Happy Thanksgiving

First off, sincerest apologies for last week's blog. In a fleeting moment of "I miss America" syndrome, I got a little bitter. Then I remembered that I was young, healthy...just all around lucky to be alive...and I gave myself a good kick in the ass. Now that's the american spirit.

Luckily things immediately looked up in my life; otherwise you might have been subjected to yet another self-pitying entry that subsequently would make you want to jump--or push me--off of a bridge. First of all, there is nothing a few illegally downloaded episodes of my favorite american TV shows can't cure. Michael Scott and Blair Waldorf along with my new pal Sue Sylvester could literally rouse me from a coma. Second, there is nothing like Paris at night. Well, let's be honest. There is nothing like Paris plus a little booze at night.

Saturday I met up with a french friend I knew from study abroad and we proceeded to prendre un verre (get a drink...or three). Anyways, after a few verres, I went to meet Kate for dinner. Feeling sisterly, I decided to give my sister a buzz while on the metro. Well what do you know? My charming accent (NOT!) attracted the attention of a beau french guy.....and okay, okay I admit, maybe I was not-so-subtly eyeing him (who said subtlety was my strong point??) Well, as luck would have it, he transferred metros at the same time as me and struck up conversation...!! I just hope he didn't notice my happy as a pig in shit/I'm buzzed grin.

Needless to say, the rest of my night was equally lively. Kate and I found this great little bar where I could actually get a martini (not dirty but hey, I was in a forgiving mood). I may or may not have tried to buy a drink for a man who confessed he was married but...that is a different story for a different day. And by that I mean never. So my night was a success; I succesfully banished that funk I was in and I remembered why I loved it here.

So before I talk about the main event I have to tell you this little anecdote. So I was just (like fifteen minutes ago) pulling in the driveway with Eliott and these two huge---and let me emphasize the fact that they were HUGE---dogs came out of nowhere. I almost hit one with my car. They jumped onto my tiny Panda and frankly scared the shit out of me. This, for those of you that know me, may come as a surprise to you. I love dogs. I practically have a special language for my two dogs who are known for sleeping on my pillows next to me when I'm at home. Anyways, before I creep you out...I couldn't get these dogs to go away and was too scared to open my windows and yell because my car is so low to the ground that they could have easily jumped in. I finally managed to pull in the driveway and called Alain for...moral support? Brute strength? I'm not sure exactly, but these dogs weren't about to leave and I had to pee for goodness' sake! Next thing I know, he comes charging out of the house (I'm still laughing about this image and just had to relocate to finish writing so he wouldn't think I was crazy) with a huge stick and runs up the driveway yelling at them, his stick breaking in half and the dogs successfully scattering. At this point, I was laughing so hard tears wear rolling down my face and Eliott was looking at my like I was crazy. Maybe I am. I know this can't be nearly as funny to you but it gave me the best laugh I have had in weeks.

And now........Thanksgiving! It's Turkey Day and don't you worry about me, I'm having Thanksgiving dinner! It is my favorite holiday of the year and I can't tell you all how bummed I am to be missing it in the states with my family. Few things compare to a day devoted to family and eating absolutely delicious food. I love being gathered in the kitchen with our small Thanksgiving group, cooking, tasting, eating, drinking; basically just waiting for the main event. I can almost smell my aunt's scrumptious greens and mom's squash soup....mmmmm. But alas, this year I will not be there to partake in the eat-til-you're-comatose fest.

So the next best thing--well two things--is a.) the store Thanksgiving in Paris and b.) takeout Thanksgiving dinner from a french bistro sympathetic to all us Americans in France on Turkey Day. Yesterday for the price of a small child I bought a box of Stove Top and cranberries (my favorite dish on the big day...weird, I know). They also have other rarities that are only made in the U.S.: peanut butter, Campbell's Soup, Lucky Charms, cream cheese, good candy. Tonight I am headed to Kate's to eat a Thanksgiving meal with her french family. While it won't compare to the real thing, it will feel nice to be gathered with friends on a holiday that's meant to be shared with those you love. Anyways, I hear french turkey is better than american turkey. But then again, the French would say that, wouldn't they?

