the last holiday

Hope you had a happy Independence Day, America!  

I know what you're thinking. Yes, that bi-color typing was as annoying for me to do as it is for you to read. And yes, Joe is wearing a fake Freddie Mercury-esque mustache.

I spent the morning of the fourth getting rather worried that I would look like a giant reptile. My severe sunburn, after calming down, switched into major blister-and-peeling mode. Growing up, I was obsessed with picking at any wounds, flaking loose paint from anything I could reach & dipping my finger in melted wax just to chip it off. Peeling sunburns are rather distracting for me.

I also have lotion that smells like the "Mediterranean South"–loads of lavender & fig. It's almost too much for me to handle when I'm using it once a day. Now that I'm slathering it on five or six times, I feel like the smell will never leave me. My new skin will just grow right over the perfumes, & I'll come home smelling like the south of France. Maybe that's a good thing?

When it finally came time to celebrate, we totaled about eight Frenchmen, three British girls & three Americans. The numbers don't even accurately reflect the revolution. I'm happy to report the the Red Coats & Colonists got along rather well for the evening. That may have something to do with the fact that we spent most of it, when not stuffing our face with our friend's fabulous apple & cherry pies, soaking up gin or whiskey. (Again, representing both countries... though I think the whiskey ended up being Scottish. Hey, we were trying.)

For more pictures from the night, click here. Not pictured is the walk from our friend's to the party location–about ten minutes of pie-, pallet- & pasta salad-carrying. We looked like a mess, but we were too excited for ourselves to care. Also not pictured:

There were no national anthems, no fireworks, no true families, but we had a great evening. The night was our last big outing, our sort of farewell to our night life here. It was another friend's last night in town–when I woke up to type this, she was already three hours into her travels–so our original group of friends has dwindled quickly. We're the hangers-on, the last bits of those that have to leave.

The soirée had us thinking of home for obvious reasons, & for once I forgot about all the tasks in between. It will be so nice to watch Joe & Dad starting the fire, getting our dinner going while my youngest cousins run around the backyard & the Ladies sit on the deck. It will be nice to sit around a table with Joe's sisters & the families that they're building, each of us sharing our year's adventures.

Hope you had a happy, safe holiday. I'm back to packing!

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I can't handle it.

Happy Independence Day, America!

It's been another long series of days since I posted, & now it's July. It's the 4th of July. My family will wake up, prepare desserts to donate to the cake wheel at our church's annual carnival, help the church by working a few hours at the hamburger stand (while eating free hamburgers & onion rings, which is why I enjoy helping). They'll watch fireworks from our front lawn, in our neighborhood where the trees are now growing too tall to see the lower bursts of color.

I miss that. I'm realizing that I have no idea what to do when I see them, when we drive up to their house in Joe's small truck in the afternoon & walk up the steps of the deck that my dad built. How can I hug all three at the same time? I think my heart will burst before I reach them.

I'll be home, or at least stateside, in roughly four days. I'm not handling this well. We have continued the gradual saying goodby to friends, breaking down more with each goodbye–starting with small tears in my friend's hometown, after spending a day with her in Luxembourg, then larger tears when saying goodbye to another friend who has been unbelievably kind & welcoming to me this year. She even got us one of the lovely burgamote tins that Nancy is known for (as seen in Amelie!) & a bracelet like the one I've seen her wear.

Diane, who has absolutely spoiled me with friendship

It's incredible how many people have come to mean so much to me here, & how quickly we have all scattered across the world–from Japan & back to the UK, to every corner of France, to the States, to Luxembourg... It's even more incredible to me that beyond missing the people, I can cry for missing a place so much. France feels like home to me, a spiritually & politically safe haven for me. The hardest part about leaving is not knowing when we'll come back–when I'll feel this way again; when we'll see these blue roofs & colorful shutters; when we'll speak this language; when we'll be able to buy wine for less than the price of soda.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon packing. I took our decorations from the walls & books from the shelves. I folded sweaters & packed things into space-saving bags. I decided what clothes I'll wear in NYC. I sat in the middle of the floor crying, waiting for Joe to get back from a coffee rendez-vous with a fellow assistant, feeling like I couldn't do it. I can't drag my suitcase around this country & watch as the plane lifts away from Paris. I can't let go of this tiny apartment where our marriage began.

Today, we'll spend the day acting American. We'll get together with friends (who are mostly British at this point) & paint our faces & drink cheap beer while cooking American food. We'll wear red & burn sparklers on balconies. We'll use the night to finish saying goodbye before we leave quietly on a forecasted hot, sunny Thursday afternoon.

I had my last big adventure on Friday, waking early & taking a train to Longwy before Joe woke for his last day of work. A former student had invited me for the day, first visiting her hometown then going on a drive to Luxembourg. The tiny, rich country is only minutes from her house; the tiny country's capital city is only half an hour. It was our first time hanging out together, after months of trying to organize something, & it was lovely.

Claire, with whom I didn't get to spend nearly enough time

I was amazed by the amount of history Longwy, a town of roughly 5,000 people, had–visits from the Sun King, a town square completely destroyed by World War bombings, a tradition of making beautiful ceramics. Equally amazing was my friend's ability to explain the town's history to me in a way, I realized, I could not do with my hometown.  I need to learn more Midwest/American history!

For pictures from the day, click here. Longwy is in France, & then the other half of the pictures are Luxembourg City, a place that is unbelievably clean with ancient & modern buildings blurring into each other. Lots of people from all over Europe (particularly those near the Luxembourg border, so France, Belgium & Germany) work in Luxembourg. The result is this mix of languages, fashion & food styles, cultures & social ideas that you can see when you turn each corner. What a crazy place! Think of having that much diversity in a state smaller than Ohio!

In other news, yesterday my sunburn was looking normal. My arms are bronze; my chest is bronze; my back is, well... I felt the top of my back, & something stuck to my hand. I felt it again, & the same thing happened. I went into the bathroom, lifted my shirt & saw the skin all peeling off of my back. I'm concerned about bits of it–looking rather tender & rosy. I asked Joe what he thought.

"Meg, I think you burnt off your epidermis," he said. He couldn't hide his look of disgust from the three vanity mirrors that were surrounding us. At least it's over now & I'll come back to the States looking like I just spent a lot of time in the European sun, getting all comfortably glowing & tan. I'll have you fooled, just wait.

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coup de soleil

I slept on the floor, under the open window last night. My neck's a little stiff, but the rest of my body is thanking me. I'm sitting on the floor in my underwear. Our door is propped open; our window is open despite the rain. I'm trying not to let anything touch me. Not even the wind. (Not directly.)

There are a lot of adventures packed into a very small window of time before we leave France–making sure we adequately say goodbye to everyone we're not sure we'll ever see again, checking out the last few bits of undiscovered Nancy territory. I'm a bit overwhelmed, but let's be honest: I'm enjoying the affection.

