day 23, to the last one you kissed

Day 23. The last person you kissed

Joe,

If the "last one I kissed" should include all of those I've give a "bisous" while we've been here, then I've cheated. A lot.

I kissed you before you went to work this morning. Your starter-beard scratched my lips, & you were lucky. For once, I wasn't wearing chapstick.

Today, I'll go do laundry. I'll surprise you by taking all of your boxers & that blanket I spilled jelly on. The bag will be heavy when I carry it home, because nothing really dries at the laundry mat. I'll feel like I'm doing something really nice for us, like it's something that will make us really happy.

I've gotten really bad at doing laundry lately–finding all sorts of excuses to pay for it (like the jelly mess) instead of loading up the bathroom sink. It's been cold in the apartment, & I can't bring myself to keeping my hands in that water long enough to rinse, wash, rinse & twist until all that water drips back into the sink. Maybe in March I'll be better.

Thanks for being nice to me these last few days. I haven't made it easy. I'm feeling better, though. Getting there. Not well enough to scrub the mold from the wallpaper or clean out the mess under the bed like I wanted to, but I'm learning to worry less about what I didn't get done–thanks to you. We'll get there, & in the mean time I'll be happy about the laundry.

I can't wait to go to Italy with you & stay in a room that we're not sharing with eight other people (like in Frankfurt). I can't wait to see you walking on the same streets as Italo Calvino & know that we're working on making all of our dreams like that possible.

I'm going to make you take a bunch of pictures with me (since we've sucked at doing that lately but have TONS of pictures of buildings & food). I especially want the ones where we're kissing in the picture, because I know you hate that, but then I can come back & post them all on this post & you will be embarrassed & it will be funny. For me.

Tomorrow is our sixth month anniversary. You have less than 24 hours to buy me something really nice & expensive. Go.

Love,
Meg

day 20, the one that broke you most

Day 20. The one that broke your heart the hardest

Joe,

I love you. We've been married nearly six months. We're together. Every. Day. It's incredibly. I'm really happy.

But before that, there was all this other stuff. Like me going back to Wapak for that first summer. Or you wanting to join the Peace Corps and me in some way almost kind of talking you out of it, which makes me the worst person ever. Like me going to France and coming back and you going to graduate school and us feeling differently about what that would mean for our relationship. 

Like all of those long-distance conversations and crises that were really painful and that you handled really well while I cried into my cell phone and it kept getting warmer and warmer in my hand from being connected so long. I'm pretty sure that some nights, you let me cry until I fell asleep. You sat in the static of a cell phone connection with your train wreck of a fiancé on the other end. It was heartbreaking–how much it hurt my chest, my hands, my stomach to love you. 

The closer and more stable we got, the more my heart seemed to break–not so much to tear itself apart, but to pull you in and give you a place to sit. Once you were there–cemented–the whole mess plastered itself back together.

I never expected heartbreak to be the beginning, but without it I couldn't have accepted what I felt for you. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't gone through the physical ache of it. Now we're here, with new heartbreaks creeping in, and again I'm relieved–that you're here now, to hold onto me through all of it, and that I learned to see heartbreak as the beginning. 

Thanks for being really good at loving me.

Love,
Meg


Enjoy what you're reading? I'd love to know that we're on track. Click Follow on the right side of the screen to stick with us.

Two Euro Cents: Faim d'Echanges

I've just finished a lunch with a French family through a program in Nancy called Faim D'Echanges.  With this program, a family in Nancy invites a few new students to their home.  I was given the sign-up information from a colleague, because even though I'm not a student at the university here, I am a foreign assistant and we are eligible for the program.  One word: free food.  One description: awesome.


To begin, the lunch was excellent and, according to the host and to Megan, very traditional: Foie Gras to Boeuf Bourguignon to apple tart to coffee and truffles.  Wine throughout, but not a lot. There were two other people my age there.  One young woman from New York and the other a young woman from Poland.  We spoke mostly French but also some English and it was great to practice a little.  Of course the Polish woman spoke French, English, and Spanish, but hey, benefit of the European continent so I wasn't toooo jealous.   Our hosts were retired English and French professors and very nice--they had even spent five years in Baltimore, Maryland so it was nice to talk about the U.S. here and there.

My two euro cents for this experience are that a city with an emphasis on making foreign people feel welcome is great, and I am interested to see what programs exist in U.S. cities that are similar and that Megan and I can later sign up for to help foreign students feel welcome.  This time, Megan stayed at the apt., but only because she didxxxn't think she could come because she hadn't signed up.  What do you think the first question to me was when I arrived?  In January Megan and I are invited to come back and share another lunch.

oops!

forgot to mention: new action on Where's Joe's Head!

language, kiddies

At long last, the return of...

