I just got internet in my new apartment

and it seems like a good reason to start blogging again. Well, to be honest, there was a big chunk of time when I had internet and I could have been blogging, but I was consumed by my melancholy disposition that reoccurs every time I make a major life change.

Leaving France was hard. It still is. I feel like part of me is still there, and as dramatic as it sounds, I really don't feel like I quite belong here anymore. This could be a result of moving around too much, being young and restless, or just being difficult, but honestly there is something about France that keeps pulling me back and something about NC that pushes me outward.

I want to keep blogging but my life is going to be a lot more mundane from here on out. In a few short weeks I will be a full-time student and teaching assistant in Chapel Hill, which sounds significantly less exciting than an English teacher in rural France. At least in my book. But I'm going to jazz it up and try to keep all of my fans reading.

Saying goodbye to something great

I hate pants. My preference for pantlessness has always bothered people, but in my mind, pants are binding, annoying, and uncomfortable. They represent the threshold between the day's obligations and freedom. And around here lately it's all freedom and no obligation, so you get a pretty good idea of how I'm spending my time.

The only semi appropriate underwear pic available

Italy

About a month ago I went to Italy for a week and--true to form--documented about half of the trip and then failed to post anything about it. I feel guilty for this.

To make up for my slackness, I am going to post three days worth of personal journal entries about the experience, complete with photos. Enjoy.


Day 1

We left early this morning around 8 am armed with a dysfunctional GPS system and printed out directions from the internet. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that jumping in the car and driving to Italy is an option, but according to Michelin, it is. We left Châtel-de-Neuvre and enjoyed the countryside as it slowly became more mountainous. I counted about 3000 cows, went through four of the cd’s that I burned the day before and started to get restless.

Leaving Chatel-de-Neuvre

Under the weight of capitalism

As my year as an English assistant is coming to an end, I find myself--quite predictably--full of sentiment and reflections and armed with a long list of "things I wish I'd done differently." One thing I really enjoy about spending time abroad is that it gives me the chance to compare my native culture with a new one. One thing I don't enjoy about spending time abroad is keyboard confusion due to prolonged use of foreign computers. Seriously, it's taken me about 15 minutes to type this paragraph. Where was I--oh yes--there have undoubtedly been some moments of culture shock for me since my arrival, but I feel that my most profound realization is the comparison I've made between French and American measures of success and work ethic.

afternoon walk in the neighborhood

Americans criticize the French for being lazy. The French criticize the Americans for being overweight workaholics. This argument isn't anything new I know, but this year I have really noticed how different American and French cultures are in this aspect and how the mentalities affect people.

A product of American culture and my inherent type-A personality, I have been pushed hard from day 1. A joint effort by myself, peers, parents, teachers and the media, I've been told that everything worth doing is worth doing well perfectly. Don't just write the essay; write the best essay in the class. Don't just run on the track team; be the fastest. Be the smartest, the prettiest, the happiest....you get the picture.

This perfectionist mentality bled over into my high school and college years, where I ran myself ragged trying to not only do everything, but to do everything perfectly, better than all the others. Even after I finished school, I felt the urgent pressure to find the perfect job, as if my entire happiness rested on a single career.

It wasn't until this past year in France that these crazy voices in my head finally quieted down a bit. Perhaps this is because my life here is extremely laid-back--or maybe--it's something more.

Finally able to eat outside!!

In France you don't really hear people talking about their next promotion. People aren't obsessively trying to raise their salaries or find perfection in anything. Pessimistic? Lacking the excitement of the American dream? Maybe. But with the pressure off, happiness is suddenly more obtainable. People here just do what they do--they teach, they heal the sick, they take your money, they build houses, etc. Everyone that I know seems content with where they are and who they are and they aren't stressed out trying to reach some imaginary level of perfection.

But without competitive capitalist motivation, who will fix the economy, find a cure for cancer and establish peace in the Middle East?--one might ask. Honestly I don't know. And spending a year with 15-year-olds who still can't properly introduce themselves or ask a question in English after 5+ years of studying; I'll admit that I'm worried for the future. No system or mentality is flawless, but for whatever it's worth, I have learned to accept my abilities, education, and life as is since I've been here. It's been a difficult mindset to obtain and my only hope is that I can keep it with me when I go.

