Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Imprisonment vs. Freedom

So, I knew when I signed up for it that this study abroad thing would change me. That was, naturally, the goal. I wanted to gain perspective on myself, my family, and my future.

I’m rather astonished by what I’ve discovered. It’s not pretty. Disturbing realizations about my family and myself have left me feeling kind of storm-tossed. Things I took for granted to be true are revealing themselves to be nothing more than wishful thinking. I hate taking risks, because I’m afraid of getting hurt, but what I didn’t consider was that I was choosing certain pain over uncertain pain. Thinking I was safe at home was a lie I told myself, which is why I ensconced myself in my room and refused to leave my house, when I should have been getting a job and looking for an apartment so I could move the hell out. Well, now my hand’s been forced: I was officially disowned last week, which means when I return to California, I will not be going home. There’s no home to go to.

Strangely, I am—at the moment—not bothered overmuch by this (it comes and goes). While I’ll admit the financial hurdles I’ll have to overcome are daunting, the truth is, I haven’t really lost anything. My relationship with my father has always been an utter mess, and my relationship with my mother is strained because of that. I’m tired of the fighting and the ugly feelings and the guilt. It’s become clear to me that this may even save my sanity (though it’s likely to ruin my credit). They can live in their hysterically chaotic world alone together; I intend to escape that. At the moment I don’t know what my plan is for finding a place, but I have some time yet, and I’ll figure it out. It’s an unfortunate theme of my life that I only seem able to grow and thrive when sorely tested. But that’s okay; I have no illusions that it will be easy, but at the same time...I’m not as scared as I thought I’d be.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Dear You,

You are the reason I live in fear. You are the monster in the dark. You are the evil so evil that you infect others with it, until they become as twisted and ugly as yourself.

What must I do to escape you?

I tried running, but you found me again, you contaminate me like a black ink stain on white paper. Nowhere am I safe from you.

Always, always vigilant. Always wary, never trusting. Because of you. You taught me the pain and the shame and the self-loathing that soaks me so deep I can’t wash it away. I cover it up, big smile, act human, but inside…I am so ugly. A near-perfect reflection of you. You taught me so well.

Poisson d'Avril!

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Various Shades of Longing

So I’ve been speaking to Scott, and there’s a distinct possibility he may be coming in early summer to visit. I won’t exaggerate and say that I’ve suffered every day that he’s not with me—I’m not that dramatic. But I have felt strangely off-balance and that feeling hasn’t gone away. I’ve simply learned to ignore it.

I think about seeing him again, and part of me wants to say—“You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you,” but that rings oddly to me. Barring an excellent act on his part, I presume he’s missed me as well. I would suppose he can imagine it, or something like it, though it’s not exactly the same.

Which is worse, doing the leaving or being left? I went across the world, to a new country, new culture, where I’d have to do things I’d never attempted before even in California: balance school and work, budget, remember to pay rent on time, etc. Pretty much everything was unfamiliar and scary and the one thing that always calmed me down was missing. I’m not one of those solitary travelers; for me, an experience is most satisfying when it’s shared with a friend, and I was so alone. I’d see something new that would spark my interest, but there’d be no one to tell the story to. The solitude was at times...crushing. I couldn’t stand to be left alone with my thoughts. That’s why I was always in a hurry though I rarely actually wanted to get to wherever I was going, why I was constantly plugged into my iPod, why I purchased a ton of ebooks and why I refused to write on this blog for so many weeks. Scott can’t fully understand that. I can explain it, and he’ll listen and probably understand as well as anyone who hasn’t done it can, but until you’ve lived it you can’t grasp it.

And yet, I’m sure I can’t fully understand what he’s been going through in my absence. He could explain and I’d probably understand as well as I can, but it’s not the same. I hopped on a plane and he was left alone in a world we’d shared for almost 5 years, probably wondering if I’d fall in love with a Frenchman or Paris or both and never come home again. Or come home a polite stranger who'd once dated him for a while before figuring her life out. Familiar things, our things….do they feel the same if the person you shared them with is gone? Can you stand the dichotomy between the memories of peace and happiness when paired with the terrible lack, the unassailable sense that the most important element of the experience is missing? As interesting and helpful and rewarding as this experience has been, my world hasn’t been right since I left. I suspect I’ll only be able enjoy Paris fully when he’s here with me and I can show him ten months’ worth of Scott would like that...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Listen

You tried to tell me something that night, and I wasn’t listening. I didn’t hear the words under your silence.

