Thanksgiving came early this year, eight hours to be exact

In honor of a particular request, this update will feature very few words and many pictures, but keep in mind that I am an English major and “very few words” is in the eye of the beholder.

Thanksgiving ranks pretty high on my list of favorite holidays, rivaling Christmas for first place, and this year I celebrated it with my host family. The festivities began Thanksgiving Eve when I placed a “traditional” Thanksgiving picture on the refrigerator which illustrated the fundamentals of the holiday. The drawing was followed by several trips to the grocery store, the discovery that I could make cornbread from polenta, 6 hours in the kitchen, and a feast featuring a roasted chicken we all pretended was a turkey. In honor of the holiday, one of my host sisters dressed as a pilgrim (according to my refrigerator drawing), and had the rest of us pin feathers to our hair. It may not be politically correct, but in the end, I’m sure the First Thanksgiving wasn’t politically correct either.

You can't see this from a tour bus

Tonight has proven rather eventful and perhaps somewhat revealing of the sort of French culture you can’t find on a post card. As such, it merits its own blog post, and besides, I thought it would be a nice break for y’all if I broke up the novel-length entries I’ve been throwing your way.

To start, my host dad revealed to me the secret of speaking the French language. I had been drinking tea for the caffeine boost as I worked on grad school essays, and my French had begun to suffer from all the English. At this point in the semester, my French has noticeably improved, or my comprehension at any rate. I have, however, begun to notice my ability to speak the language plummets after I have been thinking, reading, or writing in English. Because of this, I try to read mostly in French, and when I write, it is usually for class, and so is in French as well. As for thinking, well, I don’t. Ok, so I think a little, it’s just in Franglish. My routine, however, has been shaken recently by all my grad school applications, which unfortunately cannot be written in Franglish.

It’s no surprise that writing something as intense as grad school essays takes some ardent thinking, and even more so for me because I have the grammar, spelling, and phrasing of two different languages floating around my head. It takes serious concentration to keep the two straight. This is the context I found myself in tonight, and I had begun to notice my speaking skills rapidly deteriorating. For example, when explaining my philosophy of colors suitable for editing papers, I said “tu vois, le red est pire que le bleu parce qu’il est beaucoup plus harsh.” “Red” and “Harsh”, for the record, are NOT French, but I didn’t catch my mistake until much later.

I must have responded with one too many English words mingled in my French phrasing because my host dad looked at me and said, “Quand tu bois du thé, tu pense en anglais, mais quand tu bois du vin, tu pense en français! Ça c’est le secret de la langue française.” This translates to “when you drink tea, you think in English, but when you drink wine, you think in French! That’s the secret to the French language.” So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong.

If tonight were a play, my little conversation with my host dad, while amusing, was only Act I, scene i. As I type, one of my host sisters is having raw onions taped to her head. Yes, raw onions. I love all my host brothers and sisters, but Louise is up there on the favorites list. She is 14 and one of the most dramatic people I have ever met. Recently, she has been complaining of a mysterious malady that seems to have had a grave impact on all aspects of her life. The illness has migrated from her throat to her ears, and they are taking it rather poorly. As a result, Louise has been moaning about the house, ensuring everyone is aware of her pain.

This afternoon, I was working at the dining room table when I heard her yelping from the kitchen. She kept this up for a while, but because her mother was in there with her, I felt confident that it wasn’t life threatening. About 30 minutes later, I was coming out of my room and I saw Louise sitting at the computer with gauze strapped all around her head. Call me crazy, but I’ve never seen a malady short of brain surgery that merits such bandaging. I found it rather odd and maybe a bit drastic to have such bandaging for a simple cold, but thought little more of it. I merely looked at her, said “aww..la pauvre” and went down to dinner.

During dinner, I gathered that the gauze was keeping some kind of medicine in her ears, but it wasn’t until after dinner that the truth came out. As people began leaving the table, Louise pulled off the gauze and large-ish white things started falling out. Horrified and fearing something was seriously wrong with the poor girl, I demanded “qu’est ce que c’est?!?” It was then that the smell of raw onions slapped me in the face. Yes, the gauze had been holding raw onions to her ears, and it was time to change them out.