I was invited to a friend's house yesterday for a great, summery lunch (with fresh cheese made by her friend, fresh berries picked on Sunday...) I wore flip flops for the first time this year, and they rubbed the skin off of my feet, including a spot on the bottom near the thong-y spoke thing, before I arrived.

After a good lunch with my friend & her incredibly kind, welcoming mother, we headed to the outdoor pool–a pool that is bigger than any I've ever visited. I wish I'd taken my camera. If nothing else, you'd be able to see me in a swim cap, which are a required part of the attire.

Apparently, it is also required that men wear tinier swimsuits than you'd ever see in the States. I laughed at how out of place Joe would seem in his almost knee-length swimming trunks. One man, roughly age 55, had taken this too far: a thong Speedo. There were many screams and gasps and stares of shock for boys & girls alike.

We spent most of our time "bronzing" ("bronzer" is the French verb for to "lay out" or tan). My friend finds pale skin sad & rather unappealing. I find my pale skin my natural state and a sign that I will, if I don't tan it to leather, have a lower chance of skin cancer. I slathered on the sun screen while they were (while admittedly looking lovely & bronze) soaking up the oil.

The sunscreen didn't seem to help. By the time I got home, I was completely burnt, & it looks ridiculous. I sat Indian-style (excuse me, "criss-cross applesauce" style) most of the afternoon, so the burn follows all the lines of my sitting and swimsuit. I'm not quite lobster level, but it's painful. It feels like the bones and muscles were burnt, screaming from strain when I bend or twist or walk.

I gave myself a cold shower when I got home–something that never quite feels good to me, but that I knew would help me a bit. I smeared moisturizing lotion on, & I got ready for the opera.

To cover the burn, I wore my pencil skirt & a nice, flowing shirt that wouldn't have to touch my poor chest. Walking through the 90 degree weather to the opera, we calmed ourselves by the thought of air conditioning and cooling down before the performance began.

False. It's France. We were roasting, and we were tucked in tiny seats with no knee room (the stadium seating put the women in front of us two inches from my feet)–and tucked between a family that frequented the opera to the left and a group of elementary school girls to the right. The repeatedly explained to each other that they couldn't see anything; they had no idea what was happening; they were hot; they couldn't see.

The opera is beautiful; the orchestra played beautifully; the costumes were beautiful. But Joe & I are not opera fans. Maybe it was the heat or the claustrophobia or the fatigue we felt in the dark space. Maybe it was the frustration of trying to read the French translation of the Italian opera while also trying to catch what was happening stage left, the spot with the most action & the most people blocking our view.

We appreciate the experience, but between my sunburn ("coup de soleil" in French–a hit or cut, as if the sun smacked you and left a red mark) & my low heat tolerance I wasn't willing to go back into that room. Joe wasn't putting up any arguments. He got an ice cream; I got a large water and we walked through the park on our way home in the cooling night air.

Joe was kind enough to get groceries today while I "clean the apartment" (since that's clearly what I'm doing. I refuse to put clothes on until I have to work today. I refuse to turn the stove on. I refuse to close the window. I refuse to think about the fact that this day marks our last week in Nancy.

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S-A-T.U.R-D.A.Y

Wow. I feel like a waste of time today. I'm okay with that. It's almost 8 p.m, and Joe & I have just gotten up from an afternoon nap. I need to be cleaning the apartment.

The wine with lunch was not a good idea, especially not after the later-than-usual night I had. My head is killing me.

Yesterday afternoon, I went over to a friends for an afternoon of baking and an evening of watching a Korean drama called Coffee Prince. It's adorable. You can find the whole thing subtitled online. I recommend it.

We had a great time chatting & watching the adorable couples, but we also finally got around to making chocolate babka. I found the recipe for the Jewish sweet bread, filled with chocolate & cinnamon, on Smitten Kitchen at the beginning of the year. The ingredient list is intimidating, so I wanted to wait until we had the time to make it together (and the cash for 2.25 pounds of chocolate, six sticks of butter and two bags of flour). It's one of the best recipes I've ever used, with everything working out perfectly. I've had lots of luck with Smitten Kitchen, & I promise you would too.

We ate the babka for dessert. We ate it for breakfast. We still have 3.5 loaves. ITS SO MUCH CHOCOLATE BREAD. I'm not really complaining.

I'm trying to start eating less desserts. This year, I've used the "We only like [in France] once, so enjoy it while you can" philosophy. My clothes still fit, so apparently it worked okay. I have noticed, though, that I'm more dependent on sugar-based energy & my overall energy levels have dropped.

After a night with Lauren, I came home to get ready for an end of the year "spectacle" at the elementary school where Joe works Monday-Thursday. He was leading them in some English singing, which was by far the most adorable thing I've seen this year.

Some of the songs played during the other classes' skits where, well, less adorable–ranging from the Beastie Boys & Rage against the Machine to some songs with language I'm not even comfortable typing out. I guess what they don't understand can't hurt them?

From his Friday school, Joe got a year-end thank you gift that I am helping him enjoy: a box of Nancy macarons. Ingredients: egg whites, sugar, almond powder. If you haven't guessed, macarons are by far my favorite French recipe, & they have a unique history here in Nancy.

The recipe for their crispy, delicate outer shell (where crushed almonds replace flour) originated here. The "Trois Soeurs" created the cookie to fit the diet they followed at the convent. A small Nancy-focused shop called Trois Soeurs has kept the tradition alive, making the original macaron cookie without sandwiching them.

In other news, Joe & I watched It Might Get Loud, a music documentary with Jack White, the Edge and Jimmy Page. I recommend it (after you watch Coffee Prince). After watching Jimmy Page playing the mandolin in his backyard, I've been searching for a cheap mandolin to learn on. I've spent this whole year feeling like I need some music in my life. I mean, I'd even a ukulele (since there are loads of options for about $40!!), though Joe says I'd only be able to play Hawaiian-sounding music and would quickly drive myself crazy.

I think the tiny-guitar route would drive both of us less crazy than the original plan, which was to have Joe start teaching me the guitar. Confession: I know this is shocking, but I'm not a patient person. I'm not good at NOT being good at something, and I'm not good at asking for help. Something tells me this combination of personality traits & having Joe as my would not be good for our marriage...

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fête de la musique

 I have a music hangover.

Yesterday was the national (now international) music festival, Fête de la Musique. When I was in Chambéry during the summer of 2008, we attended the fête in Lyon. (I posted about it on my Frenchie Summer blog.) We danced & drank all day. I was eager to share the holiday with Joe.

