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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Adjusting to life in Paris has been difficult, to say the least. The rhythms of my life have been thrown off completely, and recast into something both arduous and terrifying for which I have no reference point, no habits, no routines, and no familiar comforts.

I haven’t been writing because I loathe depressed writing; there was a point in my life where that’s all I was doing, and looking back on the posts evoked feelings of impatience and disgust with myself that made me marvel at my colossal arrogance, that I should pollute the world with such self-pitying drivel.

Well, maybe not drivel. It was always well-dressed bullshit, if no less whiny.

In any case, despite living here for over 3 months, I’m still adjusting. My jaw and tongue still tighten up with nervousness when I have to speak quickly or unexpectedly in French, revealing my accent. I still have trouble getting to sleep (and, consequently, waking up early). I definitely have trouble adjusting to the classes here, and the confidence I used to have in my work has fled utterly.

And worst of all, I see things or hear things and think about how So-And-So would find that amusing/interesting/odd, and then remember that So-And-So is quite far away, across both an ocean and a continent, and 9 hours’ time difference besides. I can’t help but feel that vital pieces of myself are missing. There was a period of about a week, right around Halloween, where I did not leave the house for 6 days. I missed classes, hid in bed, slept all day and read all night to distract myself.

That’s when I realized that I might have a problem.

Since then, I’ve been actively trying to not be a recluse. I think it’s going well. I’ve been going back to classes, too, though it’s been tough, since my earlier truancy has basically dried up the larger part of my professors’ patience and pretty much left me with no wiggle room at all. I can’t say I like the university system all that much, where the administration is incredibly inefficient and the actual instruction is, for the most part, hideously boring and suppressive of active discussion (and possibly, independent thought). At work I have kids who love English and thus are happy to see me, and others who hate the subject and therefore see me as the embodiment of all their scholastic woes.

At the “Cultural Adaptation” class that we all had to go through, we were given a list of the stages of culture shock: Excitement, Withdrawal, Adjustment, and Enthusiasm. I never really went through the first stage, though. I knew enough about French culture to not be precisely ‘shocked’ by it, and furthermore I am quite the pessimist in some ways, so I departed on this trip fully expecting to be unhappy and stressed. I would say that my first stage was more Numbness than anything else, and only when that started to wear off is when all the loneliness I’d kept at bay started creeping in.

But I couldn’t hide under my pillow forever. If nothing else, if I were to flunk my classes for lack of attendance my financial aid would be revoked, thus forcing me to come home and deal with my parents in the throes of hysteria over their delinquent daughter. I’d take a lecture on Medieval French Lit over that any day. At least I can daydream during the lecture.

Well, for now all I can say is: I’m working on it.

Departure

My very first journal entry, written while I was waiting to board my flight to Munich:

Today I had to walk away from the two most important people in my life.

I’ve been at the airport all day, having arrived at 8 in the morning and penciling this entry just past 8 at night.

I guess fate was listening when I asked for more time in the early hours of this morning. I arrived here at the appointed hour only to learn that my flight had departed yesterday. Major Drama of the stomach-churning variety ensued. I pictured nightmare scenarios of having to return to SFSU in disgrace—if I were able to return at all, given that I had never registered for classes.

As I sat helplessly while my travel agent tried to fix things, I remembered why my friends are my friends. Mike never left my side. He even let me get weepy on his shoulder—and I am not a habitual crier.

Eventually, the whole thing was resolved and I was given the extra time I’d wished for. Scott was able to come meet me at the airport and after the Mikes left, he and I ate and then sat together waiting for the hour of my departure.

The dully familiar security processing—I’m no stranger to flying—took on a surreal aspect as I walked past the glass dividers. Walking farther and farther away, I kept looking back for glimpses of S and my mother. Finally past security, I turn one last time and see my mother wave. I raise my hand, then kneel to put my things back in my bag.

The next time I look back, they’re gone.

"Surreal" is the only word I can apply to that evening, as my emotions kept careening between grim resolve and utter terror. I distinctly remember checking my watch as we began taxiing down the runway. We began rolling at 9:16 pm, we lifted off exactly one minute later, and by 9:18 all I could think think was "Oh my god, what have I done?!?!"

But by then, of course, it was too late for me to chicken out.

It's not easy for me being here, because I'm not brave and I don't make friends easily. However, that is precisely why I decided on this, in the hope that by forcing myself to confront my fears, I might grow out of the little box of limitations I've built around myself. The brave have no need to challenge themselves, because they seem to have a talent for growth; as for myself, I've learned that it's only through adversity that I mature and become stronger.

