There are a few reasons I haven't been writing my blog for the past few months. Firstly, I've been babysitting for a French family with twin 8-year-old girls, and it's in my contract to keep discreet online, so most of my funny stories would have been too bland to write about. Secondly, I've been keeping a huge secret that I intended to take with me to my grave if it didn't end well. But I've decided it's too big a life lesson to keep shoved under a rug, so it's sharing time.
When I moved to France 10 months ago, I didn't have that much in terms of a big-picture direction. "Moving to France" was the name of an admittedly poorly sketched next chapter in the Life of One E. Cania. Our original plan wasn't even to be in this city, let alone for three years. I had enough saved up to pass a planned year near Aix-en-Provence, and then we would come back to the States like responsible people and get Adult Jobs. Then Lyon happened, and Ben got the crazy opportunity to pursue a funded doctoral program, so here we are in year one of three, a little farther away from the Mediterranean than initially planned. Last July, a few days into the discovery of our change-of-location, I realized I would need to formulate a new outline for my future: grad school. But not just any grad program. I set my sights on auditioning for the master's program at the Conservatoire National Supérieure Musique et Danse de Lyon. Any school with the word "supérieure" is the best of the best, so I thought, what the hell, why not? The past six months have been spent dutifully practicing and preparing an audition program, writing a thesis proposal (in French), and nervously counting down the days until le concours d'entrée. Which was yesterday.
Unclench your bated breath, because no, I didn't get in. Up until the start of this week, I thought I had a decent shot of getting in. My plan was to study the music of Lili Boulanger, for which I've had a passion since high school, thanks to my incredible first voice professor Deb Massell. I thought I would be a shoe-in: an American who speaks French and wants specifically to study French music in France? Bien sûr! Pourquoi pas? And besides, I don't think my innate vocal abilities are too shoddy, so I thought I had two pretty solid feet to stand on in the admissions process. After enduring a freakishly difficult sight-reading test, an interview with two of the voice faculty, and a comically bad rehearsal with the pianist (all in French), I was fairly certain my two solid feet had been chopped at the ankles by yesterday morning. I knew at that point my chances of getting in were about nil, but I had prepared to sing, and sing I did. My pianist was the kindest woman, and did her absolute best at the fiendishly difficult Boulanger accompaniments. I'm proud of my performance, and I don't regret trying to climb that nearly umountable mountain. If the jury had just said, "thanks for coming in," and sent me on my way to discover the results on my own, I would have felt satisfied that I'd done my best, but it really wasn't meant to be. Failure is a part of the process, and every musician - every person - gets rejection no matter how hard he or she may have worked. Sadly, these judges felt it necessary to really cut me at the knees, and I left that conservatory feeling not just rejected but also humiliated. As soon as I finished singing, the head of the voice department told me very bluntly that I'm simply not good enough to do a master's program at their conservatory. She insinuated that it was unbelievable that I'd even attained a bachelor's degree in voice performance, and the rest of the jury smirked openly as I maintained a bland smile and tried to answer their questions without tearing up. I left that room feeling more like the butt of a joke than simply a rejected candidate. I still feel icky inside thinking that the laughter I heard after I exited was most likely at my expense.
Sadly, this kind of behavior is common in the music world. We learn to deal with failure very quickly, but injury with a side of insult has become almost a hallmark in the stupidly competitive world of classically-trained singers. For a "dying art" I find it insane how many people still audition for master's programs, opera institutes, summer festivals, companies, competitions, etc. In any case, I had decided long ago that if I didn't get in, this little secret would die quietly and no one outside my close friends and family would be the wiser. If I got in, I was going to plaster that fact all over social media in a super tacky attempt to show how freaking awesome I am to anyone who's ever doubted me. Thankfully, I wasn't given the chance to be that petty, and I think the only person who has ever truly doubted me is me.
The thing is, despite the crash-and-burn rejection, I don't doubt me anymore. I tried to break my way into an exclusive club, all on my own (which was pretty stupid, but private voice lessons are EXPENSIVE), and in a foreign language. One year ago, even six months ago, I would not have been able to walk into any of the situations and speak about myself or my intentions in French. The crippling fear of interaction I felt at the beginning of my séjour here in France has slowly faded into memory. There are certain people I still struggle to understand, but apparently I fit in so well now that French people ask me for directions several times a week (and I can answer them!). I speak French every day with the kids and the family I babysit for. The kids still love to giggle and correct my mistakes, but if you want kids to obey you, you've got to at least fake confidence in those foreign commands. Not only do they (usually) obey me, but they still fight over who gets to play with me. Their parents don't treat me like a foreign oddity with a niveau faible de français, but as an another adult with equal value, intrinsically and linguistically. The level of acceptance I've felt over the past six months has frankly astounded me, given that the French take quite a long time to warm up to les étrangers. Both the parents speak English well enough that all our conversations could easily be in English, but rightly, neither of them has given me that out. Even when I struggle to express myself, they give me the option to switch to English, but I try my best to stay in French. To top it off, both parents texted me yesterday wishing me good luck on my audition, which felt all the more encouraging given that I had asked for yesterday off.
In short, what I thought would be a huge loss doesn't really feel that huge because my gains have been so much grander. Rejection happens, humiliating rejection happens, but I refuse to stay down. I think perhaps another degree in music performance isn't what I'm meant to be doing anyway. When my parents asked me what I would do with that degree in two years, I could never see past the fog since I've never wanted a career in performing. So I move on. I'll be a Master in something else, TBD.
As a bit of a post-script, yesterday's rejection was significantly softened after learning the news that the Supreme Court has decreed marriage equality in the US. I can't keep the smile off my face as a scroll through the stream of rainbows in my Facebook newsfeed, and the fact that now so many of my friends will have the same legal right to marry the person they love. I won't remember June 26th as the day I got rejected, I'll remember it as the day love won. Good job, 'Murica!
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Saturday, March 7, 2015
191 Days
I'm officially homesick.
For six months, I've been blissfully passing the time in this French adventure. Overcoming the obstacles of foreign-ness, adapting to a different culture and way of life, straining my brain to take on an entire new language. For six months, I've been asked over and over, "are you homesick? do you miss the US?" Every time, I smiled triumphantly and replied in the negative. My commitment to expatriatism is infallible, my resolve unbreakable. I've dusted the little hardships off my shoulders, and I've gotten right back up after every falter. Until tonight.
