Once again it has been too long since I’ve written, and December 20th is coming soon; the day that will carry me back to Oregon. Knowing that there is an end makes everything so bittersweet.
So, I go home in a few days. I am trying to keep my head in France. It is beautiful here, cold and crisp most days. I hiked to the top of Mount St. Victoire on Sunday and even saw a bit of snow! I must keep my head where my body is. I still have plenty of things I need to study for; my architecture et urbanisme exam this afternoon, my grammer exam Thursday. But another part of me is so excited to go back to Oregon and family and friends! And, I never thought I’d say this, I am even looking forward to writing essays back at Linfield--- because they’ll be in English!
But enough about departing France, let me share a few things that I’ve been savoring the last couple days. Yesterday I made pizza with my language partner Guillaume. He is a really nice guy, he just finished school and started working as an aircraft controller. He has a car too, with which he drove me and some others to Les Calanques last weekend (a place on the ocean where there are little bays and the water is blue like at mini-golf courses—I must return with my swimsuit when the weather is warmer). I have been relishing what I live here. The toast and coffee I have every morning, the funny things my host mom does, the rare little smiles I get from my host brother, the look of total concentration I often get from my host-dad when I try and talk with him (he really has to focus to understand what I’m saying most of the time), the bus to school, the numerous pasteries and baguettes (I just found a magnificent bakery), the streets that really only work for pedestrians, and oh, the list could go on.
I was talking with a friend the other evening and I mentinoned how much I like goodbyes that aren’t real. I know I’ll come back here. I have to. There are way too many things that I haven’t yet explored. Like Paris. I haven’t been to Paris! I have to come back to France. There are way too many people I am just getting to know. Like the girls I had dinner with last night, I would love to spend many more evenings with them! So, when I say my pretend goodbyes this week, I know that really, I’ll see them again. Maybe not everyone, or all the places, but life is long and I’m only 21. It can only expand from here.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
A Tea Shop In September
It is difficult to be outgoing, but always worth it. For example, a few months ago I went into a tea shop with a friend. It was a lovely smelling place and they were playing enjoyable music. I was with a friend who had just arrived from the US, and we were both still quite young in our experience of the French language.
The server quickly realized (after we fumbled our words and our actions over the menu and his Marseille accent) we were not French and told us about a franco/english language exchange that was starting up in a few weeks. I didn’t really know what he was talking about, at the time. I went back the next week with other friends and he (Ben) told us again. I became more interested and the next week I went back to find out what exactly this thing was. But Ben wasn’t working. I was almost ready to give up, but his coworker offered to call him. The coworker got his whereabouts and I thus proceeded to go on a search through town to find him. That used up most of my energy and courage. By the time I found him I didn’t really know what to say. But no worries, he gave me the phone number of the person organizing the event and said she was looking for people to help her organize.
Knowing I didn’t have a lot of anything else going on, I called Amanda and I offered my help. We met for coffee and I quickly realized I wanted to be friends with her. I was happy to be a part of something bigger than the little sphere of what I knew France to be at that point. It’s turned out to work wonderfully. We meet Tuesday nights at a popular bar. As a helper to the organizer, I tell everyone I know the language exchange and each week we make up all kinds of questions in equal amounts of English and French. The language of the question chosen determines the language of the discussion. There are about ten people who come regularly and another ten who come and go.
Because of that one escapade across town, my scope of aquaintences exponentially exploded. Amanda introduced me to many of her friends who I introduce to my friends who then become friends with their friends. I am slowly watching everyone around me become more close. If I could draw a diagram of the process, it would look like a bunch of triangles intersecting and overlapping in a big happy jumble (sometimes of course there are some uncomfortable collisions, but always in negligable amounts considerating the larger entanglement).
Because of that escapade at the beginning of September, I met another Ben, a Tibou, a Theo, an Erika, a Bo, a Molly…. and so many others, who are now friends with a Mindi, a Teresa, a Terrence, an Amy, a Kirsten and so many others…. and now it is the middle of November and I am not sure how it is that I have come to meet and get to know all of these people.
Like I said, It is difficult to be outgoing, but always worth it.
