old unattached adventure-seeker...well, I've found some adventures here, I suppose.

A favorite moment was last Saturday, showing a big group of friends around my town, and running into not 1 but 2, er, 'exes.' I see students I know on the street, at the pool, in the store, and what's worse, they see me, and feel the need to inform me that over the weekend they saw me by the river, or in Avignon, or running. I love being a celebrity with the town's under-12 population, but I always feel awkward when they explain to their parents who the stranger is they're saying 'hello' to.

And what would life be without a randy old PE teacher who tells sexually explicit jokes and all but propositions me, even though I've met his son and teach his grandson? At least he's cute, (retired pro soccer player!) and not creepy, like another teacher who always insists on giving me the slowest gooiest 3 kisses in greeting whenever he sees me, and then crows about how great it is to kiss me. Blech! HE looks like a bad guy in a cartoon: bald with a Hitler moustache, no joke. Would it be completely over the line for me to invite PE teacher out for a drink? I could say it's to celebrate his upcoming retirement this June...Annette, what's wrong with this picture? Or rather, how many things can you find that are wrong with this picture?

Then there was the awkward, never-ending, 'surprise' Tupperware party I attended...'just some friends getting together to make a meal' should apparently be read as ' 6+ hours of Tupperware HELL' from now on. Thank goodness my town has a bar! The sole bar in town, which I was explaining to some random French guy today that I know quite well. Last Friday night I saw a random American friend there with some guy she'd just picked up (who just got out of prison, no joke, though I don't know what for...), and left a note for the barkeep, which, being drunk, probably sounded a bit more explicit than I intended. Oops! ;)

I've also got to give props to my American friends just a short train-ride away in the 'big city' of Avignon. If I didn't have them to escape to, I probably would have cracked long ago. Last weekend included a Eurovision watching party (I voted for Germany, but Norway won...with good reason...I can't get that song out of my head even if I wanted to!), the most delicious picnic I've ever eaten (spicy olives, amazing goat cheese with pepper, fresh baguette, and cherries 3x as big as any other cherry I've ever seen in my life), and slaloming the Pont d'Avignon in a kayak with Steve, for free! I just went into my property manager's office today (whose daughter works at one of the schools I work at...did I mention it was a small town?) to figure out what I need to do in a little over a month to get out of here. Sad day! I know I'm going to miss this place...it's great to be adored by kids and their grandfathers alike!

I've been thinking alot lately about where my next adventure will be...who knows? Hopefully something will present itself! Until then, I'm cooking for myself (tonight was chicken, onions, broccoli in a white wine + herbes de Provence 'sauce'); making the most of random Catholic holidays (this weekend it's Ascension? Does that sound right? On the agenda: chill at swanky Olympic-sized private pool/lounge, eat hippy food, attend concert in the park, party with friends, make an appearance or two at the bar, among other things...); racking up credit card debt like I won't have to pay it off (and who knows? Maybe I won't...maybe the good Lord will call me back to be with him before I have to deal with that!); and SLEEPING!

What am I doing(/GOING to do) with my life???

I am not engaged, married, pregnant, or otherwise occupied at this point in time (having just celebrated my half-birthday, therefore on the cusp of officially being 23 AND A HALF!), which I thought was just fine and dandy, but after a few hours of solid Facebook stalking, I realize is quite abnormal (that is IF I suffered myself to compare myself to my peers...as IF!). I'm flabbergasted at the number of babies out there. And I'm STOKED that none of them are my concern...I have many adventures in me YET!

Relatedly, I've just spent the evening fretting...ruminating about what comes next (after the fabulous summer of au pair-ing, temporarily making a few kids my concern, but giving them back to their parents at the end, wherEVER I end up). Current rambling thoughts:

• crosscountry roadtrip with the brother, Oregon via the Grand Canyon to Alabama (or wherever he'll be posted) come late September/October.Ish.
  
