Happy Holidays!
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.)
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.
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