Black Hole Sundays

I gave up on sleeping this morning at 5:02 am; given that my alarm would be going off in 23 minutes, I decided to hell with it and got up, got ready and left the house. The sky was still deepest violet as I walked to the metro station, and in accordance with the habit I’ve established over the past week, I put on my headphones and turned my music up. I try to down my thoughts in noise, but sometimes they still seep through the cacophony.

I’ve had kind of a difficult week. It kicked off with an unhappy conversation which basically set the tone for the past seven days. I’m brittle; I try not to think of it, because if I do, I’ll be paralyzed with anxiety and grow depressive and insular. So I take my feelings and lock them up tight. It’s only at my weakest moments in the middle of the night as I lay staring into the pitch black of my room that they seep out of the corners of my eyes. I wonder whether they’ll eventually disappear if I hide them deeply enough. Part of me hopes so, if only to avoid those blink-fast-or-cry moments that catch me unawares, when I’m reminded of what I gave up to come here. A city, even a beautiful, interesting, historical city, is a poor substitute for the warmth and security of the friendships I left behind.

Sundays are a kind of temporal black hole in Paris. Any business that could possibly be of use is closed, so one cannot run any useful errand. Thus for the past three Sundays, I’ve hidden in my cave of a room and waited for the day to end. I’m getting sick of it, so I decided that next Sunday I am going to some landmark—I don’t care which—so that I may get to know Paris, Sunday by Sunday. I’m beginning to realize that I paid a high price to come here, so I may as well get the most I can out of this journey.

Rush

I knew this would happen. I leave off posting for a few days, and then the longer it's been since I posted, the more reluctant I am to post, because I'm embarrassed that I haven't posted in so long.

It's been five weeks since my last post, and this is bad, because I have so many things to think about and to turn over in my mind, and often it seems that only when I write about things do they become clear to me.

These past five weeks have been taken up by so many things, most notably my daily prep class, and various scheduled outings organized by the MICEFA. And in addition to prep class, we had a weekly "cultural adaptation" class in which we would discuss how we were adjusting to life in Paris and in French culture. In the session before last, we discussed journal-keeping and Barbara, director of the MICEFA and our class instructor, made us do an exercise in which we write a journal entry. This is what I wrote, an approximation of the past four weeks (given the I wrote this a week ago).

I’ve been running, moving, rushing for weeks it seems, ever since I got here. First it was hurry up and wait for a flight on Aug 20, Departure Day. Then it was a week at Aurelia’s and adjusting to the startling heat and getting used to daily prep classes.

Week 2: I moved into the hostel and the housing search began in earnest. Homework, parents, studio, class, chambre de bonne...so many things going on at once I can’t think. Both a blessing and a chore because I can’t get a moment to myself—but when I’m alone I can’t help but recall everything I left behind.

Saturday 4th: moving-out-of-the-hostel day. I haven’t found a place. Having nightmare visions of having to beg patches of floor off a fellow student for the however long until I find somewhere to live. Experiencing that urge I was warned against—to just give up and go home. Always, always afraid, that’s me. Isn’t that why I came here? To test myself, because I KNOW that I’m so hard-headed that I need pain, difficulty, trial to force myself to be the best I can be? Lazy, cowardly, boring (and bored)—you know you need this. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you give up, no exaggeration. Are you so weak that you can’t rise to the challenge?

7 days ago: found a place. I take it, finally I can have peace. Now I have a space that is my own, to ruminate and over-analyze. I’m not really sure I want all this alone time. The empty space fills up with… the reluctance, the refusal to think about the painful things. You need it. I wish I were...stronger. Less scared.

That’s why I’m here.

Getting used to a french keyboard...

...is a pain in the keister.

I dont hqve the ti,e or the patience for q long post right now. Furthermore Im leqving in qll the typos so thqt everyone cqn see hoz Im suffering. In cqse you hqvent guessed by now the Q key is in the A keys spot and I cqnt for the life of me find the apostrophe...waaaaah.

Ill be bqck with a journal entry I wrote just before boarding my plane.

4 years, 9 months, 3 weeks, and 1 day with you...

...and tonight all I could think about was I need more time.

I wish you could sit beside me and hold my hand. You always managed to calm me down when I was scared.

I miss you.

Packed within 8 oz. of the scale. 1 day left

So I fell off the wagon a bit there, but I'm back. I had a stressful day packing on Monday and now have two fully packed suitcases clocking in at 49.5 lbs each, as well as a 20 lb carry-on and my backpack. How do I have so much stuff?? My dad felt it necessary to remind me that I wasn't going to the moon.

Dad and his sparkling wit was one reason why the day was so stressful. That and the fact that homesickness is already setting in, and I haven't even left yet.

I really don't have anything particular to say, other than that Scott and I have seen each other every day since Sunday.