I should have seen this coming. Yesterday, on the bus home from babysitting the girls, a group of American businessman got on. I was sitting close enough to hear their quiet conversation. Every single dear English word pronounced casually and comprehended instantly. Every word felt like a punch to my heart. It's not as though I haven't heard Americans around the city before, but there was something that seized me last night with that group of businessman. I hung on to each word, soaking in the instinctive comprehension, wishing I had the kind of personality that would invade a group of unknowns purely on the context of mutual nationality. There was none of the usual strain that has become a different kind of second nature to me when I participate in French conversations. In that same bus ride I prided myself on understanding much of the French small talk floating around me. When strangers talk to me, I can comprehend and answer immediately. I can speak in full sentences and have meaningful conversations. But it's nothing like the ease we take for granted with our mother tongue. English isn't the prettiest language, but to me, on that bus, it was a golden light shining in dingy French public transportation.
Of course listening to English makes me think of America, my lovely homeland. Uprooting from Washington, D.C. to anywhere else in the world is a special kind of detachment. I lived a mile from the Pentagon and Arlington Cemetery; several times a week I ran around the Mall, the White House, the Capitol, across and around the Potomac. Red, white, and blue is caked on every surface, and I adored it. Before living in DC, I was a tepid American. After DC, I'm as zealous a patriot as any. Obviously distance clouds the negative, and I realize America isn't perfect, and there were days I wanted to curse out every single Metro driver in the DMV. But the shared experience of love of country is a powerful thing (as the last 2000+ years of human history can show us).
In the back of my mind, I've been wondering when the homesickness would hit me. Would it be a slow smoldering or a breaking dam? Would it be riding the tram all by myself, in the midst of friends, at dinner with Ben? I've been slightly terrified of my own calm. I'm a person prone to wild emotion, and my steadiness in the face of complete upheaval has been not a little unnerving.
But then it happened in the most obvious and least expected place. We were invited to go see American Sniper with some friends tonight. I wasn't too keen on going; I'm not a fan of going to the movies, and I would far rather spend the money on a pint of beer. But we'd been putting off going, so I conceded. I knew the story, I knew what happened. On it's own, I thought the movie was terrifically well made, lots of kudos to Bradley Cooper's biceps and that fake baby. I almost made it all the way through. But then the unknown torrent inside of me finally broke the banks as the movie showed footage of Chris Kyle's funeral. American flags, bugle calls, men in uniform. It was too much, and I quietly sobbed my way to the credits until the lights came on and exposed me to the yawning French audience. In that moment, the only place I could want to be was kissing the American soil in my parents' backyard. I wanted to hop the next plane, buy the biggest cup of Dunkin' available, and wrap my arms around the nearest monument while enrobed in red, white, and blue. I wanted to scream English words and be understood. I wanted to shake my fist and wax poetic about how much I love my country. I kept repeating America, America, AMERICA over and over in my mind like a kind soothing mantra. I managed to keep some measure of composure while walking out of the theater, but once outside I sobbed like a little kid. AMERICA.
191 days is how long it took for me to be homesick. Heartsick for my country of origin. I'm trying to come to terms with this new emotion, but at the moment, it still feels too raw in my chest. My heart feels tight, and the tears are threatening to drown me again. In my head, I know it's ok to feel homesick and also be happy where I am. I really have nothing to complain about in France. I mean, I literally have everything I've been dreaming of for the past four years. But in my heart, I am, as ever, an American.
For six months, I've been blissfully passing the time in this French adventure. Overcoming the obstacles of foreign-ness, adapting to a different culture and way of life, straining my brain to take on an entire new language. For six months, I've been asked over and over, "are you homesick? do you miss the US?" Every time, I smiled triumphantly and replied in the negative. My commitment to expatriatism is infallible, my resolve unbreakable. I've dusted the little hardships off my shoulders, and I've gotten right back up after every falter. Until tonight.
I should have seen this coming. Yesterday, on the bus home from babysitting the girls, a group of American businessman got on. I was sitting close enough to hear their quiet conversation. Every single dear English word pronounced casually and comprehended instantly. Every word felt like a punch to my heart. It's not as though I haven't heard Americans around the city before, but there was something that seized me last night with that group of businessman. I hung on to each word, soaking in the instinctive comprehension, wishing I had the kind of personality that would invade a group of unknowns purely on the context of mutual nationality. There was none of the usual strain that has become a different kind of second nature to me when I participate in French conversations. In that same bus ride I prided myself on understanding much of the French small talk floating around me. When strangers talk to me, I can comprehend and answer immediately. I can speak in full sentences and have meaningful conversations. But it's nothing like the ease we take for granted with our mother tongue. English isn't the prettiest language, but to me, on that bus, it was a golden light shining in dingy French public transportation.
Of course listening to English makes me think of America, my lovely homeland. Uprooting from Washington, D.C. to anywhere else in the world is a special kind of detachment. I lived a mile from the Pentagon and Arlington Cemetery; several times a week I ran around the Mall, the White House, the Capitol, across and around the Potomac. Red, white, and blue is caked on every surface, and I adored it. Before living in DC, I was a tepid American. After DC, I'm as zealous a patriot as any. Obviously distance clouds the negative, and I realize America isn't perfect, and there were days I wanted to curse out every single Metro driver in the DMV. But the shared experience of love of country is a powerful thing (as the last 2000+ years of human history can show us).
In the back of my mind, I've been wondering when the homesickness would hit me. Would it be a slow smoldering or a breaking dam? Would it be riding the tram all by myself, in the midst of friends, at dinner with Ben? I've been slightly terrified of my own calm. I'm a person prone to wild emotion, and my steadiness in the face of complete upheaval has been not a little unnerving.
But then it happened in the most obvious and least expected place. We were invited to go see American Sniper with some friends tonight. I wasn't too keen on going; I'm not a fan of going to the movies, and I would far rather spend the money on a pint of beer. But we'd been putting off going, so I conceded. I knew the story, I knew what happened. On it's own, I thought the movie was terrifically well made, lots of kudos to Bradley Cooper's biceps and that fake baby. I almost made it all the way through. But then the unknown torrent inside of me finally broke the banks as the movie showed footage of Chris Kyle's funeral. American flags, bugle calls, men in uniform. It was too much, and I quietly sobbed my way to the credits until the lights came on and exposed me to the yawning French audience. In that moment, the only place I could want to be was kissing the American soil in my parents' backyard. I wanted to hop the next plane, buy the biggest cup of Dunkin' available, and wrap my arms around the nearest monument while enrobed in red, white, and blue. I wanted to scream English words and be understood. I wanted to shake my fist and wax poetic about how much I love my country. I kept repeating America, America, AMERICA over and over in my mind like a kind soothing mantra. I managed to keep some measure of composure while walking out of the theater, but once outside I sobbed like a little kid. AMERICA.