Happy Turkey Day everyone! Remember how awesome it is to be with your family today (I may have shed a tear or five as I wrote this on the train...) and give thanks for all that you have. Love to you all!

Lithium

I've been less than motivated these last few weeks. It's winter (read: cold, cloudy, rainy), school SUCKS, and I miss home (Note: this is me complaining)! Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. For anyone under the illusion that life in glamorous Paris is...glamorous, let me shed a little light.

My life is dreadddddfully normal. To the point of painful. For example: this morning I made the kids breakfast, unloaded the dishwasher, reloaded the dishwasher, saw them off to school, and came home. I can't go in to the city today because Zoe has a half-day. So what am I doing? Tidying the kitchen, reading a cookbook, making homemade spaghetti sauce. Gag. It wouldn't be so bad if this was the first time doing this. But it's not. On days when it's too rainy or I'm too lazy to go to Paris, I comfort myself the only way I know how. With food. I cook anything and everything (and if you have an image of me sitting alone and devouring a sheet of cookies...well I'm not that pathetic...yet. I cook for the family!!) I can now make mouthwatering homemade brownies (not that box crap), a savory poulet basquaise, wild mushroom soup, stuffed tomatoes, tarte tatin, and the list goes on. All without recipes.

As you can see, my brain is aching to be used...and no, I didn't ever think I would say that. I can now relate to all of those 1960's lithium-drugged housewives; I too find myself laughing at anything (or nothing), going home early "to do laundry", making pies, and perpetually cleaning something. The only thing wrong with this picture is that while doing all of this I'm not pleasantly high on Lithium!!! Kidding.

So I came here to learn french, and I am, I can't complain about that. But I need an outlet. Something to do with myself besides reading the Escoffier (France's cooking Bible), visiting museums and seeing movies. I unfortunately have to go back to school next semester--I stopped going this semester because it was painfully easy, painfully long, and a general waste of time--but I know that's not going to satisfy me either. So I'm on a search...for something...anything....all ideas welcome.

And that's the state of affairs. Sorry if that was a downer but I had to vent to someone! Don't worry about me though, I'm never unhappy, just unsatisfied.

In more normal news, I came across the most anti-american french person yet this weekend. And she was five. After Eliott's birthday party, Zoe had a friend come spend the night. This girl absolutely hated my guts. And for no reason other than my nationality. I swear! At dinner she told me that I was mean (I hadn't yet said anything to her), to go home, to leave France, to clear my plate and go to my room, and that I was not allowed to live here anymore. Talk about a verbal assault. Unfortunately, fighting with a five year old is a bit...juvenile, and I kept quiet (wasn't easy...). Who knows what inspired such hatred from such a (deceivingly) cute child...all I know is that she won't be coming back here anytime soon.

Well--it's the heure de chercher Zoe at school...yippppeeee.

Until next week.

Franglais

My command of the english language has really declined. I find myself forgetting how to spell a collection of miscellaneous words like specialty, marvelous, and brazilian. The french have a beautifully descriptive verb (because they have about ten that mean stutter), balbutier, which describes someone who doesn't know a language very well and thus stumbles over his/her words while speaking. I balbutie now in english and french. It's terrible. I have to stop in the middle of english conversations to think of a word I probably learned in kindergarten. A recent message to an american friend here read: "I have a mad rhume which means I'm going to stay in with the kiddies and me coucher". The franglais disease has hit me. If you are an american living in France, you know what I'm talking about and you don't want it. It's the most cliché of ailments and it's a bitch to cure. If there is ever a phrase that's oddly put together or a word that you've never seen...well, you know why.

