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

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.

Strikes and Snow

Time is starting to pass by really quickly. It amazes me how the first few weeks in a new and challenging situation such as this drag at the beginning. The month of October I spent my days staring at the wall, counting the days, organizing and re-organizing my sock drawer. And then I made a friend. Who introduced me to another friend. Who introduced me to the running club. A new bar. A new store. Suddenly everything felt natural and pleasant. I believe they call this adaptation.

I still have three more months of teaching and an additional two months until my visa expires, but I am starting to think about what the next chapter for me will be. My original plan was to return in the summer and begin graduate school to continue my studies of French, but it seems counterproductive to leave France in order to learn more French. My entire life, I have always been aware of my passions, but incapable of forming them into a concrete plan. Even though my position in Saint-Pourcain is temporary, I have honestly never felt more at home or happy. I need to find a way to make it last.

I promised myself that I wouldn't ruin any part of this experience my thinking too much, but here I am, at the end of a long week punctuated by snow flurries and teachers on strike, thinking my life away. You would hope that someone who does as much yoga as me could stay present, enjoy the moment. But no matter how you spin it, one truth is evident: I am tired of moving. I've been doing it for six years, and I'm getting to the point where I want to choose a place and make it mine. This thought both terrifies and soothes me.

I have a lot to look forward to in the coming months, including trips to London and Italy, and a visit from my sister, cousin, and friend in May. Now that whatever strange sickness that held me hostage in bed for five weeks has yielded, I feel ready to make everything count, and remember the reasons I came here in the first place.

Seen and Heard

Despite being sick for about five weeks, I have actually done a lot of traveling in the past month or so, and it seems wrong to leave things undocumented. My first round of traveling was Vichy to Grenoble to Strasbourg to Paris; the second included Lyon and and Paris part two.

I only spent a day in Grenoble but it was so beautiful. Snowing, and I was totally unprepared for the weather; but I managed to eat a delicious dinner of fondue and ride up to see the snow covered Bastille. And find various animals dressed in Christmas attire.

He was just hanging out in the middle of the street. I took a few too many pictures.

Freezing in Grenoble

Riding up to the Bastille and slightly terrified.

Next, I went to Strasbourg and we were met with unfortunate weather. I'm pretty sure that Strasbourg is incredible in any weather though. The entire town was lit up and one Christmas market spilled into another, turning the city into a giant Christmas festival. I spent two days just walking, drinking hot wine and cider, and shopping.

Warming myself by the fire at a market in Strasbourg.

One of my best friends arrived on Christmas Eve and we spent an amazing week together, despite many unforeseen obstacles that tried to hold us back, including: bronchitis, personal drama, malfunctioning debit cards, and a laundry list of other mishaps that will remain unnamed. Rachel is the ultimate travel buddy because she's just like me--daring, clumsy, and desperate for new experiences. I don't think I've ever laughed so much as I did the week she was here; it was incredible. Here are some highlights of the trip:

Arc de Triomphe

Le Tour Eiffel

Le Louvre

One of the greatest things I took from my vacation was my experience with 'Covoiturage,' essentially a carpooling website in France. At first I was hesitant, scared of what might happen and where I might end up. But between weeks of SNCF threatening to go on massive strike and train ticket prices skyrocketing, I decided to go for it. What I found was a cheaper, more interesting way to travel. I would be nervous to do it alone, but with a friend it is a perfect way to get from point A to point B in a more enriching manner.

Travel Plans

In four days, my boyfriend will be here and I feel it is appropriate to express my excitement by posting a low-quality map depicting our travel plans:

We will of course be spending time in Saint-Pourcain, but also traveling to Clermont-Ferrand, Grenoble, Strasbourg, and finally Paris, where he will catch his flight out on Christmas Eve. An hour after he leaves, one of my best friends will arrive at the same airport, and we will head south for Christmas Vacation Part 2. Stay tuned.

Changing

I've gotten really good at being alone. To some, this may sound like a small feat, but for me, it's huge. Solitude used to make me irritatingly uncomfortable, like a ratty polyester sweater. More than an hour in my own head and I was cranky, desperate, and hungry for attention.

These days, I can't get enough. I savor the moments of silence when I can read, sing Lady Gaga on youtube karaoke, or just simply stare at the wall if I want. I'm really proud of how comfortable I have become with myself even though I think internet access in my apartment plays a huge role in this.