One of my good friends/ex-students invited us to her roommate's show, & we spent the rest of the evening out–as did at least 9,000 other Nancy residents. The. streets. were. packed. Musicians were everywhere. Cheap beer was for sale everywhere: bars opened their large front windows & set up booths for beer; boutiques were taking advantage of the crowds & selling goods from coolers; plastic cups were everywhere.

The lights, kegs & general conviviality reminded me so much of home–summer days spent walking around the fair & community festivals. Families were out, all ages mixing & dancing to African music, Salsa, electro-mixed rave sounds... or nothing. There was a silent corner on one street, filled with mimes–white-gloved hands moving through synchronized hand motions.

With each day, I become more attached to my friends remaining in Nancy. Having eight hours to run through the streets, sweating & shaking our hair & arms & torsos to bass so loud it shook our muscle fibers, was a night that seemed to seal the untouchable bond I have with these girls. (Here's a quick photo from early in the night–the sun's even still up. Not pictured: Aurora, a lovely Texan girl who has spent several years making Nancy her home.)

The night brought out so many emotions I've been bouncing between. I've lost the sense of any concrete "home" & know that I'll forever feel torn between the United States & France. Lately, I've been worrying that the relationship was one-sided. Last night, I felt so much affection coming my way.

While walking through the main square to get to the next concert, I saw students' waving hands; I had several students that have become friends pop up to say hi; I saw friends I've been missing for weeks. We even ran into the married couple who had shared our sleeper cabin on the train to Montpellier. We were at home, part of a community, moving through a town that we'd fully become a part of.

The night was perfect in a way no night has been perfect. Dancing in the street, we were flanked by lightening. Occasional thunder roared about the clusters of club music. We stopped for kebab on the way home, & I sat on the patio watching tiny raindrops fall. We walked into the apartment. The storm let loose, & I collapsed on the bed–as if we were equally exhausted from holding it all in.

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worth the whisk

I've mentioned several times that I'm trying to fill this last month with as much excitement & France as possible. (I'm also trying to take pictures each day. For this, click here.) This morning, I made a traditional French tart called "clafoutis". For the recipe, click over to my other blog.

The excitement I didn't document was the enormous (not kidding–furry, hairy, gross) spider that greeted me in the bathroom sink this morning. It woke me up; my scream woke Joe up & the poor guy (spider, not Joe) didn't live to see breakfast. I'm still afraid to walk into the bathroom.

While Joe recovered from his murderous morning, I walked to get butter & set to work on a really simple brunch tart. I realized while mixing the ingredients together that I have become completely dependent on my whisk (or "fouet" in French).

I used to hate whisks. They leave lumps; they get all clogged up; they are a manual version of a mixer.

Because of our limited kitchen supplies–our kitchen is whisk-heavy, with a total of four, & light on everything else–I've learned to appreciate the whisk & see the mixer as largely unnecessary.

I had a tendency to over-mix things. This results in overly stimulated baking powder, rising before it gets into the oven; flat pancakes, since the lumps actually help the pancakes stay fluffy; flat-topped muffins & a mess on the counter. I've learned to live with lumps (like those in my "clafoutis" recipe, which actually help the tart rise & create three distinct layers). The whisk prevents this. It tires you out before you can whip things into oblivion, & it doesn't stir thing around the way a mixer does. It gets a bit clogged & takes a bit longer to break things apart, which can actually be good for the ingredients.

Over the year, I've tried to embrace many thing about French culture, like being surprised when I see a rubber spatula. When it comes to food culture, I'm embracing the challenge. I'm learning to whip egg whites & whipped cream by hand, which is still largely unsuccessful (due to limited bowls that will contain the mess & help it–no metal or glass in this kitchen)... but watching Top Chef contestants stiffen egg whites in three minutes has me endlessly motivated.

This has all somehow fueled my excitement for returning to the States & living an even more energy-efficient life. I'm not sure how many emissions I'll save over my lifetime hand-mixing on occasion, but it has me thinking about all the other silly things I can eliminate or never consider buying (though I stand by my rubber spatulas).

Joe & I have really begun thinking about what's essential to a home, a kitchen, a commuter's life, & it's these little moments like this that remind me how we can each be taking one step toward living more efficiently, more sustainably & more independently every single day–and at the same time challenging yourself to do something you never imagined you could do. Fix a pair of socks instead of buying new ones. Using homemade dish soap with things you already have around the house.

So, think about your day. What's one thing you used today that you could try to skip tomorrow?

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happy days

What a day! The to-do list has burst into flames & been forgotten about, but wow. I feel like so many things have happened today. Maybe it's the caffeine buzz I'm on right now, but today feels like the a huge victory.

Quick high points & things that will come back up on this blog in the near future:

 1. The opera Orlando Furioso is coming to town at the end of the month. Tickets are still available. I have a dress I've been dying to wear. This opera is related to my thesis project, & it would be a great close to the year if I could see this–my first opera & a memory of my last big undergraduate project.

2. We watched The Illusionist today, a beautiful film explained well here. I can't get over it, & I don't remember the last time I've left a film full-out sobbing. That rabbit! I miss Baby!

3. I've been eating my homemade tarte tatin à la pêche, an opposite of a diet but still not horrible for you (since mine turned out super dry & not sugary, as I used random odds & ends from around the kitchen instead of buying real ingredients).

4. We have started cat-sitting Sgt. Pepper while our good friend is out of town. This means we get to hang out in a big apartment as much as we want; we get loved on by a lonely cat-teenager; we get chocolate-covered cherries as payment! Stay out of town as long as you want, Lauren!

5. We're getting a lease on an apartment to review. Move-in date Aug. 16. Sooo... the moving in process & travel process is, in a word, complicated. It feels worth it, though–for the space & storage, the location, the security of having something to go back to & the feeling of having our first home in a way.

I feel really excited about life these days. We have days of rain coming up, so I'll be sitting inside with Sgt. Pepper, reading & getting ahead on other aspects of my life. I'll be ready for the sunshine & days out in the park when this big, four-day rain cloud passes.

Before the rain began today, we had a fun surprise coffee date. One of my French professors (who introduced me to Colete & Montaigne, for which I can't thank her enough) was in town with her daughter while they finish a small European tour. Her daughter was also finishing up a year abroad, & it was fun to have a chat in the sun to share stories of bizarre old women, children on field trips EVERYWHERE & navigating this small French city.

I viewed the visit as a test to myself. My professor was there for my final French exam, the last requirement before I could receive my degree. I felt like a bumbling first-year high school student during the exam, but she does so well at putting students at ease that I was able to speak through my errors & force myself to say SOMETHING.

I was afraid that I would have one of my freeze-up moments with French today. Would I be able to have a conversation with her? Would I feel too much pressure? Would her daughter put my French to share?