French tragedy, American perspective

At 11 a.m. on Tuesday, March 20th, France stood still. For an entire minute. This may not sound impressive if you have not worked with children, but believe me, convincing 700 middle and high school students to stand still and shut up for 60 seconds is something to brag about--especially when the majority of them don't understand the context.

For those of you who haven't heard, on Monday morning a gunman entered a Jewish school in Toulouse and killed three children and a Rabbi. He was believed to be associated with other recent killings in Toulouse, but nothing was confirmed. The police eventually found him, and after a 31-hour stand off at his apartment, the suspect jumped out the window and died. (It is currently unconfirmed as to whether the fall or a gunshot wound caused his death).

Even though I am not French (but God knows I try to be) this tragedy was chilling for me. I feel more integrated here this go-around because I am technically employed by the state, and I am an educator. And the thought that someone could be hateful enough to enter a school--a place of learning, a place to better oneself--and seek some sort of religious/ racial vengeance is absolutely sickening to me. Although I live in the middle of no-where and the chances of something like this happening at my school are slim-to-none, it is jolting to think that if someone wanted, they could walk in and do the same thing.

The majority of the students at my school are not up-to-date on the situation. A greater majority don't seem to care too much. But regardless, there was something moving about all of us standing in silence on Tuesday morning. I am usually irritated by choreographed displays of respect, but this time it felt genuine; it felt significant.

My heart goes out to all who were affected by this tragedy.

Sick of being sick

The past few days have been hellacious. As I've mentioned before, I was sick for the better part of December and January, some strange French illness that could not be identified. In retrospect, it was most likely a cold exaggerated by my hypochondria. In any case, I thought it was all behind me, until I woke up Friday morning with the most intense stomach pains of my life. I was certain I was dying. I tried to sleep through it. I crawled around the apartment. I curled into a ball and apologized to God for every sin I've ever committed. The pain continued. Around 5 a.m., I woke up my significant other and requested an ambulance. Since I was standing up and asking politely, he suggested a mid-afternoon doctor's appointment instead. Oh no. When an American is sick, sound the alarm, call the police, and notify the president. Or perhaps this is just me.

I called in sick to work and tried to muscle through the morning. By 11 a.m., the perpetual pain had left me toute blanche. Go time. We rushed to the doctor and requested an immediate consultation. Luckily, this was possible; Unluckily, the doctor decided to bring out his high-school level English to diagnose me.

So, have you been farting a lot?

No.

Shirt off please.

After a series of equally uncomfortable questions, he told me that I had 'acid of the stomach exaggerated by stress,' charged me 23 euro, and sent me to the pharmacy.  I spent a total of 7 euro on four different medications and spent the rest of the day gradually feeling better. The next day, as suggested by the doctor, I went to the lab to have my blood tested just to confirm that there was nothing serious going on, and it was completely free.

The daily dose

Now I really hate to get political in a time like this, but I am still amazed at how cheap medical treatment is in France. There are about a million and one things that are more difficult to do here, but being healed is not one of them. French people aren't afraid to get sick because they know they won't have to take out a second mortgage to pay the hospital. They know that since they pay taxes to the government, that their health will be taken care of. There is no fine print, no surprises. And they think it's hilarious that I make such a big deal about it.

The truth is, just a few days ago, I received three (overdue) medical bills from the US for three separate appointments, totaling to about $600.00. And I didn't even flinch. Nor did I react when I was charged $400.00 for a face cream from the dermatologist. When I learned that an MRI for my leg would cost $1200.00, I calmly decided to wait until I was 45 and could afford something like that.

I realize that I am a novice on the intricacies of the American health care system, and that there is no simple fix. But what scares me the most is that Americans don't feel like they deserve to be healthy. Like health is something only for the rich; a luxury for those with a house in the suburbs and 2.5 kids. Something that must be earned. I just can't wrap my head around it, nor do I wish to come around to this way of thinking. It is a strange realization that a foreign country I have been living in for 5 months gives me more medical benefits than my own.

Mind the Gap. Please.

London. How could I ever sum you up in a single blog entry? It's just not possible. Often I feel sorry for travel writers because they are forced to package and sell a tiny slice of a place, of an experience, therefore subjecting readers to an incomplete version of the story. The writer knows there's more to it, but is restricted by word count and desired content; they have to write what people want to read. One of the many reasons I ran in the opposite direction of journalism. I digress. London- the city of cloudy skies, friendly people, terrible food, and fantastic shopping.