I listened as my host dad and Pauline, my other host sister, explained to me that the onions cleared up the lymph nodes. I'm skeptical of the remedy, but even if there is some truth to what they say, I’m not sure it’s worth having onions taped to your head.

La Vie Boheme

I come before you now in utmost humility and shame having been so neglectful of my blog. Things have picked up here, and I am suddenly inundated with work. If I could time travel, I would go back to the beginning of this summer and slap myself for thinking I could apply to grad school while abroad. However, to my knowledge, time travel still has a few kinks to be worked out before it is made accessible to the general public. And thus, I have little choice but to suffer through the end of the month.

It’s important to note that my neglect does not mean nothing has happened. Au contraire. But before I can move on to more recent events, I realize I left everyone hanging with my last post, and the party and its aftermath cannot under any circumstances be omitted. And so, Maestro, cue SNL’s Wayne’s World flash back music!

The following events took place Saturday, November 1 and Sunday, November 2. I use no proper names to protect the culpable (and because I can’t remember them):

The girls live within the walls of St. Laizier with a third roommate. I realize I mentioned an entirely different village in a previous post, but due to not entirely unforeseen events, there was a last minute housing change. I was originally supposed to live with the Boulanger, the local baker, but was switched to a house of full blown, authentic bohemians. I think I would have enjoyed spending ten days at the baker’s, but in the end the change worked to the advantage of my waist line. But let’s get back to the bohemians. One of the fundamental characteristics of a bohemian lifestyle is an eclectic home, and they didn’t disappoint. The house was everything I could ever want or expect from an artsy bohemian lifestyle. No surprises here, I loved the house, with two equally unsurprising exceptions: (1) a certain degree of uncleanliness is unfortunately mandatory for authentic bohemianism – one reason why the closest I will ever come to a bohemian lifestyle will always be imitation – and (2) the odd, distinctly familiar smell permeated the house. It’s the same smell you come home with after an indie-rock concert, or really, nearly any concert you go to with the exception of most Classical. It’s a mix of 40% cigarette smoke, 40% alcohol, and 20% weed. If you have never been exposed to this odor, take my word for it that unless accustomed to the smell, it’s rather unpleasant. It’s why you isolate dirty concert cloths from the rest of the laundry, and it gives you the compulsion to run home and shower as soon as possible.

I wasn’t given much time to accustom myself to the odor before we rushed out to the concert. The venue was down a twisting road leading halfway up a mountain. There were no neighbors for miles, which allows for complete freedom as far as noise is concerned. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the concert scene, and even then, I was with friends and in a country where the language posed no difficulties and my parents were always within 30 feet (another story for another day). The differences made for an interesting night, to say the least. I was ushered in, introduced to about 15 people all at once, and given a volunteer badge, which allotted for a meal of pasta and three drinks on the house. As we waited for the concert to begin, I made awkward small talk with several of the people I had just met. Small talk stinks in English, but it’s even worse in French. At least in English, you can pull from all kinds of subjects and there is the option of quickly moving past the smallness of small talk to a real conversation, but in French, I found myself restricted to what I could say and what I could understand. In short, it was a painful experience. Another painful experience, smoke in the eyes. In general, the majority of the French roll their cigarettes. It’s far less expensive, you get fewer chemicals, and from what I understand, it’s more bang for your buck. It also gives fidgety chain smokers something to occupy themselves with: you finish one cigarette, and then move on to rolling the next – it slows down the consumption rate, while meeting fidgeting needs.

