I slept in my own bed last night. This is how I got there.
12/18 - 8:45 AM
I just unwrapped the present that my mere d'accueil gave to me just before we left the house this morning. It's a book: "Tintin au Congo." In this particular adventure, the iconic Belgian goes to Africa, where he encounters blacker-than-black skinned, bow-and-arrow toting savages clad in loincloths and frying pans. They all have Angelina's lips. Oh, France, I will miss your overt racism. I cried a little.
I'm on a train to Paris. It's snowing story book-style. I've been begging for snow for weeks; my host-mother regarded me with mild disgust. Even though it almost never snows in Nantes--or perhaps because it never snows--that woman loathes the snow. We're talking green, stealing-trees-from-Whoville loathing. For the past couple of weeks, I've waited for the bus in the frozen wind, forcefully blowing the air from my nostrils to separate the mucous-bonded nose hairs. But for what? For winter magic. It rained yesterday. There was no magic. There is magic now. Better late than never.
There are two men awkwardly positioned on top of each other near me. One is sitting perpendicular to his seat, his legs draped over his lover's lap, using the armrest as a pillow. The other has his scarf tied around his eyes; his lips are smudged against a denim knee, and his hand is wrapped around a denim thigh. When combined with the Owl City on my iPod, the adorability is enough to make a puppy dressed as a kitten explode. Unfortunately, the dark chocolate nature of this day touches this, too. I literally think my jealousy is making my temperature rise. I feel sort of queasy; however, that could very well be attributable to my last bowl of sugary-chocolaty cereal this morning. I'm going to miss that cartoon fox. Without his enthusiastic suggestions, I don't know if I ever would have gotten my five daily servings of fruits and vegetables.
One of them has really nice lips.
This morning's goodbyes were harder than I had expected. My host-father seemed indifferent to my departure, but I'm more certain than not that he'll miss my almost non-presence at the dinner table. I mean, with whom else will he practice his English in lieu of helping me develop my French? I'm not bitter.
Anne Marie kissed me and said, À Bientôt. She looked like Ralphie's little brother in A Christmas Story: bundled up from head to toe. Granted, I myself am rocking seven layers of clothing, if only to make my suitcase as light as possible. I would like to think that she and I forged a bond over the past few months, even if I’m not really sure what kind. I'm not family, that's for sure; we didn't decorate the Christmas tree together while my host-dad's jazz records played backdrop. But I was more than some ignorant American student, a nocturnal burden who ate too much. We had a thing. I made that woman laugh. Not just those laughs that come from misunderstandings, my answering "Oui" to "Qu'est-ce que" questions, for example. I'm talking real, non-pity chuckles that I can attribute to nothing more than second language wit. I made that woman laugh. And that's worth far more than Madame de Pousse's grammar final.
I just finished writing a letter, and my sleeves are saturated with mucous. People are staring.
12/19 - 2:17 PM
Against the white ground I could see the shadow of the plane rise as that tiny spark of adrenaline began to make my feet tap. The shadow got smaller and smaller as we went higher and higher. Then we pierced the clouds, and the almost-looming outline reappeared; this time, it wore a spectrum halo around its body. I'm above the clouds now, and the snow-caked earth looks like a toy. A man in front of me is reading Dan Brown (I'll pray for him later); a frat boy is reaching for something from overhead storage (most likely the latest Dave Matthews record), the elderly man beside me is number crunching a fucking sudoku. The clouds are making me sort of hungry. The plane is roaring. I'm going to America.
Paris was glowing last night. The massive tree in front of Notre Dame reminded us all 'tis the season. The nativity scene inside was a little creepy, and the absence of a baby Jesus (The French don't set him out until Christmas Eve) made it all the more unnerving. The Hotel de Ville had been veiled with violently blinking lights, the blues falling in waves like raindrops on a car window. The cafes and bistros were dressed for the season; icicles and garlands swung from the ceilings. I decided ultimately against sampling the daily drink special: Grog.
And in the center of it all, an ice rink. All was magic and cold as balls.
And we were starving. As Kelsey ducked into a tabac to purchase stamps, we noticed a sushi place just across the street. The television set above the bar was showing a nature documentary as we gorged on raw fish and fiddled with chopsticks. At one point a disgruntled boar began to mount what appeared to be a log and then commenced to go at it like he was getting castrated the following morning. Later a young piglet had to use the lavatory, which she did, while the camera guy zoomed in for a close-up. Ruth provided us with a commentary. The soy sauce was excellent.
Presently, the in flight entertainment system is experiencing "technical difficulties" - His words, not mine. I hope they get it up and running soon. I had my heart set on Dragonball Evolution.
After our stomachs had expanded considerably, half of the party decided to call it a night: Kelsey "Sweatpants and Uggs are a perfectly socially acceptable combination" Wolfe, Katherine "Tomatoes help your body better absorb the good fats from avocados" Braun, and Leah "It's Saturday, and I'm'a beat yo ass" Merchant hopped a train back to the hotel. Ruth "I've eaten at the original Chipotle" Campbell, Timothy "You know what's wrong with French people? They're French" Trabon, and my-"I really want to watch Dragonball Evolution"-self decided to risk bodily harm by returning to the ice rink we had seen earlier. After strapping on our skates and snapping some keepsakes, we took to the ice. Other than the reckless, jump suit-clad hoodlums who treated us like mobile pylons, it was simply grand: the trickling lights, the adorable couples pecking at each other like pigeons in a scrape for baguette crumbs, the fuzzy sweetness of a subtle buzz, the electric night air. My fingers were numb, but my insides felt like chocolat viennois. Even by romantic comedy standards, my final night in Paris--and France--was pretty God damn magical. Mickey Mouse would have creamed his bright red, high-waisted shorts.
After we bid Timmy adieu, Ruth and I took a moment before descending the metro. We spoke shortly about the past four months, about what we wanted to carry from it all. She hoped she would appreciate this experience--and France, in general--more acutely after she returned home. I said I hoped to better appreciate the little things, my family, my friends, racial sensitivity, and so on. We both conceded that we had, perhaps, neglected the higher contexts of France and our cultural immersion. But I wonder(ed): Could we have done anything differently? Could we have inspired in ourselves a more active appreciation for all that was around us by simply (or not so simply) acknowledging a then lack-there-of? She said yes. I said no. We stared at the dinner cruise boats that floated down below our feet, full of beef eating tourists wearing red and green sweaters. I thought I heard jazz music. Then we went down.
We were the only ones in our car. There was one man in the car behind us, but no one in the car before us. The ride was a sans-arrêt to Charles de Gaulle. We drank a free can of Orangina that had been handed to us on the street, and she talked about her friends. I recognized all the names. We talked about our childhoods; of her strict, active father and my relaxed, laissez-faire parents. She explained to me what a "ghetto sunrise" is, and the mood levels that correlate to its consumption. And then the lights went out.
My brother and I had watched a horror movie over the summer: Within the first five minutes, the metro on which two young lovers are fooling around mysteriously halts, the lights are cut, and an inconspicuous elderly woman sinks a long knife, concealed by a crucifix sheath, into the lascivious man's back. That was what I was thinking when the lights went out. It was awesome.
3:45 PM
The nice man over the intercom just informed me and my fellow passengers that we will be landing in Pittsburgh instead of the intended destination, Philadelphia. The number cruncher beside me sure knows some colorful swear words.
4:50 PM
Dragonball Evolution sucked.
5:10 PM
I ain't going to see my family tonight.
5:31 PM
Maybe I am. They're going to let us off the plane and throw us into the non-stop laughs of international claims. There are no more planes leaving tonight. Since I live a mere two hours from my current Winter Wonder-purgatory, my parents are currently en route to Pittsburgh International Airport. My dad seemed convinced that the roads would be manageable, and I can only hope that his judgment is fair. There are at least ten other IES student on the plane; my friend Julie was supposed to be on the same plane to Columbus with me. We were going to do the OH-IO cheer and everything.
8:12 PM
I’m sitting in my parents' Silverado. The whole gang is here: Momma and Poppa, my sympathetic brother behind the wheel, and Julie, whose friends will be picking her up at my house. We’re going home. It’s snowing.
12/20 – 12:02 AM
My home smells of baking. Momma has the entire house decked out for Saint Nick. There’s a pecan pie on the counter. Julie just left with two of her friends. Outside, all is black and white. My bedroom is cleaner than I left it. My stomach is full of those cheddar biscuits from Red Lobster. My bed remembers me. I think I’ll sleep in tomorrow.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Ignorant Thespian
My days and nights left in Nantes can be counted using only my fingers. And I'm wearing eyeliner.
I scrubbed for at least ten minutes, but Alexandra's steady hand and insistence upon coating both the inside and outside of my lids have forged a stubborn angst on my face. I would ask my mere d'accueil for make-up remover, but she's either asleep or critiquing the way my host-dad is sleeping. (Even though I truly adore my host-mom, she's the French Kate Gosselin with even worse hair. He uses the wrong spoon, she picks up the pieces of a shattered evening.) Plus I don't feel comfortable asking my mere d'accueil for make-up remover. Sometimes I ask her for a clementine. I asked to use her basket for the play. I don't want to ask her for make-up remover.
