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.