191 days is how long it took for me to be homesick. Heartsick for my country of origin. I'm trying to come to terms with this new emotion, but at the moment, it still feels too raw in my chest. My heart feels tight, and the tears are threatening to drown me again. In my head, I know it's ok to feel homesick and also be happy where I am. I really have nothing to complain about in France. I mean, I literally have everything I've been dreaming of for the past four years. But in my heart, I am, as ever, an American.
 |
| 'MURICA |
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Rising above the suck
I really hate January. I've always disliked this time of year, but the majority of my scorn is directed at the specific month of January. Call it post-holiday depression, seasonal affective disorder (with which I fully believe I'm afflicted), or the crushing expectations of a new year, the month of January always makes me cringe. College really cemented my disregard for this month - saying goodbye again to long-distance boyfriends and family, break-ups, soul-crushingly awful weather in Boston. And even after college, January was generally the month I left Ben from my brief visits to France to return to the slightly less soul-crushing dimness of D.C.
January is the month when we all feel we must start anew. The culmination of the previous year's efforts are capped at December 31, 11:59 pm. You achieved so much last year! But here comes another one, get started, kid. I don't mean to sound so fatalistic, as every minute, day, year we have of life is precious, but this stupid month makes me wallow in the self-pitying morass of blarghhhhh.
Yet this January is very, very different for me. Suddenly, I don't have to say goodbye to boyfriend. I'm not dreading going back to school/work/monotonous routine. I get to stay in France - I even had my visa validated today (at LONG last). Still, this uneasy feeling of yuck remains as an icy coating to my soul. At the end of vacation, I told Ben how much I hate January. He gave me a stern pep talk, as he's wont to do. I always forget that men like to solve things, whereas women will give unending sympathy. But, as usual, his reaction was just what I needed. In essence, "Stop whining. This month will only be what you make of it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start accomplishing!" If I were still a little kid, I would have made a face and stuck out my tongue at him (there's no guarantee I didn't actually do that...). But since I'm an adult now, I'm doing the adult thing and heeding the good advice.
As the days of this grudgingly ok month progress, I'm realizing the source of the uniquely 2015 stress. Living abroad makes me feel like I. SUCK. AT. EVERYTHING. The combination of my historical feelings this time of year and the aforementioned suckage have produced quite the slippery slope to the Land of Sourpuss, but this year I'm jumping off the ride early. I refuse to be defeated this January. I'm not going to be biffles with this month, but I'll be cordial. There is something to be said for the efficacy of resolutions, though I don't prescribe much to the now-or-never, do-or-die mentality. It often seems to me that people forget that resolutions can be made at other times of year. But of course there's something about the cutoff and renewal that makes us re-evaluate our goals and ourselves. Here's another 365-day chance to make something of yourself, and please begin this daunting journey in the coldest, darkest, most miserable month of the year. Hah! Joke's on you! Challenge accepted!
I digress and return to my previous point. The theory of I Suck. As has been previously documented, I quit my entire life, sold a good portion of my belongs, and sunk all my hard-earned money into a tenuous life in a foreign country. All of the skills and qualities I possessed in America feel rarely used here. I'm no longer earning an enviable salary (at least for a 25-year-old with a music degree), I'm decidedly not independent, and I can't even walk out my front door without the fear that one of the natives is going make me feel like an idiot with all their native babble (otherwise known as French). While I feel extremely lucky to have found a job, and I would never deliberately demean those who do similarly, it feels as though I'm working under my ability as a babysitter. I have immense plans for next year, but those plans hinge on dusting off a skill I haven't used in a few years, and that's terrifying enough in and of itself. Top it off with a dash of self-diagnosed inferiority complex, and we have the perfect recipe for Emily Sucks at Everything soup. Yum.
Again, I confessed all this to Ben, and his reaction was unsurprisingly similar to his previous advice. Babysitting isn't my profession. But the kids I babysit are adorable, smart, and fun. The family is so kind, and my agency is super helpful. It's steady, declared, legal work. I have most of the day to myself before I start working. The kids are even old enough to help me with my French... though not until they've had a good giggle at my mistakes. This isn't my whole life, it's just a helpful boost up in the ladder I'm climbing towards a self-actualized Emily in France. My free days allow me to practice and blissfully exercise a part of my brain I've let atrophy a bit since college. I have time to run and go to the gym once I finally join.
So this year I'm not going let January ruin my happiness. 2014 was pretty good as far as accomplishments go, but I'm starting 2015 on an entirely new planet away from my 2014 comfort zone. Besides, any year I ring in by constructing a puzzle of my Aunt Ro's delicious Christmas cookies is destined to be a good year.
January is the month when we all feel we must start anew. The culmination of the previous year's efforts are capped at December 31, 11:59 pm. You achieved so much last year! But here comes another one, get started, kid. I don't mean to sound so fatalistic, as every minute, day, year we have of life is precious, but this stupid month makes me wallow in the self-pitying morass of blarghhhhh.
Yet this January is very, very different for me. Suddenly, I don't have to say goodbye to boyfriend. I'm not dreading going back to school/work/monotonous routine. I get to stay in France - I even had my visa validated today (at LONG last). Still, this uneasy feeling of yuck remains as an icy coating to my soul. At the end of vacation, I told Ben how much I hate January. He gave me a stern pep talk, as he's wont to do. I always forget that men like to solve things, whereas women will give unending sympathy. But, as usual, his reaction was just what I needed. In essence, "Stop whining. This month will only be what you make of it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start accomplishing!" If I were still a little kid, I would have made a face and stuck out my tongue at him (there's no guarantee I didn't actually do that...). But since I'm an adult now, I'm doing the adult thing and heeding the good advice.
As the days of this grudgingly ok month progress, I'm realizing the source of the uniquely 2015 stress. Living abroad makes me feel like I. SUCK. AT. EVERYTHING. The combination of my historical feelings this time of year and the aforementioned suckage have produced quite the slippery slope to the Land of Sourpuss, but this year I'm jumping off the ride early. I refuse to be defeated this January. I'm not going to be biffles with this month, but I'll be cordial. There is something to be said for the efficacy of resolutions, though I don't prescribe much to the now-or-never, do-or-die mentality. It often seems to me that people forget that resolutions can be made at other times of year. But of course there's something about the cutoff and renewal that makes us re-evaluate our goals and ourselves. Here's another 365-day chance to make something of yourself, and please begin this daunting journey in the coldest, darkest, most miserable month of the year. Hah! Joke's on you! Challenge accepted!