See, the best case scenario is Brandon Flowers. I could have a cool, new-wave, borderline-metro thing going on. (See video for "Mr. Brightside".) However, I fear that passers-by will simply assume that my parents got divorced recently, or maybe that I'm still bitter that Six Feet Under is no longer on the air. Which I sort of am, but that's not the point. The point is, I'm wearing make-up. And I need to shave.
To the astonishment of the cast, the audience, and (especially) the director, the play didn't suck. Madame Rouchet even said that this year's play was by far the best in the history of IES Nantes. That means a lot coming from a woman who has learned to repress all human emotion. I managed to remember all my lines, I got the chance to rock my new kicks, and I was a creepy-ass motherfucker throughout it all. Seriously, I went all out. The eyeliner helped, sure, but I would like to think that my internal menaces outshone my sinister exterior. I mean, I did a creepy voice and everything.
"Les Bonnes" is a certified mind-fuck of a drama. Since it would be too lazy for me to let Wikipedia explain the play's many complexities, I will present a brief synopsis: Older sister Claire and younger sister Solange work for the dramatic and eccentric Madame. When their master is away, the sisters perform a "ritual", in which Claire portrays Madame and Solange becomes Claire. In doing so, the two servants purge themselves of their acute desires to murder the Madame. The bulk of the play consists of back-and-forths between the role-playing siblings, and I don't want to ruin the ending for you, but it turns out that Bruce Willis was dead the entire time.
Thing is, there are only three characters in the play but sixteen unenthusiastic American students who wished they hadn't dropped Art History. Hence, drastic creative measures had to be taken in order to ensure that everyone had as many lines to memorize as possible. The solutions were more successful than not, and I got to be cool-creepy presenter guy. And not a chick. I wore suspenders.
Unenthusiastic.
Post-transformation.
And here, my sort-of host-family. My mere d'accueil Anne Marie on the right; Jean-Brice, the other étudient étranger I live with (and who gets a stand-up shower like a big person), to my left; and the tall kid is a random youth who dines with us every once in a while (named, ironically enough, Pierre).
The play was followed by a short reception of champagne in plastic cups and generic sugar cookies. My Literature professor was there, as were all my cherished chums. I certainly appreciated all of them coming out to support me/watch me make an ass of myself, especially since we all have our grammar finals tomorrow, and I'm certain few of them had even begun to review. Like me. The subjonctif can take a backseat for tonight. Tonight belongs to me and the Claires and the Solanges and the Madames. And maybe the lighting guy. He seemed nice.
After the reception died down and the champagne became room temperature, I decided to walk to Commerce and take the tram home. Not only was I up for a little alone-reflection time, I was really keen on eating up some bewildered French stares. I would be lying if I said these baffled double-takes weren't in my Top Five of French cuisine. The tram was surprisingly sparse, and the most I got was a The-Cure-concert-was-last-week sideways glower.
And, thus, the "lasts" continued. The play is over, my classes are no more, and four final exams are the only things keeping me tethered to this place. My insides persist to be at war with the mental conflicts of devolving into an ordinary American again, your-average-Joe with a Mega Gulp in his hand and the ticket stub to the latest Adam Sandler flick in his pocket. There are perks to this red-white-and-blue existence, most of which come full of guacamole and wrapped in foil. I guess I'm just going to have to find ways to make being an American in America more exotic, more meaningful. You know, without being a rapper.
It feels as if I'm going to lose something when I step on that plane at the end of the week. Not something meaningful, not something indicative of personal growth or maturity or healthy gums. It's something a lot more shallow, for show, like golden sleeves or a faux-hawk. I'm losing a title: study abroad student. I'm losing my exoticism. I'm losing the thing that makes me mysterious, at least to all the French young people addicted to Gossip Girl (of which, unfortunately, there are many). I ain't transcontinental. I ain't Coty. I'm just Cody.
Lately we've been hearing a lot about the turbulent transition back into American life. Everybody seems to be standing in line, just waiting for their opportunity to inform me and mine of how bad our lives are going to suck in ten days. I fought it off, denied it Judas-style, but maybe there's some validity to it. I'm about to become a helluva lot more average. And that scares the hell out of me. Skinny jeans and avoiding the mainstream can only do so much. I'm going to have to try again. Then again, at Miami, it can be as easy as turning down your collar.
I know which tree Charlie Brown is going to pick for the play. But, regardless, I think I'm going to be surprised this year.
I scrubbed for at least ten minutes, but Alexandra's steady hand and insistence upon coating both the inside and outside of my lids have forged a stubborn angst on my face. I would ask my mere d'accueil for make-up remover, but she's either asleep or critiquing the way my host-dad is sleeping. (Even though I truly adore my host-mom, she's the French Kate Gosselin with even worse hair. He uses the wrong spoon, she picks up the pieces of a shattered evening.) Plus I don't feel comfortable asking my mere d'accueil for make-up remover. Sometimes I ask her for a clementine. I asked to use her basket for the play. I don't want to ask her for make-up remover.
See, the best case scenario is Brandon Flowers. I could have a cool, new-wave, borderline-metro thing going on. (See video for "Mr. Brightside".) However, I fear that passers-by will simply assume that my parents got divorced recently, or maybe that I'm still bitter that Six Feet Under is no longer on the air. Which I sort of am, but that's not the point. The point is, I'm wearing make-up. And I need to shave.
To the astonishment of the cast, the audience, and (especially) the director, the play didn't suck. Madame Rouchet even said that this year's play was by far the best in the history of IES Nantes. That means a lot coming from a woman who has learned to repress all human emotion. I managed to remember all my lines, I got the chance to rock my new kicks, and I was a creepy-ass motherfucker throughout it all. Seriously, I went all out. The eyeliner helped, sure, but I would like to think that my internal menaces outshone my sinister exterior. I mean, I did a creepy voice and everything.
"Les Bonnes" is a certified mind-fuck of a drama. Since it would be too lazy for me to let Wikipedia explain the play's many complexities, I will present a brief synopsis: Older sister Claire and younger sister Solange work for the dramatic and eccentric Madame. When their master is away, the sisters perform a "ritual", in which Claire portrays Madame and Solange becomes Claire. In doing so, the two servants purge themselves of their acute desires to murder the Madame. The bulk of the play consists of back-and-forths between the role-playing siblings, and I don't want to ruin the ending for you, but it turns out that Bruce Willis was dead the entire time.
Thing is, there are only three characters in the play but sixteen unenthusiastic American students who wished they hadn't dropped Art History. Hence, drastic creative measures had to be taken in order to ensure that everyone had as many lines to memorize as possible. The solutions were more successful than not, and I got to be cool-creepy presenter guy. And not a chick. I wore suspenders.
Unenthusiastic.
Post-transformation.
And here, my sort-of host-family. My mere d'accueil Anne Marie on the right; Jean-Brice, the other étudient étranger I live with (and who gets a stand-up shower like a big person), to my left; and the tall kid is a random youth who dines with us every once in a while (named, ironically enough, Pierre).
The play was followed by a short reception of champagne in plastic cups and generic sugar cookies. My Literature professor was there, as were all my cherished chums. I certainly appreciated all of them coming out to support me/watch me make an ass of myself, especially since we all have our grammar finals tomorrow, and I'm certain few of them had even begun to review. Like me. The subjonctif can take a backseat for tonight. Tonight belongs to me and the Claires and the Solanges and the Madames. And maybe the lighting guy. He seemed nice.
After the reception died down and the champagne became room temperature, I decided to walk to Commerce and take the tram home. Not only was I up for a little alone-reflection time, I was really keen on eating up some bewildered French stares. I would be lying if I said these baffled double-takes weren't in my Top Five of French cuisine. The tram was surprisingly sparse, and the most I got was a The-Cure-concert-was-last-week sideways glower.
And, thus, the "lasts" continued. The play is over, my classes are no more, and four final exams are the only things keeping me tethered to this place. My insides persist to be at war with the mental conflicts of devolving into an ordinary American again, your-average-Joe with a Mega Gulp in his hand and the ticket stub to the latest Adam Sandler flick in his pocket. There are perks to this red-white-and-blue existence, most of which come full of guacamole and wrapped in foil. I guess I'm just going to have to find ways to make being an American in America more exotic, more meaningful. You know, without being a rapper.
It feels as if I'm going to lose something when I step on that plane at the end of the week. Not something meaningful, not something indicative of personal growth or maturity or healthy gums. It's something a lot more shallow, for show, like golden sleeves or a faux-hawk. I'm losing a title: study abroad student. I'm losing my exoticism. I'm losing the thing that makes me mysterious, at least to all the French young people addicted to Gossip Girl (of which, unfortunately, there are many). I ain't transcontinental. I ain't Coty. I'm just Cody.
Lately we've been hearing a lot about the turbulent transition back into American life. Everybody seems to be standing in line, just waiting for their opportunity to inform me and mine of how bad our lives are going to suck in ten days. I fought it off, denied it Judas-style, but maybe there's some validity to it. I'm about to become a helluva lot more average. And that scares the hell out of me. Skinny jeans and avoiding the mainstream can only do so much. I'm going to have to try again. Then again, at Miami, it can be as easy as turning down your collar.
