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.
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