Anyways, my newfound independence started to crumble tonight when I was walking to the pharmacy and saw the huge Christmas tree in the center of town. I'm no homebody, but around the holidays, I always feel this slight twinge of loneliness to be somewhere, to be a part of something. Naturally, this is usually satisfied by a few days of intense family time, which consequently reminds me that being alone isn't so bad after all. But tonight I really felt how far away I was, how much I am changing, and how alone I am in all of it. And it felt...terrifying.

Before I left, I blogged about how traveling changes people; it opens them up to new experiences that alter your perceptions. It challenges one to the point where it is impossible to return the same person. This is why I love traveling after all, because it shakes me up; I feel alive and alert. So these feelings aren't surprising to me, they are simply confirming my expectations for this adventure.

Tightening the reigns

Le Domaine de Marie-Antoinette-Versailles, February 2008

Last week I bitched incessantly about how I couldn't manage a classroom, how my students wouldn't stop talking, how I'm a failure, a pushover, so on and so forth. After classes on Friday, I ran out of the school like my ass was on fire, eager to spend the weekend in bed, hiding under the covers. Thwarting my escape, a colleague stopped me on my way home and asked me how everything was going. I promptly broke down and --in French--expressed my frustrations. Our conversation went a little like this.

"I'm the worst teacher ever."

"You're the boss, don't let them take advantage of you. Be mean if necessary."

"But I'm not mean."

"Fake it. Sometimes being a good teacher means being a good actor. You have to create a new personality for your classroom."

I woke up early Tuesday morning, ready to turn things around. I'd be lying if I said that this week was flawless, but I did make some improvements. First, I don't allow students to choose where they sit anymore. Before they come into the class I place their name cards where I want them, purposefully separating groups of friends who are disruptive. Second, I don't raise my voice. I've found it's better to be silent and wait, than to compete with talkative students. Sometimes this takes a minute or two, but eventually they realize that they are being rude, and give me their attention. Third, if students refuse to participate, I keep not-so-fun back-up activities on hand to give to students (or the entire class) if they are being uncooperative.

Today another colleague offered to sit in on my class, to observe me and make suggestions. After the students left I covered my face, Me:"I just can't stand being so mean." Experienced teacher:"That was mean??"

So clearly I have a ways to go. But half of the battle is recognizing your weaknesses right? And I've done that. I've also realized that this issue bleeds over into other areas of my life; I am so afraid to piss people off and to voice my opinion, because I need to be liked. I loathe confrontation. Consequently, I waste a lot of time doing things I don't care about and am often manipulated. This needs to change, and I guess it's already starting to.

Faking mean

Something a lot of people don't realize is that teaching is hard work. Not in the sense that the work load is insurmountable, or the hours are unbearable, but teaching requires one to juggle several strenuous tasks that are all interdependent on each other. A teacher's primary goal is of course, to teach the necessary material, that is usually determined by a higher branch of academic power. Or in my case, not. But the teacher must also create and maintain a miniature "society" for their students-- with laws, expectations, goals, consequences etc. The environment that a teacher creates for learners is equally as important as what is being taught, because without it, students lack structure, motivation, and respect. In order to develop this sense of a stable classroom society, a teacher often has to play a part, that is completely different than their personality.

My first two months of teaching were peaches and cream. Maybe the students didn't understand me, were afraid of me, or were half-asleep, but they were delightful to spend time with. I coasted through my lessons and felt like I'd made about 200 new friends. I felt accomplished, respected, mature, and empowered. Then a few days ago, this facade quickly disintegrated. Turns out, my "everyone be nice and love each other" approach translated as "everyone do what you want this class doesn't count." My students are hyper, loud, and boisterous; they fall over chairs and throw pens, they talk when I tell them stop and speak in French when I require English. At the end of my "short" days, I feel drained and cynical; I can't seem to pinpoint where things went wrong, or how to make them right. Surely I haven't lost the fight yet...right?

If you know me, then you know that I am anything but authoritative, mean, or strict. I'm a people-pleasing optimist, who will do anything for a warm smile and a pat on the back. Kind of like a golden retriever. It feels so unnatural to be firm and strict with my students, which is why I decided on a more relaxed approach from the get-go. Well this approach is currently biting me in the ass. I want to be liked, but more that that, I don't want to feel like I'm fighting a war every day.