I know which tree Charlie Brown is going to pick for the play. But, regardless, I think I'm going to be surprised this year.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Ignorant English Major
I was expecting a considerable spike in my feelings of homesickness due to the omnipresent holiday season. That wasn’t really the case, though. I still miss my dog, but not anymore than I did before November 26th. My excitement to obliterate zombie motherfuckers with my brother again has stayed relatively constant. I picture my parents sitting on the couch watching Home Improvement with the same nostalgia I harbored when Christmas lights weren’t strung through every nook and cranny of this city. Hell, even seeing my friend Leah enjoying the company of her biological parents at Thanksgiving dinner didn’t inspire in me a flood of Southeastern Ohio longing. To my own surprise, I’m pretty good in that respect.
I’m doing pretty good. All of my papers are going to get done, and they might not even suck too bad. I drank too much wine at the IES-sponsored Thanksgiving meal (pumpkin flan: appreciated but better left as a theory) and may have sexually assaulted the social coordinator, Nicolas. I went to a soccer match in which bad calls were made and French spectators jeered their own team. (French crowds here are not terribly forgiving.) I purchased the pinnacle of cliché European souvenirs – the soccer scarf. It has yellow fringe. Back off. On Saturday Ruth and I shared a plate of sushi and afterwards we toasted with matching peanut-M&M-and-caramel McFlurries.
I’m doing pretty good.
However, I’m worried about my brain. It’s getting to the point where I’m not really sure about my memories. I mean, maybe I remember things as they really were. But maybe I don’t. Maybe my subconscious manipulates dates and events and feelings in an attempt to provoke more poetry (Note: I originally wrote “provoque” here and argued with Spell-check for almost a minute as to the correct spelling. Thank you, France.); maybe my brain changes it all so that when connections are made, they’re all the more symbolic or blog-worthy.
For example, I went for a run today. I jogged around the Doulon quarter and through several adjacent, humble neighborhoods. I was insistent upon getting in a run today; I’ve been tolerating a cold for the past couple of days, and nothing clears the sinuses like a couple glorious run-in-the-cold-induced nostril rockets. Ask anyone who ran cross country in high school. There really isn’t anything quite like utterly cleansing your nostrils of mucous in point-five seconds flat. Truth be told, it’s probably the closest thing to sex I’ve ever experienced. And that, my friends, is the furthest thing from the point.
Okay, so yeah. I decided to walk the last half-mile. The night sky was washed with a muted orange, and I felt a slower pace would encourage a better appreciation of the world around me. I do have less than three weeks remaining, after all.
When I turned the corner near the petite maison that I’ve called home for these past months, I saw a black cat. Now, let me tell you something about this cat: I see him everyday. Everyday and every night when I come home, I see the same black cat sauntering like an inebriated diva down to stage front. You would think it was wearing rhinestone heels or something. (Again, not the point.) We’ve exchanged a couple words, sure, but nothing too penetrating. I’ll throw out a friendly “Bonsoir, Monsieur Chat Visage.” The cat’s not much for pleasantries. However, today I decided to sit down for a moment and admire the planes that continually sweep across the Nantes sky, and—I’ll be damned—that cat walks right up to me and begins to rub against my legs. Being of a good nature, I obliged the bringer of bad luck by stroking his back and tail. It rewarded my massage with a respectable impersonation of Eartha Kitt. Apparently she’s dead. I think I remember reading something about that.
And that’s when I remembered: After the very first awkward dinner during my very first awkward night here, I took a walk around my new neighborhood. I remember that I wanted to get lost. I remember the feeling that everything around me seemed so foreign. I remember being attracted to buildings and signs simply for the fact that I didn’t recognize them. I remember getting lost. I remember how ugly everything looked, painted with the stale white of streetlights. I remember getting more lost. I remember how thick the air felt on the back of my neck, how bitter the breeze tasted when I yawned. I remember—and am still under the impression—that each plastered wall; each narrow, car-lined street; and each self-effacing French home looked remarkably like all the others. I remember sort of wanting my mommy. I thought about the IES kitchen earlier that day: The girl named Leah who reminded me so much of my friend Simone; the girl named Ruth whose friendship I would actively seek; the unparalleled anxiety that made my heart throb; the sound of my name being called with a French inflection; and I remember meeting my mere d’accueil, my host mother, and hoping she was nicer than she looked. As I walked beneath the same billboard (an Elton John concert, if I’m not mistaken) for the seventh time, I remember deciding that she was.
And then I was chez moi. I don’t really remember how I made my way back; however, I distinctly remember who was the first to greet me. That’s right – Monsieur Chat Visage. Of course, he was not Monsieur Chat Visage then. (This genius moniker would come later.) That night he was just a cat, but he was probably something more. I was oddly comforted by his iridescent eyes, fascinated by the aforementioned snobby slither. I would like to think we made a pact that night, an (obviously) unspoken agreement to, what? Casually acknowledge each other’s presence when we passed on the sidewalk? Afford each other one of those subtle head-tilts like two Chipotle-breathed bros?
This is getting aggressively abstract and progressively more stream-of-consciousness.
Point is, I remember thinking, This is important, this night and this cat. This means something. But now, as I enthusiastically avoid studying for my grammar exam tomorrow, I question the cat’s existence. Maybe my brain wants me to think that there was a cat, when, really, maybe it was a squirrel. Or a possum. Or really big bees.
I mean, if a really big bee had been the one to welcome me home—there’s a funny word—would I want to remember it as more than it was? Maybe if bees were more symbolic. I guess you can make the connections: bee = honey = nectar = flowers = earth = life = everything is connected. But that’s a stretch. I guess you would fare better trying to make an association between stingers and ... Maybe I should start reviewing adverbs. Maybe my brain should put down its Starbucks venti double-shot of something-or-other, take off the dark-rimmed glasses with the lenses popped out, and just watch MTV for a while. Its thighs are too big for skinny jeans, anyway.
Today I watched “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” on my computer while eating my last pumpkin pie-flavored Kashi bar. I can still remember watching Snoopy butter all that toast and pop all that popcorn when I was kid.
I think.
I’m doing pretty good. All of my papers are going to get done, and they might not even suck too bad. I drank too much wine at the IES-sponsored Thanksgiving meal (pumpkin flan: appreciated but better left as a theory) and may have sexually assaulted the social coordinator, Nicolas. I went to a soccer match in which bad calls were made and French spectators jeered their own team. (French crowds here are not terribly forgiving.) I purchased the pinnacle of cliché European souvenirs – the soccer scarf. It has yellow fringe. Back off. On Saturday Ruth and I shared a plate of sushi and afterwards we toasted with matching peanut-M&M-and-caramel McFlurries.
I’m doing pretty good.
However, I’m worried about my brain. It’s getting to the point where I’m not really sure about my memories. I mean, maybe I remember things as they really were. But maybe I don’t. Maybe my subconscious manipulates dates and events and feelings in an attempt to provoke more poetry (Note: I originally wrote “provoque” here and argued with Spell-check for almost a minute as to the correct spelling. Thank you, France.); maybe my brain changes it all so that when connections are made, they’re all the more symbolic or blog-worthy.
For example, I went for a run today. I jogged around the Doulon quarter and through several adjacent, humble neighborhoods. I was insistent upon getting in a run today; I’ve been tolerating a cold for the past couple of days, and nothing clears the sinuses like a couple glorious run-in-the-cold-induced nostril rockets. Ask anyone who ran cross country in high school. There really isn’t anything quite like utterly cleansing your nostrils of mucous in point-five seconds flat. Truth be told, it’s probably the closest thing to sex I’ve ever experienced. And that, my friends, is the furthest thing from the point.
Okay, so yeah. I decided to walk the last half-mile. The night sky was washed with a muted orange, and I felt a slower pace would encourage a better appreciation of the world around me. I do have less than three weeks remaining, after all.
When I turned the corner near the petite maison that I’ve called home for these past months, I saw a black cat. Now, let me tell you something about this cat: I see him everyday. Everyday and every night when I come home, I see the same black cat sauntering like an inebriated diva down to stage front. You would think it was wearing rhinestone heels or something. (Again, not the point.) We’ve exchanged a couple words, sure, but nothing too penetrating. I’ll throw out a friendly “Bonsoir, Monsieur Chat Visage.” The cat’s not much for pleasantries. However, today I decided to sit down for a moment and admire the planes that continually sweep across the Nantes sky, and—I’ll be damned—that cat walks right up to me and begins to rub against my legs. Being of a good nature, I obliged the bringer of bad luck by stroking his back and tail. It rewarded my massage with a respectable impersonation of Eartha Kitt. Apparently she’s dead. I think I remember reading something about that.