Once the concert picked up, my bohemian friends got down to work ensuring the bar was tended, the musicians made it on stage relatively on time, and people paid to enter. This left me all alone in a huge crowd of French people of all ages drawn to the site by the promise of a smorgous board of techno music. Did I mention it was a techno concert? Four bands played, each representing a different stream of techno: chill techno, jazz techno, hardcore techno, DJ techno… I had no idea there was such variety. Yet despite the diversity, I can’t say I found the concert enjoyable. In fact, I spent most of the night pressed into a corner alternating my gaze between the lead guitarist who kept making a “get out of my way, I’m about to hurl” face, and the androgynous couple simultaneously making out and dancing in front of me.

After the second band, I came to the realization I couldn’t handle any more techno, and searched for one of my bohemian friends who had promised me a place to sleep. After I found him, he led me upstairs to a somewhat private room above the stage with two twin sized mattresses on the floor and a kid’s sleeping bag on one. He left me with the warning that someone might be sleeping on the other mattress later that night. Left to my own devices, I chose the mattress with the mold on it – it looked cleaner than the other one – and crawled in the sleeping bag. It was really cold and I was desperate, don’t judge. Besides, I soon realized I could lay in such a way that I was completely protected from the sleeping bag coming in contact with my skin. Surprisingly, I quickly fell asleep, dreaming of tecno-rave music all night, or at least until the drunk came in and passed out on the mattress next to mine, and began whimpering.

The next morning I woke up around 11:50 to the sound of shouting. Turns out, people were frolicking in the neighboring fields. Yet for all the frolicking, no one had thought to make coffee. Good thing I have plenty of experience in that department. Making coffee put me in the good graces of everyone who wandered into the kitchen. As for food, I found a plate of cut carrots, and after sniffing them, decided they were safe to eat. I’m not proud of myself; I only did what was necessary to survive. But I might have to get tested for hepatitis when I get back.

Soon after making coffee, I discovered my bohemians car, the car with my wallet, cell phone, and Chapstick in it, was missing. To all appearances, I was abandoned in one of the filthiest and most isolated places I’ve ever seen. Wonderful. There were several people still around, but none really seemed to care. I suspect their lack of concern was closely related to their blood-shot eyes. Fortunately, the guy who found me a place to sleep the night before was still around. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to care either. I eventually caught a ride with him to this bar where everyone hangs out and where we found my bag (in the unlocked car).

The apparent abandonment aside, I really do like these people. They are very nice, if not always the most helpful. We spent the rest of the day lounging around their bar and lying in the sun before going on a hike. At this point, I was feeling absolutely disgusting – I hadn’t showered, washed my face, changed my cloths, and worse of all, hadn’t brushed my teeth since the previous morning. When I mentioned my discomfort to one of my friends that evening, she looked at me puzzled saying “you haven’t showered? Everyone else has!” What??? Apparently everyone showered at the bar before I arrived. Somehow I was overlooked in this.

When we finally returned to their home, it was filled with their friends, all of whom jumped in the shower before I had the chance. When I finally got my chance, I regretted even more being last to shower. Judging by all the cigarette butts lining the rim of the tub, chain smoking continues even when taking a shower. But like I said, with the exception of the whole abandonment thing, the lack of sanitation, the chain smoking, and all my cloths smelling like smoke/weed, I really liked the bohemians…I just couldn’t handle living with them. I had been in communication with my program coordinator as soon as I was reunited with my cell phone, and we made the decision to switch homes.

I’m now living with Francoise, who drinks condensed milk because regular milk has no flavor, and who babies me as much as she babies her cat, which she thinks likes green beans, but in reality only eats around them to get to the crème freche she mixes them with. I’m much happier here - when I arrived, there was a cleaning lady and everything. There are only two drawbacks: First, I have begun to notice that she uses the same voice when speaking to me as she does with the cat. That, when combined with the number of times she has left me in the car while she does grown up things, has given me the impression she sees me more as her pet American than a human-being. Second, the cat, Cdo, is in the habit of joining us at the dining table. Seeing how much I like cats in the first place, this is a problem.

PS the view from my bed room is incredible. I’m attaching pictures. If God can be this creative on earth, I can’t wait to see heaven.