I am fully engaged with two French elementary schools as of writing this, and here are my two cents: in the U.S. we need to expose children in our primary schools to a foreign language.  This is not a post saying French elementary schools are better; my experience so far has been sufficiently mixed enough to prefer American schools, though you can't beat the old wooden stairs and historic significance of a school named after a man who died protecting it. 

However, when it comes to language learning, the fact that learning English at this age is a high enough priority to pay me way more per hour than I could hope for in the U.S., where year-long internships are unpaid, shows that France is serious about the benefits of multilingualism in a way the U.S. is not (don't worry, it's France and I'm not allowed to work many hours, so I'm still just as poor or poorer than you). 

French kids are required to study English until they reach middle school, where they can either continue learning English or switch to something new; I had the choice of taking German, Spanish, French or Latin...in high school, where as of today Latin and French are gone, and your options were most likely equally limited or worse, and studying a foreign language probably wasn't mandatory for graduation.

The argument of, "Well, our kids don't need to learn Spanish, or German, or Chinese, or whatever, because those kids 'over there' will learn English, so problem solved," is not an argument but the verbal equivalent of putting your head in sand...that speaks English...and not noticing that each day the world becomes smaller, the need to engage with others in their native language is crucial to cultural understanding, and is an economic asset, among many other benefits that would make this too long two cent semi-rant turn into a pocket of nickels. 

Side note: Spanish has a chance to flourish, and is, in the U.S. in a way that German did not because of two wars and the negative stereotypes associated with the language because of those wars.

One sentence round-up: Studying a foreign language while young gives many benefits beyond cultural understanding that most American students, unfortunately, miss.

School's out. For. Ever.

 

Today, I teach from 4 to 6 p.m. & then have a week + Monday off. For most of my students, this is an extra long break–they've been unable to come to class due to public transportation strikes & "manifs" that cause traffic jams. I'm hoping after the break, the civil unrest will have slipped into the silent resignation I'm more accustomed to, and we'll move ahead with class plans.

Because of the break next week, my mind has already been running at half-speed. "Oh, I can just wait on it until next week," I find myself saying all too often. This does mean...
1. that the apartment is very clean;
2. I've listened to a lot of French radio;
3. I've hung out with French friends (yay, language skills!);
4. the pile of laundry is dying.

It also means that I've been able to give the blog some needed cleaning. I've been distressed by the lack of followers to the blog, because it is not really reflecting the lovely people that read the blog. I know that many of you have your own personal projects, and I would love to do more interactive posts featuring the wonderful things you're all working on.

A friend getting her own blog going finally brought to my attention that the "Follow" button was no longer on the blog. I know that there was a crisis a while back where the template got reset (equaling more time not doing homework & playing on the Internet than I care to admit). Apparently, I missed the glitch & never added it back on. So please, "Follow" the blog if you enjoy the posts & look for more ways to become a part of what happens on francofile.

In other blog news, Joe has had even more success publishing his poetry: Portland Review took one poem for their online journal & one poem for print. This has spurred Joe to finally get the blog we opened for him up & running. (I can't wait to attack the HTML on that bad boy. See? I'm insanely good at wasting time even before I get to my actual vacation.)

Since we've had a lot of living expenses this month... & since we've only had my paycheck this month... & since we're not sure when the next paycheck will plop into the accounts, we're not doing anything big for break. This is a bit out of the norm for my students who are heading to places like Nice, Paris, Amsterdam, Brittany & "home," where ever it happens to be for them.

I'm actually looking forward to a quiet week in Nancy after our weekend away at our landlord's house. We're going to see some of the Nancy museums, read a bunch & finish the remaining graduate school applications. I'm also going to attempt my first French desserts using only two hotplates, since I found a vegetarian substitute for gelatin (agar). If you're looking It opens up a whole world of possibilities!

There are also multiple issues of Brevity that I need to get caught up on. If you're looking for some really great nonfiction (all under 750 words) or wondering what kind of writing I'm trying to push myself toward, this is my favorite example. Creative nonfiction is a genre that's really reached it's Golden Age, & it's so much fun to see how many different worlds can be created without leaving "reality."

I've obviously already started my Break To-Do List & had too much coffee this morning.