I’m sorry. I have regretted it, bitterly.

But I’m listening now. And if you’ll take just one step towards me, I promise you, I will walk a thousand miles for you.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Plant Sex

Cherry Blossoms (1)

Spring is finally coming to Paris. After the coldest winter any Parisian can remember, the sun has taken pity on us and is beginning to show up with an exciting regularity.  Little green buds are appearing on the trees and some have broken out in riotous spray of pale pink blossoms.

That, and I sneezed 4 times in a row yesterday.  Twice.

Cherry Blossoms (6)

Yep, spring has definitely arrived.  And I am going to need some anti-histamines very soon.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Shopaholic, or: Relearning Optimism

“In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I bought myself three umbrellas.”

Thus began my confession to Lily about the shamefully spendthrift behavior I’ve fallen into of late. I’ve always been a terrible cheapskate when it comes to personal purchases. I just don’t see the point in buying expensive clothing, makeup, or personal products when I can find comparable items for less elsewhere.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how to spend money. I just hate dropping a lot of cash unless I know that whatever I’m buying is worth it. This leads to problems with wardrobe and other personal items, as you can imagine. I’ll wear a favorite article of clothing until it’s in tatters, I’ll use a beloved pair of sneakers until they have holes. Last year I had to have the straps on my black purse repaired because the leather finally gave out. I couldn’t bear the thought of looking for a new one, because I’m terribly picky.

All of which only makes my present behavior all the more puzzling—although it has a strange kind of logic. I’m just tired of having to go on an epic search for a new coat/wallet/purse once my current favorite has bitten the dust, especially when I happened upon something last month that I would’ve liked but didn’t buy because I “didn’t need it”. I would blame Paris for turning into a mild shopaholic but I suspect the change of attitude has been longer in the making.

Strangely, I’ve been attracted to bright colors lately, and it reminds me of high school, when orange was a regular part of my wardrobe. Maybe it’s all the black that everyone wears in Paris, maybe I’m recapturing that feeling of optimism that I had eight years ago, I don’t know. I’m just tired of feeling like an old woman, which is why I felt I needed a yellow sunflower umbrella in my life (in addition to the purple one with ruffled trim and the clear plastic bubble umbrella I’ve wanted since I was a kid). I’m kind of sick of being practical. I’m always practical, and it’s terribly boring. I have the rest of my life to be boring—for now, in my last three months in Paris, I’m damn well going to be silly and have fun. And I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I promise myself I will bring this feeling back home with me.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Love on the Metro

The couple hops onto the train just before the doors close. They laugh at the near-miss, their smiles private and conspiratorial. As the train jerks into motion, the young man cups his hand around the girl’s elbow, steadying her. She puts her hand on his chest as her feet inch closer to his. She looks up, head slightly quirked to the side, a quiet smile flirting with the corner of her lips. He tilts his face towards hers, unconsciously mirroring her movements. Their noses are almost touching.

The watcher observes them discreetly. She has seen many, many couples in the nearly seven months she has lived in this city, but few interest her as this one does. Most she finds annoying, because they talk or giggle loudly, or worse, make out like as if they’re auditioning for an x-rated film. Personally, the watcher thinks that tongues aren’t really meant to seen by the general population, and that while in public, they are best kept inside their owner’s mouths—as opposed to down someone else’s throat.

But this couple is…quiet. Restrained. Yes, that’s the word, restrained. And somehow, through their restraint, they manage to convey more tenderness and passion than all those other giggling, tongue-sucking couples. Like most Parisians on this blustery day, they’re bundled up head to toe in various shades of black; only their faces and their hands are visible. Their hair is mussed and windblown in that romantic way that only a lucky few can pull off. They talk and laugh quietly, an oasis of calm in the bustle and noise of rush hour. Around them, people listen to blaring MP3 players, have loud conversations on cell phones or with companions, and attempt to solicit spare change from the passengers, but they don’t seem to hear any of it.

The train comes to a particularly abrupt stop and the girl wobbles. The young man shifts his hold from her elbow to her waist, and she in turn lifts her ungloved hand to the pole he grips for balance. She makes sure to set her naked hand on the back of his. His brows furrow slightly, not with annoyance but with concentration. What is he thinking? He looks at her as if he’s memorizing the color of her eyes, the curve of her cheek. What would it be like to be the object of such unwavering focus?  His gaze seems to glow with warmth.