No, no & no. I felt no pressure & was completely at ease, making mistakes but letting myself maintain a reasonable rhythm. (French is a rhythmic language, & one of the biggest signs you're not a native speaker is a halting speaking style.) Joe & I were both speaking some of our better French, acknowledging our errors but moving on. It was an afternoon of reassurance. We have made progress. It has been worth it, all the ups & downs of this year.

A great reminder as we officially enter our last month. June 7 to July 7: the last month of the honeymoon year.

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profiter

If I had to identify the verb I've heard most often in France, I would have to say "profiter" (most commonly to profit or to take advantage of, but also used to for any sort of living to the fullest, enjoying a situation, getting all that you can from a person or thing, traveling, etc.). Here is a list of things that I have most recently been told to profit from:

• the sun
• the lack of exams I have to grade
• my friends scattering around France
• my time in NYC with my best friend when we return to the States
• the low prices on produce at the market
• the cheap summer toys at the super market
• the early hours of the morning

Most commonly, I have been told to "profitez bien" from my remaining time in France (from our landlord, the cashier at the grocery, my students...). I find this most fitting, as it will be the last thing that someone tells me to profit from, and the thing I'm most set to profit from. There is little time left to take advantage of, so I need to get on it. Unfortunately, no profits are to be had from the sun today and we still have not been paid. Profits of all sorts have been put on layaway for the day.

I'm profiting from the time stuck in the apartment–busting out a new roasted potato recipe and making spinach pizza, reading The Fountainhead (which is NOT better than Atlas Shrugged like people told me it would be), creating make-up exams.

Joe and I have reaped so many profits here in France. I've used the down time today to call to mind what we've most taken advantage of here–the bakeries; inexpensive travels; public transportation & bike lanes; language-learning opportunities; wine selections. What has been most valuable for us was the 10 months spent in a one-room apartment, thrown out on our own in the world.

The challenges we faced here, from only having to hotplates or doing laundry in the sink to figuring out banking in a foreign language, made us stronger and have shaped the way we will live our marriage. We've learned what most annoys each other–and that some annoyance when you're in such close proximity for hours a day is inevitable. We've learned how to end arguments.

I've learned that we have so much to continue soaking in, like the skinny girls flocking to the southern beaches here. We have so much to keep shaping–in the next month and in the years in Bloomington afterward.


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doing

I have been a raging ball of, umm, rage today. Luckily, I've turned that into a rage of productivity. (Unluckily, the raging weather back in the States is causing serious havoc. Devastating! This has to be the worst tornado season in ages...or have I just been blocking out the past?)

I spent more than the anticipated amount of hours grading exams today, and that was after spending a surprise chunk of my life grading exams for someone else who has caused more than a bit of tension in the work place. I keep telling myself, "It's almost over." Then another surprise comes up. Then, and this is often worse, nothing comes up, and I think, "No! It's almost over."

I may never be a teacher again.

I most likely will not be seeing anyone here ever again.

Oh, God. Okay, so I've been blocking these things out. I'm on a caffeine and adrenaline high, and I have been FLYING through a new to-do list. (Item number one on the list was to make the list, so that made it immediately feel like a success.) I'm counting the cross-offs on my daily list until I can free myself from the computer, where I've been for hours now, and go buy a nice bottle of wine to go with dinner. Nothing like burning the last bit of your paycheck in style! (We've gotten on a Gewurztraminer craze, so I need to tell you all about that soon. All I'll say now is: Find it!)

I've fixed my résumé, which is sort of depressing because it made me realize how completely trashed the ones I sent for graduate assistantship positions were. I've fixed my CV, which is difficult since I don't know what to put for a permanent address anymore. At some point, your parents NEED to stop getting your mail for you... but that point is still about two months away. I feel like I'm set for some new job/internship prospects, and that's exciting.

Joe will be glad to read this post, because it means the excessive cursing (when the Internet crashes while you're "on the phone" with your family; when you're supposed to be leaving for a meeting but you're still in your PJs because you forgot about the meeting; when you're doing dishes and your nails get all discolored and brittle; when you're mad at yourself for eating cookies) should be dying down now.

I had to cancel plans for tonight with a couple who have come to mean a lot to me. I had a friend offer new plans which I tried to gently decline. I need the night to continue the productivity, finish grading and making exams and get myself back into my writing. I need another coffee, then a glass of wine to calm down, then time to close my eyes for five minutes and not think of anything.

"You take life to seriously," I was told today. She, my more relaxed coworker who is also drowning in work yet able to host a soirée, is probably right, but I'm living for the moment when I close the laptop and have nothing waiting on my but a pizza and the feeling you get when you take your glasses off.

Cheers to that. I'll be back to normal (actually, well above normal) activity, wake-up calls and social calls tomorrow. Makes sense, since it's Joe's mid-week day off. Who needs class on Wednesdays, anyway?

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WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S PAST MID-MAY!?

I think this is the only part of the world where I can spend half of the day hiding from hail storms and rain–with the worst striking while I'm on a bike ride exploring town with a good friend–and the other half getting a sunburn. I think I am the only person who tells herself she will "detox"... then makes her hubby (and herself) pancakes for breakfast, THEN is out for lunch and grabs a pastry, THEN goes out for a hot chocolate.

I can justify the hot chocolate. We had spent the afternoon on our bikes, cruising along the canal and admiring the mix of architecture and, well, lack of: crumbling buildings and RV communities next to an insanely expensive new "ergothérapie" center. Joe once told me that he read that someone said that doctors say that drinking chocolate milk after exercise provides the perfect balance of sugars and proteins to help burn fat and promote muscle. Voila. A reason for hot chocolate. (I have no reason for the loads of whipped cream that was on top, but it tasted a lot better than the starving myself in high school did.)

#LifeIsShort

Hanging out with my friend today, who leaves Nancy mid-June, made me realize what this year has been. A sort of crash-course in adulthood and relationship development skills. A smash-and-grab of culture and friendship: letting yourself share moments with people who, after May, you may never see again. It made the hot chocolate go down a bit hard.

I'm not an outgoing person. No, really. Stop laughing–I'm serious. Give me a room with 200 people and a microphone; I'll manage. Throw me in a party with my peers and watch social awkwardness at work. I get uncomfortable in groups; I prefer small circles of close friends to group events. I clam up at parties and want to back out of plans at the last minute when too many people are involved. Trying to limit the social anxiety and get close to a few friends has made this coming departure even more emotional. There are some girls here that have come to mean so much to me.

I've gotten better at letting myself have a social life–cutting things from the to-do lists I always say I'll stop writing and spending a few hours out in the city with lovely people, drinking and eating things that will never taste or feel the same, getting sunburns on the half of our bodies that face the sun while we sit at our café table.

