La vie en France

Day 2 in France, and the locals don't suspect a thing.

The pace of life in this little southern village is exceedingly slow: a bewilderment to my American sensibility of go, go, GO.  Although some of my own languidness is due to jet lag,  it feels peculiar not to be in a rush to accomplish as much as possible between the hours of 7am and 10pm.  Despite this feeling, I've actually accomplished more of the things I want to do in the past 48 hours than I ever did while gainfully employed in a structured regimen.  For example: this blog.  I also started a free online course for learning HTML.  We took a walk in the countryside, through the local vineyard.

I went to sleep last night with an idea for a musical composition.  We woke up this morning and walked to the boulangerie pour deux baguettes, s'il vous plaît.  

I realize that I've been approaching this move as a documentarian might view her subject in an upcoming exotic expedition.  I've been picturing myself as the viewer on the outside of a bubble, rather than as a participant in a normal procedure.  At the moment, it's a bit of an uncomfortable reminder that life around me marches on despite my recent situational upheaval.  Though, I believe we all need to be upheaved from time to time to remember our small place in this vast society.

To that effect, I've realized that a good portion of my discomfort in this foreign land comes due to the fact that no one gives out gold stars when I can communicate with the locals in their own language.  Every time I visit France, my French improves incrementally.  Every time I'm able to comprehend, formulate a response, and answer all within a time that serves the social norm, I subconsciously expect my French listener to light up and congratulate me on doing what they've been doing since the age of 2.  Not so.  In certain friendly company, I've been lauded for my ability - but only after it's been explained to my captive audience that my French is limited to a few years in high school and the lyric diction I learned as a music major in college.  For a time, this lack of acknowledgment of my "skill" disheartened me, but then I realized I do the exact same to foreign tourists when in America.  I used to work in a sports retail store in an upscale part of DC.  This was a bit of a hotspot for wealthy foreigners who desired Nike and Adidas track suits (that are cheaper in USD than in euro), or exotic-looking Brooks and Mizuno running shoes.  Because I comprehend English at an unconscious level, hearing a foreigner speak English to me is par for the course.  They may have no idea what they're actually saying, are just parroting back to me what their guidebooks told them to say, but it never occurred to me to acknowledge their sparse command of a very patchwork language.

All in good time.  If anyone knows how to master a foreign language in just a few days, I'm open to ideas.  Until then, I'll have only myself to quietly give congratulations when I manage to parse together a sentence in French.

Picture tax:
Mont Sainte-Victoire, as seen from the countryside near Pertuis.

Our front door and shutters!

We have arrived...

About 18 hours after we left Ben's home in New Jersey, we have finally arrived at our final destination, Pertuis, France.  I've made this trip several times; Ben even more, but this time was remarkably different.  For one thing, we've never made this trip together.  This time of year is more often marked by my sinking depression at saying goodbye to my long-distance boyfriend than it is by tremulous excitement touched with breathless, wide-eyed anxiety.  All is familiar, yet this arrival is more strikingly different than I had ever imagined.  The little type-A child inside of me craves stability and status quo; at the moment, I feel anything but.  Time to give little type-A neurotic bébé a wild ride.

At some deep level, we all strive to realize our purpose in life.  I feel that I must apologize to myself in my post-college years that I haven't done a whole lot to seek out that purpose.  Maintaining the status quo by default won't encourage me to face anew, struggle, wonder, or grow.  Before I left New Jersey, I made a pact with myself to do away with the inferiority complex and ignore the fear of failure that so often pervade any uncomfortable new venture I undertake.  I haven't wanted something for myself in years, if ever truly.  I came very close to unlocking some level of passion and yearning in college, but it was too little too late by the time I shook myself up.  But just because I'm no longer in college doesn't mean I can't want and yearn for something truly beautiful.  I think I need to get a little uncomfy before I get close to discovering whatever that is.

I've decided to pro-actively have a quarter-century life crisis.  I really don't think turning 25 (in less than a month!) is any big deal, but I'm going to use this cliché excuse to my benefit.  Hence the #yolo.  I already have a college degree, (had) a good job, and a 401k to my name; it's time to freak out a little bit and rediscover what it means to be Emily.