I digress and return to my previous point. The theory of I Suck. As has been previously documented, I quit my entire life, sold a good portion of my belongs, and sunk all my hard-earned money into a tenuous life in a foreign country. All of the skills and qualities I possessed in America feel rarely used here. I'm no longer earning an enviable salary (at least for a 25-year-old with a music degree), I'm decidedly not independent, and I can't even walk out my front door without the fear that one of the natives is going make me feel like an idiot with all their native babble (otherwise known as French). While I feel extremely lucky to have found a job, and I would never deliberately demean those who do similarly, it feels as though I'm working under my ability as a babysitter. I have immense plans for next year, but those plans hinge on dusting off a skill I haven't used in a few years, and that's terrifying enough in and of itself. Top it off with a dash of self-diagnosed inferiority complex, and we have the perfect recipe for Emily Sucks at Everything soup. Yum.
Again, I confessed all this to Ben, and his reaction was unsurprisingly similar to his previous advice. Babysitting isn't my profession. But the kids I babysit are adorable, smart, and fun. The family is so kind, and my agency is super helpful. It's steady, declared, legal work. I have most of the day to myself before I start working. The kids are even old enough to help me with my French... though not until they've had a good giggle at my mistakes. This isn't my whole life, it's just a helpful boost up in the ladder I'm climbing towards a self-actualized Emily in France. My free days allow me to practice and blissfully exercise a part of my brain I've let atrophy a bit since college. I have time to run and go to the gym once I finally join.
So this year I'm not going let January ruin my happiness. 2014 was pretty good as far as accomplishments go, but I'm starting 2015 on an entirely new planet away from my 2014 comfort zone. Besides, any year I ring in by constructing a puzzle of my Aunt Ro's delicious Christmas cookies is destined to be a good year.
Monday, December 29, 2014
This post is about peanut butter.
When we're children, there is little to no distinction between "wants" and "needs." Slowly, as we mature, the delineation appears, (not without a little help from our parents) and thus are born the skills of moderation, budgeting, and practicality. Crucial attributes to a healthy and productive adult life. I moderate my luxury spending so I have enough money to pay rent and bills. I don't drink too much because I know that a hangover feels awful. I know it isn't practical to go out to dinner every night because restaurants are expensive. The art of being an adult is essentially how confidently we can say "no" to temptation.
Then there are things that are neither wants nor needs, but exist somewhere in the middle. Like peanut butter. I don't need peanut butter to survive, but I don't break the bank to buy a jar. It's a nice-to-have. It's tasty, goes well with jelly and Nutella, and I make some mean PB and chocolate chip cookies. I always stocked my cupboards with at least one jar of peanut butter, and when I ran out, I would jog over to the grocery store and buy another one without a second thought. Delicious stuff, peanut butter, but not really up in the specialty, highly-desired category.
After living in Europe for four months, peanut butter has moved into the want/need bracket. Peanut butter is virtually non-existent in Europe. There are no peanut butter/chocolate candies, the grocery stores aren't stocked with five different brands and a million varieties of smooth and chunky. PB&J is literally a foreign concept. In the US, peanut butter was among my favorite foods, but now it's practically deified in my mind. That smooth, savory taste, melting in the mouth like nutty, salty gold. Just thinking about it makes me homesick.
I was allowed a brief respite from this desire in October when my aunt sent me a package of goodies, including a jar of peanut butter. But being the foolish youngster I was two months ago, I gobbled the whole thing up in maybe a week. Since then, I've passed by the "foreign food" aisle in the grocery store, and pouted at the 7€ minuscule jars of the good stuff. At the rate I dig through one jar, 7€ a pop would probably break the bank.
Then, a Christmas miracle. Or probably not a miracle given the rate I complain about missing American food. Both my parents and my brother and sister-in-law sent me packages containing peanut butter. Smooth from my parents, chunky from Sal and Courtney. My cupboard is once again stocked, and my wants have been met. I'm going to be very careful about rationing out how much I eat, as though it were fine gourmet chocolate imported from some fancy European country. In fact, fancy gourmet European chocolate is now easier to come by...
The absence of peanut butter is just a small example of how illuminating the expat experience is. It's hard to understand just how much you appreciate the little things until they lose their ubiquity. My wants and needs have gone through a bit of a makeover since August. For the past few years, it would have been nice (read: I wanted) to be able to speak French. Now, it's become a necessity. When I used to visit Ben, I would try to speak a little here and there, and everyone thought it was cute. Now, I need to be able to converse if I want to exist independently (I do). Our wants and needs elucidate a sense of equilibrium in our lives. Adjusting to a totally new set of desires and requisites is awkward, and it takes time to understand how we best exist in any given situation. But through that experience of adjustment comes a fresh understanding of self and strength, as well as a re-evaluation of where to expend energy. When it might have reduced me to tears before, I now have the ability to laugh off rude or impatient insular administrators. I know now not to waste energy getting upset in these annoying situations - energy that is better conserved for remembering how to say a correct verb tense.
Or at least when I have to deal with those petty paper-pushers, I have a morsel of peanut butter to look forward to at home.
Then there are things that are neither wants nor needs, but exist somewhere in the middle. Like peanut butter. I don't need peanut butter to survive, but I don't break the bank to buy a jar. It's a nice-to-have. It's tasty, goes well with jelly and Nutella, and I make some mean PB and chocolate chip cookies. I always stocked my cupboards with at least one jar of peanut butter, and when I ran out, I would jog over to the grocery store and buy another one without a second thought. Delicious stuff, peanut butter, but not really up in the specialty, highly-desired category.
After living in Europe for four months, peanut butter has moved into the want/need bracket. Peanut butter is virtually non-existent in Europe. There are no peanut butter/chocolate candies, the grocery stores aren't stocked with five different brands and a million varieties of smooth and chunky. PB&J is literally a foreign concept. In the US, peanut butter was among my favorite foods, but now it's practically deified in my mind. That smooth, savory taste, melting in the mouth like nutty, salty gold. Just thinking about it makes me homesick.
I was allowed a brief respite from this desire in October when my aunt sent me a package of goodies, including a jar of peanut butter. But being the foolish youngster I was two months ago, I gobbled the whole thing up in maybe a week. Since then, I've passed by the "foreign food" aisle in the grocery store, and pouted at the 7€ minuscule jars of the good stuff. At the rate I dig through one jar, 7€ a pop would probably break the bank.