When I got home after a great afternoon, I felt myself tumble into emotional quicksand. If I didn't pace myself, I'd go down quickly and not even Wesley could pull me out.* I decided to use my time dwelling on the future to my advantage and work on my career prospects. I:

1. Reorganized ALL the files on my computer, including making a much better portfolio folder.
2. Deleted loads of things and realized that my music folders need serious help. (Four copies of things that automatically backed themselves up? Woops!)
3. Finally fixed my Linked In profile.
4. Organized my Word-version of my résumé. (Bluck.)
5. Looked at puppies in the Bloomington animal shelter. Heh...

Focusing on the parts of the future I can control (and starting the beginning of "Blade Runner") definitely got my head in a better place, though the thought of July 7 is still weighing heavily on me. That means I'll just have to get myself out and on my bike, hanging out with friends to make up for all the time we won't have in the future. Thank God for this "globalized", smaller world we're living in, but I don't know how many goodbye stages I can handle!

Tomorrow, I'll be out in the sun to even out this thigh-only sunburn. Joe has the morning off, so we're heading to the park early for a picnic and badminton practice, our voluntary dose of public humiliation. Apparently when it comes to badminton rackets, you get what you paid for... and a euro a piece (birdies included) doesn't get you much. At least the laughing from running after the broken birdie provides a good ab workout.

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calming down

Joe & I have had a busy week. We've been sleeping plenty, eating lots and relaxing when we're not scrambling to get something done for work. Somehow, this week has still left us a looking a bit rough around the edges. We're tired earlier, having stomach aches and caving in to some not-so-solid food choices (like chorizo and polenta for dinner three nights this week).

It's time to clean ourselves up. My summer to-do list hasn't progressed much, and statistics is taking more of my mental strength than expected. Joe still has another month of work to do, and he's working extra hours to fit in all of his students' exams. Luckily, the exams don't require any out-of-class grading time (at least not yet).

Our goal for our return to the States is to immediately get back into a whole, fresh food diet. Buying as few things in boxes as possible (not that we do hear, but we miss making oatmeal instead of eating fiber crackers for breakfast). Eating even more vegetables. Growing some of our own. Having more protein and fiber options (more beans, more whole-grains, more healthy options). Indulging in meat substitutes.

France has loads of fresh vegetable options, and it's easy to eat "locally" here. What's not-so-easy is finding things to round out meals–whole grain-based breads and pastas or even just whole grains in general. The carbohydrates aisle is, well, rather bleached.

For the rest of our time here, we're going to try balancing our baguettes with more grain-based meals, starting today with fried rice. Rice is what we've got until we can venture out to a different, more "exotic" grocery.

Hopefully, the dietary change will inspire me to change my habits in the morning (exercising and writing instead of sleeping and watching movies). Hopefully, it will smooth out the stomach pooch that we've both gained here. Hopefully, it will help us both get up earlier and rely a little bit less on coffee, getting us down to one pot a day again.

Hopefully, it will get my brain going so that I can write more interesting blog posts. If you have any energy-packed recipes, I'd love to see them. In France, energy-packed means a hard boiled egg wrapped in a piece of ham, wrapped in a butterflied chicken breast, then cooked in olive oil. I pick up a magazine with recipes inside each week at the grocery, and I was shocked to see that on the cover. If THAT isn't the most American-seeming meal (even more than the hamburger sandwich topped with French fries that they have named "the American"), I don't know what is.

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a friend's visit, post 2

After a few days of Blogger not working, I'm back in business. Our apartment felt huge when Kristen first left, but that too has gone back to normal.  I, however, have not yet gone back to normal. I'm bouncing between emotional highs & lows like Internet-based stocks in the 90's.

I can't figure out if I'm on vacation or not, since I'm still setting really high standards for my days and, like after dinner today, realizing that huge things get in the way (like my job that I forgot I still had this week). This then makes me panic & complain & wonder what I'm doing with my life.

Things were calmer last week, when the most important thing to do was walk Kristen to a garden that is hidden in the wall of the Citadel. I've mentioned some of Nancy's history in the past, and I had a chance to learn more about it while Kristen was here. There's a fun summary of where we spent most of our time, the "Old Town", on this site.

When I was young, I was fascinated by the film version of "A Secret Garden." There were loads of things I loved about it: a vine-covered door, the sound of her black shoes clicking along the cobblestones, her accent, the curly brown hair that made Mary look almost wild with rebellion.

Overlapping this short period of Secret Garden obsession was the construction of my parents' garage. I would slip into my church shoes and sneak out of the house to play Secret Garden, skipping my way along the sidewalk to the freshly dug foundation. On one such adventure, I skipped up to my dad, bent over in the flower beds. "I feel like there's a garden that I've never seen before," I whispered to him in what I can only assume was a horrible British accent.

My dad has frequently reminded me of this moment. I was reminded of it again as we walked toward the citadel, Joe, Kristen and I, passing the gate that leads to the old city and instead turning left and walking through a small, almost hidden opening in the wall.

The ground behind the opening rose steeply and spit us out into a garden overlooking this quiet part of the city. The rows of flowers and herbs were squared of neatly–peonies heavy, ready to burst open in the prematurely warm sun; mint leaves unfolding. I felt like I'd turned a key and walked into my own world. A woman sat on a bench reading; I wondered if she felt this same, if she escaped here often.

The citadel served (as citadels do) as the fortress of the city in the Middle Ages. I imagine its tiny windows serving as spots for archers to hide, shooting out at arriving trouble. I imagine a courtyard jutting off behind the citadel, stretching toward the palace of the dukes, instead of the houses and shops that now line the cobblestone street. I imagine the time when much of the citadel wall was torn down–and then the day when the top of the citadel, no longer needed for protection, was sewn with seed.

I imagine it all leading to this moment, when I walk up the slope and feel like we're all exactly where we're meant to be. I imagine what toilets and sanitation were like in the Middle Ages, and I'm glad my moment came much later–I'm glad I shared it with Kristen.

I'm glad that after this more contemplative discovery, we went on to the Lorraine Museum, where we discovered Bébé, the dwarf of Stanislas's court who measured less than 90 centimeters at his death. I haven't quite figured out how or why he came to be at Stanislas's court, as I refuse to accept the idea that he was adopted to serve as an unfortunate sort of court jester.

More on that later.

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a friend's visit, post 1

After a 5 a.m. wake up and a trip that took us by train, city train and bus before dropping us at Charles de Gaulle, we saw our friend onto her flight home. I'm not sure where her eight days went, but they went quickly and I loved every minute.

Half a box of snails & half a bottle of wine are the two reminders left from her visit. We tried to get in as many French traditions as we could, and she was a great traveling companion–ready to order her own food, excited to relax in the town's many parks, happy to see la Bell France that exists outside of Paris. She was even enthusiastic for our snail dinner!