The server quickly realized (after we fumbled our words and our actions over the menu and his Marseille accent) we were not French and told us about a franco/english language exchange that was starting up in a few weeks. I didn’t really know what he was talking about, at the time. I went back the next week with other friends and he (Ben) told us again. I became more interested and the next week I went back to find out what exactly this thing was. But Ben wasn’t working. I was almost ready to give up, but his coworker offered to call him. The coworker got his whereabouts and I thus proceeded to go on a search through town to find him. That used up most of my energy and courage. By the time I found him I didn’t really know what to say. But no worries, he gave me the phone number of the person organizing the event and said she was looking for people to help her organize.
Knowing I didn’t have a lot of anything else going on, I called Amanda and I offered my help. We met for coffee and I quickly realized I wanted to be friends with her. I was happy to be a part of something bigger than the little sphere of what I knew France to be at that point. It’s turned out to work wonderfully. We meet Tuesday nights at a popular bar. As a helper to the organizer, I tell everyone I know the language exchange and each week we make up all kinds of questions in equal amounts of English and French. The language of the question chosen determines the language of the discussion. There are about ten people who come regularly and another ten who come and go.
Because of that one escapade across town, my scope of aquaintences exponentially exploded. Amanda introduced me to many of her friends who I introduce to my friends who then become friends with their friends. I am slowly watching everyone around me become more close. If I could draw a diagram of the process, it would look like a bunch of triangles intersecting and overlapping in a big happy jumble (sometimes of course there are some uncomfortable collisions, but always in negligable amounts considerating the larger entanglement).
Because of that escapade at the beginning of September, I met another Ben, a Tibou, a Theo, an Erika, a Bo, a Molly…. and so many others, who are now friends with a Mindi, a Teresa, a Terrence, an Amy, a Kirsten and so many others…. and now it is the middle of November and I am not sure how it is that I have come to meet and get to know all of these people.
Like I said, It is difficult to be outgoing, but always worth it.
On Seeing Things and Being An Artist
I might have found what it means for me to be an artist. It happened in the grand meadows of Edinburgh, Scotland. I was walking absurdly slow, ambling along, with my friend Mindi. It was vacation and we had absolutely and wonderfully nothing to do. She is an artist and I am an artist, so, naturally, we were talking about art.
In turn we asked each other how it is that we go about making art; whether we have the idea first or the object first. We talked about my fear of decorative art and her aspirations to work as a curator. We considered how tightly our lives are wrapped around our identity as artists.
We sat for awhile, got cold, walked a little more, and took a cherry-tree lined path. There, littered on the ground, were the most magnificent leaves. I couldn’t stop cooing over how beautiful they were; the red that looked so red until you picked it up and realized it was pink; the intensity of the yellow that happened when the sun shined through at that perfect angle; the crisp shadows cast by the afternoon light.
In that moment I realized being an artist has trained me to see things. It allows me and encourages me to be over-interested in the scope of my eyes. Being an artist justifies my childlike tendencies to find complete rapture and delight with the textures and shapes and reflections and shadows of things.
The other part of who I am as an artist is an over-excitement to make known what I discover. I realize these discoveries may not be grand and new, but I still insist that one take notice. Have you seen the way that one leaf tumbles when people walk by? Did you notice the faint shadow under that leaf when the sky was overcast? Did you realize how long it will be before you will see a green leaf on a tree again?
Walking slowly in that colorful park I found that the time it takes to really discover an amazing and intricate object, is also the time it takes to become intoxicated with the present moment. I cannot yet say exactly why this discovery is so important, but I do know that there is greatness in small things, complexity in simple things, and that leaves in autumn can somehow create epiphany-like sentiments. My identity as an artist thrives when my eyes are open.
In turn we asked each other how it is that we go about making art; whether we have the idea first or the object first. We talked about my fear of decorative art and her aspirations to work as a curator. We considered how tightly our lives are wrapped around our identity as artists.
We sat for awhile, got cold, walked a little more, and took a cherry-tree lined path. There, littered on the ground, were the most magnificent leaves. I couldn’t stop cooing over how beautiful they were; the red that looked so red until you picked it up and realized it was pink; the intensity of the yellow that happened when the sun shined through at that perfect angle; the crisp shadows cast by the afternoon light.
In that moment I realized being an artist has trained me to see things. It allows me and encourages me to be over-interested in the scope of my eyes. Being an artist justifies my childlike tendencies to find complete rapture and delight with the textures and shapes and reflections and shadows of things.