• use mom's connections to land some sweet administrative assistant gig in some law office in Portland (earn $, pay off bills)
  
• ditto to the above except in San Diego
• apply for the Peace Corps
• apply for the JET program (or some other English teaching in Japan for the 2010-11 schoolyear)
• find some English teaching gig in SOUTH AMERICA (Argentina, Chile, Peru, whatever could hook me up and that I wouldn't have to pay to be a part of)
  
• work part-time at a private high school outside of Santa Cruz teaching English next schoolyear (I sent in my resume, the dude responded positively even though I'm pretty sure I'm just short of 'dreadfully' underqualified, and said it would be a few weeks...a few weeks ago...I'm going to send a follow-up-I'm-still-interested-and-commited type of email to see if that's still a possibility)
• start a hippy-esque commune somewhere, with all the cool artsy friends and cousins who are in similar boats as me
  

Or some combination of the above. My brain is currently spinning. I was also just indulging in one of my not-so-guilty-pleasures: drooling over international relations grad schools websites...my enduring dream is American University in D.C., but I started looking at Georgetown's website (and who are we kidding? Georgetown IS the #1 int'l relations school in the country), and I'm like: Annette, you SO have what it takes to rock THAT! (Positive self-talk: oh yeah!) I'm currently in a half-stressed, half-jelly state, alone in my apartment on a Friday night (but don't feel bad about that...I spent the last 2 nights in Avignon with friends and I need a break!) and I'm thinking: why do I do this to myself??

Provence and the Cote d'Azur with my mom

A whirlwind 9 days, involving many adventures, including (why do I always 'devolve' into lists? Or maybe I'm just being efficient and organized...whatever, it works for me, so, why mess with a good thing, right?):

• Cheap Chinese with friends! Who can argue with a delicious 5 euro meal, surrounded by the people you love?
• Ancient Greek theatre in Orange (one of only 3 in the world that still has its stage wall...the other 2 are in Syria and...somewhere else...)
• Buying WAY-too-expensive-wine in Chateauneuf-du-Pape (the classic "we were had!" tourist moment of which I always make sure to have at least one on any given trip...hey, the woman said her friend was friends with Sharon Stone and George Clooney!)
• Falling in love (on my part) with a strip of road inbetween Orange and Vaison la Romaine. OMG, I think I'll live there someday, humbly tending my hectares upon hectares of vineyard, with my big buff rugged vignoblier of a husband running around doing all the actual work, while I drink near half our product!
• The 'Infamous' Kayak trip from Fontaine de Vaucluse to L'Isle sur la Sorgue. Infamous because my mom and I fell in, and when we did (we didn't realize until later), the keys to the rental car fell OUT of my mom's swimsuit...we were stranded, no money, no food, no nothing, for hours, while we waited for a replacement car...hey, at least we were in a beautiful locale and got some sun!
• Massages at a super swanky spa in Aix-en-Provence. Bringing my mom's total experience of Aix to: a super swanky spa. And mine: one night out, never seeing the city in daylight, and the super swanky spa. Even though it was dripping with swank, the jacuzzi was tepid at best. We rocked the sauna, hammam, and chillaxing lounge (complete with headsets of calming music, comfy couches, a waterfall, a tank of fish, girly magazines, and handwipes(?)) before getting one of the best massages of my life. An iPod shuffle kept the chillaxing music going, and we smelled all coconutty when we were done.
• Nice! A cheese-meat-crackers-buckets of wine picnic in our hotel room with Colleen and Steve the first night, the three corniches the next! We zipped all over, including over the very same twists and turns where Grace Kelly crashed and died. We pealed out of Monaco (literally, burned rubber and made some police turn around and see what was going on), saw an old Roman monument, ate paninis in Cap Ferrat, a droolingly gorgeous 'almost-island' (presque-ile), and picked up some perfume from Grasse.
• The drive that would never end! Nice to Marseille, all along the coast. It took about 8 hours. It was all...GORGEOUS! The Cote d'Azur is where I was meant to live, I think.
• The Chateau d'If (of Count of Monte Cristo fame) wasn't open (bad weather conditions), so we took the ferry out to the other islands and had a pretty typical sunny-day-on-an-island afternoon: we ate sandwiches and spread my grandparents' ashes. All in a day's...vacation!
• Notre Dame de la Garde. In hindsight, we should have just taken a taxi (my mom's no spring chicken, after all). But, I was evil and made her hike all the way up! The views and the amazing mosaics were that much sweeter for it.
• More wine!