And that’s when I remembered: After the very first awkward dinner during my very first awkward night here, I took a walk around my new neighborhood. I remember that I wanted to get lost. I remember the feeling that everything around me seemed so foreign. I remember being attracted to buildings and signs simply for the fact that I didn’t recognize them. I remember getting lost. I remember how ugly everything looked, painted with the stale white of streetlights. I remember getting more lost. I remember how thick the air felt on the back of my neck, how bitter the breeze tasted when I yawned. I remember—and am still under the impression—that each plastered wall; each narrow, car-lined street; and each self-effacing French home looked remarkably like all the others. I remember sort of wanting my mommy. I thought about the IES kitchen earlier that day: The girl named Leah who reminded me so much of my friend Simone; the girl named Ruth whose friendship I would actively seek; the unparalleled anxiety that made my heart throb; the sound of my name being called with a French inflection; and I remember meeting my mere d’accueil, my host mother, and hoping she was nicer than she looked. As I walked beneath the same billboard (an Elton John concert, if I’m not mistaken) for the seventh time, I remember deciding that she was.
And then I was chez moi. I don’t really remember how I made my way back; however, I distinctly remember who was the first to greet me. That’s right – Monsieur Chat Visage. Of course, he was not Monsieur Chat Visage then. (This genius moniker would come later.) That night he was just a cat, but he was probably something more. I was oddly comforted by his iridescent eyes, fascinated by the aforementioned snobby slither. I would like to think we made a pact that night, an (obviously) unspoken agreement to, what? Casually acknowledge each other’s presence when we passed on the sidewalk? Afford each other one of those subtle head-tilts like two Chipotle-breathed bros?
This is getting aggressively abstract and progressively more stream-of-consciousness.
Point is, I remember thinking, This is important, this night and this cat. This means something. But now, as I enthusiastically avoid studying for my grammar exam tomorrow, I question the cat’s existence. Maybe my brain wants me to think that there was a cat, when, really, maybe it was a squirrel. Or a possum. Or really big bees.
I mean, if a really big bee had been the one to welcome me home—there’s a funny word—would I want to remember it as more than it was? Maybe if bees were more symbolic. I guess you can make the connections: bee = honey = nectar = flowers = earth = life = everything is connected. But that’s a stretch. I guess you would fare better trying to make an association between stingers and ... Maybe I should start reviewing adverbs. Maybe my brain should put down its Starbucks venti double-shot of something-or-other, take off the dark-rimmed glasses with the lenses popped out, and just watch MTV for a while. Its thighs are too big for skinny jeans, anyway.
Today I watched “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” on my computer while eating my last pumpkin pie-flavored Kashi bar. I can still remember watching Snoopy butter all that toast and pop all that popcorn when I was kid.
I think.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The Ignorant Observor (Paris Edition)
My short time in the City of Lights inspired yet another list of pseudo-xenophobic considerations. Sorry, France.
22. The spirit of American Capitalism is alive and well at Paris Disneyland.
23. Having a Willie Nelson song stuck in your head during your trip to Paris will guarantee a major mindfuck.
24. Real hot chocolate should have the consistency of maple syrup and taste like Salvation.
25. Every man, woman, and child in Paris can speak English. The gypsies are fluent.
26. The homeless don’t take “No” for an answer.
27. The Mona Lisa is much smaller and less impressive than you think. It’s the Tom Cruise of classic art.
28. According to the laws of physics, the less time you have to reach the train station, the more traffic your taxi will encounter.
29. French veggie burgers are so much fucking better.
30. Always get your desserts to-go. They always taste better in bed.
31. According to the pallets of my parents—and despite all the hoopla—French coffee and tea suck.
32. The receptionist at the Best Western in the Saint Maurice district of Paris is a douche bag.
33. BBC ain’t so bad, after all.
34. The combination of candy corn and Nutella is not as good as you’d think. Actually, I guess it’s exactly as good as you’d think.
35. For every car in the metro station, there are three accordion players with hungry children to feed.
36. It doesn’t matter how well you pronounce the French "R". They will always respond in English. (This is true in all of France.)
37. Bathrooms with mirrored walls are a God-awful idea.
38. If I didn’t harbor a juvenile appreciation for Winnie the Pooh, Paris Disneyland would have been a lot less enjoyable. My dad probably would have had a better time, though.
39. If your metro car smells like shit, look beside you. You’re most likely sitting beside shit.
40. The Eiffel Tower is much larger and more impressive than you think. It’s the Dolly Parton of classic architecture. (Seriously, Youtube “Mountain Angel”. Don’t let the boobs fool you.)
41. The French are surprisingly adept at cooking sauerkraut.
42. I want what my parents have.
22. The spirit of American Capitalism is alive and well at Paris Disneyland.
23. Having a Willie Nelson song stuck in your head during your trip to Paris will guarantee a major mindfuck.
24. Real hot chocolate should have the consistency of maple syrup and taste like Salvation.
25. Every man, woman, and child in Paris can speak English. The gypsies are fluent.26. The homeless don’t take “No” for an answer.
27. The Mona Lisa is much smaller and less impressive than you think. It’s the Tom Cruise of classic art.
28. According to the laws of physics, the less time you have to reach the train station, the more traffic your taxi will encounter.
29. French veggie burgers are so much fucking better.
30. Always get your desserts to-go. They always taste better in bed.31. According to the pallets of my parents—and despite all the hoopla—French coffee and tea suck.
32. The receptionist at the Best Western in the Saint Maurice district of Paris is a douche bag.
33. BBC ain’t so bad, after all.
34. The combination of candy corn and Nutella is not as good as you’d think. Actually, I guess it’s exactly as good as you’d think.
35. For every car in the metro station, there are three accordion players with hungry children to feed.36. It doesn’t matter how well you pronounce the French "R". They will always respond in English. (This is true in all of France.)
37. Bathrooms with mirrored walls are a God-awful idea.
38. If I didn’t harbor a juvenile appreciation for Winnie the Pooh, Paris Disneyland would have been a lot less enjoyable. My dad probably would have had a better time, though.
39. If your metro car smells like shit, look beside you. You’re most likely sitting beside shit.40. The Eiffel Tower is much larger and more impressive than you think. It’s the Dolly Parton of classic architecture. (Seriously, Youtube “Mountain Angel”. Don’t let the boobs fool you.)
41. The French are surprisingly adept at cooking sauerkraut.
42. I want what my parents have.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Ignorant Son
The following was originally hand-written on the 20H34 train to Nantes from Paris on November 2, 2009.
It's exactly 21H00. (Isn't military time a bitch?) I'm on a train back to Nantes after a prolonged weekend with my parents in Paris. A French teenager is listening to "SexyBack" beside me, a mid-twenty-something with an impossibly full bottom lip is reading an English newspaper, and Dan Bejar is crooning about God-knows-what. Five post cards depicting the Eiffel Tower set against photo-shopped skies are stacked before me. An orange Disneyland band camouflages my tiny baby wrist, and page 29 is dog-eared in Ian McEwan's Amsterdam. (Though it may be a tad premature, I'm fairly certain I'm going to like this one.)
Yesterday my father told me that if someone had said to him, "One day you're going to see the Eiffel Tower," he couldn't have believed it. Why should he have? My father didn't go to college. Instead, he aged himself far beyond his years at an alloy plant for twenty years. But seven hours ago he stood staring at the great interwoven beams, the translucent clouds forming a halo around the very top, and I snapped a picture of him and my mother with a disposable camera.
When he was a kid my dad slept in a barn. His parents couldn't afford to feed all four of their children--my father was the oldest--so he was sent to work. I'm twenty-one years old, and I can say with certainty that I've never worked as hard or as long as my father did when he was only a child. He was breaking his back at the same age I was breaking Power Ranger action figures. He was fighting off hypothermia when I was just trying to find ways to avoid bathing. (I was a smelly kid.) But today he had white wine with his duck. It all makes his circumcision comment at the Grecian sculpture exhibit at the Louvre all the more inspirational. It also excuses the bulk of the we-saved-their-asses-in-World-War-II comments.
All things considered, I’m certain that the topic of most discussion among my parents and their coworkers will be the food. My father will reminisce about the soup with muscles my host-mother prepared; my mother will recall fondly the melted-candy-bar-thick hot chocolate we sipped at Les Deux Magots while hundreds of French passers-by attempted to out-power-walk the freezing air. My dad will undoubtedly mention the scarce nature of le petit déjeuner and its inexcusable absence of sausage. My mom will say the coffee sucked, be it with a more sophisticated parlance. She will talk about the wine. He will talk about how we saved their asses in World War II.
They will both mention all the walking.
But besides all of that, I’m not really sure what they’ll take away from our time together in the City of Lights. I don't honestly believe that it was a "dream come true" for either of them simply because I don't think Paris had occupied their thoughts before their baby boy decided to study in France; it was an experience neither of them had foreseen--or desired, truthfully--prior to my study abroad. Maybe that makes it less cinematic, but it makes it a hell of a lot more romanesque.
Regardless of the water cooler banter to come, I know we shared something important. For the first time in my life, I was able to take care of my parents. I read for them, ordered their meals, maneuvered the Paris metro, created the itinerary, and ultimately (and perhaps unfortunately), established myself as an adult. For five days I carried the reigns. Purchasing our train tickets with my own money--money that I earned through actual labor--felt like a kind of graduation from a solely symbolic period of my life. Although that doesn't quite reconcile twenty-one years of dependence, it represents a trend that I can only hope will continue. My parents can't pay for my Kashi forever. I mean, my dad really wants that hot rod.