At this moment, it doesn't seem too daunting; I'm writing from a cool room in Ben's old apartment (our temporary home before hopefully moving to Lyon).  A soft Provençal breeze is lilting through the open shutters.  Indistinct French is being spoken around the corner.  To all the world outside my window, it's just another lazy summer afternoon.  Perhaps this is the feeling I'll try to recall when I'm inevitably homesick, frustrated, lonely, or so anxiety-laden I can barely take a step out the door: I'll simply summon forth my inner lazy summer afternoon, and all will be well.

(At some point, I promise I'll write about actual life in France; as of right now, that consists of deliriously unpacking and trying to convince myself to stay awake and upright for just a few more hours of daylight...) 

YOLO

There's nothing like preparing to move across an ocean to prove to yourself just how little stuff you need. All of the sentimental detritus that accumulates in just over 3 years can easily be chucked into a plastic trash bag and thoughtlessly tossed into the bin for Friday morning pick up. It's that easy. It's a whole life's worth of little trinkets and tokens that you're deciding don't really make the cut-off for the TSA's own sentimental weight limit guidelines. In theory, it's a scary thing to throw out or donate 75% of your belongings; in practice, it's liberating. The bigger picture implications are what really scare me. The whole reason I'm chucking my things is because I'm quitting my job, giving up my lease, and moving to France. And je ne parle pas français that well.

This decision has been many years in the making. My boyfriend, Ben, has been living in France for the past 4 years; first as a language assistant fresh out of undergrad, and ultimately as a graduate of a French master's program in Aix-en-Provence. During that time, I finished my undergrad at Boston University (a useless but personally satisfying Bachelor of Music in Voice Performance), and I moved to Washington D.C.. The move to D.C. was fairly random, but I secured a great job and ended up loving the city. I started long-distance running, held down a full-time and a part-time job, and generally enjoyed being in my early twenties in a type-A, motivated town. But somewhere along the way I began to stagnate. My job is great, but it's not my passion. I love living in D.C., but I don't want to settle down here. Friends come and go. A long-distance relationship is difficult to maintain, even with the magic of Google video and transatlantic flights. This spring, my boyfriend was presented with an opportunity to teach at the university in Aix while I pursued the opportunity to secure a student visa through a French language class program; we had reached our now-or-never moment.

The decision to give up my job and my life in D.C. was one of the most stressful and agonizing choices I've ever made. I thrive in security, and unknowns give me high blood pressure. But this decision I made, at the time, was so bursting with potential that I couldn't not jump at the chance to live abroad. It's not a ridiculous situation to thrust myself into: I'll be living with someone I know, love, and trust (someone who speaks the language fluently), in a country that's somewhat familiar to me, and for which I don't need to get any crazy shots. So why not? I hate the term "YOLO," but I had the revelation that my reasoning for choosing to go abroad was just that. At 24, I have no attachments, (thankfully) no debt, no long-term commitments, and a little money saved; when better to do this? I'm not totally without plan. Not getting on a random plane to go backpacking across the Mongolian desert... although that sounds kind of fun.

Even with a mantra of YOLO, one must plan. Bureaucracy has its foundation in France, and appropriately, we've gone through a multitude of snags, delays, and plan changes. Miraculously, I was granted a student visa with not a single issue. Ben was offered a different opportunity to do a PhD at a university in Lyon, which he accepted midst the absence of all administrative aid. What aid was given was often incompetent, late, incorrect, or all of the above. But Ben is a weathered soldier in the battle of the French System, and so we've set our sights on the bohemian student life in the city of Lyon.  T-minus 20 days.

I have a habit of looking back at past me with the thought of "if only you knew how much this experience would change you." I fondly shake my head at younger me and wonder how I could have approached something differently with a little less naïveté; or how I could have avoided stress and heartache or soaked up just a little more of the scenery. This is the moment right now that future me will look back on and shake her head fondly and think, "Emily, if you only you knew how much this would change you."

Well? YOLO.