The doors open, and they step out, her hand lightly cradled in his. The watcher’s eyes follow them.

She feels just a little jealous.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Remembering

    Yesterday I went on a MICEFA-organized trip to Omaha Beach.  We stopped at Pointe du Hoc first, then the beach itself for a while.  Afterwards we went on to the museum and cemetery. Not a happy trip.  But I wouldn't have felt right leaving France without paying my respects.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Dodging a (figurative) bullet

After a flurry of emails, several doses of Excedrin, and much nail-biting, my scheduling problems have finally been resolved. My program director has agreed to bump up the unit count for my classes with extra work, so I have narrowly avoided the shame of being dropped from the study abroad program and the ensuing calamity.

Being incredibly relieved, I promptly tossed myself with gusto into the girl’s night out I’d planned with Shelley and Diana that evening. It had originally been intended as a forget-your-troubles night out, but I think you can agree a celebrating-the-narrow-avoidance-of-disaster night out is much better, yes? Yes.

In any case, we went out to the same bar we’d invaded on my birthday, and quickly graduated from ordering singles to doubles (happy hour was coming to a close, can you blame us?) and hoarding the glowsticks that came with our drinks.

I can’t express how relieved I am. Cheesy as it is, I suddenly feel like I’m living in Technicolor after months of gray. Having the school business fixed, winter coming to an end, and the realization that I’m past the halfway point of this trip is all giving me the urge to live it up.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Learning to Walk à la Parisienne

A very interesting thing just happened as I was walking into Starbucks during my break between classes: upon advancing toward the door, I pushed instead of pulled, entering smoothly and without incident.

I know this sounds like nothing very special, but it requires a bit of context. In California, most public establishments have doors that must be pulled to be opened when entering, and pushed upon exiting. Something to do with fire safety regulations, I believe. In Paris, however, the opposite is true. I have no clue as to the reasoning behind it, but I’m sure there is one. In any case, ever since I got here, I’ve found myself pulling the doors to enter cafés and stores, etc., causing an unpleasant (and embarrassingly loud) clanking sound every time. It only took me six and a half months, but I think I’m learning.

My first two weeks here, I lived in fear of the metro. It seemed so huge and complicated, like a giant web that I, hapless ingénue that I was, could easily get caught in and circulate endlessly in the warren of tunnels. One day, after taking a wrong turn yet again, I wondered desperately how long it would be before I was no longer getting lost in the metro.

I think it took me about two and a half weeks before I didn’t feel the need to clutch my little map with me every time I went out, and another three to begin forming a mental map of the city. Eiffel Tower to the west, Montmartre and Aurelia to the north, work in the southeast, Saint-Michel in the center, and my place due south. Sad to say, I still walked like an American. That is, I walked with an awareness of the people around me, and if flagged by someone who looked lost, I would stop and try to render assistance.

I’ve since learned that this is not quite the thing here in Paris.

When I first arrived, I was struck by how slowly everyone walked, great crowds of people impeding my progress as I hurried from one place to another. Until I attempted traveling during rush hour—then I marveled at how fast everyone moved, at a pace just slow enough to not quite qualify as an Olympic sprint, though no less impressive given some of the women’s footwear on (very brief) display. Unable to reconcile the two very different speeds at which the denizens of Paris moved, I puzzled over the question for several days, until I finally understood: a Parisian walks as if he or she is the only person on the planet, he neither deviates from his chosen path for such insignificant inconveniences as other people, nor does he hesitate to slow his pace or pause when the fancy strikes him. Other people? What other people? They may move out of his way, if they so desire. He, however, refuses to do that navigating-a-crowd-dance that so many of us did at the beginning of the year, where we stop here, and quick-step there, and duck like that and twist like this….that’s for other people. It’s like a game of chicken with an entire crowd, waiting for the other guy to turn first.

As to the being flagged by people in need of help, I’ve learned that this is almost always a ruse. If it happens to be a guy stopping you to oh-so-innocently ask for directions, this almost certainly means he wants to converse with you with the further goal of scoring your phone number (assuming you are female). To this end, you will be given compliments both backhanded (“You’re an American?!? Truly? But you speak so well for an American!”) and unwarranted (being told you are very charming when you’ve yet to speak a word and have avoided eye contact for 20 minutes). I’m a little ashamed to say that this city has gotten to me in that respect; the last time some guy tried to speak to me on the street, I rolled my eyes at him and continued on my way.