I stole another glance of the Anglophone. Seriously, you’ve got to see these things. I’m not kidding. Slightly chapped for texture, framed by dark stubble, just begging for Burt’s Bees. Perpetual half-purse, you know? A pair of those matched with an orator’s tenor would prove the existence of God. Somebody get this guy something to chew.
It's exactly 21H00. (Isn't military time a bitch?) I'm on a train back to Nantes after a prolonged weekend with my parents in Paris. A French teenager is listening to "SexyBack" beside me, a mid-twenty-something with an impossibly full bottom lip is reading an English newspaper, and Dan Bejar is crooning about God-knows-what. Five post cards depicting the Eiffel Tower set against photo-shopped skies are stacked before me. An orange Disneyland band camouflages my tiny baby wrist, and page 29 is dog-eared in Ian McEwan's Amsterdam. (Though it may be a tad premature, I'm fairly certain I'm going to like this one.)
Yesterday my father told me that if someone had said to him, "One day you're going to see the Eiffel Tower," he couldn't have believed it. Why should he have? My father didn't go to college. Instead, he aged himself far beyond his years at an alloy plant for twenty years. But seven hours ago he stood staring at the great interwoven beams, the translucent clouds forming a halo around the very top, and I snapped a picture of him and my mother with a disposable camera.
When he was a kid my dad slept in a barn. His parents couldn't afford to feed all four of their children--my father was the oldest--so he was sent to work. I'm twenty-one years old, and I can say with certainty that I've never worked as hard or as long as my father did when he was only a child. He was breaking his back at the same age I was breaking Power Ranger action figures. He was fighting off hypothermia when I was just trying to find ways to avoid bathing. (I was a smelly kid.) But today he had white wine with his duck. It all makes his circumcision comment at the Grecian sculpture exhibit at the Louvre all the more inspirational. It also excuses the bulk of the we-saved-their-asses-in-World-War-II comments.
All things considered, I’m certain that the topic of most discussion among my parents and their coworkers will be the food. My father will reminisce about the soup with muscles my host-mother prepared; my mother will recall fondly the melted-candy-bar-thick hot chocolate we sipped at Les Deux Magots while hundreds of French passers-by attempted to out-power-walk the freezing air. My dad will undoubtedly mention the scarce nature of le petit déjeuner and its inexcusable absence of sausage. My mom will say the coffee sucked, be it with a more sophisticated parlance. She will talk about the wine. He will talk about how we saved their asses in World War II.
They will both mention all the walking.
But besides all of that, I’m not really sure what they’ll take away from our time together in the City of Lights. I don't honestly believe that it was a "dream come true" for either of them simply because I don't think Paris had occupied their thoughts before their baby boy decided to study in France; it was an experience neither of them had foreseen--or desired, truthfully--prior to my study abroad. Maybe that makes it less cinematic, but it makes it a hell of a lot more romanesque.
Regardless of the water cooler banter to come, I know we shared something important. For the first time in my life, I was able to take care of my parents. I read for them, ordered their meals, maneuvered the Paris metro, created the itinerary, and ultimately (and perhaps unfortunately), established myself as an adult. For five days I carried the reigns. Purchasing our train tickets with my own money--money that I earned through actual labor--felt like a kind of graduation from a solely symbolic period of my life. Although that doesn't quite reconcile twenty-one years of dependence, it represents a trend that I can only hope will continue. My parents can't pay for my Kashi forever. I mean, my dad really wants that hot rod.
I stole another glance of the Anglophone. Seriously, you’ve got to see these things. I’m not kidding. Slightly chapped for texture, framed by dark stubble, just begging for Burt’s Bees. Perpetual half-purse, you know? A pair of those matched with an orator’s tenor would prove the existence of God. Somebody get this guy something to chew.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Ignorant Recipient
On Thursday, October 22nd a package addressed to me was discovered at the Institute. Its contents were as follow.
Messages of love, courage, and phalli.
Context-free highlight: "... I just walked around academic quad collecting leaves like a fourth grader, and now appear to be a creepy emo huddling in a corner on the stairs writing in a notebook..." - Simone Waller
In a more-or-less successful attempt at quirk, a letter comprised of post-its.
Context-free highlight: "The only thing I still need you for is so I feel like I have a stake in this whole gay-rights thing." - Kevin Donnelly
Yes, that penis has wings. No, you don't want to know why.
Context-free highlight: "P.S. By let your penis fly, I mean get a prostitute in Amsterdam." - Mike McAllister
Apparently they were out of the regular ones. But considering all the goat cheese, maybe that's for the best.
Please take careful notice of the already opened packaging.
Oh, yes. Yes.
YES.
The Bible.
"Your half - Make it last."
Halloween tastes like corn syrup. Delightful.
Even my host-mom loved them.And then, when I thought my smile couldn't get any wider and my eyes any more teary, I find this.
Yeah, I know.
Thanks, guys.P.S. Also included was a jar of extra crunchy Jif. Due to the fact that I destroyed it like downtown Tokyo, there is no available photograph. Your imaginations will have to suffice.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Ignorant Nostalgic
This note was originally handwritten on the 14H09 train to Bordeaux on the sixteenth of October. Leah Merchant aided in the conception of at least one of its included metaphors.
My train to Bordeaux just offered my fellow passengers and I a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. It looks like layer upon layer of shiny tin foil, the sun bouncing off like a pinball after a quarter starts the game. Dolly is singing about Heaven’s light into my ears, I’m wearing a shirt that hasn’t been washed since I left the States, and a woman sporting one impressive eyebrow is recreating the love scene from A History of Violence with her finger and right nostril. I’m having a moment.
Although it goes without saying, I find it comforting—selfish, I know—to reiterate that trains are probably the most poetic mode of transportation. Planes may be more spiritually wealthy, and Harleys may get you more poon, but if symbol is your muse, hop the Express. It’s all in the view, really: the land that separates you from your destination becomes a kind of concrete metaphor for life. So concrete, in fact, that I hesitate to even call it a metaphor. It’s not abstract at all. It’s solid and real, as in-your-face as my friend Big Jon’s lay-up.
You may cross more terrain—entire continents, even—in a jet plane, but that land is hypothetical at best: it has no face, no features. It’s as hollow as Zac Efron’s sex appeal to second grade girls. But every inch viewed from a train window has identity, thick histories on which lazy cows graze all day long. The metaphor is a fucking laser beam: land traveled, time spent, life lived. The only people whose entire lives flashed before their eyes were the ones who died in tragic train accidents.
Let it be known that at this point in the narrative my pen just gave out on me. Emily let me borrow her blue Bic. It doesn’t write as smooth as I prefer, but writers can’t be choosers. Or psychologically healthy.
Each farm with lazy livestock, each little village with its Terracotta roofs, each abandoned train car strewn on the edge of the track, articulates another syllable to a word with two completely different meanings: one is exclusively French, spoken with a heavy accent and a subtle air of superiority. The other belongs to me, is made of me, even if I don’t fully know what the hell it means. I think that’s the point, or at least a necessary symptom.
The farms are the most personal part of the metaphor for me. These are homes. These are the places you come home to. Houses can have three-car garages, but homes have apple trees and woodpiles out back. Truth be told, I haven’t milked a lactating mammal since God-knows-when, and my last pair of cowboy boots probably resembles an accessory to a Fetish Ken Doll™. Maybe I’ve been listening to too much Willie Nelson. Maybe an overactive romanticism is bending me over its knee again. It seems illogical—not to mention remarkably shallow—to feel a pang of nostalgia for a life you never really lived. Maybe I’m once again rebelling against my surroundings: “Four months in metropolitan France? A one-way to the Bluegrass State, please.” I’m forced to question the sincerity of it all, which has kept my pen moving, sure, but it makes me reconsider every reconsideration. In summation: Mindfuck.
But that’s when I go back to the metaphor (or whatever the hell it is). Train. Forward. Never backward. Forward. Even when I board my train Sunday back to Nantes, I won’t be going backwards. I’ll be going forward. I guess the only way to go “backward”—this is when the “metaphor” crumbles or solidifies depending upon your philosophic aesthetic—is remaining stagnant. Going backwards simply means not going anywhere. I think Dolly and Willie are with me on this one. It’s the paralysis of a perpetual horizon, of a destination that’s always out of reach. It’s an abandoned train car. It’s majoring in Business.
Forward.
My train to Bordeaux just offered my fellow passengers and I a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. It looks like layer upon layer of shiny tin foil, the sun bouncing off like a pinball after a quarter starts the game. Dolly is singing about Heaven’s light into my ears, I’m wearing a shirt that hasn’t been washed since I left the States, and a woman sporting one impressive eyebrow is recreating the love scene from A History of Violence with her finger and right nostril. I’m having a moment.
Although it goes without saying, I find it comforting—selfish, I know—to reiterate that trains are probably the most poetic mode of transportation. Planes may be more spiritually wealthy, and Harleys may get you more poon, but if symbol is your muse, hop the Express. It’s all in the view, really: the land that separates you from your destination becomes a kind of concrete metaphor for life. So concrete, in fact, that I hesitate to even call it a metaphor. It’s not abstract at all. It’s solid and real, as in-your-face as my friend Big Jon’s lay-up.
