4 weeks ago today I had the first of my impossibly sad goodbyes. We had breakfast that consisted of tartines, juice, and coffee. We (I) cried a lot. We walked to the train station. We went to the cow decor crepe place for dinner. We went to a kind of cruddy bar where the waitress told us how much she loves Americans in between telling us how sick she was. Anya had possibly the BEST Facebook chat in the history of, well, Facebook chat.
Fast forward 4 weeks to a glorious late spring morning. As I frequently do on nice days, I rode my bike to work. At one point as I was riding along, a pick up truck rode by me, and the passenger shouted out rather sarcastically "Nice ride" Now, I am not trying to offend all of my faithful pick up driving readers out there. But really, unless you are a farmer or a construction worker, what is the point of having a truck for your everyday drive around town in vehicle? They don't comfortably fit any passengers. They (the ones around here anyway) all seem to be loud, gas guzzlers with ridiculously large tires and offensive stickers or confederate flags flying from the back. Americans have not yet picked up on the fact that trucks are (again, this is a generalization!) not a practical vehicle. Europeans HAVE. So as I was insulted by these rednecks, I couldn't help but think about how different things are now compared to 4 weeks ago. In France, people on a bicycle would ridicule someone driving a big ol' Chevy. And today, I was ridiculed for riding my bike. Sigh.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
uninspired
I had a blog written a few days ago. Due to a souci avec the internet, I was unable to post it. Reading over it, I don't know think I am going to post it. I have little to say, and I guess what I wrote the other day seems over dramatic.
Here are some bits and pieces instead.
The first few months I was in France, I felt no real emotional attachment to it. Like most of the other assistants I knew, I could take it or leave it. Last fall, Anya and I often joked that we planned to be devastated to leave Bordeaux. Between the hassles of finding housing, jumping through all the hoops necessary to receive a carte de sejour, opening a bank account, getting a cell phone, starting a new job, on top of being in a new city in a foreign country, 5000 miles away from everything and everyone who was familiar to me, I wasn't sure if I honestly believed that I would be devastated to leave. Somewhere along the way, everything changed. Bordeaux became home. The unfamiliar became everyday. I was devastated to leave.
On the way home from the airport, we stopped to get dinner. While we were sitting at the restaurant, it REALLY hit me that I was no longer in France. We were seated next to a table of 7-8 ladies, probably in their 60s or so. Not a single scarf in the group or dog sleeping under the table. I could perfectly understand every word they said, both because of the fact they were speaking English as well as the loud volume in which they were conversing. The waiter was nice to us. There was nothing on the menu that made me think "wait, what is that?" There was ice in my water. It all became too much. I started crying. I more or less cried nonstop for the next several hours, until I went to sleep some time around 8 pm.
Here are some bits and pieces instead.
The first few months I was in France, I felt no real emotional attachment to it. Like most of the other assistants I knew, I could take it or leave it. Last fall, Anya and I often joked that we planned to be devastated to leave Bordeaux. Between the hassles of finding housing, jumping through all the hoops necessary to receive a carte de sejour, opening a bank account, getting a cell phone, starting a new job, on top of being in a new city in a foreign country, 5000 miles away from everything and everyone who was familiar to me, I wasn't sure if I honestly believed that I would be devastated to leave. Somewhere along the way, everything changed. Bordeaux became home. The unfamiliar became everyday. I was devastated to leave.
On the way home from the airport, we stopped to get dinner. While we were sitting at the restaurant, it REALLY hit me that I was no longer in France. We were seated next to a table of 7-8 ladies, probably in their 60s or so. Not a single scarf in the group or dog sleeping under the table. I could perfectly understand every word they said, both because of the fact they were speaking English as well as the loud volume in which they were conversing. The waiter was nice to us. There was nothing on the menu that made me think "wait, what is that?" There was ice in my water. It all became too much. I started crying. I more or less cried nonstop for the next several hours, until I went to sleep some time around 8 pm.
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