It was a fabulous good time! I was EXHAUSTED, and completely NOT ready to return to crazy little kids. Oh well, I'm keepin' on keepin' on, (even though I got my computer fixed yesterday, to the tune of 75 euros, and absolutely NONE of the files could be saved...6 years of college papers, pictures, and music...gone. I'm not as devastated as you might expect...I look on it as a cleansing, really...and I've got some hard-A on hand for when it really sinks in), and trying to make summer plans (I'm thinking: au pair for a cool family, by the beach somewhere...oh yeah...)

The Night of April 18th (Epic. Glorious.)

Saturday night the bar, (the Red Unicorn, the only pub in town), belonged to me and Ruth, NOT Olivier (read: next-door neighbor) and his posse of motherfuckers, Jean-Guy excluded. It was especially sweet because unless I'm planning on dragging my mom there next weekend to show her the seedier side of my life here, it was Ruth and my last time there together, (at least for the near future...never say never)! There were so many beautiful moments, beginning with the choicest:

• Suzy (Olivier's 17-probably-actually-just-16-or-maybe-even-just-15-year-old current lover? I could care less) storming off and out of the bar, just a few minutes after we arrived, really, never to be seen again, because I flipped her off. I also flipped off Carla and Jean-Guy. They didn't leave. Delicious. ;)
• Me singing Imagine with the singer guy, and another French song I didn't know, but could manage the chorus. On a mic, in front of my adoring fans, and Olivier, etc. Classy. Drunk.
• Me getting drinks bought for me, including once when two different men (a Dutch and a...Moroccan? Tunisian? Some sort of North African) each bought me a round and plunked them down in front of me at the same time!!! As Alison would say, Fierce!
• Ruth seeing Olivier and Carla dancing real close and Carla giving me the evils, as if to say: "I've got him now and you don't," as if I care! As if I even noticed, (maybe more accurately: as if I can even remember! Ruth had to remind me)!

We owned. We killed. The night ended with me talking to the hot guy in black across the bar I'd been making eyes at for a good portion of the night, realizing even through my very drunken haze that he was definitely not worth it, and leaving, no numbers or names exchanged. Nothing. Then Ruth walked me home and I slept a glorious night alone. It was amazing. I didn't get out of bed the next day until 4-something. I loved it, even with a hungover headache. I'm off the men for awhile, except the gloriously hot Latin ones who come in my dreams...imaginary men are something I can deal with.

Written on a bench on one of the islands in Paris proper

Paris is the city of lovers. I think for this reason I will pointedly never bring or have (take?) a lover here. Casual sex, maybe (if I haven't already decided that I'm already over that, that is).

I am awesome and capable. Of getting myself to Paris. Of taking care of myself while Daniel's at class.

Before I came today I was thinking I was over Paris. I guess I thought living in a tiny town in Provence (population: approximately one city block in Paris) had gotten me over those old romantic ideas of Paris. But now I'm here again and it's...Paris! And I'm jealous of Daniel's casual use of the Jardins du Luxembourg as the place where he runs, of his Paris metro commute, of his nonchalant discoveries of places to eat in his everyday walks through the city. Neither of us would want to live here, in the big, permanent, install yourself sense of the word, but for a time, (6 months for him, now; a year or so; a post (!) in the Foreign Service) it would be positively delicious. I found myself completely annoyed with a girl, upon her emergence from Shakespeare and Co., gushing that she'd checked off "buy an old book in Europe" from her bucket list. Annoyed that she called this 'Europe;' annoyed that she feels the need to have a 'bucket list' at her age (probably about 17); annoyed that she used the term 'bucket list' (damn facebook notes); annoyed that she probably didn't do the buying, as she was with two older ladies, one presumably her mother. But then I thought about my first time to Paris, with Miles and madre, and I shouldn't be mad at stupid tourists for being...stupid tourists. They should be allowed to be completely bowled over by this place (Paris, in this specific sense; anywhere, in general), without assholes like me walking around feeling superior to that. We're all tourists at some points. And I'm not saying that I'm not loving this (Paris); I was just revelating (musing) that Paris still has this magical hold and power over me, 'still' I use so flippantly, like a handful of times and days here makes me an expert, a one 'in-the-know.' What I am saying is that I want more: more than just a week-end here and there, but less than a lifetime. I want Daniel's experience: Paris, (and France, and anywhere popularly revered that's not your home) doesn't become less magical the longer you're here, but it does become different, deeper. Memories get layered on top of each other as you walk by famous buildings and monuments not just once, on a week's vacation, but everyday, or often. Experiences in the place are less singular, more habitual, but no less fantastic. There's the key: to keep the awesomeness always at the forefront of the experience, letting things become everyday but still being awed by the whole thing. I guess we shouldn't just do this when living in ridiculously fabulous places like Paris or Provence, but when we are living everywhere, becuase we are living, and that is fantastic. Live everyday, but don't become a robot. I soulnd like some sort of poet (lyric? that guy who wasn't married to Simone de Beauvoire? Daniel informed me: Jean-Paul Sartre? beatniks?) but whatever. Maybe it takes living somewhere other than your home, being alien, to realize this and other things.