Bienvenu à Ariège: Saturday 25

I had every intention of taking time to catch everyone up to date, but so much has happened in the past few days that I unfortunately have to make a few cuts, or at least trim the edges of some adventures. I’m currently writing this entry from a small home tucked away in a valley, surrounded on all sides by the Pyrenées, and I would like to spend the next few entries on how I got here. That means I don’t have time to speak thoroughly on the group trip to the Pyrenées-Orientales that took place about two weeks ago. I am posting a link to pictures from the trip and I will give a brief summary, but I really want to move on to Ariège.

With that, here is my brief summary of the Pyrenées-Orientales (October 15-17):

We arrived by mini-bus and spent our first afternoon lounging on the Mediterranean beach with the mountains at our back. The Pyrenées-Orientales refer to the southwestern-most coast of France, where the Pyrenées meet the Mediterranean Sea and nestle up against the Spanish boarder. The purpose of the trip was to learn about Spanish immigration into France at the time of the Spanish Civil War - during General Franco’s violent rise to power in the 1930s, many Spanish refugees sought asylum in France. The Civil War served as a sort of training ground for Word War II, with the Germans providing Franco and his Fascist army with planes, and joined forces with Mussolini to provide military advice. The countries that would become the Allied Forces in WWII declared neutrality, and refused to involve themselves in the conflict, with the exception of permitting volunteers to enter the conflict against Franco’s take over. France, being among those to declare neutrality, was less than eager to allow Spanish refugees to cross the border into France. All the same, thousands of refugees crossed over the border, only to be greeted by unsanitary living conditions in camps established to provide some form of shelter against the harsh winter.

Part of our visit to this region included a hike across the border, taking the same trail the Spanish Refugees took nearly 80 years ago. I firmly believe that you can never fully comprehend history unless you actively participate in it. Two years ago, I studied the history of WWII in Normandy, and I will never see the war in the same way. The same can now be said for the Spanish Civil War. I will never think of the Spanish Civil War or its refugees in the same light (and yes, I do think of these things, I’m a history major after all).

Now moving on to more recent events…

On our day of arrival, everyone met up at the train station for festivities celebrating the beginning of a 10 day séjour in Ariège. Ariège is a region in France tucked away in the Pyrenées along the Spanish boarder, and as my host dad says, Ariège is France’s version of the tip of South America. In other words, it’s the end of the earth, or at least as far as most French are concerned.

Ariège is not particularly far from Toulouse, only a few hours by car, but those few hours make all the difference. As we entered the region, fields and fields of corn appeared and the mountains became all the more defined. On a clear day and from a high point, you can see the Pyrenées from Toulouse, they really are not that far away, but it’s not quite the same to be tucked away in a valley surrounded by them. All I can say is that if this is the end of the earth, it’s doesn’t deserve such a negative reputation, or not from what I can tell.

As I was saying, we arrived in Ariège Saturday mid-day, just in time for the market. The market is truly incredible, and I’ve seen my share of markets. Ariège is an agricultural community and their market reflects that. I’ve never seen carrots this size – it would be more suitable to consider them small trees, really. It was fortunate I had forgotten my wallet because if I had access to money, I would certainly have purchased the ingredients for several full blown meals, which wouldn’t have been much of a problem except that I had no certain access to a kitchen. I also made a very important discovery while at the market. As it turns out, people eat horse here. Yes, horse. National Velvet, Sea Biscuit, Wild Hearts Can’t be Broken horse. I haven’t had any…yet, but you had better believe my guard is up.

After the market, we were welcomed by the tourist office, which had prepared an aperitif and a full blown lunch consisting of, lamb stew, pate au gratin (that’s baked pasta with a cheesy toping), cheese, wine, a dessert of fruit, and coffee (comme d’habitude). Clearly, the meal was enormous, and showing no self control as usual, I ate entirely too much. Not surprisingly, during the meal the Americans isolated themselves, all of us huddling together at one end of the table. I happened to be on the edge, and served as the buffer between the francophone and Anglophone communities.