I have a second set of communication problems with the kids. I teach them (as much as I can before wanting to kill myself) english, but they also learn at school three times a week. This has both helped and hurt my attempts. If you have ever taken a foreign language class and then gone abroad, you learn that 90% of the stuff you learned is never said by native speakers. For example, learning how to say "this is the most delicious '97 Bordeaux I have ever tasted sweetheart" is much more practical than that "at the supermarket I buy apples, steak, and milk" crap. So I try to teach them what real english-speaking kids would say. Stuff like "who farted?", "don't pick your nose", and the lyrics to "I Gotta Feeling". That is the kind of stuff that will serve them well in the future. Right? Eliott got in the car a few days ago and said (in french) "I had English today!". I asked him what he learned and he replied (again in french...what's the point of learning english if you describe what you learned in french??) "oh we learned how to talk about OB'z". Huh? I was lost on this one. They learned how to talk about OB-GYN's? That's a little advanced for a 3rd grader. "OB'z?" I said. "Yea" he replied, "you know, like the things you like to do". LIGHTBULB. "OH! Hobbies!!" I shouted, looking back in the rearview mirror. They learned how to discuss their hobbies. So I asked him to tell me something. "I...like..ze..uh, no, I like tennis". Très bien, non?

In reflecting on stuff I've written about I realized that I haven't clued you in on the magnificent french tradition of strikes, or grèves. In the U.S. we sometimes have "strikes". Groups of people will stand outside their work place with signs and picket or unions will make a fuss about something. But never, ever, has a U.S. strike inconvenienced the general public like those in France. Since I've been here we have had two or three train strikes. The first time was miserable. I had to drive to the station that's farther from my house than the one I usually go to, I had to park a half mile away, and I sat on the ground in the aisle of the train for my forty minute commute. It also, for a reason unknown to me, makes the metros slower. Things are congested and people are grumpy. In general it is a less-than-pleasant day when there is a strike. So Monday and Tuesday there was a strike on two lines that run through Paris. Luckily I didn't need to take either one; that fact, however, didn't prevent me from suffering the consequences. I heard the metro arrive when I was walking down the steps, so like a mad woman I ran, pushing people, and burst through the metro doors. I took a seat, thanking God that I hadn't missed it. Well, the doors weren't closing and we weren't going anywhere. An announcement let us know that because of a mouvement social there were some delays. A social movement?!?! A social movement isn't supposed to prevent me from being so late that I can't grab my now-routine Starbucks before class. I was pissed. That was only a minor inconvenience though from what I hear; sometimes the entire metro goes on strike and there are only one or two trains that run. Alain told me he counted near 100 people in a metro car once....

I hope I don't have school on a day like that.

So that's about it here in Chaumes. A pretty ho-hum week. Tomorrow I'm going to see Moby..should be interesting, and Saturday we're celebrating Eliott's birthday. We're going to faire du bowling (which is pronounced like boo-ling and thus caused me much distress when trying to understand just exactly what we would be doing). I am nulle at bowling, which basically means that I can't score above 30 with bumpers..should provide an interesting story. I only hope my hangover isn't too terrible. I can't imagine bowling with nine 8 year olds for four hours while fighting the urge to puke/die/sleep. Wish me luck.

God Save the Queen...and me.

I never would have imagined that spending time in London would be difficult--even more so than in Paris--for me. I mean, what's the worse that could happen, right? For chrissakes...I speak the language...

Well, as luck/God/karma would have it, my journey to the land of fish and chips, Big Ben, and Prince William (and his brother who is rapidly gaining on him in the looks department) started out on the right foot. I got to the train station on time, found my train with minimal searching (minimal meaning 20 minutes as opposed to an hour), and even made a few "train friends". The first new friend was a guy who approached me in the coffee line. "Where are you from?" he said to me. "China" I thought to myself while silently assessing his horrifically touristy outfit and admitting out loud that I was from Indiana. You sir, judging by your grubby tshirt with UConn logo displayed on it, must be from Connecticut. And in fact, he was. BINGO. He definitely fit the cliché american tourist bill...the one who tries to make the kind of friendly conversation with natives that is only acceptable in the blessed U.S. of A. I wandered off to join the queue while he was trying to make the african immigrant working in the café understand his little quip about wanting the beer keg one of the workers had in tow all to himself. So clever sir.