Some books (think beatniks, Kerouac, Burroughs, Alan Ginsberg, Hunter S. Thompson) shouldn't be bought new, in some new, un-original, packaged-for-the-masses, publisher's paycheck bullshit copy. It just doesn't seem right: it doesn't fit their spirit. Am I right here? (I'm not sure). And unrelated, I'm really glad my budget prevented me from being (going) weak and buying the current New Yorker at Shakespeare and Co. for 7,90€. I would have enjoyed the shit out of it, and at the least it would have made a good story, but now I'll just have to settle for the good story of what could have been, and read what I can (for free) online. The newspaper/magazine industry is on it's last legs anyways. I'll use the money to buy a drink and toast the industry. (I spent 10,90€ later for one pint of beer later that night...who won there? The cafe? The beer distributor? Definitely not. The print industry? No, not that either. Me? Hell no. I got had, in all every tourist sense of the word. But I liked it. Sort of).

I'm not well-read. I could be better-. Working on it. Sort of. Always. Unfinished. Work in progress. We're complete when we're dead.

Note to a Neighbor (who'll never get it)

All I wanted tonight was for you to come over and be polite and social. For 5 minutes. True, part of the reason I texted these 3 (French) (boy) friends (who I just met in the bar last week) earlier this evening was because I was with you and your friend at his house and I (just a teensy weensy bit) wanted to make you jealous. I don't know why you didn't come over tonight (because you were busy 'composing' or 'mixing' or whatever, so you said), but I hope (is it sick and wrong for me to hope this?) that you were just a teensy weensy bit jealous. Good. Welcome to my life the last few nights over the last week or so that I've felt obligated to hang out at yours with you and yours and felt like I was fighting back tears the whole time. I am SO over you, but it took last weekend with an opera, cheap Chinese, and really, really good friends to make me 100% all-the-way-over-you-FOR-SURE sure about that. So I don't understand why you couldn't come over for all of 5 minutes tonight like a friendly neighborly neighbor-friend should have. And would have. I'm not angry, or sad, just...you should have come over. I went to your friend's tonight. It's only fair. Anyways, these new friends were only just short of fabulous. I'm hoping that some good times are ahead. A new group of friends (almost my age, in this tiny, full-of-old-people little town) would be refreshing and healthy and help me to mix things up a bit. You're not my life, and never were, as ego-stroking as that would be for you. I just got back from HOURS of hanging out with other friends than you. Playing petanque in the dark, and the rain, and drinking wine, and moving on, WITHOUT YOU! I wish that you felt a teensy weensy bit of what I do, (DID! that's all over now!), but I know you (most likely) don't. But maybe I"ll just pretend that you do. That could work. Asshole. I even taught you that word, 'asshole,' in English. I wonder if you realize how applicable it is to YOU! I hope so, for mine and all your future girls' sake. Asshole. I feel better after this, which is the only goal. See you soon.

