Home sweet finally feels like home

This week is vacation for all the students in France.  It could not be any more timely: we finally put together our apartment, post-bugpocalypse.  Also, I pulled a muscle in my back yesterday while cleaning, so I have double the excuse to laze on our couch.  We spent a very frenzied weekend making trips to the hardware store, Ikea (again), the marché, the grocery store.  We put up the drapes (aka: an excuse for Ben to use his favorite new play thing, the drill), we mopped the floors, put together even more furniture, and started some decorating.  At long last, I no longer feel like a guest in my own home.

Bedroom, now with drapes!

The French apparently don't believe in hanging clothes, so
we both bought clothes racks for the anti-wrinkle campaign.

There's always a period of time when you move into a new place when you wake up in the morning and can't quite remember where you are or what you're doing there.  I had that feeling on a more global scale when I first moved to France, but any remnant in any capacity is receding until it almost feels average that I'm here in this apartment in this country.  I had an out-of-body moment of panic last night when I remembered that I quit my job and sold all my belongings to move to a foreign country, but I managed to zero back in on my reality before the hyperventilating hit.  The foreign language doesn't seem so foreign any more.  I understand my professors at the university with no problem.  On Friday, I was able to carry on a conversation with one of Ben's new colleagues with minimal help.  The ability to express myself in French is becoming more fluid, although I still wish I could just acquire French by osmosis.  

Kitchen!  With appliances and mopped floor!

Alcove, with both desks, and a little decor.

All of these things take time.  That's one thing no one really warns you about when you undertake a new venture.  It's going to be so exciting!  You're going to learn so much!  You'll become a totally different person in the face of new challenges!  Oh, and it's going to take MONTHS to feel any sense of normality!  At the heart of it, I'm still an English-speaking American with 25 years of red, white, and blue conditioning.  Slowly, slowly comes the melting to blue, white, and red.  I don't know why I'm surprised that it feels like it's taking so long to feel normal here.  I'm used to doing things that take time to perfect.  I didn't train for a marathon in a few weeks (some people can, I most definitely needed months for my first, and months after to recover...), it took a culmination of four years of training and practice to present 45 minutes of music for a degree recital in college.  It took me three years to settle and learn independence in DC.  

My favorite.  The living room.

DRAPES.

But I guess it's hard to impress this upon the now, now, NOW generation.  Despite my appreciation for the importance of practicing and training, I'm still eager for imminent pay-offs.  When we moved in a month ago, we thought we could build all our furniture in one night.  Silly.  I keep asking myself why I'm not fluent in French yet... silly!  It's the bigger things too: why don't I have a career doing something I love yet?  Why am I not a settled, married, child-rearing, mortgage-paying, retirement-saving established woman yet?  We're always so keen to move on to the next phase of life, to be older, wiser, more mature.  But where does that leave room to savor the present?  How often do we stop in our tracks and gaze around at what's in front of us, the fruits of our dedicated labor?  With our furniture fresh out of the packaging, and our language just on the verge of true comprehension.  How often do we appreciate all the hard work and struggle we've just endured to get to the current moment?  And can we readily admit to ourselves that maybe we're just not ready for that next phase of life, that maybe we require more practice to find some higher level of satisfaction in our present state?

Satisfaction in the shape of a baguette.

So this week of vacation, I plan to retreat and recover and emerge ready to continue the journey.  The frustrating, exhilarating, exhausting, and inspiring journey to discover what it means to be a citizen of the world, and not just a resident of a limited reality.  I hope to recoup my vitality for the continued trek to the depths of unmitigated panic and anxiety and for the flights of soaring highs of confidence.  I'll move forward with the acknowledged expectation that the living of life takes time, but that time is fleeting and should be savored.  And I'll immerse myself in the rich simplicity of sitting back and enjoying the new home that's taken a required toll on mind, body, and spirit.

I want to eat ALL THE CHEESE.

Only Lyon!

