A few pictures from the past week

The first three pictures are of my host family's home/my room. The last two are a few shots from Paris: A park we walked through and L'Arc de Triomphe viewed from the Champs Elysees (that was a scary picture to take...just saying.)

When you don't speak the language, everything seems mysterious

I’m not sure how much more butter my stomach can take. This, of course, is saying something considering I grew up eating my father’s cooking. But I have found the French take their butter (and whole milk) to unprecedented extremes – more so than I had at first imagined. It’s either the butter or the hearty helping of whole milk in my morning bowl of coffee, but one of the two is causing my stomach to grumble a bit. Nothing serious, it’s just griping as if to say “Butter? Really? What am I supposed to do with all of this?” So clearly my body a bit out of practice with digesting large quantities of butter/whole milk, but I hope to soon overcome this.

My host family is fun to be around, or at the least, interesting. Sometimes I’m the clear outsider, the stranger living in the house who cannot communicate clearly. Other times it seems they are waiting for the opportunity to say something to me. For example, this morning I had a question about the bus system: I was invited to go to church with a friend, but I didn’t know how to get to her house. When I asked my host family, they all jumped to my aid. What began as a simple question soon turned into 4 or 5 people swarming two different maps, comparing and contrasting the different routes. Needless to say, I didn’t feel like much of an outsider then.

I’ve been with this family for three days now (two and a half, really), and there are several things I find perplexing. First, my host mother does not take dinner with the rest of the family. She sits at the table, but eats nothing. I can’t tell if it’s because she has already eaten or if she is skipping a meal. I cannot imagine spending so much time preparing a meal and not enjoying it with the rest of the family. That’s unheard of in my opinion. Second, I’m not sure when she cooks the meals. The children help, but when one considers how many people she is feeding for three meals a day, it’s remarkable how little time she spends in the kitchen. Come meal time, food seems to magically appear. Incredible. Third, thus far no pattern seems to have emerged as to meal organization. One day we will have three or four courses (so it’s important to pace yourself) but the next there will only be one or two. This poses a bit of a problem because if you are eating moderately in expectation of other courses to follow and none come, then you resign yourself to hunger. However, if you eat expecting no courses will follow and more come, you over eat and are labeled as the gluttonous American. Fourth, for the past two and a half days, there have been sawing and hammering noises coming from a shed in the back yard. I’m not sure what’s being built, but judging by the amount of work going into the project, it’s something big. I hope it’s an ark – judging by the looks of the sky, we might need it.

Bonjour Toulouse!

I had a bowl of coffee for breakfast this morning. Yes, a bowl – and no small bowl at that. While drinking my coffee, I listened to the family of 10 discuss the best way to show me around Toulouse (when I say discuss, I mean speak all at once). A velo was the decision, so my host mom took me around the city by bike. It seems much safer to ride bikes around town in France than in the States, but still not free from perilous situations. Danger aside, I’m rather pleased with my morning.

Living with a host family (famille d’accueil) is a bit strange, I have to admit. You are more than a guest, but not quite family, plus there is a well fortified language barrier in place. This is most apparent at meal times. I’ve had 3 meals with my family so far, and I can’t say I understood more than the general subject of the conversation each time. One on one is fine – I can focus in on what is being said and communicate what I want to say fairly easily, but only as long as I’m very attentive. But at meals, the conversation picks up, and before I know it all ten people are speaking over one another. The most difficult to understand are the brothers – they all have pretty low voices and they tend to mutter their words, making them all sound the same…as if that wasn’t already a problem with the French language. I’m afraid that if I don’t figure this language thing out soon, my head is going to explode. Needless to say, at meal times I’m doing one of two things: zoning out, or staring wide eyed at the family (they are very animated when they speak).

