A Blip of Spring

The first few weeks of January were gorgeous.  55 degree weather, sun shining every day.  Knowing it wouldn't last (but secretly hoping it would), I took my camera out on one of my walks to try and capture how beautiful everything looked.

 The dreaded stairs I have to take when I miss the bus and have to walk to school.  They're alright when you're not running up them though. 

These bizarre, knobbly trees are everywhere!  Anyone know what kind of tree this is? 

Anyway, now it's back to being cold and overcast, but it's still milder than midwestern winters.  There's no snow and it doesn't dip much below 30 during the day, yet the people here still gripe.  I've learned to let it go every time I hear someone say how freezing it is, because they don't want to hear that this is spring-like compared to the winters I'm used to.  I guess I don't blame them.  No one wants their complaining invalidated.  But it reminds me of a Garrison Keillor quote:

Growing up in a place that has winter, you learn to avoid self-pity.  Winter is not a personal experience, everybody else is as cold as you, so you shouldn't complain about it too much.  You learn this as a kid, coming home crying from the cold, and Mother looks down and says, "It's only a little frostbite.  You're okay."  And thus you learn to be okay.  What's done is done.  Get over it.  Drink your coffee.  It's not the best you'll ever get but it's good enough.

Who knew I'd ever miss those midwestern winters?

France in a Nutshell

This morning I was taking the bus home from school when the driver pulled over, parked the bus, grabbed some change from the fare cash drawer, and got out.  I watched him stroll into a boulangerie, buy two baguettes, and stop to chat with someone in the store.  They were clearly friends, laughing and gesturing in silence from behind the store's front window, and finally the bus driver pointed over to the bus as if to say, "I should probably get back to the bus I left parked blocking traffic with the keys in the ignition and ten people on board in the middle of my route, but we'll catch up later," and strolled back on to the bus, closed the doors, and started driving without a word. 

Anniversaries

With this post, I would like to mark the one year anniversary of two auspicious occasions.  The first: turning in my SIP, or Senior Individualized Project.   Kalamazoo's obligatory thesis serves to remind all seniors that even though they just about made it through four years of rigorous and challenging classes, pulled more all-nighters than they had full nights of sleep, survived study abroad, and had more study-parties than party-parties, Kalamazoo still has one more trick up her sleeve in the form of a project that you will spend months agonizing over, writing, rewriting, scrapping completely and starting over, agonizing over some more, and finally rejoicing as you clutch your warm fifty-page masterpiece acceptable final draft, fresh from the printer.  And then hole-punch it five pages at a time because even through every student who is accepted to Kalamazoo College has to do a SIP, Kalamazoo still hasn't thought that it might be a good idea to buy a bigger three-hole-punch.  Turning in my SIP felt amazing; what felt even more amazing was when my jaw, neck and shoulder muscles unclenched about two weeks later. 

The second:  Turning in my application for the Teaching Assistantship Program in France.  Yes, it's painfully symbolic that the very day that I turned in my SIP, the last vestiges of my graduation requirement, I turned in the application that would unfold to become my future.  It's so symbolic that if I came across something like this in a novel, I'd think, "Well, that's a little forced, isn't it?  Hit me over the head with your point, why don't you?" Which is why when I write my memoirs, I will lie about everything.

In addition to the one year anniversaries today, there's a special someone celebrating their three year anniversary... my study abroad application!  Three years ago today, I turned in my application to go to Strasbourg, France.  As if the symbolism couldn't get anymore sickeningly contrived. 

Next January 15th, I wonder what anniversary I'll be celebrating.  The anniversary of me sitting in my room in Bar-le-Duc and doing nothing?  The anniversary of me going to the grocery store?  As this seems to be felicitous date, I feel like I should attempt to do something out of the ordinary and see if fate rewards me once again.  The thing is, I won't recognize it today, or tomorrow, or a month from now.  But next January 15th, 2012, when I'm accepting my Golden Globe for best screenplay, I'll finally be able to look back and say, "I started writing the screenplay for 'The English Assistant,' a year ago today, with absolutely no idea that I might eventually be up here accepting this award.  I'd like to thank the people of Bar-le-Duc for making this possible."

So happy anniversary to my past, present and future!  I won't forget you when I'm famous.

En Attaché

 

Hello!  My name is Laura.  I am 23 years old.  I'm in the process of bettering my handwriting because my students make fun of me.  Every time I write out the date, they have to ask me how it's spelled.

