The Ignorant Time-Traveler

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.

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.