I've been brainstorming all afternoon, thinking back through my 16 years of school, to how my teachers managed their classrooms. I had the meanies, who terrified me. Sure, they kept order and were never walked all over the way I have been lately, but I don't think terrifying students is a) something I'm capable of and b) a good environment for a foreign language conversation class.

Then of course I've had the teachers who everyone loved, but no one respected. They were funny, flighty, disorganized, and energetic, but not what I'm going for. These teachers yelled over the class as if they were begging for the respect and attention that they were entitled to. This persona is frightening to write about because I am starting to feel this way, and I am worried of losing control in my classes completely as students get comfortable talking over me and ignoring instructions.

Then there were the teachers I've had who have mastered a balance. They were cool, calm, collected, interesting, inspiring, approachable, and intimidating. Where did they learn this? This is what I need to master. The art of intimidating people in an inspiring way. I have a lot of things working against me though: I'm 24, I don't speak French fluently, and I can't give grades...all of which my students are aware of. So what do I have to back up my desired persona? Until I can find a better answer to this question I'm going to rely on my acting skills, and the cold beer in my fridge.

Falling backwards

As with any conquest of value, some days speaking French are triumphant..clear, crisp, and fluid. And other days are tragic. The horrible thing is that I know right away if it's going to be a "good speaking day" or a "bad speaking day." Anyone who has devoted a large amount of time to mastering a foreign language knows this. Some mornings I step out of my apartment, and my first Bonjour! to the conceirge is on point. Almost native. Other days, it sounds like a two-year-old with a speech impediment. At least in my head. But then again, I'm extremely hard on myself.

As a student in Aix-en-Provence, every day was a "bad speaking day." Before entering a social situation I would quickly decide if I wanted to play the part of the aloof American bitch who refused to talk to anyone, or the village idiot waltzing around the room massacring the French language. Both scenarios were equally painful, because they painted a completely inaccurate picture of who I am.

As I'm sure you've guessed by now, today was a "bad speaking day." I felt lazy and disoriented, and I could not express anything interesting to anyone. So naturally, I repaired my damaged ego by doing something I am good at: eating cookies and watching Gossip Girl.

But even an hour of indulgence can't shake me from my mood, or the complex that is forming in my head. I am so thankful to be where I am, and to be constantly learning and improving, but some days it is just so difficult. Learning a second language returns one to infancy, but not the picturesque Johnson & Johnson version, more like the terrible two's where nothing works and everything is a risk, an experiment.

More and more people are mentioning "accents." Many French people I know are hesitant to speak to me in English because of their accent, which I don't understand...I've always thought the French accent is sophisticated, sexy, and intelligent sounding. But recently, much to my horror, people immediately call me out for my "American accent." I can only hope they find it cute and endearing, because most likely it's here to stay.

Homesickness won't last forever. But in the meantime, there's a Subway across the street.

Thanksgiving in Charleston, SC

Before I left for France I was extremely worried about the holidays. Even though I love to boast about my world travels and fear-nothing outlook on life, I am human. And American. And American humans love to speak English and eat turkey the last Thursday of every November, and then spend all of their money the following black Friday. Why does it have to be black? Anyways, as I expected, I felt several waves of emotion, longing to be home over the past week, but luckily I was too busy to indulge myself in it too much.

Thursday started off early. I took off Thursday and Friday from school (remarkably easy to do by the way) to go to Clermont-Ferrand to validate my visa. But before I could get verified at the prefecture, I had to get a physical. And in order to get the physical, I had to be checked for tuberculosis. Kind of like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. It would have felt like a frantic scavenger hunt, had I not ran into another English assistant at the doctor's office. Together we discovered that A) we don't have tuberculosis and B) we have no sense of direction. It was fine though, more than fine...fun.

Thanksgiving in Charleston, SC

I had a small Thanksgiving dinner with friends, and it was comforting. Turkey, mashed potatoes, baguette, apple tart and beer...all the things that make me happy. We were speaking French and my family was far away, but the touch of tradition was so wonderful. The next day, I convinced my friend (and guide to all things French) to walk with me to the prefecture for the final step. We had to walk in the cold because there was a transport strike. The validation of the visa was everything I expected it to be. Five minutes in front of a glass partition. A-n-t-i-c-l-i-m-a-c-t-i-c. I was hoping for a round of applause or at least for someone to shake my hand, but I am officially finished with French immigration, and that is something to celebrate...with a new coat, a massage, and a night of drinking and dancing.