While waiting in line I almost punched a Brit. Let me explain. It was raining that day and there were announcements in the station about being careful. One of the annoucements warned that the quai was wet and to be extra cautious so as not to fall. Well this British guy behind me--stereotypical to the max--says, "Oh, must have been an American that fell". Excuse me sir? I had to reign in my patriotic desire (even I get those!) to stifle his terrible northen England accent. As a wise soul puppet once said, "America! Fuck yeah..."

So let's fastforward to London. I get there and head to the Underground station to go to my hotel. I have my little homemade itinerary with Metro directions and everything! I'm a big girl. I hop in the tube and wait for my stop. When the train stops at Green Park, however, the doors don't open. What do you know? There is a fire alarm going off in the station and the tube can't stop there. Unreal. So absurd that it has to be true. I get off at the next stop with my oversized suitcase--because I didn't have a normal sized one and I'd rather wheel around 30 pounds than not have 20 clothing options for each day...--and wander around looking for clues. I see a big tour bus with a map on the side and approach it, desperately searching for the route to Half Moon Street and my hotel. Not much help. Tired of looking around like a lost kid in Kroger, I start off in the direction where lots of people are walking.

Maybe not the best idea. I finally suck it up and walk up to to a lady waiting at the crosswalk to ask for directions. "Excuse me mam", I say, "do you live here in London? I'm looking for Grosvenor Place". As she turns around, I notice her eyes look a little..weird. A slow sinking feeling of horror invades my body. I HAVE JUST ASKED A BLIND WOMAN FOR DIRECTIONS. Oh my god, oh sweet Jesus. "Ergh, uhh, nevermind" I stutter, choking on my own mortification. I run down the street, my coat dragging in the mud.

After wandering for another twenty minutes and dropping my coat two additional times in a puddle I break down and go to buy a map. The only map shop in the vicinity, however, will not accept credit cards and I (of course) have not exchanged any money. I plead with the store owner--some guy with a heavy middle eastern accent talking on his cell phone--to give me directions to Piccadilly. He tells me to walk straight, cut in front of Buckingham Palace, and then make a left. Dragging my suitcase across the cobblestone and making an unbearable racket, I head towards Buckingham Palace. Now I'm not sure what I was thinking at that point in time, but Buckingham Palace is not exactly the best place to be dragging a three foot, 30 lb suitcase. There are tourists everywhere. I guess I was just determined. I set off across the big circle, at this point sweating like a pig, and discover that there are about 5 paths that lead to the left. All of them park paths. Which one is the correct one? And more importantly, I'm going to have to drag my suitcase through a frigging park? I find a park map and choose one of the paths; naturally it was the uphill one covered in huge wet leaves. Twenty minutes later I found my way onto Piccadilly, and eventually to my hotel...right across from the station I should have gotten off at.

The next day my grandparents arrived. Man was it nice to see familiar faces! They were visiting London as part of a guided trip put on by Elderhostel based around England's secret service agencies. Now I'm not sure how old you have to be to go on Elderhostel trips, but there were a few decrepit sons-a-bitches (as my dad would have said). My grandparents were by far the most youthful couple! Way too young for the group they were touring with. After they arrived, there was a scheduled tour of the area and I decided I would tag along to catch up with them. The group as a whole had an average speed of about 1.5 miles an hour...and that was a pretty brisk clip. I even mistook one of the guys in the group for being homeless and crazy. Harsh? Maybe. True? Definitely. I heard the doorman at the hotel snicker at me as I left with the group.

All in all London was good. We went to see Billy Elliott, I did a walking tour and met some cool kids my age, had a few great meals, etc... Like I said, it was so great to get to see family. I couldn't help noticing, however, that I was looking forward to being back in France. Not that I want to dread coming back or anything, it's just that it's becoming "home". At least for now. Getting back to Paris was a breeze and Caroline and the kids came to pick me up at the train station. Zoe and Eliott were thrilled (honestly!) to see me--which of course never fails to make me happy--and talked a mile a minute at the same time about their week. It always feels good to come home...even if it is the french version of home.