Before Kristen's arrival, we made a list of what we most wanted to share and discover with her. A lot of the list was purchased at pastry shops, but I made sure to add the famous (infamous?) escargots. I decided it would be best to try these at home and avoid embarrassing myself at a nice restaurant. I wasn't sure what to expect when I  put the frozen snails filled with green butter sauce (butter, parsley, garlic and shallot)  into the over. I'll say this: butter is delicious, and if you don't look at the thing you'll be fine... They're a bit like mussels. Mussels that look like snails shriveled from a salty death.

I think it's safe to say that Kristen and I left our Nancy adventure with heavier suitcases (though mine isn't packed yet) and heavier cheese stomachs. Joe, skinny as always, seems untouched by the increased calories. Many of our best and happiest moments took place in restaurants, and I couldn't be happier. Food is passion in France, and the waiters know this. Restaurants aren't always a friendly exchange. You can often be left feeling like the lowly foreigner.

But not usually in Nancy, and not for a second in the restaurant where we had our goodbye dinner or our first dinner out in town. I felt like town was really welcoming her–refilling our wine glasses and giving us free sample-sized appetizers and desserts, charging us a euro for a bottle of wine (not sure if that was good will or bad typing on the cash register, but hey). I was proud of their friendliness, and with each day out and each small adventure I felt myself growing more proud of Lorraine.

Today, life slips back toward normal & begins the routine of my last two months in France; my eyes swell thinking of it. (I'm not sure if it's from the idea of cleaning and routine or leaving France...) Time to get going.

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a bit of memory, speaking

Nothing is more memorable than a smell.  One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town.  Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.  Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once.  A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.  –Diane Ackerman, "A Natural History of the Senses"

If I had to choose flowers to serve as markers of my childhood, they would be bleeding hearts and lily of the valley, two fragile flowers of early spring. When I was younger, our patch of lily of the valley was larger than my kiddie pool and nestled in the shade behind the lilac bush. It has gradually thinned, but those small white flowers still feel and smell like home to me.

I've been trying for a long time to figure out what sort of perfume I would want. It seems like a facet of the adult personality. When I think of each of my parents and grandparents, I recall their cologne, the way the scent changes over the course of the day. The way it hits me when they first leave their bedrooms after applying it. I wonder what the memory of me will smell like. 

Lily, like the earliest memories of childhood, is one of the hardest fragrances to recreate. Smell scientists struggle with the fragility, the particular freshness. (It's a fascinating business that Ackerman explores in her book. While the whole thing is exhausting, the portion on smell, which she refers to as "liquid memory," was delightful. You can read it here.) 

In case you're interested, Christian Dior's Diorissimo is the "gold standard" of lily fragrance. I like the idea of this–the memory of me being a scent that holds so many memories of me.

Now, the scent of lilies has taken on an additional meaning for me: the smell of May Day, the rest of the world's version of Labor Day, which the U.S. ditched as a holiday due to its seemingly union-focused and socialist ideals. May Day, or the "Fête du Travail" in France, is a national holiday with a fun tradition.

The streets are filled with merchants holding small bundles of lily of the valley, which they are able to sell tax-free and without a vendor's license. The "mugeut des bois" (also the name of a fragrance that smells like–you guessed it–lily of the valley) are purchased and given to loved ones during the week of May Day to show appreciation for their hard work. You can learn more about May Day and lily of the valley here or (more cynically and sarcastically) here. 

Now that May Day has passed, I'm filling the apartment with other scent memories in anticipation of my friend's arrival. (She's sitting in the Chicago airport at this moment.) We got a new gingerbread candle to make it smell like I've just baked (instead of burnt) something–handy when the oven is on and you're using those silicone baking things. Gross. 

I also was able to pick instead of buy a bouquet of fresh flowers for the kitchen table. Lauren, my dear American friend sharing this adventure, lives in an apartment in the lower level of a house with a rambling garden–herbs, fruit trees, vegetables, more rhubarb than my entire hometown could consume. And roses. Roses that look exactly like the climbing, ambling bush outside my parents' bedroom window; roses a deep crimson that are so packed with petals they seem to stay fresh for ages. Roses that smell like home.

They're now clustered in small pots–red to remind me of my mom and my home; yellow (from a younger, less ambling bush) to remind me of my grandma, with whom I share my favorite rose color.

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the North

Joe & I stayed up late last night to watch "Jumanji", which was much more exhausting & unbelievable than I remembered. I realize that statement seems unnecessary, as the plot revolves around a jungle growing out of a board game. We slept in this morning, reading in bed & letting the dishes from our dinner last night wait a bit.

I realized, somewhere in between the sleeping in & the soup starting, that "Jumanji" is almost certainly behind my unbelievable hatred of monkeys. To shake these feelings & get myself back into a loving mood toward animals, I watched a few rabbit videos on YouTube. This one, in which a paraplegic bunny gets his wheels, made me cry. Twice.

My point is that we're on vacation, & I'm glad that I have Joe. He's taught me how to relax. Though I still make the enormous to-do lists for each day, and while I'm actually–wait for it–looking forward to AND enjoying my studies of statistics, I'm enjoying doing what I've been posting about so much: Enjoying the last bit of our time here, especially during Joe's spring vacation.

I've been thinking about Montpellier since we've gotten back. There was an odd feeling about the city, a jumbled discomfort that I felt even when walking through the celebrated Place de la Comédie. I felt out of sorts, out of my element, and oddly far from home. I realized while walking the streets there that Nancy has taken up residence in me as much as I have in it.

During these slow days, I know my love of Nancy will deepen–especially when I spend a week revisiting favorite spots & teaching my friend all about town. (Only about 4 days until she arrives!) I'm infinitely proud of Nancy & tried to find ways to express this in the south, which is the Florida of Europe–where they all want to vacation, retire & tan themselves to a deep leather. We know the south is wonderful. We know it's sunny & loads of fun & "young" when it's not full of retired folks.  But what do you know of the north?

Myself, I know that my passion for this place is tied to where the first 22 years of my life were spent, the Midwest of the United States. Four seasons. Small towns. Open spaces. Hard work. Industries that build towns, fail, start over, restructure. A deep sense of family history. One could say that I've found something too familiar in France; I've once again settled into a similar mindset or culture.

I say no, and I say it loudly. I say that this region of France, with its multinational history (Is it French? Is it German? Who's this Polish guy?), its history in the arts, its continued connection to farming (with specialty dishes almost always filled with eggs, bacon and cream)... it's where we all are. It's where people mean when they say, "Paris isn't France. Leave Paris to find the country." It's a region that, after years of industrial decline, will become desperate for a new big change, a way to revitalize itself.

I have to cut this short, but I'll be revisiting these themes in the next 12 days, on my own, with my husband & with my friend's fresh pair of American eyes.