I miss hanging out with guys. At home my best friends are male, but here I hardly speak to any men, let alone have friendly conversation. I mentioned the backhanded compliment incident to my landlady and she said that while French men can sometimes be too aggressive, after long visits to the states she relished coming home because she would “feel like a woman again”. I can only assume that’s a French thing because I don’t associate my femininity with being made to feel like a rabbit at a fox hunt. Seems like French girls play hard-to-get more, like they’ll put a guy through his paces to see how bad he wants it, and that because of this game-playing, the phrase ‘no, I don’t want to give you my number’ doesn’t really mean no. The Parisians operate from a different set of rules, and while I understand them, I can’t play by them. I guess I’m caught between two different aspects to cultural adaptation: understanding the unspoken social rules and norms, and conforming myself to them.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Home is a Peach

I’ve had lots of people ask if I plan on staying a second year. They seem confused when I say no. I would guess it might be the utter lack of hesitation in my voice; they respond with things like, “But you speak so well!” as if my talent for the language should equal a corresponding talent for life in this city, or “Ah, but you might change your mind,” while quirking their eyebrows knowingly, as if I perhaps I’m just being silly and homesick and haven’t yet grasped that Parisian life is far superior to anything I’d find elsewhere.

Even if circumstances did not demand I return home at the end of the year, my feelings do. I love this city, I do, but Paris is not for me. Paris is that wild crazy passionate love affair that every person should have before marrying the one they want to see every day over breakfast. Paris is crème brulée, not a perfect summer peach picked from the tree in your garden. In truth, even if I were to form emotional attachments here that were as strong as those I have at home, I would still prefer California. It’s home, and I’m just too American, I suppose, to consider a permanent transplant. Some flowers are never really meant to be uprooted.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

the Consequences of Inaction

I am a great coward; fear is my driving force. Every thought I have, every decision I make, is based ultimately in fear. Essentially, the only time I ever do anything brave or daring is when the consequences of inaction are worse. That is, of course, why I’m here. The fear of finding myself too dependent on my mother and unable to cope with the adult world is what forced me to uproot myself in such a dramatic fashion. At 24 and a half years old I’d never lived outside of my parents’ sphere, and instead of moving into a college dorm (as my sister so firmly advised) or into a shared apartment, I chose to move to a foreign country across the world.

This was a great source of amusement for my sister, my disdain for baby steps.

It’s been very tough for me, as you can probably infer from my six-month silence. Having come out of my best semester ever, academically as well as personally, I pretty much cracked immediately upon arriving in Paris. I couldn’t pinpoint why; I’d expected it to be difficult, I’d known I would be unhappy....what I did not expect was to have my drive, my motivation, disappear like a puff of smoke.

It made no sense. The previous semester I was so driven, so focused, and far more organized than is usual for me, I assure you. I could not understand what had happened to make all that drive just....leech away. The mystery occupied my brain for days, until I realized—I am in Paris. Success had been achieved. My goal had been reached, and I had not a clue what to do with the “afterwards” part. I had imagined that I would be stimulated in my university classes, and I relished the anticipated challenge.

But that’s not what I found. I was confronted with a system that is bogged down by antiquated conventions and that stifles any curiosity or independent thought the students have left. I think I begin to realize why the French love their vacations so much—it seems they treat their academic and business careers not as something to stimulate the mind or feed the spirit (as a great many Americans try to do), but as simply....business.

In any case, I was quite let down by the university system, which has frustrated and enraged me to the point where I can no longer dismiss it with equanimity, nor do I feel I am judging it from an ethnocentric standpoint. Quite simply, the French U system is breathtakingly disorganized, to the point where I now completely understand why most French students complain about it, disdain it, and—if they can afford to—forgo it entirely in favor of private schools. I find this highly ironic, as the public universities are bogged down with protests and strikes with students handing out fliers defiantly declaring that they will not be “americanized” and that their universities are not “enslaved to money”. Perhaps if they weren't so militantly disdainful of paying for public university as Americans do, the system would be more highly regarded.

I have quite a few colorful things to say on the matter, but since my imagination for profanity is poor, I’m sure it would quickly become repetitive.

None of this bothered me too much last semester. Things went just as badly, but I didn’t really care, locked as I was in that fog of numbness. Sadly, now I do care, and the problems I created for myself by my actions (or inaction) last semester have, coupled with the chaos of the French non-system, put me in a very difficult situation. I am, at this point, relying on nothing more substantial than luck.