Current Favorites

• Book - Naomi and Ely's No-Kiss List. At times a little too consciously hip New York trend-tastic, but at times just what I'm needing right now: people making too big of a deal about middle-school-esque drama. Delicious.
• Music - Deezer.com, where I nerdily made a playlist modeled after a mixed CD one of the characters in aforementioned book made for another one. This is what happens on a 12 hr/week work schedule. Also listening to the Deezer radio stations exposes me to new French and other music. Current faves are the Pep's and Kelly Clarkson's new song.
• Inanimate object in my apartment - my new yoga mat! 3.50 euro at Decathlon outside of Avignon. It's not of the highest quality, but it is of higher quality than my bare dirty floor, so I'm working it out. On the mat.
• Animate object in and around my apartment building - the funky-colored pigeon, who seems to be well socially-adjusted and in with the other pigeons, despite his black and white spotted head, blue and green chest, and normal-pigeon-colored body. Go him.
• Job - mine. The kids are so friendly and amazing (no less than TWO kids picked spinach as their favorite food yesterday...freaks...). My kids are doing a carnaval throughout the town this afternoon, and I kind of want to install myself along the route to watch the parade and wave at them. All the teachers are worried about losing kids to strangers, shiny objects, or a precarious moment when two groups will cross paths in the Place de l'Eglise.
• Beverage - wine. Duh. Even I'm beginning to be convinced of the fact that I'm an alcoholic (drinking almost every night, even when alone, even when others around me aren't drinking, referring to alcohol as my "medication," and polishing off a half liter of the stuff by myself at the cheap Chinese place Sunday night in Avignon, while watching an old man sitting by himself doing the same thing...vision of the future). Second fave boisson: coffee. The only way I can show up to work.
• News outlet - Slate.com. I get all my real news, fake news, and opinions on current and past goings-about in the world here. Approximately half of my conversations begin with the phrase: "I was reading an article on slate.com about..." Hey, anything that makes me a more interesting person...
• TV (er, online) Show - Weeds. I want that to be my life. Sort of. Yes to the California, no to the kids, yes to all the cocktails those ladies drink, no to the scary housing development and bitchy housewives, yes to the sensamilla, no to the run-ins with rival dealers, police-like figures, and bullets. It sounds like I want to go back to Santa Cruz...I found a job announcement on Craigslist Santa Cruz the other day to which I'll be sending in my resume and letter of motivation...hey, why not? Keeping my options open.
• News outlet/TV Show - The Daily Show. I can't not give it its' props, though I don't bother watching it all that much.
• Reason for living - seeing my mom at the end of April, tooling around Provence drinking wine, seeing sites, drinking wine, eating the fine cuisine. Second fave reason for living: the prospect of a cross-country (the USA) roadtrip with the brother come autumn. We shall see...

Condiments

I have recently been having a love affair with condiments, putting them on just plain bread or disgusting sandy cookies or pasta or just my fingers and calling it good. I never gave condiments much cred, but as it turns out, they are the glue of our lives, pulling dishes together, making them better and special, turning blah to delicious, and breaking up the mundanity of it all, (and when I don't have an oven or even a toaster, I need to take advantage of any way I can be creative with the food I eat, or else it will all end up tasting the same).

Favorites include raspberry jam (a.k.a. crack), Dijon mustard, forte (strong, which is more similar to Wasabi than bright yellow American mustard), Tabasco (I think the general lack of spiciness in France has driven me to finally try and fall in love with it...I put it in soup last night), a sweet Mustard with sugar from Germany that I tried yesterday at "German breakfast," where a German and an Austrian cooked sausage and potatoes, and, of course, the king-daddy of all sauces: brava sauce!

It comes from a tapas that I discovered and fell in love with in Barcelona. It's basically a combination of everything good and delicious: ketchup, mayonnaise, tabasco, paprika, thyme, and sauteed onions. So far I've put it on fried potatoes (patatas bravas, the original dish from Barcelona), pasta, ble (wheat stuff), canned corn, bread, my fingers...

Cooking. As long as I'm only working 12 hours a week, I figure a sizable amount of my time can be devoted to learning how and trying new things.

Credit Crisis

I went over the limit on one of my credit cards. They charged me a huge fee, but a few weeks later, (today) I noticed that they had significantly raised my limit. Woo hoo! Travels in Europe!