I tend to take seating arrangements seriously, and feel the need to converse with all my dining partners. I can’t help it, it’s how I was raised, but ultimately it’s good that I was on the buffer, because I had a lovely conversation with the vice-president of the tourist office. So his title didn’t seem that lame at the time, but in hindsight I think I may have misunderstood his official role. At any rate, we ended up talking about one of my favorite subjects: history. This, unfortunately, seemed to exclude the others even more from our conversation, but my dining companion seemed to really enjoy the subject. [For my non-history-phile readership, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing right now…so stop rolling your eyes at me, I know he was equally interested in conversing over all things past] And it helped that the subject revolved around French history. In fact, he liked the subject so much that the next thing I knew, I was committed to be on the local radio. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I had a date with stardom. All of Ariége was to hear my broken French discussing American perceptions of French history – and no, not the white flag of surrender version. I don’t condone that school of thought. Unfortunately, due to life’s surprises, my debut appearance was not meant to be, but I’ll get to that in due time.

After stuffing us full of heavy “French Mountain” food, the tourist office thought it would be a good idea to have us dance. Yes, dance. It’s a premature Christmas miracle that none of us revisited our meal. The tourist office had arranged for a group of musicians to play traditional music from the region and teach us a few moves. I’m not sure if it’s cool to admit this or not, but I actually really enjoyed the music, and I’m sure if I hadn’t been stuffed with food, I would have enjoyed the dancing as well. From the start of the first note, the ensemble had us spinning, clapping, and polkaing, and before we knew it, we were being filmed for local television. Apparently it’s not every day that a group of young Americans arrive in Ariège and begin dancing the Polka in the main square. It’s rare enough to make the news at any rate.

After our afternoon ball, we returned to the tourist office where we were served dessert wine with a regional specialty, pear tart. If there is one thing I’ve learned from my time in France, it’s that the French are full of regional specialties, many of which closely resemble the regional specialties of every other region in France. But despite similarities between regional cuisines, the food rarely disappoints, and the pear tart was just what I needed to drown out all nervousness at meeting a new host family. The aim of the village stay is total isolation. As such, my study abroad program has managed to choose the most remote region of France, and isolate each student in a different remote village. And with that in mind, each family arrived in turn to sweep another American off into the far corners of the French Pyrenées. My turn came soon enough with the arrival of two girls not much older than me.

The two girls volunteer with their third roommate with a local association that organizes weekly low-key concerts in a local bar as well as full blown monthly concerts at a local venue. Saturday night happened to be the night of the monthly concert and I was invited to attend. I was warned in advance that this would be an all night affair and that they would probably all sleep there. Having fair warning, I accepted the offer – after all, it’s not every day you get to go to a concert in the middle of nowhere France, right? Right.

On a serious note.

I have returned from the wilderness and I've brought with me a bounty of stories, but those will have to wait. I'll try to get the first in a series on the week out before this Friday, but no promises. Things are getting intense here with deadlines and classwork, but all the more reason to take blogging breaks. Right? Bon. That being said, I want to move on to something a bit more important. I'm rarely serious on this blog, but this entry is an exception. I feel passionate about this subject, and I'm using my blog as an outlet tonight. And so, you have now been forewarned.

I’ve been thinking about the election a lot recently, and really, who hasn’t? The French have certainly been all over the election coverage, even if I didn’t always agree with their biased portrayal of American Politics. Media aside, I do think it’s important to vote, even when your vote doesn’t count for much...like when you vote democrat in a red state (or vise-versa). But I don’t necessarily think it’s important because your vote actually means something individually, but because it is a right long fought for by those who in the past have been viewed as less than human. (And yes, I did vote in the election through absentee ballot)

But I’m not writing this to lecture everyone about voting. The real reason is because of what I’ve been reading on facebook. It’s one thing to have different political views, to show them, to debate over them. There is nothing wrong with that in my book, in fact I think it makes life a bit more interesting, but what I don’t understand is when people try to divide Christ along party lines. Don’t you think he’s more encompassing than that? I mean, if you can’t fit him into a box, what makes people think they can fit him into a political party? And what is more, I am seeing this dividing the body of Christ. Aren’t we broken and divided enough as it is? And are we not reproached for this in 1 Corinthians 3:1-5 where Paul writes:

Brothers, I could not address you as spiritual but as worldly – mere infants in Christ. I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it. Indeed, you are still not ready. You are still world. For since there is jealousy and quarreling among you, are you not worldly? Are you not acting like mere men? For when one says, “I follow Paul,” and another, “I follow Apollos,” are you not mere men?

