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!
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