Another credit card felt my "total bankcard balances are too high compared to credit limits" and therefore decreased my credit line. Hmm...which credit company is being more responsible, and which one is perhaps playing a significant role in this credit disaster? The one putting limits on their clients, or the one giving more and more credit to people the least likely to pay it back?

I don't care. Mama's getting a new pair of shoes!

Zandra Annette Barcelona

Scene 1. Fenouil a vapeur, (a hippy "association," not a restaurant, that serves organic foods and is only open Wednesday and Sunday nights) the night before the trip. Zandra and I are eating, drinking wine (at least I am), hanging with friends and listening to great music.

Scene 2. The bus, Day 1 of the Barcelona adventure. Our bus driver, a long-haired, earringed Spanish Jesus figure drives us through pretty towns like Beziers and Girona, when he's not taking a 40 minute lunch break. That shit would NEVER happen in Chile. There's always 2-3 drivers who take turns driving and sleeping in the creepy little bed underneath.

Scene 3. The bus, at the Spanish/French border. Stupid Annette, thinking the EU was now a borderless zone, forgetting her passport! The French police scare her at first, threatening that she may have to stay there. In the end, the American card worked for her, and she was allowed into Spain for a weekend of debauchery. Correction, it's not just the American card, it's the white-American-girl card. If I had been black or middle eastern, I would probably have been kicked to the curb at that point. It's not fair, but I'm going to keep using that card as long as I can. One of these days it's not going to work, and as in Russian Roulette, I'm going to be shit out of luck. Thankfully, that day was not Thursday.

Scene 4. Super swanky hostel, Barcelona (except our room smells like vomit, thanks to a 16-yr-old Belgian the night before, we learned...I will forever after have a prejudice against Belgians who brag that they can hold their beer, but can't). Enter old friend Simon-from-Wales, and his friend, Allye-from-England. Enter Tim-the-Australian, and 2 Italians (though they really come into the picture the next day). Five of us (Zandra, me, Simon, Allye, Tim) and 2 bottles of wine, meet Paul from San Diego, a 21-yr-old pub crawler (well, I guess his official title is "Tour Guide"). We decide to go on his pub crawl, which involved one cool bar, (called Nevermind, with skateboards on the wall, chalk writing on the ceiling, flaming shots called jagstangs, and empanadas), 3 dead ones, and a "club" (Paul's definition of a club does not coincide with my own. In his definition, a "club" = a bar + really loud music + huge area for dancing + 4-5 other patrons, most over the age of 50). Also, somewhere in there I bought some street beers, and felt good for getting a deal (3 for 2 euro). The guys who sell street beers will also sell you other things (hash, coke), if you have the money. I MEAN, if you're into that kind of thing. Sheesh! At some point I also smoked a whole cigarette by myself. Which is not normal, or good. Oh well, when in Barcelona! We all get very drunk, and then proceed to take pictures of ourselves on a "roundabout" (Australian speak for merry-go-round). No kebabs were to be found at 6am, so we had to settle for gas station "food." On the way to the gas station, Zandra got in a fight with a tranny, and has a shiner and a bruise on her chin to show for it. Spanish trannies!!! (accompanied by an angry-old-man-fist-shake)

Scene 5. The next day (Friday). Eau-de-puke scented hostel room. The day consisted of sleeping, Zandra being sick, and chatting with Tim. We didn't leave the room until 7pm. (I didn't see Barcelona in the daylight until the third day I was there. Living it up Spanish-style. Or vampire-style). We head to a tapas restaurant for typical tapas, and plenty of sangria. The 2 Italians in our room come and join us. Simone and Matteo, bio-medical engineering students, or some such nonsense. Then we meet up with Pedro, a Portuguese dude who couldn't couchsurf host Zandra and I, but could take us to a few cool bars, including one where I had my first pisco sour in years. In Chile we would pay $2 for a pisco sour. Here I paid 6 euro. It was nostalgic. Then we went back to Nevermind, for flaming shots, and two French bitches were bitches. I wanted to punch them, but I didn't. We called it an early night, catching the last metro home at 2am-ish.