The other part of who I am as an artist is an over-excitement to make known what I discover. I realize these discoveries may not be grand and new, but I still insist that one take notice. Have you seen the way that one leaf tumbles when people walk by? Did you notice the faint shadow under that leaf when the sky was overcast? Did you realize how long it will be before you will see a green leaf on a tree again?
Walking slowly in that colorful park I found that the time it takes to really discover an amazing and intricate object, is also the time it takes to become intoxicated with the present moment. I cannot yet say exactly why this discovery is so important, but I do know that there is greatness in small things, complexity in simple things, and that leaves in autumn can somehow create epiphany-like sentiments. My identity as an artist thrives when my eyes are open.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
What I’ve Found at the Market (and Other Places Too)
It is hard to resist buying cheese at the market. Especially when the patron gives you a sample. This was my situation recently. I really didn’t have much money-- just five euros. But after a moment of reflection I decided there wasn’t much of a better way to spend it than on a lovely old hunch of hard cheese. The man cut and weighed a piece for me (yay!), but it was 6.40 (shoot!). I insisted I only had five, but he gave me the hunk anyway! I love the market. I love the cheese and the eggs and the vegetables and fruit and the people who live by growing food.
Scavenger-ing is also one of my favorite things about the market. It is a lovely phenomenon that happens at one o’clock everyday as the merchants are packing up their goods. All the things at are no longer sellable (apples with little bruises, slightly squished tomatoes, melons that are perfectly ripe today, but won’t be tomorrow) are left on the ground in the plaza. There are stacks of fruit crates and tumbled produce littered under the sycamore trees. I have made it a point to make my way down there every couple days to profit from the abundance. It is always fun to figure out how to use what you find. The other day we got a bunch of eggplants and some fabulous pears. The whole adventure has a robin-hood, gypsy, hippie feeling to it that I adore.
Another story from the market: I enjoy using euros are because they are often in coin form, and that is foreign and fun for me. The downside is that they are easily spilled from wallets. I had just bought some beautiful apples from a singing apple farmer and was dropping my change into my wallet when it slipped (because my hands were so full of goodies). The contents of my over-full change pocket spilled all over the ground in a 5-foot radius around me. Laughing at the ridiculous-ness of the situation I began to pick them up. Before I knew it, the people around me started helping me. I hardly had a chance to stand back up when at least four people deposited the coins they’d collected into my hands. I was filled with joy at their kindness and walked with a bounce in my step all the way back to school.
And the niceness does not end with the market. I have had numerous other experiences of unfounded mercy. Like the time I only had 2.50 when the bus was 3.40 and the driver let me ride anyway. Or, when I took the wrong train and went to Marseille instead of Avignon and after explaining my situation to the conductor he wrote some undecipherable note on my ticket and told me to take the next train to Avignon.
There is a rumor that circulates the US and parts of Europe that says French people are not nice. My experience speaks otherwise. And I haven’t even mentioned yet that I have a host family who has generously welcomed me into their home, and that I have language partners who are becoming good friends. So, to counter all stereotypes that would tell something else, I would to make a grand note here, that I am continually amazed at the kindness of French people.
Scavenger-ing is also one of my favorite things about the market. It is a lovely phenomenon that happens at one o’clock everyday as the merchants are packing up their goods. All the things at are no longer sellable (apples with little bruises, slightly squished tomatoes, melons that are perfectly ripe today, but won’t be tomorrow) are left on the ground in the plaza. There are stacks of fruit crates and tumbled produce littered under the sycamore trees. I have made it a point to make my way down there every couple days to profit from the abundance. It is always fun to figure out how to use what you find. The other day we got a bunch of eggplants and some fabulous pears. The whole adventure has a robin-hood, gypsy, hippie feeling to it that I adore.
Another story from the market: I enjoy using euros are because they are often in coin form, and that is foreign and fun for me. The downside is that they are easily spilled from wallets. I had just bought some beautiful apples from a singing apple farmer and was dropping my change into my wallet when it slipped (because my hands were so full of goodies). The contents of my over-full change pocket spilled all over the ground in a 5-foot radius around me. Laughing at the ridiculous-ness of the situation I began to pick them up. Before I knew it, the people around me started helping me. I hardly had a chance to stand back up when at least four people deposited the coins they’d collected into my hands. I was filled with joy at their kindness and walked with a bounce in my step all the way back to school.