I always feel a little bothered by the historical aspects of Thanksgiving, but I love that there is a day set aside to be thankful for the people and blessings in my life. I feel so lucky to have fantastic people in my life all over the world, I am thankful for my health, for this opportunity, for internet access in my apartment, for freedom of speech, for Leonardo Dicaprio. Amen.

To market

Open-air market in Nice, circa 2008

This Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed to catch the tail-end of the weekly market in the center of town. Living in a small village in central France presents few opportunities for excitement, so I was eager to load up on fresh produce, and see the crowd. The market sells a random assortment of things, what you'd expect: fruits, vegetables, cheese; and what you wouldn't expect: watches, shoes, and rotisserie chickens.

I left my apartment, clothed in black, shopping basket in hand, feeling totally French. I've got this. Five steps away from chez moi and I could already smell the food and the fresh flowers. I walked straight up to a table crowded with blocks of delicious unpasteurized stinky cheese and suddenly I froze. I stared at the toothless vendor and totally blanked. It was 2008 again and I had no idea how to speak to French people. I had the horrifying realization that I didn't know the appropriate vocabulary to buy a portion of cheese, meat, or fish. A pound, half-pound, quarter pound? No, they don't use that here. A kilogram? How much is that? How on earth did I ever earn a college degree?

Flower market in Nice, circa 2008

When I studied abroad in Aix-en-Provence my awesome roommate would wake up at 7 every morning and go to the market to buy bread and fresh produce. I prefered to drink and dance until 7 in the morning and then sleep til noon. (Oh, how the times have changed). Well, at this moment, I was kicking myself for being such a lazy alcoholic and not going with her. If I had, I would have known how to do this.

Since I didn't want to pay for an entire block of cheese, I bought what I knew how to buy. Five apples, a bouquet of flowers, and three tomatoes. Next time, I'll come prepared.

Drinking mid-week

I have a recognizable tendency to involve myself in things I know nothing about. There are two main reasons for this. For one, I'm lazy, and secondly, I enjoy the element of surprise. This is generally how I engage in travel, with loosely set plans and expectations. I prefer for the experience to create itself, rather than accepting the difficult task of creating an experience.

Which brings me to wine. Last night, against my better judgement, I went to celebrate "le Beaujolais Nouveau." My colleagues at the lycee were talking about it all week, and I honestly had no idea what it was. "Sure thing! See you there." All I knew was that le Beaujolais was a wine..so maybe a wine party? A solid excuse to get drunk on a Thursday? Sounds good to me.

So after a long day of classes, I rode with my friend to Vichy, and we met about ten other teachers at a bar called Le Gaulois, just in front of the train station. The bar was packed, and by the time we arrived, every table had several bottles of Beaujolais emptied. We caught up quickly, and I have to admit...the taste wasn't great. The type of wine that tastes smooth at first, and then  bites back as you swallow. I'm no wine snob (maybe two notches above the boxed wine club) but I wasn't too impressed. But the energy was undeniable, it was karaoke meets St. Patty's Day, meets freshman year frat party.

It turns out I wasn't too far off in my assumptions, Le Beaujolais Nouveau is a distinct type of beaujolais wine, made from German grapes grown in the Beaujolais region of France. It is fermented for only a few weeks and then released on the third Thursday of November, creating a surge in sales and public drunkenness. Le Beaujolais is meant for immediate consumption and not for keeping. It is often criticized for it's "simple" taste, but in fact it is supposed to taste "young, fresh, and fruity."

So in short, even though the wine was sub-par and I felt like hell waking up at 6 a.m. this morning, I love the way that France celebrates. Everything from a birthday to the arrival of a new wine is always a grande affair. Maybe it's just an excuse to get drunk, but to me it seems a wonderful way to appreciate life.

Why I travel

The other day I was having one of those destructive pity parties where I ate an entire bag of chips while watching YouTube clips of the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show when I realized I can't pronounce the name of the town I live in. I panicked, feeling like one of those teenage bimbos who gets a Chinese tattoo thinking it means 'beauty' and discovering it actually means 'rice.'

I'm a fraud. For the next several days I avoided saying Saint-Pourcain-sur-Sioule at all costs, constructing sentences more awkwardly than usual. When there was no way around it, I said it fast and then coughed at the end, hoping that maybe choking is a solid excuse for mispronunciation.