The rest of the morning is set aside for entering test grades, reading student e-mails that explain which train they couldn't take to get to class & how much longer they expect it to be on strike* & continuing the laundry. I may even get back to doing yoga, since the mat slipped under the bed & has stayed there for two weeks. What I'm most excited about for today though is researching some statistics on French marriages. Last night I had this conversation, which is almost a daily occurance:

Student: Is it true you're married?
Megan: Yes. Why?
Student: [blank stare] Why?
Megan: Because we realized that we don't want to be without each other. Because we've been through a lot, & we were poised to do a lot, & the time was right. Because we wanted to.
Student: You're young, though.
Megan: Yeah. I know. We've heard that.
Student: I like your sweater.
Megan: It's my husbands. Reason enough to marry him.

*One student hasn't been able to come to classes since Oct. 12, which is very difficult since they only have classes once a week.

A Book of French Poems by M. Mitre

Opening the closet door I found 2 Cents and decided it meant I am doing God's work.

I am sitting outside a white tent.  Inside, there are dozens of vendors selling books on covered tables.  Even with a language I haven’t grabbed well enough to read easily in, I still want to buy books.  Oh yeah, and I did.  It was a book of poems by an old man named Philippe Mitre who was just great to talk to—if you can call what I try to do talking. 

I’ve been studying French in a memorize vocab / listen and repeat way for a little over an hour a day, which is a terrible (behaviorist for you education folks reading) way to learn but the best at avoiding embarrassment and easiest to do while lying in bed alone.  Just a few minutes ago though I was able to ask a question with the verb “admirer” (guess what that means?) I was saying ten thousand times yesterday while writing its 14 tenses carefully in a blue notebook.

Qui admirez-vous?  [confused look]  pour leurs poemes [ahhhhh!....(mostly unintelligible except for the names)].  This is how I create French learning opportunities through interaction (the interactionist approach—thank you for the back pat).  Though I could only understand a little bit, I felt good about trying to have a conversation with a man who wanted to talk to me, or sell me his book, but whatever, now I’m outside and writing this and thinking of new things I could have said to him or will say to him tomorrow. 

Maybe tonight I will create a fake conversation and make Megan dress like him, putting on the one suit I have angled in the closet.  She will smile and point to a book on the table, which will be his/hers, and say “you can look through” but in French, and I will have to say, “Oh yes, I really like poetry and think that you are really cool because you have a book in front of you and look nice, and maybe after this whole thing is over we can go get a beer, or wine, if that is more your thing, and the peanuts or smoked sausage they bring is all yours, or if you’re trying to watch your salt intake because your old I can have a few, thanks, and the way you’ve just signed your name in the book is awesome, so we can go? oh you have a few more hours here, that’s fine, maybe I will just stand, over there, by the decorative tree and think great thoughts about the power of language and something religious about birds, or something?  You’re the best, I love you, I’ll sleep next to the wall tonight because I know you get claustrophobic.”

I didn’t end up engaging conversation the day after, but I saw him though, talking with his hands in a way I knew meant great things.

the library

make sure you check out our updated Where Is Joe's Head? page!

Well, our situation hasn't changed much but our outlook is finally starting to. Today, I had my last meeting. My classes are in place, and the material for the first week will be set by Saturday evening. Let's hope this library has some good phonetics books! (It's still fresh off the press and Joe has planned how to use the five books I get for the month...)

We're in the library, where we get free Weefee (French for Wifi). We walked in, took a seat and found ourselves conveniently positioned in front of the Russian literature section. Granted, I brought along War & Peace, but if I somehow find that I've been able to chew my way through that before it's time to leave the country, why not try to struggle through it in French as well?

Joe has meandered through the poetry section, so it looks like our budget for book shopping will be even smaller than we were originally allowing ourselves, with the added bonus of not having to return them. We're actually even considering foregoing the cost of Internet at the apartment & relying on the library. This is great for now, but when it gets too cold I may lose my willingness to be so frugal. The four blocks we walk to get here may seem much longer when snow starts falling. (But then again, I could easily justify the purchase of a really nice pair of boots with all the money we're saving on Internet–decisions, decisions.)

I have also discovered the 40-cent coffee machine in the Salle des Profs (teacher's lounge, also the nicest room on campus). No one else is as impressed by this as I am. They bring back fond memories of nights at the library in college & morning at the language school on my last trip to France. They are also on 40 cents, so give me a break. Yeah, I'll have the cappuccino. Yeah, go ahead and add the sugar. AND you get to throw your cup into the side of the machine in a special recycling thing. AND the 40th recycler gets their money back–just like the penny machines in Vegas, baby.

It's a good day. It's about to get even better as we get ready for our first evening at the pub with friends. Off we go!

Tr-tr-tr-ain....choo-choooooo

We have been in Nancy for a few days now, and as I grabbed Megan's computer to write this, taking a break from listening to words I don't understand about politics I haven't been here long enough to care about, I decided describing the trip from Paris to Nancy would be the best thing to throw my two Euro cents at, which I will then grab at the end of this post because, well, I f'ing need that to buy bread, man.