And the niceness does not end with the market. I have had numerous other experiences of unfounded mercy. Like the time I only had 2.50 when the bus was 3.40 and the driver let me ride anyway. Or, when I took the wrong train and went to Marseille instead of Avignon and after explaining my situation to the conductor he wrote some undecipherable note on my ticket and told me to take the next train to Avignon.
There is a rumor that circulates the US and parts of Europe that says French people are not nice. My experience speaks otherwise. And I haven’t even mentioned yet that I have a host family who has generously welcomed me into their home, and that I have language partners who are becoming good friends. So, to counter all stereotypes that would tell something else, I would to make a grand note here, that I am continually amazed at the kindness of French people.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Days of October are Slipping Like Sand
mont st. victoire
I went hiking today.
Before the hike, I was getting a bit of what might be called ‘cabin fever’ if I were a sailor, or ‘cooped up’ if I were a chicken. I found myself complaining a bit more than necessary. They were all legitimate complaints, I will assure you. They are still important concerns, but it was time for them to move on. Fresh air and sunshine has a way of setting things back in place. After the adventure, my friend Amy came over (a friend from school who lives nearby—we often walk home from the bus together and do a lot of laughing about nothing. I’ve met quite a few really wonderful people through the program here). We went swimming and then did our homework in our bathing suits. How often does that happen in October? I may be getting a bit spoiled.
My french is not leaping to great heights, but I do feel the triumph of a correct sentence more frequently these days. Amy and I decided the other day that we’ve reached the adolescent stage in our grasp of the language—still self-concious and awkward, but hopeful. I hear it’s a stage everyone goes through.
I have a funny story to tell. I am not very good at telling stories though. They usually end up long and full of detail without ever really having a punchline. I am going to try though.
A couple weeks ago I joined a frisbee team. We practice Thursday nights and I don’t usually get home until about ten thirty. Sometimes I eat with my host family, but usually they leave some dinner for me in the oven because it is so late. One night my host parents were going out, so they didn’t make dinner. My host brother (Gwion, 15) made dinner for me instead. It was amazing. I was amazed. But not in the way you might think. His mom recently explained to me that when he cooks he often experiments with ingredients. That explains why I was amazed when he pulled his creation out of the oven. For dinner that night Gwion had prepared pizza and an omelette. This was no ordinary omelette though. First there was a layer of some kind of meat (somewhat similar to bacon). Then egg, of course, then pasta. Yes, pasta. I had a pasta omelette for dinner—a curly pasta omelette with cheese on top. It was great. I was hungry. I ate with gusto. Tonight he cooked again. We had sunflower shaped pasta with creamy corn sauce. Also delicious. The end.
It’s been one month and seven days since I arrived. October is slipping by, but not in a bad way—the more it slips, the closer vacation comes. Soon I will be on a train to
.
hiking buddies (left to right, me, Amy, Terrence-- we look like we're crouched for an attack or something, but really we had put the camera on the ground and were all trying to fit into the picture)
an intriguing paint splattered alleyway
there will soon be more photos on facebook :)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Baguettes and Peaches; some thoughts after two weeks in a new place
It’s been two weeks now, since I flew into France. It seems longer though, as it always does when the days are full and the setting is new. Aix-en-Provence is quite pretty. The city center looks like everything one would expect a town in southern France to look like; red tile roofs, narrow streets lined with cream colored buildings, cobblestone, foutains and plazas filled with markets and cafes.
I have the good fortune though, to be living in the countryside. My house is about a twenty minute bus ride from to the center. Everyday I get off the bus, walk another five minutes and arrive home as the evening is beginning to take hold.
Mornings though, are my favorite. Classes don’t start until late, so I never have to use an alarm. I peacefully wake up around 8:00, and take my time in fully getting out of bed and turning on my daytime brain. I like them because they are predictable (one of the only predictable things that I have in this new place). I know that after I climb down the ladder of my loft, continue down two flights of stairs, and enter the kitchen, I will be able to make toast and coffee. There is always fig jam and honey. On my first day here, my host mother, Marie Noelle, showed me the toaster and how to use the coffee maker. I have been enjoying my daily French breakfast ever since.