Then, a Christmas miracle. Or probably not a miracle given the rate I complain about missing American food. Both my parents and my brother and sister-in-law sent me packages containing peanut butter. Smooth from my parents, chunky from Sal and Courtney. My cupboard is once again stocked, and my wants have been met. I'm going to be very careful about rationing out how much I eat, as though it were fine gourmet chocolate imported from some fancy European country. In fact, fancy gourmet European chocolate is now easier to come by...
 |
| Emily + anticipation + sharp knife... |
 |
| PEANUT BUTTER. Also, read salad dressing, which they don't have here either... |
Or at least when I have to deal with those petty paper-pushers, I have a morsel of peanut butter to look forward to at home.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Life, lights, TBD
I haven't been inspired to write for a few weeks. This really annoys me, but it also strangely comforts me. It annoys me because I actually enjoy writing this blog, and writers block is such a bitter staleness. I'm comforted though because I realize nothing too out of the ordinary has happened recently. That's to say, nothing absurd, frustrating, agonizing, depressing, or overtly français has occurred since I last wrote. Which means I haven't had cause for any minor or major panic attacks in French grocery stores. I count this as a small victory. But it's no great fodder for blog posts.
I have had collective inspiration not from recent events but from recent scenic memories. Specifically les Fêtes des Lumières and the magnificent fog that rolled over Lyon this past week. These two visual displays, combined with the nearing end of the year, have turned me rather (more) introspective.
Les Fêtes des Lumières is a festival of light exhibitions and shows all throughout the city of Lyon. It was originally intended as a festival of thanks for the Virgin Mary when the city was spared from the plague hundreds of years ago. The Lyonnais place little candles on their windowsills every December 8th in thanks, and the city of Lyon puts on a grand festival that attracts thousands of tourists from all over the world. The festival lasts four days, with the grandest displays on the 8th. After class on Monday the 8th, Ben and I went down to the ancient Cathédrale St. Jean for a rather epic show.
There is something about the glittering intimacy of holiday lights that sparks a childlike wonder in me. I remember every Christmastime when I was young, I would lay under the Christmas tree and stare up at the twinkling lights through the branches of our trusty fake pine. It smelled of moth balls, old, loved ornaments, and the peppermint of candy canes. Contraband tinsel always wound up stuck to my clothes and hair, and errant pine needles scattered around me on the rug my mom had just vacuumed. But I loved every first time I got to hide away under that tree in the dark living room, illuminated only by the string of lights my dad had carefully untwined hours before. It's a memory of such a happy childhood when nothing was uncertain, and I always felt safe and secure. Something of the twinkling holiday lights evokes that feeling again in me. It's a feeling that is rather harder to come by now, and I felt it once again in the crush of the crowd in front of the Cathédrale St. Jean. Safe and secure, childlike revelry illuminated only by dancing lights on an ancient cathedral.
Not every memory from this time of the year is a good one. I struggled with a lot of bullying when I was in middle school, and the very worst of it was when I was around 12. Right after Christmas, the dread of returning to torment at school started to set in, and that New Year's Eve was a miserable one. The total opposite of safety and security; rather a veil of despair, anxiety, and uncertainty. Not a fond memory, but a memory nonetheless of one of the first times I summoned the inner courage to go forth in the face of so much fragility and vulnerability. The pain of anxiety is manifested in many ways, and when I was 12, it manifest very physically in some very unpleasant anxiety attacks. With help from my patient parents, I was able to conquer those inner feelings of despair and cease the anxiety attacks. It came to a point that I told myself to stop, just stop. An anxiety attack doesn't improve any kind of uncertain situation, I told myself, it only adds to the hurt.
Some 13 years later, the uncertain introspection of the holiday season has returned. This year, thankfully, there's no bullying to deal with. But if anything, the future is more veiled than it has ever been. Bullies are terrifying to a 12-year-old; the near future is terrifying to a 25-year-old. This week, I had the chance to mull this over, appropriately, in the midst of a great fog on the hill of la Basilique de Fourvière. The entire city was shrouded in a thick, unforgiving sheet. I could hardly see past the Rhône on the far side of la presqu'île. While up there, I thought about the coming new year and the inevitable march of time. I realize that the older I get, the less sure I am of anything in my life. I'm less sure that I want to commit to anything, I'm less assured that I've made the right choices, and I'm certainly losing certainty on what I want to do with my life. At 17, I had my life planned out, step by step. Now, I feel lucky if I can get the next 6 months locked down. I see friends and acquaintances advancing with such certainty, and it makes me wonder if there's something wrong with me. Sometimes I feel as though everyone my age is in such a rush to get married, settle down, have kids, buy houses. With such a great fog over my future, it doesn't seem possible that I'll ever feel in the right place to do any of the above. Why is everyone in such a hurry anyway? At the top of the hill, I retreated in from the oppressive fog, and sat in peace inside the Basilique de Fourvière. Inside the quiet church, I sat still for 20 minutes and admired the ornate stained-glass windows and marble mosaic frescoes. No demand on my time, no need to commit or settle, just a silent appreciation for the present. When the fog surrounds me, I retreat into myself and meditate in the moment. If I can learn how to commit to myself, maybe someday I'll learn how to commit to the bigger things. Maybe that metaphorical fog will burn off with time, and maybe I'll learn to summon that inner courage to break through the uncertainty on my own. In the meantime, I'm happy to have ancient French churches in which to sit and ponder these mysteries of life.
Happy holidays, joyeuses fêtes to all. May your lives be filled with shimmering, glimmering lights.
I have had collective inspiration not from recent events but from recent scenic memories. Specifically les Fêtes des Lumières and the magnificent fog that rolled over Lyon this past week. These two visual displays, combined with the nearing end of the year, have turned me rather (more) introspective.
Les Fêtes des Lumières is a festival of light exhibitions and shows all throughout the city of Lyon. It was originally intended as a festival of thanks for the Virgin Mary when the city was spared from the plague hundreds of years ago. The Lyonnais place little candles on their windowsills every December 8th in thanks, and the city of Lyon puts on a grand festival that attracts thousands of tourists from all over the world. The festival lasts four days, with the grandest displays on the 8th. After class on Monday the 8th, Ben and I went down to the ancient Cathédrale St. Jean for a rather epic show.