You may cross more terrain—entire continents, even—in a jet plane, but that land is hypothetical at best: it has no face, no features. It’s as hollow as Zac Efron’s sex appeal to second grade girls. But every inch viewed from a train window has identity, thick histories on which lazy cows graze all day long. The metaphor is a fucking laser beam: land traveled, time spent, life lived. The only people whose entire lives flashed before their eyes were the ones who died in tragic train accidents.
Let it be known that at this point in the narrative my pen just gave out on me. Emily let me borrow her blue Bic. It doesn’t write as smooth as I prefer, but writers can’t be choosers. Or psychologically healthy.
Each farm with lazy livestock, each little village with its Terracotta roofs, each abandoned train car strewn on the edge of the track, articulates another syllable to a word with two completely different meanings: one is exclusively French, spoken with a heavy accent and a subtle air of superiority. The other belongs to me, is made of me, even if I don’t fully know what the hell it means. I think that’s the point, or at least a necessary symptom.
The farms are the most personal part of the metaphor for me. These are homes. These are the places you come home to. Houses can have three-car garages, but homes have apple trees and woodpiles out back. Truth be told, I haven’t milked a lactating mammal since God-knows-when, and my last pair of cowboy boots probably resembles an accessory to a Fetish Ken Doll™. Maybe I’ve been listening to too much Willie Nelson. Maybe an overactive romanticism is bending me over its knee again. It seems illogical—not to mention remarkably shallow—to feel a pang of nostalgia for a life you never really lived. Maybe I’m once again rebelling against my surroundings: “Four months in metropolitan France? A one-way to the Bluegrass State, please.” I’m forced to question the sincerity of it all, which has kept my pen moving, sure, but it makes me reconsider every reconsideration. In summation: Mindfuck.
But that’s when I go back to the metaphor (or whatever the hell it is). Train. Forward. Never backward. Forward. Even when I board my train Sunday back to Nantes, I won’t be going backwards. I’ll be going forward. I guess the only way to go “backward”—this is when the “metaphor” crumbles or solidifies depending upon your philosophic aesthetic—is remaining stagnant. Going backwards simply means not going anywhere. I think Dolly and Willie are with me on this one. It’s the paralysis of a perpetual horizon, of a destination that’s always out of reach. It’s an abandoned train car. It’s majoring in Business.
Forward.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Ignorant Observor
Assembled here is a list of twenty-one humble, potentially culturally insensitive observations on Nantais culture. Let's start a dialogue, people.
1. French leaves are just as crisp as Ohio ones. However, they don’t smell nearly as wonderful.
2. Manpris.
3. Judging from conversations with my peers as well as my own host-mother’s tendencies, I’m led to the conclusion that the French don’t use fabric softeners. Drying machines are foregone almost entirely.
4. An overwhelming majority of the French hates peanut butter.
5. In a possibly related note, an overwhelming majority of the French has never actually tasted peanut butter.
6. Speculoos may be the most delicious thing ever devised by human capacity. This divine accident (I bought it believing it was PB) combines the taste of cinnamon Teddy Grahams with the stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth consistency of peanut butter. Exercise caution when pairing with Nutella.
7. French spoons are either too large or too small. Goldilocks would starve to death in France.
8. The dogs are remarkably, almost eerily well behaved. Off-leash dogs stroll right beside their masters, even past bucheries. However, one explanation behind this phenomenon accuses the French of using more corporal punishment during the training process. Further investigation necessary.
9. At least one stereotype is true: Baguettes out the ass.
10. It’s not uncommon for someone to wear the exact same outfit two days in a row. Madame Rouchet, la Directrice Administrative of the program and the one that scares the “Yankee shit” out of me, recycles her staples several times a week.
11. Everything is sma
ller, more efficient, and just a wee bit uncomfortable. Case in point…
I shower in a Dixie cup.
12. The glitz and glamour of public transportation begins to diminish slightly after the first week and takes a dive after the first month.
13. Only one man-purse spotted in over a month. Keep up the good work, France!
14. Drinking glasses at meals are very small, and water is rarely drunk in general. The only water fountains have naked people made of stone in them. I’ve been in a perpetual state of dehydration since my arrival.
1. French leaves are just as crisp as Ohio ones. However, they don’t smell nearly as wonderful.
2. Manpris.
3. Judging from conversations with my peers as well as my own host-mother’s tendencies, I’m led to the conclusion that the French don’t use fabric softeners. Drying machines are foregone almost entirely.
4. An overwhelming majority of the French hates peanut butter.
5. In a possibly related note, an overwhelming majority of the French has never actually tasted peanut butter.
6. Speculoos may be the most delicious thing ever devised by human capacity. This divine accident (I bought it believing it was PB) combines the taste of cinnamon Teddy Grahams with the stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth consistency of peanut butter. Exercise caution when pairing with Nutella.
7. French spoons are either too large or too small. Goldilocks would starve to death in France.
8. The dogs are remarkably, almost eerily well behaved. Off-leash dogs stroll right beside their masters, even past bucheries. However, one explanation behind this phenomenon accuses the French of using more corporal punishment during the training process. Further investigation necessary.
9. At least one stereotype is true: Baguettes out the ass.
10. It’s not uncommon for someone to wear the exact same outfit two days in a row. Madame Rouchet, la Directrice Administrative of the program and the one that scares the “Yankee shit” out of me, recycles her staples several times a week.
11. Everything is sma
ller, more efficient, and just a wee bit uncomfortable. Case in point…I shower in a Dixie cup.
12. The glitz and glamour of public transportation begins to diminish slightly after the first week and takes a dive after the first month.
13. Only one man-purse spotted in over a month. Keep up the good work, France!
14. Drinking glasses at meals are very small, and water is rarely drunk in general. The only water fountains have naked people made of stone in them. I’ve been in a perpetual state of dehydration since my arrival.
15. Today was sunny and pleasant with a high of 23° C (about 74° F). It is, of course, mid-October. Get on the ball, France!
16. Forget the cleavage; here, it’s all about the legs.
17. French automobiles look like the toy cars you buy at gas stations when you forget about a birthday party and all the toy stores are closed.
18. A widespread initiative has been enacted to reduce the number of smokers, particularly among younger people. Instead of wordy warning labels, packs of smokes simply read FUMER TUE (“Smoking kills”).
19. The culture is, at least in my opinion, a remarkably homogenous one. A lack of diversity—and I’m implying almost every single connotation of the word—has left this collective more concentrated than Amy Winehouse’s morning pick-me-up.
20. Passers-by on the street rarely make eye contact, let alone offer up a friendly “Bonjour!” I’m trying to single-handedly change that.
21. Fucking manpris.
16. Forget the cleavage; here, it’s all about the legs.
17. French automobiles look like the toy cars you buy at gas stations when you forget about a birthday party and all the toy stores are closed.
18. A widespread initiative has been enacted to reduce the number of smokers, particularly among younger people. Instead of wordy warning labels, packs of smokes simply read FUMER TUE (“Smoking kills”).
19. The culture is, at least in my opinion, a remarkably homogenous one. A lack of diversity—and I’m implying almost every single connotation of the word—has left this collective more concentrated than Amy Winehouse’s morning pick-me-up.
20. Passers-by on the street rarely make eye contact, let alone offer up a friendly “Bonjour!” I’m trying to single-handedly change that.
21. Fucking manpris.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Ignorant Mute
The following post was originally handwritten in a French café on a Friday afternoon. Included are the original tangential observations, italicized here to ensure clarity.
I just ordered a café. It came with a long packet of sucre, extra fin. If I close my eyes, it almost tastes like hot chocolate with a not-so-subtle hint of metal and bitter aftertaste. I’m trying to be French. That means that I’m trying to cultivate an appreciation for—or at least a tolerance of—the little things so dear to every Francophone heart. Wine is a work in progress: I’d say that I’m at (I just witnessed an adorably indie couple kissing goodbye across the street. PDAs are a national pastime here.) the caveman stage. I’ve discovered fire and the wheel is pretty nifty, but I still gag after every artesian drop. Beer’s not much better; I’m a pioneer with an unsophisticated pellet-trading system.
I blame my American college career: I’ve been conditioned to view alcohol as a necessary means, an unpleasant bus ride to a tropical destination. (My café is cold now; even worse.) I don’t boast a refined pallet: I still get a hard-on when I hear a box of shells and cheese being opened. Maybe I just don’t have the tongue to distinguish between Nati and the top-of-the-shelf. Sue me.
But, boy, do I look the part. I rock the suffocating jeans, pristine V-necks with just-the-right-amount of chest hair joining the party, my polarizing Euro-‘stache. I got the look down. (A chocolate lab with a naked neck just gingerly strolled by me. There’s a lot of that here.) But to my unfortunate detriment, the French mime exists only in (“Borderline” is playing right now, and I’m sitting in a French café. I'm having a moment.) re-runs of Animaniacs. I have to talk. I have to speak French.