And so what I want to know is why people think it’s ok to justify their own views on a broken, worldly political system by calling on the name of Christ, especially when so often it means calling their brothers and sisters in the faith “unchristian”? It makes me sick thinking about it. And no, I do not by any means support abortion, but I don’t support the death penalty or war either. In fact, I’m against all forms of murder. Each party certainly has its faults and both are far from ideal, and it’s important to remember that. Yes, Jesus said “do not commit murder,” but he also said “feed the poor,” and in my opinion, both parties fall far short of Christ’s standard. And so why are we dragging down the name of Christ and rubbing it in the mud by superimposing his name, his word, and his saving grace on our own political philosophies?

Derek Webb has this song where he sings:

who's your brother, who's your sister
you just walked passed him
i think you missed her
as we're all migrating to the place where our father lives
'cause we married in to a family of immigrants
(chorus)
my first allegiance is not to a flag, a country, or a man
my first allegiance is not to democracy or blood
it's to a king & a kingdom

(vs. 2)
there are two great lies that i’ve heard:
“the day you eat of the fruit of that tree, you will not surely die”
and that Jesus Christ was a white, middle-class republican
and if you wanna be saved you have to learn to be like Him

And yes, he does single out the Republican Party in the song, but I think the same can be said for the Democrats as well (only one seldom does). The point is that we are called to live lives set apart, but so often we allow politics, and many other things too, divide the body of Christ, feeding the fire of cynicism against Christ and what it means to be a Christian.

No one is worthy to be called ambassadors of Christ, I certainly am not, but as Christians, that is what we are, and I for one think it’s time we stop letting divisions as silly as the politics of a broken world interfere in the way God is moving through his body.

A final note before I temporarily cut ties with civilization as I know it

To be honest, I don’t really know where to begin this entry. It’s been a while – my most sincere apologies, it’s exam week – and a lot has happened since my last post, too much to include everything here. All the same, I want to give an update, but fear falling into a repetitive “week in review” format for my posts. Nothing quite compares to the banality of a routine. All the same, I have much to say and very little time to say it in. Tomorrow I leave at 9:00 am for a 10 day séjour in Eycheil, a small village in the Ariége region. I haven’t been promised internet access while there, and fearing my readership will begin to wane if rest inactive too long, I hope to give a few parting words to tide everyone over. And so without further ado, I present to you my not-quite week in review, but update none the less.

First, as some of you may know, I’ve made some drastic changes in my life. Since I’m going through so much personal growth while here, I decided now was the time to cut a few things out of my life. Well, namely one thing. Just over a week ago, I cut nearly 9 inches off my hair and dyed it red. I know you are not supposed to admit to dying your hair, but I think it’s a rather obvious change and I’m not ashamed. But the haircut is only half, or maybe even ¼, of the story. The real excitement was chez le coiffeur. After my hair was washed, it was vacuumed. Yes, vacuumed. I can’t say it was a particularly pleasant experience, and I wouldn’t recommend it – namely because I felt like a wet dog more than anything. After the vacuuming, the real show began. Once seated in the chair, the stylist went to work. My hair was flipped this way and that, she pulled sections straight up in the air only to snip a few strands before violently throwing them out of her way. She took what she wanted from each lock then flippantly tossed it aside, and when I thought no more hair could be cut, she pulled out the layering scissors. She hunkered down behind my chair and set to work. Hair was literarily flying feet above my head. If my friend Millan hadn’t been there, I might have panicked, but her steadfast nerves and reassuring glances gave me strength to continue at the merciless hands of the stylist. When it was all said and done, I was relieved to find I did in fact still have hair despite my doubts. I only wish she had channeled some of her energy into ensuring the cut was even. But despite my suspicions of an uneven cut, I like the change and think it’s rather nice, even if it does require a bit more attention. For example, gone are the mornings of “hmm…I really don’t feel like showering. Looks like I’m wearing my hair up today.”