Fall in Lyon

This past weekend, we took a brief reprieve from the soul-ravaging task of dealing with the little demons in our apartment.  The past few weeks have been a whirl of classes, French grammar, visiting prospective families for whom I might babysit, and the general business of acclimating to a new life in a new city.  We required a bit of a break to recharge from la troisième guerre mondiale in our abode.  I so enjoyed my outing to Parc de la Tête d'Or with Emily last week, that I wanted to return this weekend for the Fête des Courges (pumpkin/gourd festival), and for a lovely stroll in the vast expanse of manicured gardens and sweeping, weeping tree-lined vistas.  It hardly feels like fall in Lyon due to the uncharacteristically warm weather (or so we've been told), so it felt a bit like home to see the pumpkin-lined paths circling the botanical garden.  The changing leaves are softly cascading around the still-green grass; a panorama of an indecisive mother nature, trying on the vestments of autumn while still unable to cast off the lightness of summer.

A magical place

The park on a sunny Saturday afternoon is a popular place.  Nothing like the damp unoccupied playground Emily and I enjoyed last Thursday.  In fact, I have a feeling that most of the population of Lyon decided to join us on our rendez-vous in the park.  And the Lyonnais certainly have the savoir-faire when it comes to enjoying themselves on a beautiful fall weekend.  Every French cliché was on exhibition in the park, much to our delight.  Couples openly embracing in rose-scented corners, trios of old ladies gossiping on benches, parents and children biking through the throng, students smoking and picnicking with cheap wine and fresh cheese.

Pumpkins!

Important pumpkin discussions

After making our way through the pumpkins, we found ourselves in the free zoo, surrounded by hundreds of our closest 5-year-old friends.  I have mixed feelings towards zoos, but nothing is quite so charming as happening upon a herd of giraffes in the middle of an upscale quartier of a French city.

From the zoo, we strolled around the lake and through the romantic rose garden.  Emily and Ben were good sports as I picked enchanting little corners for petite photo shoots.  The vivid melange of summer-autumnal colors was begging to be documented... who was I to refuse?  We even discovered a pine tree with hanging branches that reminded me of the scene in Frozen (my favorite movie; don't judge me, I'm secretly 12) in which Sven gets tangled in the dangling icicles.  This park is truly some kind of Disney design amalgamation.

Inspecting the dangling pine branches 

Pretty girl!

Explaining the scene from Frozen

We soaked up some afternoon soleil in the grass before heading out to purchase some much needed chocolate croissants.  Cheap, delicious pâtisserie is a balm to the weary spirit.

Bain de soleil...

Saturday night, Ben and I were invited to one of his colleague's housewarming party.  I was both excited and quite nervous for this affair, given that it would be a chance for me to practice my slowly improving French.  Planting myself in the middle of a highly-educated conversation conducted in French is one of my favorite ways to improve my oral comprehension.  Ben works with people who either already have PhDs or are in the process of obtaining them, and as such, it's a delight to listen to worldly opinions and dialogue rather than the somewhat rougher street French I heard from les racailles de Pertuis...

I quite enjoyed myself at this party, despite only knowing exactly three other people besides Ben amidst the group of 30 or so.  However.  There are two things that I simply cannot abide when it comes to the French and their fête-ing.  The kissing and the smoking.  To clarify: les bisous (those cheek kisses) are a cultural norm, and perfectly expected when one arrives to a soirée.  When a new person enters, he or she must make the rounds of the entire party - men shake hands with men and bisous with the women; women bisous everyone.  Conversations are interrupted by perfect strangers in order for this space-bubble invasion, and introductions are made and promptly forgotten as the newbie moves on to the next victims.  If it were me, I would be entirely apologetic about interrupting people merely to breathily state my name between cheek rubbing.  To my (American?) sensitivity, it seems downright rude; but in fact, it's downright rude not to make the bisous rounds.  Ugh.  Pass the cheese, hold the smooching.