When I applied for this program, I didn't let the thought of a year without him stop me--how lame would that be, refusing the opportunity of a lifetime for a boy? But even though I wouldn't change anything, even though I still really want to go, for my academic and especially my personal growth...I don't want to leave. I want to go but not leave. That makes no sense, I know.

Good luck, Graham! 4 days left

For Graham, who's going to school in Montreal for the coming year and is probably boarding his flight right now: I know it all started out a bit rough, but you'll do great and I hope you have many adventures. Have fun in Canada and make a snowman for me!

* * *

Last night was dedicated to laundry and packing. Packed suitcase number one, and after all the folding, arranging, and squishing, it weighed in at 46 lbs. I'm not even going to touch it unless I absolutely have to, but since I managed to pack in a good amount of stuff, I don't anticipate a problem.

This packing business is very odd for me. In all the trips I've taken that have involved luggage, only once have I ever had an entire suitcase to myself, and that was on the way home from Lima the summer before senior year. Even then, I'd arrived there sharing space with my sister; but whereas she left after two months, I stayed all summer. Having brought little clothing (I'm a very light packer) I used our smallest suitcase on the flight back.

Now I have to fill up two suitcases of 50 lbs. each, and each item that goes in underscores that this trip is different from all the others. I've never been away from my family for any significant length of time; even the month I spent alone in Lima after Alex left, I still visited my uncle and his family every week—he lived a 20-minute walk away.

This isn't a weekend trip where a backpack is sufficent, nor do I have to worry about my sister taking up more than her half of the luggage space. It's two regularly-sized suitacses, yawning empty and waiting to be filled with a year's worth of my life. To be honest, most of the time this trip doesn't even feel real to me, like as if this whole thing is some kind of daydream or an idle thought. It's little details like this that bring reality into focus. Right now I'm dreaming, but with each day that passes until Thursday, I wake up a little bit more.

Well-wishes from a friend. 5 days left

Last night a package from Veronica arrived, containing a 2009 travel guide to Paris, a beautiful journal, a self-sharpening pencil and a letter wishing me luck.

The last time I saw her, we met at the mall on Powell, and over lunch we discussed the upcoming changes in our lives: she’s done with school and looking for a career, I’m moving to Paris for the next ten months. It shouldn’t be surprising to learn that our conversation centered mostly on fear of growing up and of the unknown. I distinctly remember her making me swear to her that I’ll try new things.

“We have to be fearless, Claudia, fearless!” she said. It still makes me laugh thinking about it.

We first met almost two years ago, in French Composition class. I was feeling incredibly intimidated and uncertain. I hadn’t had any real French instruction since high school—about four years ago—and the S.F. campus was huge and everyone seemed to know each other and the professor was talking entirely in French (and entirely too fast). Even after I got to know my classmates’ names, I still kept quiet because sometimes I can be shy and it’s not always easy for me to make friends. I sat back and watched people instead, and there were a lot of interesting people in that class, some annoying, some nice, and a few who went on to become good friends of mine.

Veronica is one of those people. She’s one of those very lovely girls who can look cool and remote, but once you get to know her, you find out she’s smart and has a truly goofy sense of humor. Though it was pretty much the same people in our classes from one semester to the next, it wasn’t until my fourth semester that Vero and I become good friends, and I learned that my first day at SFSU was her first day as well—and that she had moved here from SoCal without knowing anyone, away from her family and friends and into an unfamiliar city, because she knew it was what was best for her.

I’m taking a page out of your book, V. Fearless. I promise.

Last-minute female bonding. 6 days left

Went into the city today to see Angelica, mostly so that I could trail her around downtown S.F. while she shopped for some new school clothes.

I did not do the laundry like I said I would.

But laundry can wait, I figured, since I won't see any of my friends (except, of course, for Aurelia) for a year. So fifteen minutes after I bolted out of bed, I was on my way to BART and in the city before 11 a.m. Once Angelica arrived we proceeded to Forever 21, a store I generally dislike because of it slave-to-trends feel. Unfortunately for my wallet, one of the biggest color trends this year has been purple—of all shades but mostly a rich, royal purple—which just happens to be my favorite color.

I think you can guess what happened. Since I so rarely find clothes I actually like given my pickyness, I couldn't resist the allure of of the sweater and t-shirt I found that were perfect. However, it wasn't all pleasant surprises finding attractive clothes in a store I normally avoid; there was still plenty to laugh at, as evinced by this...thing, this lunatic layered blouse combo we saw that left me nearly speechless.

I'm just gonna let that cacophony of color sink in.

It's a personal theory of mine that a certain percentage of the S.F. population—not a big one, but significant enough to be noticed—is more interested in cultivating an appearance that is unique rather than actually attractive. Another exellent example of this is the pair of shoes we saw later in Nordstrom's, of all places:

If you're wondering, then yes, those are indeed holes. In the shoes which no doubt cost at least $50.