"Monday.  M-O-N-D-A-Y.  It's always the same.  Just like last Monday, and the Monday before last Monday.  And it will be the same next Monday, okay?"

But they continue to interrogate me.

"What is that?  Is it a V or an N?"

Shit.  The worst is when the teacher rewrites what I've already written on the chalkboard.  It's very embarrassing.

It looks like I've made some progress, right?  But now my hand hurts.  A lot.

The Death of Pencil Cases

I've survived my first week back at school, which is actually a huge deal considering that many tragedies have ensued from stampedes that have lost control, and stampeding French children who all want to hug you and kiss you and scream Bonne année!! at you as soon as you walk in the door is not as cute as it may seem, but on the contrary, very terrifying.  But that aside, it's been a productive week.  My kids now know how to say what they're wearing, although I got into an argument with a boy who insisted that he was wearing a sweater when he was clearly just wearing a shirt.  In fact, there was a lot of confusion about sweaters, and also sweatshirts, because most of the boys were wearing zip-up track suit jackets which are neither sweaters nor sweatshirts.  I had not been prepared for that.  Neither had I been prepared for how hilarious it is when French people try to pronounce, "I am wearing socks," because socks definitely sounds like something much dirtier when they say it with their accent.  However, I saved them from major embarrassment by not teaching them the word "pants," as apparently that means underwear in British English.  This explains Amelia's giggling fits whenever I say that I have to change my pants.  No language is safe for me anymore.


Being back in France after two weeks of speaking my beautiful native tongue in England has not been as hard as I had expected it to be.  Okay, so my first day back at school was a complete joke, but I think that was due to a lack of sleep more than anything.  But it turns out that I haven't forgotten everything I've learned and I think that my French actually has improved after letting it stew undisturbed in my unconscious.  Along with cheese and wine, the French language seems to improve with age.  Maybe I should go sit in a cask in a cool cellar for a few months and see what happens.

But sometimes, I still find myself at a complete loss.  Yesterday, I was browsing DVDs at the library and spotted the spine of one of my favorite movies: North by Northwest.  I pulled it out and sure enough, there was Cary Grant running through a field with a crop-duster following closely behind.  Yet the title in French had me utterly mystified: The Death of Pencil Cases.  La Mort aux Trousses.  I stared at it for a long time, trying to remember any pencil case-centric scenes in the Hitchcock classic, preferably where they are thrown from a train, or shot at point-blank (or à bout portant, as I just learned).  But nothing came to mind.  I gave up, and when I got back home, I looked up the translation.  Apparently, when used as an idiom, la mort aux trousses means "Death is following at his heels."  Now I just wish I hadn't looked it up at all, because how you get that phrase from "The death of pencil cases" is beyond my comprehension.

In English news, whoever is in charge of picking dictionary.com's Word of the Day has clearly taken up smoking crack.  Yesterday's word was katzenjammer.  Today's is sockdolager.  As in, after my night of heavy drinking, I woke up with a sockdolager of a katzenjammer.   I feel sorry for anyone who has to learn English.

La Rentrée, or The Return

Happy holidays to all of my readers!  Since I couldn’t afford to get you all something, this blog entry is my belated Christmas present to you.  I hope it fits because I lost the receipt. 

What an eventful two weeks it’s been!  I spent my break in London and Bristol, thanks to the generosity of my friends and their families who took me in, fed me, gave me a place to sleep and magnanimously shared their holidays with me.  I owe them my deepest gratitude for taking me in, as my only other option was to stay in a dirty little lair run by this guy named Fagin.  He seemed a little iffy, although one of the other lodgers-- called himself Arty Dodger or something like that-- seemed like a nice enough fellow.  Took my wallet though. 

Getting to London was a bit of a mess.  I arrived at Gare du Nord in Paris at 6am for my 6:45am train, and nothing could have prepared me for the line that stretched from one length of the station to the other, around corners, and then outside to an unused train platform.  Because of all the “snow chaos” (and I use quotation marks because there was not a hint of snow in either Paris or London, actually), all of the Eurostar trains had been delayed and reservations meant nothing anymore.  Signs all over the train station read in English, “Traffic highly disturbed,” which made it sound like the traffic had snapped and gone off the deep end and it was best to keep our distance.  I was told to get in line and I would get put onto the next train available.  By the time I got to the front of the line, it was three hours later and I was finally assigned a train for 9:30am.  But when I finally arrived I was met by Calder and Colleen, friends from college that I hadn’t seen since the summer.  It was so good to see them again!