But that’s when it all becomes real. I can pretend that each thoroughly-coiffed bombshell that passes my table was raised on Nickelodeon and PB&Js. If I disregard the plucked eyebrows and baguette under arm, that man with the killer aviators could have lettered varsity and received his first kiss at the Homecoming game by a girl named Melissa. But when he talks—when his language provides a cage-like context—I know he’s never tasted peanut butter. He’s never heard of Kenan Thompson or Kel Mitchell, and Pierre was actually the one who popped his cherry.
“Useless Desires” is now playing. Another moment.
I can force down every glass of Merlot. I can hold a candy cigarette ‘tween my middle and pointer fingers. I can cross my legs till my boys are blue. But I can’t fake the language. Madame Rouchet scares the Yankee shit out of me, and I guess language acquisition is sort of why I’m here. The next time a homeless man with a concave face accosts me at my bus stop, I need to be able to clearly comprehend his hollow threats so that I can best ignore him and continue to stare at my dirty Vans.
I almost drank half of my coffee. Baby steps, you know.
--C.Z.
Other thoughtful analyses concerning my European excursion thus far:
1. Six-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers. I find this partially attributable to the utter absence of Hot Topic.
2. I’m continually shocked by the number of French I’ve witnessed eating McDonalds fast food. After all, eating a Big Mac is like biting into American capitalism.
3. Sixty-five-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers.
I just ordered a café. It came with a long packet of sucre, extra fin. If I close my eyes, it almost tastes like hot chocolate with a not-so-subtle hint of metal and bitter aftertaste. I’m trying to be French. That means that I’m trying to cultivate an appreciation for—or at least a tolerance of—the little things so dear to every Francophone heart. Wine is a work in progress: I’d say that I’m at (I just witnessed an adorably indie couple kissing goodbye across the street. PDAs are a national pastime here.) the caveman stage. I’ve discovered fire and the wheel is pretty nifty, but I still gag after every artesian drop. Beer’s not much better; I’m a pioneer with an unsophisticated pellet-trading system.
I blame my American college career: I’ve been conditioned to view alcohol as a necessary means, an unpleasant bus ride to a tropical destination. (My café is cold now; even worse.) I don’t boast a refined pallet: I still get a hard-on when I hear a box of shells and cheese being opened. Maybe I just don’t have the tongue to distinguish between Nati and the top-of-the-shelf. Sue me.
But, boy, do I look the part. I rock the suffocating jeans, pristine V-necks with just-the-right-amount of chest hair joining the party, my polarizing Euro-‘stache. I got the look down. (A chocolate lab with a naked neck just gingerly strolled by me. There’s a lot of that here.) But to my unfortunate detriment, the French mime exists only in (“Borderline” is playing right now, and I’m sitting in a French café. I'm having a moment.) re-runs of Animaniacs. I have to talk. I have to speak French.
But that’s when it all becomes real. I can pretend that each thoroughly-coiffed bombshell that passes my table was raised on Nickelodeon and PB&Js. If I disregard the plucked eyebrows and baguette under arm, that man with the killer aviators could have lettered varsity and received his first kiss at the Homecoming game by a girl named Melissa. But when he talks—when his language provides a cage-like context—I know he’s never tasted peanut butter. He’s never heard of Kenan Thompson or Kel Mitchell, and Pierre was actually the one who popped his cherry.
“Useless Desires” is now playing. Another moment.
I can force down every glass of Merlot. I can hold a candy cigarette ‘tween my middle and pointer fingers. I can cross my legs till my boys are blue. But I can’t fake the language. Madame Rouchet scares the Yankee shit out of me, and I guess language acquisition is sort of why I’m here. The next time a homeless man with a concave face accosts me at my bus stop, I need to be able to clearly comprehend his hollow threats so that I can best ignore him and continue to stare at my dirty Vans.
I almost drank half of my coffee. Baby steps, you know.
--C.Z.
Other thoughtful analyses concerning my European excursion thus far:
1. Six-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers. I find this partially attributable to the utter absence of Hot Topic.
2. I’m continually shocked by the number of French I’ve witnessed eating McDonalds fast food. After all, eating a Big Mac is like biting into American capitalism.
3. Sixty-five-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Ignorant Slackjaw
I told at least three-dozen people before I left that I looked forward to being uncomfortable. I distinctly remember the words coming out of my mouth, and I think that I remember the reasoning that propelled them. It went something like this:
Discomfort denotes mental unease, but it connotes the kind of mental breaking-down-and-rebuilding-for-a-better-tomorrow shtick that’s (purposefully) only mildly suggested in every TV commercial I’ve ever seen for the U.S. Army. Even high school dropouts with mustaches crusted over with chewless tobacco realize that when they sign away their freedom, they’re in for an ass kicking; however, the true and palpable extent of that ass kicking eludes them. As it did (and maybe still does) me.
I’m not comparing my excursions into the deep recesses of French language and culture to the corporeal damnation that is basic training. (Although, truthfully, I believe the parallels are numerous and potentially meaningful.) I am, however, becoming painfully, uncomfortably aware that my mustache is crusted over with chewless tobacco. Regardless of its self-conscious irony and capacity for “Eurotrash,” my mustache is a testament to the “satisfying, natural” taste of Red Man.
I was told it would be rough. But I don’t think the megaphone could have gotten loud enough for me to really hear it. I had romanticized the notion of discomfort to near Utopian levels; I equated physical and psychological smarting to a crisp afternoon of apple picking with Tickle-Me-Elmo. I shoved a key through the antonymic hole, if you prefer unnecessarily abstract metaphors.
The language barrier between my family and I is reinforced with steel beams. My comprehension skills are poorer than I had anticipated, and my fumbling, rambling attempts to converse with locals seem equivalent to branding my forehead with the stars and stripes. I’ve been studying the French language for six years, and I’m standing toe-to-toe with the unshakable feeling that I’ve nothing to show for it.
And although I can’t clearly express the whats and hows and whys, I still feel as if I’ve nothing to lose. I do feel like an underdog, but I guess the label isn’t manifesting into the same adrenaline junkie of yesteryear. I’m a different breed of underdog because I’m disadvantaged in a fundamental way, as opposed to a superficial one. My handicapped speech isolates me in ways that are much more profound and much more difficult to overcome. I can’t just be brave; this is about more than testosterone-launched spats of courage. I have to learn something. I have to learn how to communicate. And for me, the inability to communicate presents a discomfort that can’t be likened to any other negative stimuli.
Moral of the story: I got what I wanted.
--C.Z.
Discomfort denotes mental unease, but it connotes the kind of mental breaking-down-and-rebuilding-for-a-better-tomorrow shtick that’s (purposefully) only mildly suggested in every TV commercial I’ve ever seen for the U.S. Army. Even high school dropouts with mustaches crusted over with chewless tobacco realize that when they sign away their freedom, they’re in for an ass kicking; however, the true and palpable extent of that ass kicking eludes them. As it did (and maybe still does) me.
I’m not comparing my excursions into the deep recesses of French language and culture to the corporeal damnation that is basic training. (Although, truthfully, I believe the parallels are numerous and potentially meaningful.) I am, however, becoming painfully, uncomfortably aware that my mustache is crusted over with chewless tobacco. Regardless of its self-conscious irony and capacity for “Eurotrash,” my mustache is a testament to the “satisfying, natural” taste of Red Man.
I was told it would be rough. But I don’t think the megaphone could have gotten loud enough for me to really hear it. I had romanticized the notion of discomfort to near Utopian levels; I equated physical and psychological smarting to a crisp afternoon of apple picking with Tickle-Me-Elmo. I shoved a key through the antonymic hole, if you prefer unnecessarily abstract metaphors.
The language barrier between my family and I is reinforced with steel beams. My comprehension skills are poorer than I had anticipated, and my fumbling, rambling attempts to converse with locals seem equivalent to branding my forehead with the stars and stripes. I’ve been studying the French language for six years, and I’m standing toe-to-toe with the unshakable feeling that I’ve nothing to show for it.
And although I can’t clearly express the whats and hows and whys, I still feel as if I’ve nothing to lose. I do feel like an underdog, but I guess the label isn’t manifesting into the same adrenaline junkie of yesteryear. I’m a different breed of underdog because I’m disadvantaged in a fundamental way, as opposed to a superficial one. My handicapped speech isolates me in ways that are much more profound and much more difficult to overcome. I can’t just be brave; this is about more than testosterone-launched spats of courage. I have to learn something. I have to learn how to communicate. And for me, the inability to communicate presents a discomfort that can’t be likened to any other negative stimuli.
Moral of the story: I got what I wanted.
--C.Z.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Ignorant Underdog
President Barack Obama has got me thinking, but not about healthcare. I haven’t been thinking about Medicare or Medicaid, or Cash for Clunkers, or socialistic economic theory, or Sarah Palin’s loosening grip on reality. I haven’t been thinking about the country.
He’s got me thinking about myself.
I am an American, and in five days I will be boarding a plane to France. And although the Parisian streets may still be littered with confetti and streamers from last November, the smell of the shit on the bottom of George W. Bush’s cowboy boots is still a relatively recent memory for the international community. Bush seems content to slip into obscurity—at least as deep as a former president can slip—but Dick may be a little less willing to relinquish his reigns. Some members of my very Southeastern Ohio family have expressed concern as to how I will be treated as an American in an anti-American country. But exactly how anti-American is France today? How has the election of the forty-forth president of the United States affected Uncle Sam’s international appeal?