The most amusing part of all of this, of course, was that Angelica knows me so well that I hardly needed to explain my horror to her. She's a people watcher, just like me, and she always knows what I'm thinking.


I'm really going to miss you while I'm away, Angelica.

Beginning the countdown: 7 days left

I've decided that I'm going to try to post a little bit every day this week so that I can get back into the habit of writing daily. This lofty goal, however, comes unaccompanied by any particular inspiration, daily or otherwise, so I suppose that this coming week of posts is really just going to be a lot of me trying to get back into my groove. That and packing. Lots and lots of packing.

At first I told myself I’d bring only one suitcase, because I like to travel light. Then I thought about it and pretty much realized this would be an impossibility. And since packing in a rush is almost certain to drive me deranged, I’ve already begun.

Looks like I’m trying to stock up a bathroom à l’américain, huh? Not quite, I promise. Some of that is junk food requested by Aurelia (notice the Jell-o and beef jerky), in addition to my horde of cold medicine, toothpaste* and scent-free SPF lotion**. Although I admit it looks a mess now, I’m confident that once I start actually arranging everything it will take up less space, since, after all, I have to fit some clothes in there too!

Tomorrow’s mission: massive amounts of laundry.




* Because if I don’t take it, no one will use it since it’s super minty.
** Since I’m given to understand that France isn’t big on unperfumed lotions, etc.

In which I have 9 days left in California...

I finally received my visa yesterday, and the smoothness of the process was positively eerie. Possibly it helps that last Monday I was obsessively checking and re-checking that I had all the appropriate documents and paper-clipping them all neatly in graduated layers. Despite the brain-stupor-inducing 90-minute wait, once I was called I was finished in less than 10 minutes and was out the door, blinking stupidly in the sunlight and wondering what the heck just happened.

Yesterday, precisely one week later, I returned to the consulate and recieved all my paperwork with a minimum of fuss.

This is all becoming very real to me now.

In which I have 17 days left in California...

I've been avoiding this blog. It's supposed to be a project to document my upcoming year in Paris, but even though I used to keep a blog about four or five years ago (more of a journal than anything else, to be honest) my efforts sort of trickled out after perhaps two years of self-indulgence, though I but recently deleted the account. It was because I had nothing to say, for in truth, I am not a very interesting person.

I am a scaredy-cat. I avoid unpleasant things, things that scare me, things that are difficult. This is why I speak to my father as little as possible, why I've never said the L word to my boyfriend and why I refused to take more college math classes than the one that was absolutely necessary for me to complete my GE. So of course the very first solution that comes to mind for getting this 'fraidy-cat out of her rut and into adulthood is moving to a foreign country where she'll be forced to juggle a full-time university schedule with a job on the side teaching English, making her tiny budget stretch harder than a sideshow contortionist and conviently placing both an entire continent and an ocean between herself and everyone who cares about her.

Well, at least I can truthfully say I'm not half-assing it.

Tomorrow's my appointment with the French consulate where, hopefully, I'll be able to get my long-stay visa with a minimum of fuss, considering the Major Drama that ensued when I tried to make my appointment.

Unsurprisingly, I'm scared. Not just that the appointment won't go smoothly, but for the packing and the budgeting and the paperwork and the leaving and the homesickness and most of all, for the possibility of failure. People keep asking me if I'm excited, and I'm not; I fluctuate wildly between a what the hell have I gotten myself into?-kind of fear and a grave self-assurance that if I just keep calm, I can make it. This year abroad isn't a lark for me—this is me trying to force myself to grow up because I can't help feeling that if I don't take this chance I never will. I'm 24 years old but I still feel and act like a teenager in a lot of ways.

First step I've taken out from under my mom's wing: I applied for, and got, financial aid for my year abroad, and that, combined with my salary as a teaching assistant, should cover all my expenses reasonably without requiring an infusion of cash from the Bank of M.O.M.—because while my finances may be in a shambles, my parents' are far, far, worse due to the bursting of the real estate bubble here in California. Even if they wanted to help me (which, in fact, they do) they couldn't; and I need to do this on my own, because I can't rely on them forever.

I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, if that’s the way I come off. Like most people, I have issues with parents and childhood awkwardness and insecurity, etc., ad nauseum. I’m just tired of being so damn cautious all the time. Not smart-cautious, like not walking in dark allies while tipsy at 3 a.m., but scared-cautious, where I hardly ever take risks or try new things. It’s my fervent hope that this year will not only help me to be stronger and more responsible, but also less afraid of taking risks and of adulthood in general.

Inagural post....experiment.