I. Plans for next year: DISCLAIMER obviously, as evidence shows, don't believe a word that comes out of my mouth until I actually follow through and move somewhere.
A. Brianne has decided to stay in Europe next year, ergo...
B. I will be moving back to the U.S. to work somewhere fun and exciting for several months and then...
1. Going work on farms in New Zealand
2. Meeting up with Brianne in India
3. Probably having another existential crisis about what to do next
II. It's time for another two-week vacation!
A. We just got back from a couple days in London with our friend Ian
B. Tomorrow we're off for two days in Paris and then six in Poland
C. Pictures to follow
III. My job here in France...
A. Is done at the end of March, though I'm staying in France through the beginning of May
B. Is going well, but using only a very small percentage of my brain power
C. Has allowed me to perfect the perfect French accent, but only in English
So in all seriousness: my apologies for falling so far behind on my updates. January was a month of crazy existential upheaval, February is half taken up by vacations, but in March I will be all yours. I promise photos and details when I return.
2.13.2009
1.29.2009
I strike, therefore I am French
I couldn't resist attempting to share with you one of the greatest French cultural experiences of all time, ranking right up there with cheap wine, baguettes, and cheese you don't refrigerate: the nation-wide strike. Today is the occasion of a very exciting "greve generale," or a strike in which all of the salaried workers in France are invited to participate. This means pretty much every public service is disrupted in some way: trains and buses, the police, airports, gas and electricity, and schools, since many teachers are on strike as well. (This is not to be confused with the two-week period in December when the high school students were on strike and barricarded the schools so that no one could enter or exit.) A lot of workers in the private sector are joining in too: cashiers, factory workers, and apparently many ski lift operators. Hundreds of thousands of French people have either taken to the streets en masse, or just decided to stay home and catch up on their soap operas.
When I walked through downtown Nantes this afternoon, I found myself having a little bit of a laugh attack seeing everyone marching/standing around in the streets, shouting slogans and drinking wine. There was even a marching band and - I kid you not - an accordian player to provide entertainment. And the funniest thing about French strikes is how they actually seem to be more efficient and organized than the normal, "functioning" French society. At the post office today there was a sign saying, "We are on strike from 1:00-2:30 and after 6:00." And even though many fewer trams and buses were running in Nantes, the transport officials let us know in advance what the adjusted time table would be, so that we could still get to our appointments on time. I love strikes that go out of their way not to actually inconvenience you.
What are they protesting you ask? It's sometimes difficult to say. Apparently this particular strike is concerned with the effects of the economic crisis. Which just goes to show you: an American's first reaction to a global economic recession is probably not to take up placards and take to the streets. But this is how change is made - or more often resisted - in France. When French people hear how seldom we strike in the United States, they react as if I'd just told them that we regularly employ indentured servitude. To them striking is one of the most important demonstrations of a free nation. To Americans, I imagine it looks like the French take an unaccountable pleasure in disrupting the functioning of an economic system that already makes do with a lot less efficiency than ours.
Then again, I suppose most Americans would be in awe of the fact that in France, Brianne and I can afford a two-bedroom apartment, fine wines, and weekend trips to London while working twelve hours a week and taking eight weeks of paid vacation.
Here's a picture to give you a little taste of our greve generale. And you can follow the link to watch a video of marchers in Paris. Happy Strike Day!
When I walked through downtown Nantes this afternoon, I found myself having a little bit of a laugh attack seeing everyone marching/standing around in the streets, shouting slogans and drinking wine. There was even a marching band and - I kid you not - an accordian player to provide entertainment. And the funniest thing about French strikes is how they actually seem to be more efficient and organized than the normal, "functioning" French society. At the post office today there was a sign saying, "We are on strike from 1:00-2:30 and after 6:00." And even though many fewer trams and buses were running in Nantes, the transport officials let us know in advance what the adjusted time table would be, so that we could still get to our appointments on time. I love strikes that go out of their way not to actually inconvenience you.