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maniiiiiif!

Roulez bio, roulez vélo.

"Ride organic. Ride a bike" was the message of the day. Joe & I got ourselves out and participated in our first "manifestation". The translation for this is tricky, since it depends on the mood. Riot. Protest. Demonstration. I'd say today was a solid mix of protest & demonstration. We met near the station to get ourselves excited before starting the ride around town.

The demonstration was led by a group of bicycle advocates pushing for more logical traffic regulations: Give fines to cars parked on sidewalks & in bike lanes. Give fines to bikes on sidewalks. Do NOT give fines to bikes that are dodging traffic because they are forced out of their bike lane. Do NOT give fines of 50 euros to someone on their bike who has to go on the sidewalk to get to a bike rack.

Don't want us riding on your tram line? Give us another option, because "On en ai pour deux minutes," as the signs said. We're only there for two minutes. We're decreasing traffic. We're decreasing CO2 emissions. We're decreasing the price of the gas you still use. So decrease the aggression towards bikers.

This is a cause that Joe and I have gotten increasingly passionate about while being here. We've loved being without a car, & we hope to make it as much of a lifestyle choice as possible when we get back to the States, where bicycler's rights are also still a point of confusion for most people. (I rarely ride without someone shouting, "Get on the sidewalk!")

It was fun to get out & support the cause, which got us more excited about continuing the fight when we get back to the States. It was even more fun to note that the average age of the protest (especially for the rollerbladers who shot ahead of the group to block intersections that we could cruise through) was 50. It was fun to watch the children in their safety seats or on their tricycles, shouting with the rest of us to "Make way for the bus" or "Get that car out of the bike lane!"

The rollerblading groups would block intersections like teachers on a field trip with elementary school kids, then our group would slowly ride through the intersection ringing out bells & disregarding the red light. For the most part, people were patient (even the police that drove past). Those that weren't served to prove our point: We're not respected and neither are traffic laws.

Two motorcyclists got tired of waiting & sped around us. While we closed in on one, he eased off to the side & sped up on the sidewalk, zipping past us & revving his engine all the way. We stopped to clap & cheer for the expensive gasoline he was wasting for himself & the lack of people he was impressing, because what boosts spirits more in a rally than mocking your opponent?

The second motorcyclist wasn't nearly as entertaining. While we filled the street (this time on a green light & moving at a fairly normal speed), he zipped along the far lane & didn't slow down when he nearly clipped the bike in front of him–which held a two-year old child. It made one parent's sign all the more pertinent: A baby on board in Nancy = a baby dead? (The baby seemed unaware of the potential danger & sat happily in his buggy, sipping juice box.)

Things got most heated when we passed a car parked on the sidewalk, in the bike lane, in the middle of an intersection. This was too much, & one of the veteran bike advocates couldn't pass up the opportunity to make a point. This parking is common when the French want to pop into the post office or bakery. They leave their hazards & assume that all traffic laws disappear in the flashing lights. So, one of our leaders began wrapping the car in red & white police tape.

When the owner of the car returned, he began unwrapping the car. It continued this way for several minutes: one wrapping while the other unwrapped. "It's funny, ok. Enough," the owner would say. "But it's not funny. It's illegal," the crowd replied. So, the evil, gas-guzzling, law-breaking villian balled up the police tape & threw it to the ground.

BAD decision in front of a group of aging environmentalists. Bells ringing. Trumpets blasting. Children chanting. Bikes closing in on the small, European SUV. The older "leader" finally gave the man his ball of police tape–forcibly showed it into his back seat–and told us to carry on, up the narrow streets where cars were forced to stop & take note.

I don't know how much gasoline was wasted today as cars stopped to let us pass. I don't know how many drivers were inspired by us instead of completely enervated. I do know that I felt a lot of support from the kids on the sidewalk, who'll soon have to make the choice between driving & biking. I felt support from shouted from the windows & from shoppers walking between stores. I felt like I was a part of something too right, too big & too exciting to die out.

We'll keep riding & people will keep joining. Vive la Révolution!

For more pictures of our adventure today, click over to my Flickr.

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Il ne doit pas compter pour du beurre.

When I called home yesterday, I spent some time crying on the phone with her. I think this is the only time I've done this, with the exception of Christmas, when I had to talk to my sister through my G-mail account instead of lay awake in our room with her & wait for an acceptable hour to go open presents.

Some days, you're just overly emotional, & you can't put the fact that two of your dresses tore open (even if it was all at seams) into perspective. Some days, you just want to call your mom & listen to her as she makes you feel better, but you have to wait six hours because she's not even starting the day yet.

Some days, you just throw open the windows & pass the afternoon drinking gin & tonics with your husband, commenting on how all the green has come back. How now the people with the long backyard are almost completely hidden from view because of all the trees. How it wasn't even this green when you arrived here, in the gray fall rain.

They say the weather isn't usually this warm already–a second week of 60s and 70s. We have today before the temperatures drop back down to a more average temperature range. And before the spring rain kicks in. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for one nice day this week. The month-long fair/carnival is in town, & I want to take advantage of 1/2-priced Wednesdays.

At universities, semesters don't end well–or easily. I spent a lot of time yesterday answering questions for how an exam I have to give will work, how the timing got confused, how I can't cover classes that I was asked to because they gave me the wrong time. I'm just starting to see the light at the end. Two weeks, then two months of vacation. Time to soak myself in parks & sunshine & gin-based cocktails & café crême.

Today, to make up for the horrible mood I've been in the last two days, I'm taking Joe on a surprise picnic. Nice sandwiches. Chocolate-covered strawberries, since they were on sale big time at the market on Sunday. A blanket. Kids screaming on slides. Bees.

We've just realized how truly lucky we are. I tell him I miss him most on Fridays–the one day of the week when we don't get to have lunch and dinner together. We spent most of our evenings nestled up, reading & writing. We wake earlier than necessary & have an hour together in the mornings. Our work, when we're honest, is part-time.

Il ne doit pas compter pour du beurre. 

I know I'll come to miss these days. So, as the French say (quite appropriately), "It shouldn't count for butter," since it goes so quickly here. We've got to make them count. As our year anniversary draws closer & as our suspended honeymoon comes to an end, I want to realize how precious these days are & make a point to enjoy it each day.

I want to preserve them, keep them stored away like a good bottle of wine, so that in the years to come, when passing days together feels normal or seems forgotten in all the other parts of the quotidian, we can look back on the time when our four hours apart for work were spent missing each other.

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ouch.

My feet are covered in blisters.

I'm sure that there is a strategy for easing yourself into summer shoes, for walking in sandals without tearing all of the skin off  of your feet. Over the past ten years in which I pick my shoes out for myself, I haven't discovered it.