Four flights of stairs with 150 pounds of luggage and then the roll/drag I've mastered to the metro, the metro with so many ups and downs of stairs that as of this post I've decided France hates cripples and has created the bicycle sharing programs, such as VeLib! in multicolor, as a way to mock them.  This trip, however, was the easiest of them all.  A week of walk-around-all-day had strengthened body and mind for the physical strain and embarrassment of having so much stuff.

We plopped onto the metro during non-peak hours, so it was only about half full.  Without having to change lines, we made it to Gare de l'Est and waited.   And waited.  And then a crippled pigeon that had a foot like so much balled up gew made us feel bad for him as he panhandled for bread crumbs we didn't have.

The young woman across from us did though, and she fed the little guy.  Ah, that's nice I thought.  And then the pigeon didn't leave.  He hobbled, kneeling in pigeon form, for crumbs.  Yes, the young woman thought, this is the time I shall kick him.  Bam, and he was off.

The train was a long metallic centipede with all requisite compartments for bags and people, and with the people Eurotones to scream through pockets announcing a phone call.  I don't know how to describe these.  Think ring-back tones your friends have, make them louder, add a beat that if it were color would cause a seizure, then-just-never-let-it-stop.  Fortunately the ride was only an hour, and when I would look out the window I could imagine a girl with blond pigtails running to me with Ricola logenzes made from honey found in that tree, or that one, or that one....


We arrive in Nancy.  I nearly crush the man who leaves the train in front of me with our luggage.  We find a map at the train station.  We find the hotel.  Now, the comparison of cities.

Nancy is not Paris. (I know, duh.)  It is less dense, more relaxed, and most importantly, more real.  Paris is attractive for all the reasons we've seen and read all our lives.  It is also a Disney Land of sorts, where as you enter it you know the water will be over priced, there's no way in hell you're letting your kids near THAT thing, and soon you'll leave with less money in your pocket and a few stories and pictures of a place that felt real for a time but you knew was fabricated just for you.

I could see myself retiring there and wasting money in over-priced cafes, because there is so much to appreciate (over a billion metro rides a year!?  good job public transit)  but today, I feel good about being in a French city that reminds me some of home: the sidewalks are cracked, someone is spitting somewhere in public, the people seem the nice and hard-working type, and there is a pizza place down the block.  Ok, so it is a real Italian owned place with the best pizza I've had for a very reasonable 7 euros that will feed two people easily, but still.  Now, damn it, give my money back so I can go get one of those!


Be sure you check out the updated Where Is Joe's Head page & visit our updated itinerary to find links to the places we visited & our photos on Flickr.

on paris: the stairs

 Stairs. I had a few in my house growing up, flights I remember dragging half-full backpacks up in high school–games where my sisters and I would wrap ourselves in blankets then tumble blindly until we got tired or started bleeding.

I didn't know stairs until we reached our hotel in Montmartre and hauled a year's worth of clothes and personal hygiene products we were quickly using from métro to hotel to métro to hostel.

Elevator, smell you later. Escalator, escargot pits. Stairs. Pas de problème.

In the morning, we left our fourth floor room with 150 pounds of luggage and rolled, dragged, lifted our way to a métro stop that would take us within walking distance of our hostel, where we're spending the next five nights and I can honestly say is not a bad place at all.

On arrival, we had to place our bags in storage until 4 (there are many odd yet logical rules here) when we could check in. Our day had begun, after taking our bags 13 stairs down and placing them on metal racks beneath orange and brown plastic pipes that, presumably from the smell, were important for the 100+ guests' calls of nature.

Our first use of the indispensable Paris Museum Pass that, for a flat fee based on number of days used, get you into 60 monuments and museums for "free" was the Conciergerie–palace & prison. After seeing a wall with a depressing amount of names denoting executions, we left to Sainte Chappelle. This church, which looks like what awesome fireworks would look like if they could be frozen & signify more than how much Uncle Rusty makes, had the best stained glass I've seen.

Feeling holy, we continued on to Notre Dame & ended our site-seeing in the Luxembourg Garden, where there will from today forward be the game "Where is Joe's Head?" Walking through Île St-Louis & back to our hostel, where our bags were untouched (I always worry), we had finished our day. In the morning, I would put my arms back on.

So what do you think? Are you ready? Let's play Where is Joe's Head!
Also check out our additions to the ::itinerary:: page.  The connection at our hotel is incredibly lathargic. Pictures will have to wait a bit.