What are they protesting you ask? It's sometimes difficult to say. Apparently this particular strike is concerned with the effects of the economic crisis. Which just goes to show you: an American's first reaction to a global economic recession is probably not to take up placards and take to the streets. But this is how change is made - or more often resisted - in France. When French people hear how seldom we strike in the United States, they react as if I'd just told them that we regularly employ indentured servitude. To them striking is one of the most important demonstrations of a free nation. To Americans, I imagine it looks like the French take an unaccountable pleasure in disrupting the functioning of an economic system that already makes do with a lot less efficiency than ours.
Then again, I suppose most Americans would be in awe of the fact that in France, Brianne and I can afford a two-bedroom apartment, fine wines, and weekend trips to London while working twelve hours a week and taking eight weeks of paid vacation.
Here's a picture to give you a little taste of our greve generale. And you can follow the link to watch a video of marchers in Paris. Happy Strike Day!
1.13.2009
Put that in your king cake and smoke it
So since I'm sure you've all been on the edge of your metaphorical seats waiting to hear where I will be next year, I've decided that it's time to end the suspense. After a marathon of emotionally and intellectually confused conversations with Brianne, ending in a semi-epiphanic moment just two days after the actual Epiphany, the two of us have decided to spend next year in the United States working with Lutheran Volunteer Corps. This may come straight out of left field for some of you, so I'll try to explain. It's a long story, but here's the short version. After wrestling for a while with all the thoughts I talked about in my last post, I boiled down my dilemma thus: I knew I was feeling a longing for a long-term community, but also knew that when I imagined settling down somewhere right away, I experienced a strange sense of panic. And when I asked myself what specifically I was panicked about - in other words, what were the most important, essential things that I had to do for myself before I became a "real adult" and settled down - I came up with this: (1) doing some sort of "hands-on," non-academic work before making the graduate school decision, (2) experiencing environments that are entirely alien and therefore uncomfortable, and (3) exploring what it would be like to be a total free-spirited hippie.
And then I started to think that since the list of things that I want to do (Asia, South America, Russia...name a place on the map) is endless and inexhaustible, I had better start by working on the list of things I have to do or I will regret it later in life. And then if some long-term opportunity ever presents itself, I won't have to compromise essential parts of myself to accept it.
So the new, revised plan is to spend a year working with a non-profit through LVC, which will take care of the first step (and maybe little bits of the second two). And after that - and after working for/shamelessly begging for some money - I'll try to spend a few months WWOOFing and backpacking in New Zealand (#3), and then a few months wandering around/doing occasional work in India (#2).
I'll understand if you greet this announcement with a little bit of skepticism, given that - depending on when you last saw me - I probably recently told you that I was going to be in Chile, Peru, China, or South Korea next year. But I have actually completed my application for LVC, so that's a step in the right direction. And if you need a better reason to believe in our intentions, look no further than this picture of our own personal Wise Man, whom we found in our King's Cake (a traditional French dish for Epiphany) just a day before seeing the light. We credit him with overseeing our decision-making process.
If that little man isn't a trustworthy authority, I don't know who is.
And then I started to think that since the list of things that I want to do (Asia, South America, Russia...name a place on the map) is endless and inexhaustible, I had better start by working on the list of things I have to do or I will regret it later in life. And then if some long-term opportunity ever presents itself, I won't have to compromise essential parts of myself to accept it.
So the new, revised plan is to spend a year working with a non-profit through LVC, which will take care of the first step (and maybe little bits of the second two). And after that - and after working for/shamelessly begging for some money - I'll try to spend a few months WWOOFing and backpacking in New Zealand (#3), and then a few months wandering around/doing occasional work in India (#2).
I'll understand if you greet this announcement with a little bit of skepticism, given that - depending on when you last saw me - I probably recently told you that I was going to be in Chile, Peru, China, or South Korea next year. But I have actually completed my application for LVC, so that's a step in the right direction. And if you need a better reason to believe in our intentions, look no further than this picture of our own personal Wise Man, whom we found in our King's Cake (a traditional French dish for Epiphany) just a day before seeing the light. We credit him with overseeing our decision-making process.