I don't often think about what the day will look like from my feet's point of view. I just throw them on if they match my shirt and head out the door. Yesterday, that meant my summer sandals–still holding strong after three years, but with completely flat, plastic bottoms–would be walking me around town for miles.

Joe & I decided to take advantage of a sunny Saturday to explore a new part of town, walking North from our apartment instead of into town, like we always do. Going North means we actually leave Nancy & enter the cluster of tiny towns & urban sprawl that surround it. There is more asphalt, more traffic, more graffiti & more huge shopping centers.

We were able to walk along the canal for most of the trip, surrounding ourselves with trees & ducks & families enjoying the sunshine instead of the winding town roads & cracking asphalt. I could feel my arms burning a bit & was excited that my tan would be a bit deeper before we head down to Montpellier.

Our journey did have a purpose other than walking the canal, but that turned out to be my favorite part. After that, we were weaving through industrial complexes & parking lots to reach the "Super U", the closest thing to a Wal*Mart that I've ever seen in France. My friend told me that she'd found a big bottle of gin there for seven euros. Reason enough to check it out, since a gin & tonic at a café is seven euros.

We didn't want to just grab gin & run, so we bounced around the aisles for a bit, admiring the large organic sections that we want to get back to, the selection of flour, the Mexican food (!!). We're definitely making another trip back there before a friend comes to visit from the States, stocking up so that our week of food experimentation is less expensive.

So we got G&T supplies & a big thing of juice & headed home, back along the canal. While Joe stopped into the Asian market to get coconut milk for dinner, I pressed on. Today was my designated Megan Goes into the World on Her Own day. I was shopping, & I was going to love being by myself. I have to force myself to do things like this on occasion, & I am starting to enjoy it.

One of my favorite French people, Montaigne, the father of memoir, enjoyed the Latin phrase "in solis sis tibi turba locis." In solitude, be company to yourself. It's not what he meant really–going shopping alone & thus being surrounded by loads of commercialism & other people–but I do try to use the time to think about what I really want from life, what I'm doing, if I'm satisfied.

I also used the time to realize that I don't need another pair of jeans or sunglasses or shoes. Victory. I just got the essentials that I was looking for. Plus a REALLY pink lipstick. It's getting warm; I had to do something to celebrate (other than buy gin).

So I slowed down in town & explored a lot of shops that I'd never seen before, on streets I never turn onto. I let myself have a few hours before considering going home. In fact, I didn't think about going home until I realized that I was limping around, trying to walk only on the outside of my feet.

It was a long walk back. The space between where my toes stop and my arch begins was swelling at an alarming pace. I was sure that there was no skin left on my heels. My pinkie toe was lying on its side, defeated & trapped under the strap of my sandal. I spent the rest of the day taking as few steps as possible.

I washed my feet three times & still haven't gotten all the black off of the heels. I'm not good at sandals. Maybe I do need new shoes after all... with arch support & more than a 1/4-inch piece of plastic between me & the sidewalk. Maybe I just need to give my feet time to thaw after a long winter trapped in hosiery & socks. I've been walking around with naked legs again, in skirts with–GASP–no tights. The air felt odd after so much time locked away. I'm sure it's similar for the poor little feet.

Today, it's socks & small boots even though the temperature will be in the 70s (or 22C, which sounds not warm at all). At least I have my new shorts to keep my legs cool & little pads to keep my steps soft.

Advice for not destroying your feet with summer shoes?

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an education

Okay, let me just break from my real thoughts by saying...

I'm eating a baguette for breakfast. Not a whole one. Just a big chunk of one. It's a day old, and it's HARD. I keep smearing a drop of real butter on each bite. I eat this for breakfast most mornings. But for some reason this one is so hard that it's hurting my lips when I try to bite it & cutting the inside of my mouth when I chew. Just the outside is hard; the inside is still wonderfully spongy. I am eating through the pain, & it is worth it. I will miss the eating injuries when we come back to the States.

Now I return to the regularly scheduled post.

There are classes at the university that don't follow the 12-week semester & instead run only for ten weeks. One of these is my most difficult class, one that requires students to spend two hours watching a five-minute video clip & answering questions. This class started two weeks late, thus ending its semester with the rest of the university.

The other class, a continuation of a one I taught last semester, ended two weeks early. Tuesday. When a friend said he needed someone to cover his last session with the same group of students, I jumped at the chance. Because while I've been helping them correct their English, they've been teaching me a lot of things. Like what it's like to have a serious disease; what your countries civil war was like; how to make traditional Algerian & Vietnamese dishes. Like if you let 12 people talk for long enough, they will become friends. They will open up in ways you'd never imagined–become bold enough to have class discussions going in directions you'd never have been comfortable pushing them.

When class ended, I was asked for my address. I was asked if I had Facebook. I was invited to visit them in their home countries. I was asked if I was positive I wouldn't stay in France another year. "Will you ever get back?"

We hope so. I hope they'll still be here; I hope that this is what they were looking for.

My students were what Americans would call "non-traditional". They had other jobs–working on PhDs or as engineers or veterinarians. They come from Rwanda, Syria, Vietnam, Cameroon, Algeria. The list goes on.

The first few weeks were spent giving presentation–how we were supposed to spend the whole class. They each gave their required presentation, & then we just couldn't take it anymore. We moved onto debating topics. "We get much more out of this," they told me as we sat in a circle getting increasingly impassioned.

It didn't seem appropriate at the time to say, " I do to." To explain that, in the States, we don't often get a chance to have these conversations with so many diverse stories & backgrounds. The country is so large that at times it seems easy & obvious that so much of our news coverage should focus only on our news & how the world–the disaster in Japan, the revolutions in the Arab world–affect OUR country & OUR lives instead of the lives of these nations.

For the last week, I wrote several topics on the board. Home schooling, intellectual property, evolution, human rights. We jumped into human rights & didn't leave it–didn't even have a pause in the conversation–for two hours, struggling with a big question.

How do we make the world fair & just when we have so many definitions for "fair" and "just" and "justice"? When does the U.S. entry into Libya stop being a UN mission & start being another attempt to make other cultures work like we do? And what IS the role of the U.S. in the world? What IS our obligation as a world power, as a pool of many resources, as a symbol of democracy for the world (even though, as I tried to explain to them, I don't SEE us as the most democratic or the best way to do democracy)?

"You need to start with yourselves. Your poor. Your health care," one student told me. I wanted to put him on the big news channels that we cling to, to tell his story & remind us that we must fix ourselves before we fix others. We must loves ourselves before we're good at loving others.

I want to fix the States, & sitting in that hot classroom with those 12 eager faces will change the voice that is in my head when I begin my graduate studies. I won't forget them, & I hope they won't forget the American that admitted we don't have it all together either.

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