Secondly.  Anyone who knows me knows that I can't STAND smoking.  I think it's a disgusting, disgusting habit, and I will not dismount from my high horse and refrain from melodramatically coughing up a lung when someone blows smoke in my direction... in America.  Here, I can't so much as wince when someone lights up behind me; because that someone is in fact everyone at the party.  Truly, second-hand smoke makes it incredibly difficult for me to breathe; I get light-headed and my throat starts to close until I can find a pocket of fresh air.  But when you're a guest in someone else's country, you play by their rules.

Still, through the clouds of smoke and the multiple invasions of privacy, I had a really fun time.  The fun always has to come to an end, though, and as such, Ben and I plodded back to reality for our delightful Sunday activity: caulking the walls in the bedroom and living room.  We were advised to seal up the cracks between the hardwood floor and the walls to discourage bug hiding places, so we spent a small fortune on brown caulk at our (least) favorite store, Bricorama.  This little job joins the list of absurd things I've had to do in France (Saran-wrapping the mattress, anyone?), but hopefully it's one more battle won in the war on the buggies.  Cross your fingers and your toes that we're nearing the end of the struggle.  Next week is vacation, and I'm looking forward to using that time to putting our lives back into a neat, decorated habitable shell.

Caulker in action

The plastic-wrapped bed.  A masterpiece.

The remedy for defeat is mac 'n' cheese

When I was younger, I had a really difficult time dealing with stress.  This may be self-evident given my severe control issues, but it was something I really struggled with all throughout high school and the beginning of college.  When I would feel out of control or overly stressed, rational thought ceased, and panic mode took over.  The littlest thing could set me off - being called on in class and not knowing the answer, getting into a spat with a friend, receiving a bad grade on a test - and of course the more dire situations - traumatizing roommate experiences in college, breakups, getting bullied in middle and high school.  A day usually didn't start out bad: it was often an accumulation of little things that my sensitive soul absorbed like a poison, and I would dissolve into unconsolable tears.

In college, I got into the habit of calling my dad every time I had one of these episodes.  My dad is the most rational and level person I've ever known, and in my times of intense despair (allow me the hyperbole), his voice of reason was just about the only thing in the world that could calm me.  I remember one particular day in college, maybe freshman or sophomore year, in which I was having a meltdown over who-knows-what, and I think my dad had had enough of my melodrama.  Probably a mix of frustration with me and the sincere desire that his nearly-adult daughter learn to deal with stress more healthfully.  In any case, I was blubbering away about why my life was over, I was having such a bad day, why couldn't he understand why I was a worthless pile of blah, blah, blah... He let me weep my way through my morose monologue, and when I finally shut my mouth, he proceeded to tell me something I've kept locked away in my "Important Daily Reminders" box since.  He said to me, "Em, you're not having a bad day.  You have never in your entire life had a bad day.  You don't know what a bad day is, and I hope you'll never know what it is.  You have a consistent and safe roof over your head, you have plenty of clothes to keep your warm, and you always have enough to eat.  If you have all of that, then it's not a bad day."

Since that moment, I've never allowed myself to think or verbalize that I've had a bad day.  Some days aren't pleasant; some days are extremely unpleasant, but in my 25 years, I've never had a bad day.  

Last night was extremely unpleasant.  But let's back up slightly...

Most of yesterday was a really good day.  We were scheduled for our second session of bed bug extermination yesterday morning (let's take a moment to remember that Ben and I have been living out of TRASH BAGS for the past two weeks).  A different lady came to do the extermination, and we think she actually did a far more thorough job than the first guy two weeks ago.  At the end of her work, she set off two smoke bombs in the living room and bedroom, so we were herded out of the apartment to let the chemicals do their dirty work.  If two weeks ago was bed bug D-Day, yesterday was bed bug Hiroshima.  For the rest of the morning, Ben and I stopped at my university so I could pick up my new student ID card, and then we made our way over to his university so I could get lunch with him and his colleagues.  In the afternoon, I had plans to go to Parc de la Tête d'Or with my friend Emily.  Emily is a rad chick - and I think she would approve of that description since she's from California.  We had a delightful time in the park; Parc de la Tête d'Or is actually a real life excerpt from Wonderland.