Frankly, I have no clue. And frankly, I hope it hasn’t. Here’s the thing: Everybody loves the underdog. You could argue (as I am) that being a post-Bush American in France could evoke the sights, smells, and tastes that are characteristic of the underdog, or at the very least, something that looks, smells, and tastes similar to it. Now, let’s be clear as to the specific connotations to which I’m referring. I don’t mean to say that I would be physically inferior, but rather I would exist in opposition to the status quo and, therefore, would operate to a slight societal disadvantage. (Think Kevin Bacon in Footloose as opposed to Rudy.) For reasons that will be purged later, I masochistically desire that my semester in France be influenced by the disadvantage of being an American. I want to be the underdog.
Dust off your old VHS, pause for a moment to contemplate the life and career of Rick Moranis, then pop in a copy of Little Giants. Becky “The Icebox” O’Shea is a perfect example of this particular breed of underdog. She was rejected to play for the Cowboys (by her own uncle, no less) not because she couldn’t play football. (In fact, she was the best player.) Instead, Al Bundy passed her over because she was a girl. The Icebox was essentially handicapped by society’s stereotypes concerning gender and sports. Similarly, the notions of American culture held among the French consist of stereotypes that would serve to keep me from "making the team," that is, from assimilating into, and successfully cohabiting with, the French and French culture. But the thing is, I sort of want it that way.
Why? Well, that’s a good question. I think it’s all about comfort, to be honest. Without going into unnecessary detail, a part of me feels as if I’ve been tied to this kind of societal disadvantage my entire life. Due to my, uh, “fondness of truck stop restrooms” (as my mildly homophobic friend Tom would put it), my life has been lived in a kind of perpetual underdog montage. This affinity for antiquing can have a myriad of detrimental effects, from putting me into an interpersonal minus column (best case scenario) to a coma (worst).
However, not only have I come to accept my role as a bona fide underdog, I relish it. I need it. In what seems to me like a perfectly reasonable paradox, being disadvantaged creates a social context in which I thrive. The underdog has nothing to lose; the underdog benefits from a comprehensive freedom rooted in, and nurtured by, the utter lack of collateral. Just ask your black friend or that Asian kid who sits behind you in Roman Civ: there’s a wonderful adrenaline rush that comes with being surrounded by doubt. And, of course, it also makes victory that much sugary-sweeter.
But perhaps I’m making it sound too simple, a tad too straight-to-DVD. All underdogs are plagued by that initial hesitation; there’s always a moment—some in slow motion, some sprung from an epiphany, but all backed by inspirational power chords—where a chance is taken and a fist is raised in sweet, sweet defiance. Recall how terrified the Little Giants were when they stepped out onto the field (especially with Spike added to the Cowboys roster). Nonetheless, The Icebox and teen heartthrob Devon Sawa led the team to victory in true Disney fashion. (And in the off chance that the Icebox is reading this, my friend Big Jon would love to take you out for a drink.)
I feel that fear. The rainbow flag (not my idea, by the way—I’m more of an earth tone guy, myself) that eclipses the total sum of my identity here in the States will turn red, white, and blue upon my arrival in France. Even if I don the snuggest jeans and thicken my accent to molasses, I may still be unable to rise above the guise of the SUV-drivin’, American-version-of-The-Office-watchin’ American. And if the previous twenty-one years of my life have taught me anything, it’s that being a living embodiment of a taboo can only do wonders for your social life.
And this is why I’m so hesitant to accept a Yankee-friendly France. Without a single taboo to my name, how am I supposed to function according to a default program that is wired to the expectation that somebody sort of hates me? One of the reasons that I can bring myself to be so outgoing is that I understand that there is approximately a seventeen-percent chance that people will appreciate my endearingly quirky—if not sometimes in-your-face—eccentricities. All of my life I’ve had nothing to lose. But now that that nothing is taken away from me (or, I guess, something has been given to me), what do I really have to offer?
Thus, for the good of myself and all others who are me, I must not give up hope that the French will continue to feel at least a dull aversion to the U.S. of A. You may call this selfish. I call it the American Way.
--C.Z.
And now that the inceptive pang of rejection has faded considerably, I’m now thankful that the Institute for the International Education of Students did not select me to blog about my study abroad experience for them. I suspect this is not what they had in mind.
He’s got me thinking about myself.
I am an American, and in five days I will be boarding a plane to France. And although the Parisian streets may still be littered with confetti and streamers from last November, the smell of the shit on the bottom of George W. Bush’s cowboy boots is still a relatively recent memory for the international community. Bush seems content to slip into obscurity—at least as deep as a former president can slip—but Dick may be a little less willing to relinquish his reigns. Some members of my very Southeastern Ohio family have expressed concern as to how I will be treated as an American in an anti-American country. But exactly how anti-American is France today? How has the election of the forty-forth president of the United States affected Uncle Sam’s international appeal?
Frankly, I have no clue. And frankly, I hope it hasn’t. Here’s the thing: Everybody loves the underdog. You could argue (as I am) that being a post-Bush American in France could evoke the sights, smells, and tastes that are characteristic of the underdog, or at the very least, something that looks, smells, and tastes similar to it. Now, let’s be clear as to the specific connotations to which I’m referring. I don’t mean to say that I would be physically inferior, but rather I would exist in opposition to the status quo and, therefore, would operate to a slight societal disadvantage. (Think Kevin Bacon in Footloose as opposed to Rudy.) For reasons that will be purged later, I masochistically desire that my semester in France be influenced by the disadvantage of being an American. I want to be the underdog.
Dust off your old VHS, pause for a moment to contemplate the life and career of Rick Moranis, then pop in a copy of Little Giants. Becky “The Icebox” O’Shea is a perfect example of this particular breed of underdog. She was rejected to play for the Cowboys (by her own uncle, no less) not because she couldn’t play football. (In fact, she was the best player.) Instead, Al Bundy passed her over because she was a girl. The Icebox was essentially handicapped by society’s stereotypes concerning gender and sports. Similarly, the notions of American culture held among the French consist of stereotypes that would serve to keep me from "making the team," that is, from assimilating into, and successfully cohabiting with, the French and French culture. But the thing is, I sort of want it that way.
Why? Well, that’s a good question. I think it’s all about comfort, to be honest. Without going into unnecessary detail, a part of me feels as if I’ve been tied to this kind of societal disadvantage my entire life. Due to my, uh, “fondness of truck stop restrooms” (as my mildly homophobic friend Tom would put it), my life has been lived in a kind of perpetual underdog montage. This affinity for antiquing can have a myriad of detrimental effects, from putting me into an interpersonal minus column (best case scenario) to a coma (worst).
However, not only have I come to accept my role as a bona fide underdog, I relish it. I need it. In what seems to me like a perfectly reasonable paradox, being disadvantaged creates a social context in which I thrive. The underdog has nothing to lose; the underdog benefits from a comprehensive freedom rooted in, and nurtured by, the utter lack of collateral. Just ask your black friend or that Asian kid who sits behind you in Roman Civ: there’s a wonderful adrenaline rush that comes with being surrounded by doubt. And, of course, it also makes victory that much sugary-sweeter.
But perhaps I’m making it sound too simple, a tad too straight-to-DVD. All underdogs are plagued by that initial hesitation; there’s always a moment—some in slow motion, some sprung from an epiphany, but all backed by inspirational power chords—where a chance is taken and a fist is raised in sweet, sweet defiance. Recall how terrified the Little Giants were when they stepped out onto the field (especially with Spike added to the Cowboys roster). Nonetheless, The Icebox and teen heartthrob Devon Sawa led the team to victory in true Disney fashion. (And in the off chance that the Icebox is reading this, my friend Big Jon would love to take you out for a drink.)
I feel that fear. The rainbow flag (not my idea, by the way—I’m more of an earth tone guy, myself) that eclipses the total sum of my identity here in the States will turn red, white, and blue upon my arrival in France. Even if I don the snuggest jeans and thicken my accent to molasses, I may still be unable to rise above the guise of the SUV-drivin’, American-version-of-The-Office-watchin’ American. And if the previous twenty-one years of my life have taught me anything, it’s that being a living embodiment of a taboo can only do wonders for your social life.
And this is why I’m so hesitant to accept a Yankee-friendly France. Without a single taboo to my name, how am I supposed to function according to a default program that is wired to the expectation that somebody sort of hates me? One of the reasons that I can bring myself to be so outgoing is that I understand that there is approximately a seventeen-percent chance that people will appreciate my endearingly quirky—if not sometimes in-your-face—eccentricities. All of my life I’ve had nothing to lose. But now that that nothing is taken away from me (or, I guess, something has been given to me), what do I really have to offer?
Thus, for the good of myself and all others who are me, I must not give up hope that the French will continue to feel at least a dull aversion to the U.S. of A. You may call this selfish. I call it the American Way.
--C.Z.
And now that the inceptive pang of rejection has faded considerably, I’m now thankful that the Institute for the International Education of Students did not select me to blog about my study abroad experience for them. I suspect this is not what they had in mind.
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