I arrived in Toulouse yesterday after a five hour train ride from Paris, where we had spent the past week. Paris was great, especially because it was a bit chilly. We spent the week in Paris for orientation and to acquaint ourselves with French culture and to accustom ourselves to the language. I have never heard so much French as I have this past week – mais, ça c’est mieux pour m’apprendre la langue, n’est pas? Or, at least I thought I was hearing a lot of French – that was until yesterday when my host family picked me up from the train station. Aside from my host mother and father (who’s a bit of a jokester), there are 8 children in the family plus another student from the French country side going to school in Toulouse. The oldest son lives with his wife and child on the other side of the country, but the rest are all here which makes one full house. The second oldest is a girl one year older than me, she is very nice and helps me out when it’s clear I don’t understand…usually by scolding the fast speakers in the family. After her are 3 boys (the ones I cannot understand): one my age and the others a few years younger. Then follow three girls: one finishing up high school, the other entering and the third in middle school. The boys tend to pick on their younger sisters (from what I can understand), especially the second to youngest. I think it’s because she gets worked up and dramatic when they do. Even if I can’t understand what’s going on most of the time, it’s fun to watch the family dynamic as they relate to one another.

Right now I’m being a bit rude and reclusive sitting in my room typing on my computer. Probably shouldn’t spend so much time here during the day, or I’d be in danger of becoming a bit of a hermit. Right now the boys are making something, not sure what though. There is a bunch of wood outside and I keep hearing an electric saw. I guess I’ll find out sooner or later what it is exactly. Until then, I think I’ll go sit downstairs and read a bit.

A tout a l’heure.

I'm leaving on a jet plane

All my bags are packed (finally), I’m ready to go… Tomorrow I will get on a flight to Ohio at 10:15, then one to New York, then one to Paris. One day, three flights, countless time zones.

I love traveling, but hate the traveling part. Planes tend to disagree with me, not because I get motion sickness or le mal de l’air (I’m practicing), but because of close quarters, dry air, and screaming babies. I also find it difficult to sleep on flights, long and short alike. It really is a bit awkward if you think about it. You are sitting in a cabin with countless strangers doing one of the most vulnerable things a person can do. Who’s to say that the person sitting next to you isn’t a complete weirdo?

For example, a couple of years ago I was flying back from Germany. Knowing my trouble sleeping on planes, I had planned ahead: I stayed up the entire night before the flight and took two benadryl an hour before I boarded the plane. By the time I got to my seat, I was zonked (which, of course, is the technical term for ‘out like a light’). When I woke up, we were halfway across the Atlantic and the teenage girl next to me was halfway finished with her drawing of a halfway dressed girl. Doubting my eyes, and suspecting the benedryl was having hallucinogenic side affects, I moved in for a closer look. After a careful and very inconspicuous inspection, my suspicions were confirmed - there was in fact a sharpie drawing of a scantily clad cartoon girl sitting in my neighbor’s lap. The girl herself was deep in conversation with the Frenchman next that would
keep her occupied for several hours more. With benedryl still on my mind, I turned toward the window and fell back asleep. Perhaps the girl next to me was not a complete weirdo, or a weirdo at all, but the drawing unquestionably deviated from usual airplane pastimes.

And so while I never learned the motivation, the inspiration, or the intended expression behind her drawing, I did learn that when you sleep on planes you are at the mercy of your fellow passengers. Words to live by, non?

Countdown to France: T minus 10 days

In the sixteenth century, England witnessed the dissolution of the monasteries, and in the 21st century – last night to be exact – the world witnessed the dissolution of my rear passenger window. There are those who would argue the two have so little in common that they do not merit mention in the same sentence, but both events, as far as I’m concerned, were monumental and worth careful study. Because everyone undoubtedly remembers the details of the dissolution of the monasteries from history class, I will spend my time relating the dissolution of my window, being the less widely known of the two.

Last night, the 12 of August, I went to my French class in Montrose as usual. I parked in the usual spot on the street, locked my car, and went into the building. Two hours later a classmate and I were walking back to our cars when I noticed several things had moved inside of mine. It is my experience that inanimate objects generally do not move on there own, which led me to observe the tiny beads of class strewn all over the car’s interior. Fortunately nothing was taken, but it is clear the culprit spent some time examining my things before abandoning the crime scene. It seems strange to me that a person would go though the trouble of breaking a back window just to climb to the front to take a gander at an old keychain, a garage door opener, and a pair of old sunglasses. Now that I have had some time to mull over these events and process the evidence, I have come up with several possible scenarios that could explain the strange actions of the window breaker.