I like mornings also though, because they let me start over. I am washed of the fatigue of the previous day and have only hope for the new day left. I have only hope that my french will be better and the assurance that I am one day further in understanding what this country is all about.
I realized a few days ago, that my windowsill is just wide enough to sit on. That has become a part of my morning and nightly ritual also. One of the most refreshing things is to lean out over the roof and breathe in the morning or evening or rain or sunshine. There is a slow-flowing creek near the house which feeds tall cottonwoods. The birds or crickets are always singing from their branches.
But all this beauty comes with a few frustrations as well. I honestly cannot convey what I want to say most of the time. It is not only French vocabulary that prevents me, it is also what is behind the words. There is so much that I do not know. There are so many things about which I am mistaken, and am unaware of my mistake. There is so much I don’t know that I don’t know. It is huge, this task of learning to communicate all over again. I am like a baby spitting out words that no one can really understand. The other students at the school I attend are quite the comfort and so nice to be around. We are all in the same boat, all 29 of us Americans. We speak French with each other and take the time to try and understand what it is that the other means to say.
My language partner, Anais, is also good at being patient with me. Last week I spent a lot of time with her. She is quite an interesting person, and I can’t do her justice trying to describe her in writing. It will have to suffice to say that I think we will be good friends.
Besides all of that, my life is made of baguettes and peaches, interesting classes (most of the time) with nice professors, a new-to-me bicycle, and a bit of frisbee. All in all, I have to say, it is not easy to be here, but I think it is nonetheless quite good.
my window and desk and closet and loft
and some cheese at the market
I have the good fortune though, to be living in the countryside. My house is about a twenty minute bus ride from to the center. Everyday I get off the bus, walk another five minutes and arrive home as the evening is beginning to take hold.
Mornings though, are my favorite. Classes don’t start until late, so I never have to use an alarm. I peacefully wake up around 8:00, and take my time in fully getting out of bed and turning on my daytime brain. I like them because they are predictable (one of the only predictable things that I have in this new place). I know that after I climb down the ladder of my loft, continue down two flights of stairs, and enter the kitchen, I will be able to make toast and coffee. There is always fig jam and honey. On my first day here, my host mother, Marie Noelle, showed me the toaster and how to use the coffee maker. I have been enjoying my daily French breakfast ever since.
I like mornings also though, because they let me start over. I am washed of the fatigue of the previous day and have only hope for the new day left. I have only hope that my french will be better and the assurance that I am one day further in understanding what this country is all about.
I realized a few days ago, that my windowsill is just wide enough to sit on. That has become a part of my morning and nightly ritual also. One of the most refreshing things is to lean out over the roof and breathe in the morning or evening or rain or sunshine. There is a slow-flowing creek near the house which feeds tall cottonwoods. The birds or crickets are always singing from their branches.
But all this beauty comes with a few frustrations as well. I honestly cannot convey what I want to say most of the time. It is not only French vocabulary that prevents me, it is also what is behind the words. There is so much that I do not know. There are so many things about which I am mistaken, and am unaware of my mistake. There is so much I don’t know that I don’t know. It is huge, this task of learning to communicate all over again. I am like a baby spitting out words that no one can really understand. The other students at the school I attend are quite the comfort and so nice to be around. We are all in the same boat, all 29 of us Americans. We speak French with each other and take the time to try and understand what it is that the other means to say.
My language partner, Anais, is also good at being patient with me. Last week I spent a lot of time with her. She is quite an interesting person, and I can’t do her justice trying to describe her in writing. It will have to suffice to say that I think we will be good friends.
Besides all of that, my life is made of baguettes and peaches, interesting classes (most of the time) with nice professors, a new-to-me bicycle, and a bit of frisbee. All in all, I have to say, it is not easy to be here, but I think it is nonetheless quite good.
my window and desk and closet and loft
and some cheese at the marketSaturday, September 5, 2009
I Am Very Glad They Let Me Go To Scotland
Denmark was a beautiful place. One of those places I am glad that I have seen, but will probably never return to. I met quite a few very interesting people, and saw a few different ways of living. The 23th of August, I moved on. I couchsurfed for a night with a really cool Danish girl in Odense, Denmark. She was conveniently an artist and had a sweet downtown apartment. We had some great conversations, some terrible chinese food and some AMAZING ice cream, (that I was almost too full to enjoy). In the morning I journeyed the rest of the way to the airport and flew on over to Edinburgh, Scotland.