There is something about the glittering intimacy of holiday lights that sparks a childlike wonder in me. I remember every Christmastime when I was young, I would lay under the Christmas tree and stare up at the twinkling lights through the branches of our trusty fake pine. It smelled of moth balls, old, loved ornaments, and the peppermint of candy canes. Contraband tinsel always wound up stuck to my clothes and hair, and errant pine needles scattered around me on the rug my mom had just vacuumed. But I loved every first time I got to hide away under that tree in the dark living room, illuminated only by the string of lights my dad had carefully untwined hours before. It's a memory of such a happy childhood when nothing was uncertain, and I always felt safe and secure. Something of the twinkling holiday lights evokes that feeling again in me. It's a feeling that is rather harder to come by now, and I felt it once again in the crush of the crowd in front of the Cathédrale St. Jean. Safe and secure, childlike revelry illuminated only by dancing lights on an ancient cathedral.
Not every memory from this time of the year is a good one. I struggled with a lot of bullying when I was in middle school, and the very worst of it was when I was around 12. Right after Christmas, the dread of returning to torment at school started to set in, and that New Year's Eve was a miserable one. The total opposite of safety and security; rather a veil of despair, anxiety, and uncertainty. Not a fond memory, but a memory nonetheless of one of the first times I summoned the inner courage to go forth in the face of so much fragility and vulnerability. The pain of anxiety is manifested in many ways, and when I was 12, it manifest very physically in some very unpleasant anxiety attacks. With help from my patient parents, I was able to conquer those inner feelings of despair and cease the anxiety attacks. It came to a point that I told myself to stop, just stop. An anxiety attack doesn't improve any kind of uncertain situation, I told myself, it only adds to the hurt.
Some 13 years later, the uncertain introspection of the holiday season has returned. This year, thankfully, there's no bullying to deal with. But if anything, the future is more veiled than it has ever been. Bullies are terrifying to a 12-year-old; the near future is terrifying to a 25-year-old. This week, I had the chance to mull this over, appropriately, in the midst of a great fog on the hill of la Basilique de Fourvière. The entire city was shrouded in a thick, unforgiving sheet. I could hardly see past the Rhône on the far side of la presqu'île. While up there, I thought about the coming new year and the inevitable march of time. I realize that the older I get, the less sure I am of anything in my life. I'm less sure that I want to commit to anything, I'm less assured that I've made the right choices, and I'm certainly losing certainty on what I want to do with my life. At 17, I had my life planned out, step by step. Now, I feel lucky if I can get the next 6 months locked down. I see friends and acquaintances advancing with such certainty, and it makes me wonder if there's something wrong with me. Sometimes I feel as though everyone my age is in such a rush to get married, settle down, have kids, buy houses. With such a great fog over my future, it doesn't seem possible that I'll ever feel in the right place to do any of the above. Why is everyone in such a hurry anyway? At the top of the hill, I retreated in from the oppressive fog, and sat in peace inside the Basilique de Fourvière. Inside the quiet church, I sat still for 20 minutes and admired the ornate stained-glass windows and marble mosaic frescoes. No demand on my time, no need to commit or settle, just a silent appreciation for the present. When the fog surrounds me, I retreat into myself and meditate in the moment. If I can learn how to commit to myself, maybe someday I'll learn how to commit to the bigger things. Maybe that metaphorical fog will burn off with time, and maybe I'll learn to summon that inner courage to break through the uncertainty on my own. In the meantime, I'm happy to have ancient French churches in which to sit and ponder these mysteries of life.
Happy holidays, joyeuses fêtes to all. May your lives be filled with shimmering, glimmering lights.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
International diplomacy
This weekend, Lyon is hosting the Fêtes des Lumières. As it sounds, this is a grand festival of lights that attracts thousands of tourists from all over the world. The city is lit up with colorful, fanciful exhibitions, and the streets and metros are packed with all manner of foreigners. Lyon has decked herself in glittering splendor to warmly welcome those from abroad. She is a colorful window into French hospitality and creativity.
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| Ferris wheel with animations |
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| Hanging cherry lights |
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| Bamboo lights |
Last night, Ben and I welcomed friends into our home for our crémaillère (housewarming party). Eight of our new friends braved the busy metros and bitter cold for a soirée in our new home. It felt like a bit of a microcosmic representation of the Fêtes des Lumières happening in the streets around us. We two Americans welcomed a small world into our home: Italy, China, Botswana, Taiwan, Mali, France, and one more American. Not only were we hosting this fête, but we became ambassadors of our culture to this small, diverse group. Just as the city of Lyon itself is a great ambassador of the French culture during this weekend of lights.
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| I made quiche for the first time! |
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| My adorable friends |
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| Full house, lots of wine. |
But what happens when ambassadorship fails? I believe this is a task we must all carry wherever we go, whether we like it or not. I'm not just a foreigner in a foreign land, but the way I comport myself is a representation of America itself. America can do all she likes to win the opinion of foreigners through media, but the longest links in the chain of ambassadorship are the citizens themselves. Unfortunately, as the saying goes, the chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
I recently had a perfectly dreadful experience with a French person. I've been living here long enough at this point to stop generalizing about French people, but my interaction with this person was incredibly detrimental to my opinion of the French. Overall, I'd like to claim that the French are very warm and kind, and can be very welcoming in their own way. It's not a culture that's as open as America, but when a French person decides to like you, he is indeed chaleureux.