Entirely unrelated to the haircut, I feel it’s time to return to a subject I touched on within my first few weeks here. I mentioned earlier the men in France tend to be much more aggressive than those in the States. They are more likely to whistle, catcall, and speak rather frankly with women they have only just met. The first two do not merit much attention, but the third always makes for a story, just like the one I’m about to recount. Sunday afternoon while waiting for the bus I was approached by an older man. In the most general of terms possible, there are three types of older men: (1) the “nothing out of the ordinary, I’m just a normal guy” older man, (2) the “I’m a dirty old man, but ultimately harmless” older man*, and (3) the “I’m just plain creepy” older man. My encounter was with the third. He approached me and said “Madame, vous êtes jolie.” He was standing very close and I found his statement a rather odd thing to say to someone half his age, in broad daylight, and on a Sunday afternoon. What do you say in response to that? Merci? That didn’t feel right to me, and I couldn’t ignore him, he was standing too close and was very insistent I acknowledge his statement. I opted for the “Euh…désolé monsieur, mais je crois que je comprends pas,” but quickly decided the “Actually, to be perfectly honest, I don’t speak a word of French and have absolutely no idea what you just said to me…” would ultimately be more effective. After only a few more awkward exchanges, he realized I wasn’t interested and was content to resign to the neighboring bench, rather tickled with the idea that I didn’t understand. For the most part, I find it very frustrating when people assume I don’t understand French, but there are occasions where I am happy to fall back on English as a defense mechanism.

*Note: the qualification for this category is that you have to be on the upper ends of “older.” You can’t be under 70 and qualify. It’s also necessary that they have an oddly charming, but keep your distance quality about them. Also, they pose no threat to women, mostly because there is little doubt that if there were a fight, they would lose.

Lastly, I want to bring up the subject of voting. I’m sure you have all heard that America is soon to elect a new president, and yes, I do plan to exercise my right and obligation as a citizen of the United States to vote. The process of obtaining an absentee ballot has been a long one, but not terribly complicated. Fill out this form, and that one too, print them off, sign here, sign there, and initial on the X, seal this one in a different envelope from that one, mail it, and wait. I admittedly cut it close by sending my materials in when I did, and there was a chance I wouldn’t receive my ballot in time, but Christmas came early this year: I came home Tuesday afternoon with my very own absentee ballot waiting for me on my desk. I quickly tore open the envelope, filled it out my ballot, marking X in all the right places, sealed it, signed the seal, and ran to put it in the mail. Done and done. Apparently not. Today I came home to find the very ballot I mailed three days ago sitting on my desk again. The post office seemed to have confused the return address with the sending address, but to be fair, they were rather oddly placed. To remedy the situation, I ran to the post office, had a brief discussion in broken French with the man behind the desk, and left my ballot once again in the hands of the French postal system. Let’s just hope this little delay won’t silence my say in American politics.

And so, with that I conclude this brief series of vignettes which bring us nearly up to date. I hope to get another post out before tomorrow morning, but it’s looking rather grim at the moment. I have yet to pack and get my life in order. Wish me bon courage in preparations and my time in the mountains – I might need it, my host dad just spent dinner listing the reasons why he considers Ariége the end of the world, and I’m only 95% sure he was joking.

Here are a few shots of the hair cut. They were taking right after I came out of the Coiffeur so the initial shock hasn't quite worn off yet.

Oh the memories...

I don't mean to exclude anyone, but this is really meant for a select few. You know who you are. And yes, I'm still holding a bit of a grudge.



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