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.