If that little man isn't a trustworthy authority, I don't know who is.
1.07.2009
Auld Lang Syne
So I'm aware that I'm probably not going to get any sympathy votes by complaining about the difficulty of readjusting to my retirement-style work life in France. And frankly I don't blame you for doubting that it's a real hardship to return to a country with over 360 varieties of cheese and the highest number of guaranteed vacation days in the world. But even so, I thought I would try to explain why my return to France has been a highly surreal experience.
When I used to leave for my various studies abroad, it was always with the understanding that some sort of stable "real life," with my family or at Hope, would be waiting when my time away was over. I could go anywhere I wanted, because the metaphorical and literal anchor of my alma mater was holding part of my life in place: saving me a seat, as it were, in a community where I had long-term friendships, connections, and a continuous identity.
These past two weeks when I was home on break made me realize for the first time that that equation had changed. I was back in what was supposed to be my "real life," running around to spend as much time as possible with my immediate and extended family, my best friends from high school and college, and yet all that time I knew I was not returning to something solid and permanent; I was on vacation. And the amazing, all-too-short times that I spent with the most important people in my life were now going to become a sort of annual (if I'm lucky) treat.
Which I suppose makes what I'm doing this year in France my "real life": not just a little adventure to look for new experiences and good food, but the actual work that I'm doing and the real person I'm becoming. I had never thought about it that way. I mean, honestly, how can a year spent with the time commitments of a kindergartner seem like my real adult life? And if I do end up spending the next couple of years living abroad, how long will it be before I'm able to create a community like the ones that I've left - something that gives me a sense of being rooted and invested? I always knew that that was something I wanted eventually, maybe after a couple years of being a rolling stone. Now I think for the first time I'm examining the vertigo I'd be feeling in the meantime, that period of trying to maintain long-term relationships while still staying open to what's immediate and present.
Over vacation, my cousin told me what her college professor had once told her: at any given moment, we have an array of doors-of-opportunity open to us, but when one of those doors closes, it doesn't always make much noise. Sometimes we don't realize which doors have shut until they're already barred to us. I'd heard enough adults tell me that they regretted not taking some time away from stability and commitment to follow absurd dreams like (barely) working in France, so I knew that I wanted to give my own travel fantasies a chance. But my wonderful/spastic/confusing/amazing time with my family and friends has made me wonder if relationships are doors that can close too. Obviously there's no place in the world where I can have everyone who's important to me around me at once. But does putting more and more countries and more and more years between us mean that I'm choosing something more final than I realize? Can I miss the chance to have my closest friends stay in my life, or to see my brothers grow up? Or am I simply feeling a very normal, but unrealistic post-graduation nostalgia for college towns where everybody knows your name? Maybe I would be feeling this way no matter what I decided to do, and so I might as well be feeling it somewhere exciting.
So, in conclusion, I'm now enjoying the crazy ambiguity of having no solid idea what I'll be doing this time next year. And I'm hoping that as I get over the initial shock of realizing I've actually become an adult, the next couple weeks/months will give me some clues about whether I'm ready to start putting down at least short-term roots in work or graduate school, or whether I'm still feeling the wander lust for another year on the road. I'll keep you updated: New Zealand, South Korea, Chile, Chicago, Portland, Denver...almost everything's on the list at this point. Luckily years of watching Lost have cultivated my ability to rejoice in cluelessness.
When I used to leave for my various studies abroad, it was always with the understanding that some sort of stable "real life," with my family or at Hope, would be waiting when my time away was over. I could go anywhere I wanted, because the metaphorical and literal anchor of my alma mater was holding part of my life in place: saving me a seat, as it were, in a community where I had long-term friendships, connections, and a continuous identity.