(Enjoy the pics, this post is about to take a turn for the dark and twisty...)

Doing my best dinosaur impression

Emily in nature

Yes, this is a real place

Grand piano hanging out in a gazebo, nbd

And this random guy practicing kicking...

This fence was made to be jumped

Inspecting the forbidden house

After play time in the park, I picked up the adorable kids I babysit from their school and allowed them to climb all over me for two hours until their mom came home.  First time I've ever given anyone a piggy-back ride...  I headed home, where Ben was waiting for me in our smoke-filled apartment so we could rewash all our linens post-extermination.  

This is where my night started to go downhill.  Quick shout out to Ben and his endless patient patience because I'm a terribly disagreeable person when I've reached my stress breaking point.  Washing ones linens starts out innocently enough, but when you're stuck in a dingy laundromat until 9pm on a Thursday night when you've already been up for 15 hours because someone had to come at 8am to spray chemicals all over your apartment to get rid of bed bugs and it's been raining all day and the only shoes I have right now are sandals that are impossible to walk in when it's wet and we come home to find that our mattress is still soaked in chemicals so we're going to have to sleep on the pull-out couch again in slightly still-damp sheets and the entire apartment is coated in a layer of questionable toxic smoke debris and the food in the fridge may or may not be edible, so should we throw it out and waste money? should we just eat it? and oh my god, I don't want to go to a four-hour class on Friday morning because MY SOUL IS SO EXHAUSTED.  Essentially, my state of being becomes an irritable run-on sentence when I'm stressed.

Burning my finger Wednesday night didn't help with any
emotional warm fuzzies

I wearily surrendered to the pull-out couch and was hit with a cold wave of panic as I realized my life had literally just taken a giant step back in time by three weeks.  Or so it felt at 11:30pm at a moment I couldn't even remember my own name for lack of reasoning.  I stared up at the ceiling and had this sinking feeling that we hadn't made any progress since we moved here three weeks ago.  Three weeks, big deal, right?  At this moment, three weeks makes ALL the difference.  Three weeks ago, we had just moved into an empty apartment, discovered the bed bugs, were sleeping on the couch like guests in our own home, and I still didn't know if I could register for classes or not.  My life at the time felt like a big fat question mark, and I was eager for nothing more than to be settled and established in a routine.  When I know my situation is going to be unsettled, I do everything I can to mentally prepare myself.  I attempt to visualize the situation, I try to come to terms with the inevitable uneasy emotions of inner turmoil and unrest.  I had not prepared any of that for the purpose of dealing with the angst of last night - I didn't think I would have to!  I was caught unawares by my own situation; and when I stared up from that pull-out couch last night, it seemed to me that someone had painted, in big mocking block letters, the word: DEFEAT.

My "no good, very bad day" face

I felt utterly defeated last night.  The mental fortitude required to exist in a foreign land is at times just beyond my flailing grasp.  In that moment, my strength failed me, and I felt like a small petulant child waiting for her mommy to come put her down for nappy time.  Virtually every act of my day requires mental vigilance.  My French has improved greatly with classes, but in real life, no one articulates, no one repeats the question more slowly and with easier vocabulary.  Going about my  normal day in France is as exhausting as running a marathon in America.  And in the words of Starbucks-clutching, iPhone-toting 16-year-old girls everywhere, I COULDN'T EVEN last night.

It was as close as I'll allow myself to get to a bad day.  Fortunately, I have my dad's words of wisdom stamped on the front doors of my mind, so I know that despite the run-on sentence of trauma that symbolizes last night, everything will be ok.  And just like that, the sun is shining today (at long last!  All it does is rain in Lyon!), and I just had a huge heaping bowl of mac 'n' cheese, courtesy of my Aunt Kathy.  Deep breaths, everyone.

Om nom nom nom nom nom