Overly enthused about the currency

The trip was dysfunctional from the start. The type of ordeal where one day I was going, the next I wasn't. Travel partners changed, prices climbed, and I was ready to throw in the towel when my friend from school agreed (three days in advance) to pack her bags and come along.

On our way!

We arrived early on Monday morning, flying in from Lyon, France. The plane took us to Gatwick Airport, which is about thirty minutes by train from the city. Our hotel was located near the London Bridge, with proximity to a metro or -excuse me- "tube" station and fabulous restaurants. As always, my first urges in a new city were to eat and buy everything. I had to keep reminding myself that a Pound is more that the Euro, and much more than the Dollar. Didn't really work. What did work, however, was the weather. And being able to speak English all the time. I didn't realize how linguistically exhausted I was until I entered a shop in the lovely Covent Garden Market and didn't feel afraid when a salesperson approached me. I didn't have to think, rehearse, or run. All around me was beautiful, comprehensible English. We did as much as we could the first day, which amounted to a few hours of shopping at Covent Garden, a chaotic trip to the M&M's Museum, a sub-par meal of fish and chips, a walk through Soho, and a viewing of "Chicago," one of my favorite musicals.

Covent Garden Market

M&M's Museum

Soho

Waiting for Chicago to start

The second day we started off fresh and determined. First stop, Abbey Road. I'm not sure what exactly I expected, but it turns out that Abbey Road is..well..a road. That you have to wait to cross. And stop traffic in order to capture the cliched photo that everyone expects me to post.

A lonely walk down Abbey Road

People were remarkably friendly in London. Perhaps it's because my friend and I looked adorably touristy, but I'm deciding to chalk it up to the city. At every turn, someone would cheerfully not only give us directions, but suggest a restaurant, bar, etc. It was like this that we stumbled upon Hawley Arms, where the late Amy Winehouse was often seen. Even when I stopped traffic to take a picture on Abbey Road, no one honked or yelled. This didn't completely take away the humiliation of the situation, but it certainly helped.

Hawley Arms

The majority of this day was spent shopping on Oxford and Bond Streets, and in Camden Town Market. My travel buddy enjoys shopping just as much as myself, and we did a good job of encouraging each other to be financially irresponsible during the trip. Other highlights of the day include the Charles Dicken's House Museum, walking through Little Venice, finally riding on a double decker bus, and dinner at a fantastically cheap Indian restaurant on Brick Lane.

Dicken's House Museum

Day three- aka time to cram in everything we've missed. By Wednesday, I was completely exhausted. After a bizarre breakfast at the Garrison Public House  near our hotel, we took pictures around London Bridge and headed to Tate Modern for a few hours. It was a great museum, but a little too crowded for us to completely enjoy it. By now experts of public transportation in London, we quickly saw Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey (but didn't go inside because it cost 16 pounds!) and Big Ben. Although we were completely depleted of energy, my friend insisted that we stop by her favorite store--Primark. I'd never heard of it, so I was imagining...I don't know....your average department store. So wrong. Three floors of clothes, lingerie, shoes, houseware...sounds like paradise right? Okay now add about 500 irritated women pushing and shoving their way from one sales rack to the next, and their 500 irritated boyfriends arguing with them every step of the way. Now add mile-long lines and hunger pains. Somehow, we made it out alive, with just enough time to stop by the hotel, freshen up and meet her friend for dinner.

Potato pancake, smoked haddock topped with a poached egg.

Posing by the Bridge

Big Ben, last shot before my camera died.

The next morning was ugly. We left the hotel at 4 a.m., surprised to see the wild foxes running through the streets of London. I honestly thought I was dreaming, but my research proves that we were not mistaken. We took the train to Gatwick, and caught our flight to Lyon. Borderline delirious and in a rush to catch the navette from the airport to Lyon Part Dieu, my friend and I picked up speed, racing with all of our luggage and new purchases. We were halfway down the escalator when I saw the doors on the train begin go close. I grabbed my luggage and booked it. Somewhere between the escalator and the train my foot caught, and I went flying in the air, landing flat on my face on the pavement. I looked up for a brief moment and saw the train full of people staring at me, expressionless. Like they'd seen it a million times. At least they weren't laughing. Too humiliated to feel pain, I let my friend scrape me off the floor and put me on the train, which ironically was waiting for me to board. Once my embarassment subsided, I realized that everyone was speaking French again. I was back. Exhausted, injured, and broke, but back. And it felt like home.