These past two weeks when I was home on break made me realize for the first time that that equation had changed. I was back in what was supposed to be my "real life," running around to spend as much time as possible with my immediate and extended family, my best friends from high school and college, and yet all that time I knew I was not returning to something solid and permanent; I was on vacation. And the amazing, all-too-short times that I spent with the most important people in my life were now going to become a sort of annual (if I'm lucky) treat.
Which I suppose makes what I'm doing this year in France my "real life": not just a little adventure to look for new experiences and good food, but the actual work that I'm doing and the real person I'm becoming. I had never thought about it that way. I mean, honestly, how can a year spent with the time commitments of a kindergartner seem like my real adult life? And if I do end up spending the next couple of years living abroad, how long will it be before I'm able to create a community like the ones that I've left - something that gives me a sense of being rooted and invested? I always knew that that was something I wanted eventually, maybe after a couple years of being a rolling stone. Now I think for the first time I'm examining the vertigo I'd be feeling in the meantime, that period of trying to maintain long-term relationships while still staying open to what's immediate and present.
Over vacation, my cousin told me what her college professor had once told her: at any given moment, we have an array of doors-of-opportunity open to us, but when one of those doors closes, it doesn't always make much noise. Sometimes we don't realize which doors have shut until they're already barred to us. I'd heard enough adults tell me that they regretted not taking some time away from stability and commitment to follow absurd dreams like (barely) working in France, so I knew that I wanted to give my own travel fantasies a chance. But my wonderful/spastic/confusing/amazing time with my family and friends has made me wonder if relationships are doors that can close too. Obviously there's no place in the world where I can have everyone who's important to me around me at once. But does putting more and more countries and more and more years between us mean that I'm choosing something more final than I realize? Can I miss the chance to have my closest friends stay in my life, or to see my brothers grow up? Or am I simply feeling a very normal, but unrealistic post-graduation nostalgia for college towns where everybody knows your name? Maybe I would be feeling this way no matter what I decided to do, and so I might as well be feeling it somewhere exciting.
So, in conclusion, I'm now enjoying the crazy ambiguity of having no solid idea what I'll be doing this time next year. And I'm hoping that as I get over the initial shock of realizing I've actually become an adult, the next couple weeks/months will give me some clues about whether I'm ready to start putting down at least short-term roots in work or graduate school, or whether I'm still feeling the wander lust for another year on the road. I'll keep you updated: New Zealand, South Korea, Chile, Chicago, Portland, Denver...almost everything's on the list at this point. Luckily years of watching Lost have cultivated my ability to rejoice in cluelessness.
12.17.2008
Joyful Tidings of the Season
My last few days here in France before heading home for Christmas are turning out to be pretty busy (we hosted a holiday party last night with 11 different countries represented and with way too many bodies and voices for our tiny apartment), but I wanted to at least leave you with a couple of photos of our trip to Bruges, both so that you can sample the chocolately, waffley joy that is a weekend in Belgium, and so that you can join me in enjoying a bit of festive cheer. (Here in France, my students finally illuminated for me why it's harder to get in the holiday spirit: when I asked them after a lesson on A Christmas Carol if they have any traditional Christmas stories, songs, or movies in France, they described a movie about people who call a suicide hotline because they're alone on Christmas. They assure me it's a barrel of laughs.)
Happy Holidays!
12.08.2008
Me Sleep Pretty One Day
As far as sleeping habits go, I typically tend toward the insomnia end of the spectrum. In the past, I’ve had so much trouble falling asleep that I used to name presidents and square roots to try to throw obstacles in the way of my brain’s mad rampages of sleep-avoidance. I’ve also tried running through entire movies or books in my head scene by scene, much to the annoyance of many of my friends, who find my ability to playback Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings more of a nerdy tic than a charming social demonstration.
I’ve told you all of that to tell you this: when your brain has two different languages to ramble around in, sleeplessness becomes a whole new kind of irritating.