My interaction was with a woman who works at BNP, where I went on Friday by myself to try to open a bank account. I don't know if it's because I'm a foreigner, a student, or because I'm young, but this woman was rude, condescending, impatient, and downright mean. Every two minutes, she took phone calls that lasted 10 minutes or more. No apologies for wasting my time after. When she finally got around to deigning to help me, she discovered (apparently for the first time) that the new rules in France state that Americans must fill out a W9 in order to procure a French bank account (a W9 consists of your name, address, and SSN. That's it.) She had to print out the form and give it to me to fill out, but she kept repeating, c'est compliqué, c'est compliqué, as though she were the one who had to read the English form and fill it out. Then she didn't understand that the W9 is what will serve as the justification for my SSN. She kept demanding I show her a separate justification. I tried to explain that the W9 is the justification and that I don't have any card or paper proving my SSN. At that point, she got really excited because it seemed as though she would get to deny me an account. But she called a colleague, and sure enough, he told her the W9 would suffice. Annoyed, she continued. She asked my why I needed a bank account in France. I told her I have a job here, and I'll be paid directly through my account. Unconvinced, she asked me if my parents would be using it to transfer money to me. I said no. She asked me again, as though I were lying. Again, I said no. Flustered, she asked me how I was paying for university. I told her I'm paying my own university fees. She looked at me like I had three heads. But she continued. When she typed the wrong university into her online form, I corrected her, and again she looked at me like she wanted to pluck out my eyeballs. Next, she got to a page that asked for justification of identity (whether or not I had filled out a W9). Since she still didn't understand, she thought it meant whether I had separate proof of my SSN. The only options on the online for were "yes" or "waiting for it." She muttered something about there being no option for "no," as in, "no, this stupid American didn't fork over her social security card, so I'd better call up the United Nations and report her for identity fraud." She called in a colleague again to complain. This time he came into her office, surveyed my completed W9, and asked her what the problem was. He had to explain to her that my W9 is the justification. So we moved on. Next, I needed to show proof of residence. I don't pay any of the bills for our apartment, but the lease is in both of our names. So I gave her a copy of our lease. Gleefully, she informed me that unless I have a gas or electric or some kind of bill, she would proceed no further. I told her none of the bills are in my name. She repeated herself as though in those two intervening seconds I had magically acquired a new bill in my name. She started mumbling something at me that I honestly just couldn't understand. So I said, I'm sorry, I don't understand. She mumbled it again. Frustrated, I asked her if we could please suspend the process. More indistinct mumbling (I'm pretty sure she was talking in Swahili at this point, I couldn't catch a single word). So I asked her if she had a paper that explained all of the forms one needs for opening an account. She actually laughed at me when she said no. I asked her if there was anything online that I could consult. She said if I wanted something online, I should just open an account online, as though I were the only idiot ever to come into a bank in person to open an account. Finally, when I was nearly in tears, I told her to quit the process. I was getting nowhere (she wasn't letting me get anywhere), so I didn't see the point in continuing to be humiliated. When she sensed my frustration, she actually said, I don't know how they do it in America, if you get your new credit cards right away, but here in France it takes time to make the cards. It wasn't a joke.
As I retreated from her office, I turned with as forced a smile as I could muster and said, "Merci quand même." She cackled and bared her teeth at me in triumph. On a very obvious level, this woman is a representative of BNP. I chose to bring my business to this bank, and this woman's terrible attitude has left me with a really awful impression of BNP. But on a much grander scale, this woman is a representation of her culture. She chose to belittle me and make me feel very uncomfortable. She doesn't understand that in that tiny bubble of a situation, she is the face of France. She contributes to my collections of experiences in this country. Sadly, negative impressions often hold a larger chunk of memory than positive.
6 months ago, I would have bemoaned this unfortunate little event as proof that the French hate me. It would have ruined my courage to try again and deeply fouled my opinion of the people here. Now, though, I just feel sorry for this woman. She's clearly deeply unhappy and felt it necessary to take it out on a foreigner. I tried my very best to speak French and act graciously. I gave her no ammunition to dislike me other than the fact that I was born a few thousand miles away.
We're all little ambassadors of our origins, and this woman failed miserably. But this reinforced a valuable lesson that's been percolating in my mind for years. When I worked at City Sports in DC, we had flocks of foreign tourists in the store all the time. I started to realize that every interaction with a foreigner was an act of diplomacy. I was a representative of the American culture. I truly appreciated those tourists who made a valiant effort to speak any English they knew, even if it was only hello or thank you. In the absence of English, a warm smile was just as welcome. Even if a foreign tourist was rude or oblivious, how I conducted myself would still be some portion of that person's opinion of America.
Lyon is doing a delightful job of welcoming foreigners and tourists into the city for the Fêtes des Lumières, just as I hope Ben and I hosted a welcoming crémaillère last night. One person's lousy behavior won't ruin this beautiful city and country for me, but it definitely wouldn't have hurt if she'd been kind or at least neutral.
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| A warm welcome in lights. |
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| Christmas markets! |
Friday, November 28, 2014
As American as tarte aux pommes.
Yesterday was the second Thanksgiving I've spent outside the US. When I was a junior in college, I studied abroad in London, where I lived in a student residence with friends from Boston University and other American universities. The week preceding Thanksgiving, my parents traveled to Europe, and I met them in Paris to pass the weekend there; they spent the rest of the week with me in London. That week, we music students presented a recital, and then we gathered on Thursday in one of our residence's kitchens to cook a grand and very traditional meal. It was about as American as Thanksgiving can be abroad. The Brits think Thanksgiving is just quaint, and they quite indulged us in our celebration.
In France, yesterday was Thursday.
Yesterday was the first Thanksgiving I've spent with Ben, but as it's just another work day here, we couldn't spend the day together. I don't have class on Thursdays, but I babysit in the afternoons. I tried to convey the importance of the day to the French kids, but they just laughed when I tried to teach them to draw hand turkeys. Earlier in the day, I stopped by the grocery store to hunt for pie ingredients. I was determined to fabricate at least a small essence of the holiday... because at least in the US, I make a mean pie. Ben was hoping for pumpkin pie, but I had a feeling the store wasn't going to stock puréed pumpkin. I was right, no surprise. So an apple pie it was. I thought it would be quick and easy to pick up flour, sugar, apples, a few spices. The French love their baked goods, so I anticipated a breezy search.
At this point, I need to stop and take a good long think about my life choices. How have I not accepted that the default is that everything here is way more difficult than it should be? My can-do American mentality just feels pathetic and naive lately. But in the thankful spirit of the day, I set forth into Casino, scribbled list in hand. The broken roller cart should have been my first clue that all would not be well.
I made my way to the baking aisle and found no puréed pumpkin. Not to worry. Move on to apple pie ingredients. Flour. White flour? Bread flour? Liquid flour? Seriously. I picked up the cheapest white flour, non liquid. Sugar. There was no sugar in the baking ingredients aisle. Slight panic setting in. How about shortening for the dough? No? They must not use shortening in France. Ok, let's backtrack and get some apples. I know the giant store has apples. Alors, spirits restored. Bon. Let's take a second pass at the baking ingredients aisle for sugar, I must have just missed it. No, still not there. Why. What. WHERE. Ok, calming down. Need a substitute for shortening. Applesauce could work. There's the applesauce, next to the confiture. Now the spices. Cannelle is cinnamon, got that. Nutmeg. I have no idea what the word for nutmeg is in French. Let's text Ben and see if he can google translate for me. Oh, look at that, no service in the store. FINE, we'll settle for ginger instead, even though this stupid recipe doesn't call for it. Deep breath, it's ok, no one will really miss the nutmeg. Ok, maybe take a quick dip down the other aisles for the sugar? No. No. No. NO. NO. WHERE IS THE SUGAR. WHY IS THERE NO SUGAR IN THIS STORE. MY THANKSGIVING IS GOING TO BE RUINED.