Scene 6. Saturday. Zandra and I wander around the neighborhood around our hostel. We eat some tapas on the street (and I have some sangria, of course). We see La Sagrada Familia, but hell no was I going to pay 11 euro to go inside it. Then we catch a train to Salou, where Simon and Allye got a sweet off-season deal on a resort. We drink sangria on the beach, then make a dent in a 5-liter jug of wine, as we watched the Spanish competition to determine who would be Spain's entry in Eurovision (read: completely and utterly ridiculous)! The next morning we sleep for awhile, wander around the town, then eat paella and baby octopuses. Then Zandra and I catch the train back to Barcelona, and in true stupid American girl fashion, get the train ride for free, because we couldn't buy the tickets beforehand and the conductor would only take cash, and the woman in the station pretty much just let us go. 11 euro saved! We found the Magic Fountain that Simon had told us about, but in the winter it doesn't do its magic on Sunday nights. Bastards. Zandra and I wander around the city for awhile, then eat more tapas, where exactly half the bill were our overpriced sangrias. Then we wander into our hostel at midnight, because we're cool like that. Then the French skaters return to the room at 2am (SO not as hardcore as us), and start kicking the lights (which automatically turn off at 10:30pm, and since they had been there all weekend, they should have figured this out).

Scene 7. Monday. The bus. Again. So uncool it's hardly worth mentioning, as it took a few hours more than it was supposed to. And this busdriver was a major chode.

So there we go. Barcelona. Didn't see much, but I had a great time!

Waiting...and waiting...and waiting...

Being forced to slow down in southern France has got me thinking about a lot of things lately, most notably life and what I want it to be. I think up to this point much of my life has been waiting. Waiting to graduate from something. Waiting to hear about a scholarship application, or an application to something (college, study abroad, this assistantship program, Fulbright, etc.), or to figure out what the next step will be. Waiting for the weekend, waiting for the summer, waiting for the next adventure, waiting to see if he really likes you, or not. Waiting to collect enough accolades and qualifications to apply for the next dream job. Waiting waiting waiting. Next next next. But if you're waiting, you're not living. That's one thing France is teaching me. All I've got is right now. Tomorrow might not happen, I might die, so why spend the whole time waiting? Living is the thing to do. It's not about where we're going, it's about where we are. What does it mean to live life to the fullest? Trying not to worry, refusing to be distracted, refusing to dwell, being present. Loving. What is that? Daring to feel? It's time to make things happen for myself, to think about the future but not obsess about it, and to not be in a hurry everywhere I go, but soak up the sun and enjoy what I can see. Youth. Beauty. Freedom. Love. Don't overthink. Don't worry too much about what you accomplish and what you don't. What is a great resume, if it wasn't lived well and loved along the way? When you die, you're dead. That's it, it's over, and what's going to have mattered the most? That you killed yourself to appear successful and amazing, or that you filled your life with contentment, every day along the way? These are the present musings...

My life, soap-opera speed

In the last 2 weeks, my life has exploded with drama. I've been having a lot of firsts, for example:

• my first official 'boyfriend' (the title was more according to him and his friends than to me)
• my first official break-up, from aforementioned 'boyfriend.' On Valentine's Day. I'm a bitch. I feel that's an experience everyone's gotta have once in their life. Barbie and Ken apparently broke up on V-Day in 2004, although I must have been on some other planet (read: college) to not have known that.
• the first time I've ever juggled two boys at once: nice, generous, 'older' gentleman 'boyfriend' with a job v. really hot, same-aged, reggae-listening, musician next-door neighbor (can't argue for convenience)! 'Boyfriend' didn't win that, obviously.
  
• the first time a tutoring client majorly came onto me. Not true. I've been propositioned, well, this'll be the 3rd time. Older single (and married!) French men in this tiny town seem to think that when a young American girl offers "English lessons," she's really looking for a husband, or at the very least offering sex. But I am strapped for cash at the moment...maybe I should have taken that 50 euro/hr offer to pose for a guy who claimed he was a photographer. I think I'll take my dignity this time around, thanks. But I guess this was the first time one of them declared his love for me...ugh. Honestly, all you single ladies, come to a small town in the south of France. Men will be crawling all over you! (my friend in another little town is living through similar stories, so there you go)
• the first time I skipped work (here in France) for reasons other than being sick (a.k.a. I just couldn't get my lazy ass out of bed last Monday). I felt really guilty yesterday when the kids were asking me what I had-the flu? A cold? I got out of it by mumbling in my broken French: "I don't know what it's called in French!" How do you say "a case of the Mondays" in French? Ah, fuck it!