To explain: since I spend about half my days here in English and the other half in French, I haven’t been able to settle my thoughts into either of the two modes of expression. As a result, I now frequently say things like “I pay very expensive for this apartment,” and “But it will make them so much pleasure.” And even in the safety of my own head I have been known to think, “It’s not so bad, the cucumber.” In short, exactly at the rate that my French is not progressing, my English is also disappearing. My students asked me the other day whether we could say “She is too directive” in English, and I responded: “Yes. No. Ummmm...no?” Way to be, native English speaker.
And all of that means that when it’s time to fall asleep, my brain works itself into an even more frenzied state of frazzled when it finds it can worry in two different languages at once. I’ve taken to listening to my IPod at night to try to force my mind into English mode, but lately my party shuffle - which sometimes demonstrates a remarkable capacity to anticipate my musical moods - has started perversely throwing in each of the 15 French songs on my computer, out of what I can only assume is spite.
So now I’m trying out some different techniques to help coax myself to sleep. I’ve tried making myself a glass of warm milk, ploughing through pages of Henry James, and putting “Thundering Rainstorm” on repeat (take that, IPod, with your dirty Les Choristes tricks). I’m thinking about asking our neighbors to drive me around in their cars, which always worked well when I was a baby. And the next stop may be a medicinal glass of Bordeaux every night at 11, which is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
I’ve told you all of that to tell you this: when your brain has two different languages to ramble around in, sleeplessness becomes a whole new kind of irritating.
To explain: since I spend about half my days here in English and the other half in French, I haven’t been able to settle my thoughts into either of the two modes of expression. As a result, I now frequently say things like “I pay very expensive for this apartment,” and “But it will make them so much pleasure.” And even in the safety of my own head I have been known to think, “It’s not so bad, the cucumber.” In short, exactly at the rate that my French is not progressing, my English is also disappearing. My students asked me the other day whether we could say “She is too directive” in English, and I responded: “Yes. No. Ummmm...no?” Way to be, native English speaker.
And all of that means that when it’s time to fall asleep, my brain works itself into an even more frenzied state of frazzled when it finds it can worry in two different languages at once. I’ve taken to listening to my IPod at night to try to force my mind into English mode, but lately my party shuffle - which sometimes demonstrates a remarkable capacity to anticipate my musical moods - has started perversely throwing in each of the 15 French songs on my computer, out of what I can only assume is spite.
So now I’m trying out some different techniques to help coax myself to sleep. I’ve tried making myself a glass of warm milk, ploughing through pages of Henry James, and putting “Thundering Rainstorm” on repeat (take that, IPod, with your dirty Les Choristes tricks). I’m thinking about asking our neighbors to drive me around in their cars, which always worked well when I was a baby. And the next stop may be a medicinal glass of Bordeaux every night at 11, which is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
11.26.2008
Danke sehr, Deutscheland
So wouldn't you know that after driving without incident in every single major snowstorm in Michigan last winter, I would get in my first ever car accident during a light snow in Germany? It's so bizarre that I'm going to go ahead and give you the blow-by-blow.
To set the stage: Brianne and I had gone to visit our friend Verena in Neustadt for her birthday. After a nice afternoon in Strasbourg, a party with a bunch of Germans where we confirmed cultural stereotypes by being the only dancers on the floor for about an hour and a half (until German songs about big red horses turning around and swishing flies with their tails came on, at which point everyone except us got Saturday Night Fever), and a lovely day with Verena's family, Verena was driving us from her parents' house to her place in the Black Forest. We had literally just finished telling her about how many of our friends have had crazy accidents in the past year, when all the sudden a huge station wagon flies around the corner in front of us turned completely sideways. I think my irrational thought was "Man...that was really close" right as the car actually hit us. The air bags fly out, and I crack my way too long legs on the dashboard.