At the airport, things began smoothly. At immigrations I was the only one in the line for people with non-EU passports, so I skipped right to the front. The woman began with normal questions; where, why and how. I told about my plans to work on an organic farm and how the WWOOFing program works. That was a mistake. Little did I know, any sort of volunteer activity in the UK needs loads of paperwork and special visa information. This is where things got scary. I got detained in the waiting area and later, was led to a questioning room. Fortunately, the immigrations officer turned out to be a really nice woman. The interview ended up being about an hour and a half and they let me into the country under the condition that I promise to forget all of my WWOOF plans and stay solely as a tourist in Edinburgh. I quickly agreed, happy that they had mercy and did not send me home.
So, there I was, at the airport, with a complete switch of plans, and no place to sleep. I had been warned that there wouldn't be much space in the hostels, because of the huge festival happening in Edinburgh. But, I couldn't worry and proceeded to call hostels. The cheapest hostel on the list had one bed. WOOHOO! I couldn't have been happier and hopped on the bus to town. The hostel was only a short walk from the bus. Later on that evening, I noticed a sign hanging from the front desk. "Planning on staying awhile? Why not ask about working for accomodation?" It said. I quickly signed up and it quickly became my new home.
The work was only 15 hours per week and I moved into the staff room (on the top floor-- 5 long flights of stairs). What a deal it was! I not only got a free bed, but I also met and lived with a bunch of wonderful people! And, to make it even better, I was in the center of an absolutely gorgeous city, full of chimney-pots and small alleyways. I think I will call it the city of epiphanies. I learned some things there that would not have been possible without that certain mix of people and those antiquated buildings and that spitting rain and those few rays of sushine and those cold nights.
It was the first place that I was genuinely regretful in leaving. Not that I plan to return, but that there was still more. Still more to develop. I truly felt comfortable there. There was such a variety of people that I felt I could add my own individuality and still find appreciation and love.
So I worked, and explored, and went out, and met people, and became more whole.
And then, yesterday, I turned in my key, walked down to the bus and went back to the airport; this time headed for France.
At the airport, things began smoothly. At immigrations I was the only one in the line for people with non-EU passports, so I skipped right to the front. The woman began with normal questions; where, why and how. I told about my plans to work on an organic farm and how the WWOOFing program works. That was a mistake. Little did I know, any sort of volunteer activity in the UK needs loads of paperwork and special visa information. This is where things got scary. I got detained in the waiting area and later, was led to a questioning room. Fortunately, the immigrations officer turned out to be a really nice woman. The interview ended up being about an hour and a half and they let me into the country under the condition that I promise to forget all of my WWOOF plans and stay solely as a tourist in Edinburgh. I quickly agreed, happy that they had mercy and did not send me home.
So, there I was, at the airport, with a complete switch of plans, and no place to sleep. I had been warned that there wouldn't be much space in the hostels, because of the huge festival happening in Edinburgh. But, I couldn't worry and proceeded to call hostels. The cheapest hostel on the list had one bed. WOOHOO! I couldn't have been happier and hopped on the bus to town. The hostel was only a short walk from the bus. Later on that evening, I noticed a sign hanging from the front desk. "Planning on staying awhile? Why not ask about working for accomodation?" It said. I quickly signed up and it quickly became my new home.
The work was only 15 hours per week and I moved into the staff room (on the top floor-- 5 long flights of stairs). What a deal it was! I not only got a free bed, but I also met and lived with a bunch of wonderful people! And, to make it even better, I was in the center of an absolutely gorgeous city, full of chimney-pots and small alleyways. I think I will call it the city of epiphanies. I learned some things there that would not have been possible without that certain mix of people and those antiquated buildings and that spitting rain and those few rays of sushine and those cold nights.
It was the first place that I was genuinely regretful in leaving. Not that I plan to return, but that there was still more. Still more to develop. I truly felt comfortable there. There was such a variety of people that I felt I could add my own individuality and still find appreciation and love.
So I worked, and explored, and went out, and met people, and became more whole.
And then, yesterday, I turned in my key, walked down to the bus and went back to the airport; this time headed for France.
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