(1) Realizing that it was in fact my car, the guilty party could not resist the opportunity to be close to things I’ve touched and were currently in my possession. After looking down both ends of the street, the person broke my back window, climbed in the car and held first my keychain, then the garage door opener, and finally my sunglasses – all of which were alluringly set on my center consol. Hearing someone approach, the person flung these items to the side and scrambled out of the car desperately trying to avoid the shame that would inevitably overwhelm him should he be caught. This scenario is nothing if not creepy, but its plausibility obligates me to list it here.

(2) I mentioned in my last post I moved out of the house in College Station. There are four boxes still in my car waiting to be placed in storage where they will remain indefinitely. Three of these boxes are in my trunk while the fourth is in the back seat and is filled with mostly cups and saucers. It is clearly labeled as such. The culprit may have invited one too many stuffed animals to his tea party, and realized he did not have nearly enough cups and saucers to accommodate them. Seeing my clearly labeled box and being in a desperate state (because his guests were arriving at any minute), he broke my window to get at the tea set. While struggling to get the rather large box out of the window, the soon-to-be host saw a modest collection of board games sitting on the floor. Realizing this would be a perfect addition to his tea party, he moved to take those as well. While in the process of gathering the games, he realized that stuffed animals’ lack of opposable thumbs made it impossible for them to grip the small game pieces – and the tiny handles on the tea cups for that matter – and thus rendered his efforts futile. He then fell into a state of despair, haunted by the realization that all his stuffed animal friends lacked opposable thumbs, and thus lacked the very elements of humanity.

(3) He and his friends were in the process of steeling my box of cups and saucers and my ridiculously fun board games (Clue and Apples to Apples), when they got a call from another friend saying they found a little kid they could steel candy from. This is clearly more enticing to the criminal mind than steeling a poor college student’s board games, so they left hastily to intercept the poor child with candy filled pockets.

We may never know how things actually played out that night, but what we do know is as a result of these events, I am now driving around Houston with a white trash bag taped to my car. I’m just glad he didn’t take Clue; it’s one of my favorites.


Picture 1: The usual suspects, found at the scene of the crime yet again.
Picture 2: View from opposite end of the car, clearly the guilty party has no respect for Apples to Apples, it was thrown across the car.
Picture 3: Yes, I made a note on the trash bag for all future potential thieves.

Countdown to France: T minus 13 days

It’s my last night in College Station and I am sitting on my bed feeling sentimentally nostalgic. The room is undoubtedly the same room I have called my own for the past three years, but its feel is so completely different it is almost unrecognizable from what it was a few weeks ago. The walls are bare, the shelves are cleared, the drawers are empty, and my desk has been replaced by my brother’s. It makes it clear things are changing, my time at A&M and in College Station is ending, and even if I did stay, change would still come. I may be in the minority when I say this, but I actually like change. In fact, I look forward to and even crave it at times, but when it comes time to leave the old behind, I start doubting whether I really want things to change. I think what makes change hard is not trusting yourself to remember the memories you have made. Or at least that’s what I find hard about change, and that’s why I’ve spend my night thinking over the past three years spend in this room.

The most noticeable thing about my room is that it is green, one of my favorite colors. Sarah and I painted it sophomore year within a week of moving in. It’s a sizable room and the first I painted outside of exterior walls painted during mission trips in middle school and high school. Had I known how much effort it would take, I probably would not have been half as eager to have a green room.

Fall junior year I was blessed to share the room with my friend Kate. There was much apprehension from the rest of the house over this arrangement, and rightly so. Kate and I enjoyed different flavors of living conditions, and while the room is sizable, it perhaps isn’t large enough to accommodate the two. But things worked out for Oscar and Felix on the Odd Couple and they did for Kate and me. Sometimes life really is like it is on TV.

Throughout the three years, there have been some really great conversations in this room, but the majority of those seem to come from senior year. Between my two roommates and myself there was a lot to talk about. Change started early and unexpectedly in our lives and those talks were the support we all needed when we were having a rough time adjusting, healing, and deciding where to go from here.

It’s getting late and I’m becoming so tired I’m afraid this post will be just a jumble of thoughts. For me, writing is never a wise night-time activity because I tend to lose all reason and writing ability. So to end things, this room has its share of memories – from dance videos to late night studying, from Reggie climbing under the bed to go to sleep to panicked mornings after realizing I overslept for my final – and while I am afraid to forget some of them, as I surely will, I’m going to trust that those dearest to me will remain in tack.

Good night one last time from College Station.