Almost before we had come to a stop, Brianne snaps into action: "Is everyone o.k. the car is smoking GET OUT OF THE CAR!" Of course it was actually only the fibers flying out of the air bags, which were flopping about rather ineffectually, but since Brianne has had two cars spontaneously light on fire while she was driving them, I suppose I can understand her reaction. In any case, Brianne jumps out of the car and into the snow with no shoes on, runs to the passenger side door where I'm sitting and flings it open, ready to drag me bodily from the car if necessary. Meanwhile my thoughts are running approximately thus: "Ouch. Shit. If my kneecaps are broken, I don't know if I have insurance in Germany." And unbeknownst to me, Brianne is thinking: "Don't die, because our French insurance doesn't cover the repatriation of remains!"
So we get out of the car, Brianne throws her coat on the ground and makes me sit down, tons of German people show up from everywhere and start asking me if I haben schlecht, and the driver of the car who hit us has lit up a cigarette and is staring into space while Verena cries and yells at him. I ask Brianne to get my bag from the car, which was really important to me at the time, and since she was pretty sure the car was going to explode at any moment, it was an act of considerable bravery to comply.
And the best moment of all: when I started pulling up the leg of my jeans to see how my knees looked, Brianne asked me, in what seemed like a decent suggestion at the time: "Should we cut your pants off?" But since I was wearing the only pair of jeans I own that fit me, I declined.
Anyway, all that to say that even though poor Verena's car is totalled, all three of us are fine, apart from some whiplash and bruising. Brianne's coming down with a cold after running around with no shoes, and I've experienced an increase in the crazy nightmares I always have anyway. And we're both very glad that we didn't have to learn the limits of our insurance coverage.
To set the stage: Brianne and I had gone to visit our friend Verena in Neustadt for her birthday. After a nice afternoon in Strasbourg, a party with a bunch of Germans where we confirmed cultural stereotypes by being the only dancers on the floor for about an hour and a half (until German songs about big red horses turning around and swishing flies with their tails came on, at which point everyone except us got Saturday Night Fever), and a lovely day with Verena's family, Verena was driving us from her parents' house to her place in the Black Forest. We had literally just finished telling her about how many of our friends have had crazy accidents in the past year, when all the sudden a huge station wagon flies around the corner in front of us turned completely sideways. I think my irrational thought was "Man...that was really close" right as the car actually hit us. The air bags fly out, and I crack my way too long legs on the dashboard.
Almost before we had come to a stop, Brianne snaps into action: "Is everyone o.k. the car is smoking GET OUT OF THE CAR!" Of course it was actually only the fibers flying out of the air bags, which were flopping about rather ineffectually, but since Brianne has had two cars spontaneously light on fire while she was driving them, I suppose I can understand her reaction. In any case, Brianne jumps out of the car and into the snow with no shoes on, runs to the passenger side door where I'm sitting and flings it open, ready to drag me bodily from the car if necessary. Meanwhile my thoughts are running approximately thus: "Ouch. Shit. If my kneecaps are broken, I don't know if I have insurance in Germany." And unbeknownst to me, Brianne is thinking: "Don't die, because our French insurance doesn't cover the repatriation of remains!"
So we get out of the car, Brianne throws her coat on the ground and makes me sit down, tons of German people show up from everywhere and start asking me if I haben schlecht, and the driver of the car who hit us has lit up a cigarette and is staring into space while Verena cries and yells at him. I ask Brianne to get my bag from the car, which was really important to me at the time, and since she was pretty sure the car was going to explode at any moment, it was an act of considerable bravery to comply.
And the best moment of all: when I started pulling up the leg of my jeans to see how my knees looked, Brianne asked me, in what seemed like a decent suggestion at the time: "Should we cut your pants off?" But since I was wearing the only pair of jeans I own that fit me, I declined.
Anyway, all that to say that even though poor Verena's car is totalled, all three of us are fine, apart from some whiplash and bruising. Brianne's coming down with a cold after running around with no shoes, and I've experienced an increase in the crazy nightmares I always have anyway. And we're both very glad that we didn't have to learn the limits of our insurance coverage.
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