My two weeks were chock full of new sights and fun adventures, and as I don’t have the energy to write thousands of words, and as pictures speak at least that many, I've been told, here are some photo-highlights from my trip:

The Tower of London

Tower Bridge, with some jerk who wouldn't get out of the way for my picture.

 The actual Tower of London.  Ravens have always been present at the Tower, although no one knows why they came there in the first place.  However, it is believed that if the Ravens ever left the grounds, both the Tower and the monarchy would fall.  Naturally, this freaked everyone out a little bit, so now the Ravens who live there actually have had their wings clipped so they can't leave.  I find that this seems a little like tempting fate.  But who asked me?

 An ad for the amazing "Evolving English" exhibit at the British Library.

The British Library!  I spent a good four hours here, which turned out to be the highlight of my trip.  Get this-- Shakespeare's First Folio, the first and definitive collection of his works from 1623, was a mere ten feet away from handwritten first drafts of Beatles' lyrics by John, Paul and George.  After the lyrics to "I Want to Hold Your Hand," John had scribbled underneath, mocking himself: "3/10. See me."  I was in heaven!  Unfortunately, no pictures were allowed.  Neither was breaking the glass and stealing the manuscripts.  Psh.  

 The flat I stayed in was in Covent Garden, a very famous and touristy area.  Just a few blocks away was the Covent Garden market.

 Christmas Eve at Trafalgar Square.  We went to Midnight Mass at St. Martin-in-the-Field church, which is known for its exceptional academy of music.

 Christmas Day in our flat!  We decked the halls and hooked up the iPad to the TV since we couldn't have a real fire in the fireplace.  Every time the fireplace video ended someone had to run over and restart it.  

 The view from the roof of the flat.  

And then I went to Bristol to visit Amelia, my lovely friend from Bar-le-Duc!  This is a picture of the cathedral there.  Being in Bristol with Amelia was a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because watching TV, drinking tea and eating beans on cheese on toast was exactly what I needed; but a curse because we spent a lot of time honing our demeaning impressions of the French and complaining about them.  A lot.  I began to dread my imminent return to France.

 We spent a day in Bath, home of the Bath Abbey, Roman Baths and the Jane Austen Centre.

 The Pump Room, a very chic restaurant that centered heavily in Jane Austen's scathing commentary on the wealthy in "Northanger Abbey." 

 The Abbey

 A view of the Abbey from inside the Roman Baths.  The Baths were constructed around 40 A.D.

The Jane Austen Centre in Bath was worth the visit simply because of our tour guide.  She was this stout, awkward woman, and when she opened her mouth to give the introductory speech, she closed her eyes and started bellowing out her memorized speech in a stilted, forced manner.  She opened her eyes every once in awhile, but then would close them again as if she was reading the speech off the insides of her eyelids.  There had clearly been pauses written into the speech which she performed in an even more forced manner.  For example, she held up a picture of Jane Austen’s house and said, “THE HOUSE THAT JANE AUSTEN GREW UP IN IS NOW: [long pause for dramatic tension] THE JANE AUSTEN MUSEUM.”  She tried to build up suspense, but it completely backfired because she never changed the tone of her voice, she just suddenly stopped talking and then resumed two seconds later, like the sound had cut out for a moment then popped back on.  And neither was there any need for suspense to begin with.  She also did this with, “JANE AUSTEN NEVER SAW HER NAME IN PRINT, ONLY ‘WRITTEN BY’-------- 'A LADY'.”  She was too much.  I focused my eyes somewhere to the left of her head to keep from having to look at her, in case I burst out laughing. 

I rang in the New Year in a pub back in London, surrounded by friends from Kalamazoo.  At midnight, we hugged, kissed, and made up the words to Auld Lang Syne with brio; and then "Don't Stop Believin'" came on and we out-sang everyone in the pub.  Funnily enough, "Don't Stop Believin'" was the curtain call song for the pantomime I saw in Bristol which I thought was an odd choice for the traditional Christmastime show.  The point I'm trying to make, and ultimately the moral of this story, is that Journey is timeless and transcends all boundaries.  Happy New Year.