And there, in the midst of the baking ingredients aisle, I allowed myself a brief I'm-a-foreigner-and-everything-is-terrible meltdown. For five seconds, I let the tears well up, and my face grew hot with anxiety and heart-wrenching homesickness. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about spending the day in warm cozy house, surrounded by family and the scent of delicious cooking turkey and pies. It's a day reserved for comfortably surveying all the good and wonderful in one's life. And a day we give thanks for how greatly fortunate we are for all the love and friendship we have. It is not a day meant to be spent fighting off judgmental French leers of cigarette-stinking Frenchmen in French stores and French public transportation. But damned if I was going to let a depressing French grocery store ruin my beloved holiday. So I gave myself a mental kick in the pants, and headed in search of some eggs. And there, next to the eggs, was all the sugar.
Finding all the ingredients was only half the battle in the War of the Apple Pie. There are no pie tins in France, only tart pans. They also don't measure things in cups and ounces over here, sillies. So armed with my heavy new ceramic tart pan and my bizarrely marked metric measuring cup, I ventured forth into the final battle. I would yet win this war. When I finally put the beast in my ill-tempered oven (set to approximately, maybe around 425°F ish), I had an astounding moment of clarity: I'm getting really, really good at muddling through. In fact, en fait, in the past three months, I have become the master of muddling through. The instructions are never clear enough in a foreign language, but it just won't do to hide away all day with the curtains drawn. The point is to attempt. Living abroad is essentially a study in making a fool of oneself. You will make an apple pie not with the ingredients you desire, but with the ingredients that are available.
I've spent a good portion of my life subconsciously refusing to try new things due to a crippling fear of failure. I super don't like being either wrong or bad at something. So I just won't try it if it doesn't seem like it would suit me. In the context of living abroad, my true wants and desires are clarifying with an intensity I've never known otherwise. Literally everything is about 50% more difficult here just for the language barrier alone. So if I want it, then I must really want it. There's no point in expending energy doing something I'm not keen on when nearly everything takes double the energy it would normally in my home country. And those things I am keen on? Well, I muddle pretty damn well at this point. Take that, French-Apple-Pie-in-a-Tart-Pan.
In France, yesterday was Thursday.
Yesterday was the first Thanksgiving I've spent with Ben, but as it's just another work day here, we couldn't spend the day together. I don't have class on Thursdays, but I babysit in the afternoons. I tried to convey the importance of the day to the French kids, but they just laughed when I tried to teach them to draw hand turkeys. Earlier in the day, I stopped by the grocery store to hunt for pie ingredients. I was determined to fabricate at least a small essence of the holiday... because at least in the US, I make a mean pie. Ben was hoping for pumpkin pie, but I had a feeling the store wasn't going to stock puréed pumpkin. I was right, no surprise. So an apple pie it was. I thought it would be quick and easy to pick up flour, sugar, apples, a few spices. The French love their baked goods, so I anticipated a breezy search.
At this point, I need to stop and take a good long think about my life choices. How have I not accepted that the default is that everything here is way more difficult than it should be? My can-do American mentality just feels pathetic and naive lately. But in the thankful spirit of the day, I set forth into Casino, scribbled list in hand. The broken roller cart should have been my first clue that all would not be well.
I made my way to the baking aisle and found no puréed pumpkin. Not to worry. Move on to apple pie ingredients. Flour. White flour? Bread flour? Liquid flour? Seriously. I picked up the cheapest white flour, non liquid. Sugar. There was no sugar in the baking ingredients aisle. Slight panic setting in. How about shortening for the dough? No? They must not use shortening in France. Ok, let's backtrack and get some apples. I know the giant store has apples. Alors, spirits restored. Bon. Let's take a second pass at the baking ingredients aisle for sugar, I must have just missed it. No, still not there. Why. What. WHERE. Ok, calming down. Need a substitute for shortening. Applesauce could work. There's the applesauce, next to the confiture. Now the spices. Cannelle is cinnamon, got that. Nutmeg. I have no idea what the word for nutmeg is in French. Let's text Ben and see if he can google translate for me. Oh, look at that, no service in the store. FINE, we'll settle for ginger instead, even though this stupid recipe doesn't call for it. Deep breath, it's ok, no one will really miss the nutmeg. Ok, maybe take a quick dip down the other aisles for the sugar? No. No. No. NO. NO. WHERE IS THE SUGAR. WHY IS THERE NO SUGAR IN THIS STORE. MY THANKSGIVING IS GOING TO BE RUINED.
And there, in the midst of the baking ingredients aisle, I allowed myself a brief I'm-a-foreigner-and-everything-is-terrible meltdown. For five seconds, I let the tears well up, and my face grew hot with anxiety and heart-wrenching homesickness. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about spending the day in warm cozy house, surrounded by family and the scent of delicious cooking turkey and pies. It's a day reserved for comfortably surveying all the good and wonderful in one's life. And a day we give thanks for how greatly fortunate we are for all the love and friendship we have. It is not a day meant to be spent fighting off judgmental French leers of cigarette-stinking Frenchmen in French stores and French public transportation. But damned if I was going to let a depressing French grocery store ruin my beloved holiday. So I gave myself a mental kick in the pants, and headed in search of some eggs. And there, next to the eggs, was all the sugar.
Finding all the ingredients was only half the battle in the War of the Apple Pie. There are no pie tins in France, only tart pans. They also don't measure things in cups and ounces over here, sillies. So armed with my heavy new ceramic tart pan and my bizarrely marked metric measuring cup, I ventured forth into the final battle. I would yet win this war. When I finally put the beast in my ill-tempered oven (set to approximately, maybe around 425°F ish), I had an astounding moment of clarity: I'm getting really, really good at muddling through. In fact, en fait, in the past three months, I have become the master of muddling through. The instructions are never clear enough in a foreign language, but it just won't do to hide away all day with the curtains drawn. The point is to attempt. Living abroad is essentially a study in making a fool of oneself. You will make an apple pie not with the ingredients you desire, but with the ingredients that are available.
I've spent a good portion of my life subconsciously refusing to try new things due to a crippling fear of failure. I super don't like being either wrong or bad at something. So I just won't try it if it doesn't seem like it would suit me. In the context of living abroad, my true wants and desires are clarifying with an intensity I've never known otherwise. Literally everything is about 50% more difficult here just for the language barrier alone. So if I want it, then I must really want it. There's no point in expending energy doing something I'm not keen on when nearly everything takes double the energy it would normally in my home country. And those things I am keen on? Well, I muddle pretty damn well at this point. Take that, French-Apple-Pie-in-a-Tart-Pan.
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| PIE. |
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