Someday I'll look back on this all and laugh. Hell, I'm laughing now!

The Opera in Avignon

I have had a great week! Last weekend, Steve came out to L'Isle on Friday night, and then Whitney and Jenn came to visit on Saturday. Saturday night we went out in Avignon, then Tuesday night I went back in to Avignon for the opera! We saw Les Contes d'Hoffman, and it was in French, which meant I understood approximately 25% of it (maybe closer to 33%). Thank goodness for wikipedia the night before so I knew the general plot arch! It was so nice and so classy, even if we were practically on the roof, on really uncomfortable benches, and sitting right behind a woman who proceeded to fall asleep and snore VERY LOUDLY in the third act. Bitch! That night I saw my future husband in my dreams. He was tall, dark and handsome (is there any other way to be?), and amazing. He wasn't anyone I've ever seen before, but I think when I meet him (someday), I'll know him. It was nice. The next day Steve and I bumbled about and saw Les Noces Rebelles, or, in English, Revolutionary Road, you know, the one with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio. Oh, that one! It was fabulous, if horrendously depressing (we watched it dubbed in French so to be honest, I wasn't always sure exactly why they were yelling, but I could tell they were mad). It got me thinking about my life, and I hope I can realize some of my dreams, and don't turn into a holed-up housewife. But, I guess that remains to be seen. Then we went to Liz' birthday party last night where I drank copious amounts of wine and ended up confessing so many uncouth things I'm sure I would have earned the prize for "Most Shocking Revelations by a Party Guest," if such a prize existed. Then I slept in today (everyone was on strike, at least I'm assuming...), and made it back to L'Isle at around noon, just in time for my tutoring client. Then I dealt with some French bureaucratic bullshit (which is nothing out of the ordinary here), and then I did laundry, which usually sucks and it is honestly and literally one of my least favorite parts about life, but today it was different. TODAY, I put my laundry in the washing machine and it started on it's own. FREE LAUNDRY! Thank you, unknown, unseen benefactor, who bestowed a free wash on me! It was a bright spot, and if my week hadn't already been going splendidly, it would have been enough to turn it around! Tomorrow night, party chez moi, (I like how I invite my next door neighbor over and it transforms the evening from "Usual-Friday-night-fare-of-pre-funking-before-heading-to-the-one-pub-in-town" to a party)! Oh let me have my fun in my little town!

Out of Hibernation

Internet is lifeblood. I just got it in my apartment and I can't tell you how it's changed my life! Now instead of staring at each other across a game of cards, either Ruth or I are always online, facebooking or looking up funny videos of Russell Brand or reading about the Inauguration, or, if pressed, actually researching things to teach the little Frenchies, our charges.

The holidays were fabulous: highlights included seeing Simon, opening a bottle of wine as old as I was for Christmas eve, eating Christmas day dinner at the Four Seasons Hampshire, and watching bouncers break up no less than 6 fights on New Year's in Scunthorpe, (a.k.a. "deep" England). Class. It's how I roll.

Now I'm back in L'Isle, spending my time with my four tutoring clients, reading (just finished Le Compte de Monte Cristo in French, a mighty achievement of which I am quite proud), being sick (but on the up and up now!), thinking deeply about the future and what "the next step" is, or chilling at the one pub in town. Oh yeah, and I manage to actually work every now and again! Last weekend I got myself (and Ruth, by proxy) invited to a poker party chez some actual French people! It was quite fun, even though I lost tragically. I was mostly just excited to be in France and hanging with real Frenchies, which, ask anybody who's spent time here, is quite a victory!

Now I'm off to an Inauguration party in Avignon with some other Americans tonight, complete with hamburgers and champagne! Yaay Obama!

I'm alive

Not much to say here. Reading my book, drinking vin chaud ("hot wine," my favorite beverage in the world), picking up tutoring clients and trying not to be bored. Christmas in England, here I come! I owe you guys links to pictures from Tunisia, and updates...I'll get on that...sometime...