Monday, March 1, 2010

M is for Mother, as well as Mistakes.

So I’m just about two-thirds of my way through this study abroad experience, and I find myself thinking about my mother a lot. In three and a half months, I’ll be moving back home and all kinds of Interestingness will ensue as I try to readjust to living under my parent’s roof and dealing with their particular idiosyncrasies—as they, of course, must again deal with mine.

And I find myself getting annoyed quite a bit, to the point where I avoid speaking to them because I just know that I’ll either bite my tongue bloody keeping a lid on the sundry opinions, complaints, and accusations clamoring for release, or I will lose the valiant fight and say everything I want to say, lighting the fuse of my parents’ explosive (and hysterically melodramatic) tempers, which will, of course, lead to copious tears, recriminations, and guilt trips on my mother’s end, and confusion, condescension, and baiting on my father’s. And yelling, lots of yelling, from both of them.

I guess what annoys me the most about all this reflection is that I’m beginning to realize something that managed to elude me for nearly a quarter-decade: my mother makes terrible decisions.

Now, I’ve known ever since I was a child that my father was poisonous to my mental health, and that he was not to be trusted—either in his opinions of me or in his capacity to be a parent I could rely on practically or emotionally—but Mom? When did this happen? Mom was the one I ran to when Dad was putting on his villain act. It was all very black and white, and if Dad was the Nefarious Black Knight, Mom was the Benevolent Queen. She was to be trusted implicitly, because she loved me, and therefore she could not be wrong.

Which didn’t exactly jive with the family dynamic we had going on in my house. I saw my mom as a victim of forces outside of her control—namely, my dad. I was 12 when I began to understand that at least half of the chains binding her—and by extension, my sister and I—were of my mother’s own making.

But I guess I chose to ignore what that indicated. And, in truth, my mother’s marriage is only my business inasmuch as it affects me (And boy, has it affected me. I may need a shrink, but as a broke college student, I have to settle for a blog). And this post isn’t about those more weighty issues—those will stay locked up inside my head, thankyouverymuch—but about trivial issues, annoyances that in truth I shouldn’t dwell on, but that have recently caught my attention.

Mom makes bad decisions, I said. The thoughts have been idly churning in the corners of my mind, and I’ve lately begun to wonder if the best way to utilize my mother’s advice isn't to simply listen attentively to everything she says, and then firmly proceed to do the opposite.

Consider this: my mother, experienced world traveler that she is, insisted I bring a crapload of unnecessary stuff with me when I was preparing my packing list. She seemed to think that Paris was in the depths of the Amazonian jungle, or perhaps the North Pole. She wanted to buy me soap so that I could cart it to Paris along with the ten thousand other items weighing me down. I know that there’s that stereotype of the French not bathing, but this is the country that invented the triple-mill process.

As you can imagine, I was overloaded. She insisted I bring a carry-on that was, to my eye, much too large to get by bag check without being flagged. She pushed, of course. She used a favorite phrase of hers, one that quite frankly grates on my nerves so impressively I give myself headaches from clenching my jaw so tight: “No, no. Obey your mother.”

I don’t know about you, but hearing that makes me feel like some sort of dog. It is even more annoying in Spanish, though why that might be, I have no clue.

Of course, as I predicted, the ‘carry-on’ was too large, and I was forced to check it. Unexpectedly, I was not forced to pay the $50 extra-baggage fee, but that, of course, was a stroke of luck. Perhaps the agent took one look at my pale, exhausted face (I’d had Major Drama that day) and took pity on me. In any case, I didn’t have to pay the consequences of foolishly listening to my mother. I’ve pretty much vowed I never will again. From now on, any mistakes I make will be my own. That's a vow, too: Own Your Mistakes As Well As Your Victories.

I know this sounds like a just lot of complaining, but it isn’t, exactly. Not just (there is complaining, obviously, I can’t deny that). It’s really about how 5,550 miles of distance can bring things into focus. My mother is neither victim nor benevolent queen, she’s a person, one who obviously makes misjudgments and I’m a little disappointed in myself that it took me so long to realize, really really realize, that I can only depend on, and blame, myself. It's so easy to complain after the fact that Mom Made Me Do It. When I do that, then lament the poor results, is it really her fault? Or is it mine, for relinquishing responsibility and then crying like the little girl I still am when things turn out badly? No, I've decided. It is up to me. I’m finally beginning to grasp that.