See I've had a shit week. The thing about being abroad is that everything is magnified. You are more sensitive and vulnerable than you will ever be in your entire life and the slightest unforeseen mishap can send you whirling into a spiral of self-doubt. I don't claim to be an expert on much, but of the mishaps that can occur when abroad...I'm your girl.

French countryside near Toulouse

I've gone completely broke, had a round of international relationships and break-ups, been bitched out in a foreign language (well, a few languages), had my computer confiscated by Israeli security, been extremely sick, visited a French gynecologist...the list goes on.... all on another turf, away from the comforts of my friends, family, and language. I don't say this to brag, but to make a point. Traveling, just like learning a language, is trial and error. You will succeed and fail, and gradually get better at it.

So I suppose in the grand scheme of things, not being able to pronounce Saint-Pourcain-sur-Sioule isn't the most terrible thing that could happen. I was talking to a friend of mine and she asked me why I do it, after all of the uncomfortable situations and catastrophies...why do I continue to place myself in foreign environments instead of sticking with what's comfortable. In my mind, her question answered herself. If you're never challenged you're never changing; if you're never changing you're never improving. You cannot spend seven months in a foreign country and not learn something. Even if that means learning from mistakes.

Five things you shouldn't do when attempting to speak another language.

Lately I've been on this gigantic power-trip, or should I say self-worth trip. It's like every night I fall asleep and someone is pumping Oprah Winfrey into my veins. It started with the whole Occupy Movement, when I realized that YES, I DESERVE EDUCATION. I DESERVE HEALTHCARE. I DESERVE A COMFORTABLE LIFE. Then my newfound idealogy spread to my present situation abroad: I DESERVE TO BE UNDERSTOOD.

I speak from a personal level when I say this, but I'm sure that many would agree, that most people, when in a foreign environment, assume an inferior position. We forget that we deserve to be a part of the experience, and start to exist on a sub-level of social interaction, where we are understanding most of what's happening, but not everything. Once you get accustomed to this feeling, you are in danger of existing there permanently, and thus not allowing yourself to reap all of the benefits of living abroad.

So what to do? Well, you work your ass off. It's exhausting. Spend as much time with people who are native speakers of the language you want to learn. Immersion is an active pursuit, it is not accomplished just be being in a new location. You have to work hard, every day, until it clicks. You can't take anything personally. And when it comes down to daily conversations, avoid the following:

1. Translating directly
This should be a last resort, like when you absolutely have to communicate something and know no other way. And if you do, be prepared to sound...awkward. The other day I was having lunch with some teachers, and they asked me if I had enough to eat. Yes, I'm full. Unfortunately, I didn't know that je suis pleine means I am pregnant in French.

2. Agreeing or disagreeing without full comprehension
When your mind is spinning trying to make sense of things, it is tempting to just nod and say yes, yes, or no, no, but this can get you in trouble. First, it makes it seem like you're not paying attention and second, you could agree to something absolutely ridiculous.

3. Being afraid to slow things down
Learning a new language is one of the hardest things in the world. So don't feel like you are admitting defeat by asking a native speaker to slow down, or ask for the definition of a word.

4. Just listening
Try not to fade into the background. It is just as awkward for everyone else if you're just sitting there feeling lost. I complained to a colleague that I have things to contribute to a conversation, but once I know what I want to say, it's three minutes too late. Say it anways! Or start a new conversation, eventually you'll be on the same page.

5. Giving up without a fight
Most importantly, fight to understand; fight to be understood. No, I don't mean be aggressive and scary. But don't get too frustrated. Most likely, the group you're with isn't talking about rocket science. They are probably talking about the same things everyone is--you know jerky ex-boyfriends, love handles, Leonardo Dicaprio...So don't be intimidated.

Americans love costumes. And apologize too much.

Wrapping up my first Halloween in France with a sore throat and a lot less money in my bank account. This was a really good vacation. Who has a random nearly two-week vacation in October? Oh yes, the French do. I am feeling particularly thankful--a month before thanksgiving--for all of the wonderful people I've met so far. Everyone has been kind, helpful, and generous, contributing to my premature state of comfort and immersion.

An attempt to be terrifying on Halloween

Can you tell I've been reading Jane Austen? I'll be honest, Pride and Prejudice is kind of a yawn, but it does wonders for your vocabulary. Okay, where was I...oh yes, Halloween. Somewhere in between dressing up like a witch and unintentionally attending a drag show, I realized that French people aren't so hot on costumes. The first pang of homesickness struck me when I walked into a bar with my crew (we were all dressed-up) and everyone just looked at us in their normal clothes like what are those crazy girls doing. Hmm. Oh well, we proceeded to have an amazing night. Fast forward to actual Halloween night, and we went out to the largest, most extravagant club I've ever seen (in real life and movies) and still! Very few costumes to speak of. Come on, France.

But with all the off-the-charts cheese, wine, bread, and chocolate I've been consuming, I really can't complain about anything here. Or apologize. At this point, a month into my second long-term stint in France, I am rarely shocked by cultural differences, but the other day...I had a moment. My French friend complained that her throat was starting to hurt, and with all the American compassion I could muster, I grabbed her arm, tilted my head and said "I'm sorry." She looked truly puzzled. "For what?" Another friend with us who has had more exposure to Americans burst out laughing, and explained to her that Americans apologize for everything, even if they have no control over it.

I let this marinate for a minute, and then realized he's completely right! And that is why so often, Americans think French are rude! Because they aren't apologizing for our sore throats, bad weeks, and marital problems. But in actuality, it is bizarre that I have a natural instinct to apologize to anyone who is feeling less than superb at any give moment. If you know me beyond this blog, then you know that I am the ultimate people-pleaser, so this revelation is like a giant weight lifted off my shoulders.

I just ate calves' feet.

Of the three days that I spent in Lyon, France, there is so much to say. I could talk about how perfect my travel buddies were, about how we managed to seamlessly transport ourselves around the city. I could talk about our well-priced, clean hotel, the Rhône river, Old Lyon with its cobblestone streets and medieval architecture. I'd like to talk about the Basilique Notre-Dame Fourvière, the extravagant Café des Négociants--where I had the best hot chocolate of my life. I should probably mention the opera house, and the high-end shopping that I couldn't afford, the enormous Parc de la tête d'or, the zoo. However, all that rests in my mind from my trip to Lyon can be summed up in one word: bouchon.

Place de Bellecour

Next to the river, crossing over into Old Lyon

Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière

Inside the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière

Espresso and hot chocolate at the famous Café des Négociants

Parc de la tête d'or

A bouchon is a typical restaurant of Lyon, and I can tell you first hand that no one in France, perhaps no one in all of Europe eats like this. At a bouchon you eat for hours, and it feels like you are in someones' kitchen. The servers act more like impatient mothers and--if you've found a good one---you will fight for a table, if you get one at all. Although hundreds of restaurants in Lyon claim to be bouchons, there are only twenty "official" ones. I tried to learn how to know if one is official, and the only answers I found were if it said "veritable bouchon" on the front window, and if there were creepy marionette-like dolls below the certification. I went to two restaurants while in Lyon, Chez Mounier and Chabert et fils.

Chez Chabert et Fils...first bouchon experience

Our first night, we  took a look at the menu outside of Chabert et fils to see what the prices were like and had a moment of reproach: "Wait...aren't andouillettes...intestines?" "Pieds du porc?....Pigs feet?!" We walked down the street to find something more...American friendly. But every restaurant was the same. So, when in Rome. We did it up, and I ate things I never thought I'd eat. Here's the summary:

Chabert et fils...aka Night one...aka What the hell am I eating
1. Saladier Lyonnais-museau de boeuf, cocos, harengs, pommes à l'huile, pieds de veau
Translation: Salad of Lyon: cow snout/muzzle, beans, smoked herring, potatoes in oil, jellied calves feet

2. Saucisson chaud pistaché avec cervelle de canut et pommes vapeur
Translation: hot sausauge with pistachios, servet with a creamy cheese sauce and steamed potatoes
*cervelle de canut literally means "the brains of the silk-weaver" because in the 19th century it accompanied every meal for weavers (it's not actually their brains)

3. Le guignol-genoise du rhum, appareil à la creme brulée, cassonade, crème anglaise caramalisé
Translation: rum soaked sponge cake, cooked like creme brulée, with soft brown suger and caramalized crème anglaise.
*If you've never tried crème anglaise, stop reading and go do that right now. 

Chez Mounier...aka Night two...aka...been there, done that.
1. L'assiette des crudités
Translation: vegetable plate (nothing tricky here)

2. Quenelles au homard
Tranlation: a puff pastry served in a rich, creamy lobster sauce, with a side of puréed potatoes and sauteed mushrooms

Needless to say, I left Lyon not hungry. Well, maybe hungry to go back.

Travel is shaped by your co-travelers

Like any other red-blooded foreigner, when I found out I had nearly two weeks of vacation, I jumped at the opportunity to spread my wings and see more of France. I took a bus to Vichy (closest "big" train station), then hopped a train to Lyon, and spent a few days exploring the city with two other assistants. It was such a great trip, first, because Lyon is a beautiful, exciting city, and second, because I unknowingly chose two super compatible co-travelers.

As much as I hate to admit it, the people you travel with have just as much, if not more of an influence on your experience than the place that you are in. This is because there are four types of travelers, who for better or worse, will shape your experience.

1. The dominatrix
The dominatrix has already planned out each second of each minute of your trip, prior to arrival. There's no need to interject what you would like to do, because the agenda has been made. Meddling with the agenda could prompt a meltdown. The plus side--traveling with a dominatrix will guarantee that your time is maximized. You will see more than most travelers, and will not waste time being lost or indecisive.

2. The speedster
Not a far cry from the dominatrix, the speedster is less interested in a thorough understanding of a place, and somewhat obsessed with seeing as much as possible, as quickly as possible. This "gotta catch 'em all" attitude will fuel travelers to go great distances, but only scrape the surface of a city. There is never enough time to sit down, to reflect, to meet locals.

3. The free spirit
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the free spirit is satisfied by simply being. They have few "musts" for a trip, and are perfectly happy wandering the streets, people watching, and window shopping. They want traveling to be simple, natural, and enlightening. Traveling with free spirits is ideal because they are easy-going, easy to please. But pair them with a dominatrix or speedster, and expect disaster.

4. The stick-in-the-mudd
I'm always confused as to why this type seeks travel in the first place, because upon arrival, all they do is eat McDonald's and drink Budweiser. Anything out of the norm or their comfort-zone is out of the question, and stressful situations easily affect the stick-in-the-mudd. Plus side, they like to move at a comfortable pace. And they're most likely stocked with American snacks and anti-bacterial hand sanitizer.

Of course these are extremes, and it is ideal to find a perfect blend of all three: someone who has a doable plan, and likes a blend of scheduled and wandering time.

Always a little lost, but never completely

It feels strange to post on a Saturday, but yesterday I was so caught up in a flurry of excitement that I couldn't bring myself to sit at the computer and blog about it. Classes wrapped up yesterday at 9 a.m., and I am now on vacation for a week! It feels very undeserved to have a vacation already, but hey--I'll take it. So I went back home and checked my email and found out that my boyfriend bought a ticket to visit me in France! I am ecstatic. He will be here December 14-24, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

In further news, I finally have heat in my apartment. This may sound anti-climatic, but I have been absolutely freezing since I arrived. When I told the concierge that my heating is broken, she laughed and said that it will work when it's winter. I envisioned another month of wearing 14 layers of clothes, sniffling, and huddling over a pot of boiling water (yes, I actually did that).

Yesterday I was invited to eat lunch with the professors, and it was so great. I find that I am often a little lost in the conversation of a large group, but never completely. It was a pretty elaborate fete, in my opinion, with fondue, wine, beer, salad, and two mind-blowing desserts (apple tarte and some delcious creamy coconut concoction).

After, I went with my friend Astrid (art teacher at the school) to Vichy for the night. We did some shopping, of course. I have been pretty frugal so far, so I rewarded myself with a beautiful cream-colored boat-neck sweater. Her friend Damien came over for dinner, and we had "un repas typique" consisting of pasta, baguette and yes--wine. Over dinner I dabbled in more complex conversations, Damien practices Tai Chi, so he told me about that, and I talked about my undying dedication to yoga. Then somehow we started talking about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which required a dictionary. Still, I am becoming more and more comfortable expressing myself and my views in French, and I'm proud of that.

Then we went to see a film, The Artist. It was incredible-- a silent film in black and white. The story commences in 1927 and is more or less about a famous actor fading into oblivion when movies with sound became more popular. It was so well done, I am always impressed by films that can take a simple plot line and make it intricate and complex. We returned to Astrid's apartment, drank a little more, and then, much to my horror, I was given a salsa lesson. Yes, my first lesson of salsa in French.

I fell into an exhausted sleep and for the first time since I arrived, I had dreams in French! Ah, that is the best. That's when you know you're mind is really working hard, when a language drifts into your subconcious. My primary goal is to become fluent in French, and I am working tirelessly at it.