The decline of June in Marseille

I have sort of managed to post photos. Unfortunately, I don't have much by way of Marseille-yet. I don't think you really care to see my room, the view from my room, etc. That's about all I have now. At least I know for when things get interesting.

I've opted for a list today. For starters, some things I have learned (or relearned) in my 3 days:

• when you are jetlagged, you wake up in the middle of the night, bladder about ready to bust and the feeling that you haven't eaten in two days. And it doesn't matter if you just ate or went to the bathroom before going to bed.

• whether it's the height of the buildings, the narrowness of the streets, all those dang scooters, or the European engines, the streets here are excessively loud. All hours of the day, but especially in the middle of the night. I'm telling you, the sound just echoes. It's monstrous.

• it is impossible to avoid gluten in France. I'm considering abandoning all other efforts to make myself feel better until I get back home. That way I don't waste my pills.

• a house full of 4 people and 6 animals can get really smelly at times and at other times smell so normal you'd never guess its occupancy.

• bones in French is not the same. And Booth is not as hot. But I love it all the same.

• even the most basic French meal demands much more effort than I'd ever expected. The French have really perfected the art of eating. Please count on my gaining weight.
  

• if you are around people who don't care about personal hygiene and appearance long enough, you stop caring too. Today was the first day I wore makeup since my arrival. I slept on wet hair last night.

• summer + humidity = sweat in places you didn't know were capable of producing let alone in high quantities.

• summer + humidity + no air conditioning + 3rd floor appt = a restless sleep. Though it's still better than in Quebec when I would wake up in the middle of the night to splash water everywhere.

• Parisian accent = wonderful.

• listening to french kids talking = pure joy.

• nothing beats French nutella. Or American peanut butter.

Now for some chronology, I think. I wrote the following Friday. Late Friday I think. Possibly Saturday. The days blend into each other.

The world continues to be small just as I continue to be predictable. I had felt really proud about my packing job until I discovered that instead of cetaphil facewash I grabbed cetaphil lotion. I’m breaking out already.

On the shuttle ride back to the RER and on my way to Marseille I sat next to the same Quebecois woman and we chatted a good while about our travels and jobs. She gave me her card and told me to stay with her if I was ever in Quebec again. I couldn’t help but think the lengths we’d have gone to as missionaries to get into someone’s house and here this stranger was inviting me in another country entirely.

The train ride itself was uneventful. Contrary to what you would think, Dad, there isn’t much to see, by way of countryside. Sure, you get glimpses here and there but the path we took was rooted, like a river bed, between rolling hills on both sides. You can’t see much above that hill or the trees that otherwise line the tracks. Yet I did not read, rather I slept most of the 3 hours.

My “family” was there waiting for me at the station. My arms were killing me. Said family consists of mother, Chrystele (Chrys), father, Joel, and 12 year old WWE crazed son, Will. We loaded up my things and ran some errands around town and came back to the house where we started on dinner-Fajitas. Some of you may not know or remember but when I was in Rennes we started a weekly tradition of having a fajita night. The idea was mine and the execution was general. Oh, the irony.

They opened and enjoyed their gifts and I unpacked my things all while discussing various random things. I don’t remember my dream but I’m sure it was in French because I woke up with a French song in my head. One day and already my French is shaping up. I feel real good about the family, so far we get along fine. Chrys doesn’t sleep much at night because her pain is so bad so she sleeps here and there throughout the day. Will, the son, was out with friends after the first 15 minutes we got back to the house. So the days pass tranquilly. They asked me what my plans were for tomorrow and it’s nice to know they expect me to have plans because that’s more than I do at this time. I haven’t gotten out much but I don’t yet feel the need as tomorrow is Saturday and I really slept in today. So tomorrow I may explore and Sunday I will meet people my age life will start shaping up.

The house is very small but my mission prepared me well for the state of things. My only complaint is that my room, with it’s huge open window for light and ventilation, is poorly lit at night. I have a thing for well lit rooms, you know. That and the floor is all hard so that before getting into bed I have to brush off all the grossness from my feet. Again, this was all part of mission life. I just wasn't as whiny back then so you didn't have to hear about it. There are lots of animals here, and lots of fur: 3 cats, a dog, a rabbit, and a parrot.

Now we're back to sunday. Yesterday we walked around the neighborhood to give me an idea. It's all a huge labrinthe to me. The idea was to find a good running route but I was just exhausted from merely walking around in the heat. I better get over that fast. I think sitting on my toosh for virtually 2 days straight did not do anything to help matters. Tomorrow I start pilates, tuesday I start running :)

We found the public library, just down the street. I'm all set. I haven't dove yet into the world of public transportation yet. To be perfectly honest about my incompetence in the matter, I spend probably an hour and a half yesterday on Google maps and earth to better situate myself here. Downtown Marseille is a good 15 minute tramway (like trax) ride from here. The church is a 30 minute drive by car, 1 hour 30 minutes by bus. The beach is about 20 minutes or more. I hear you really have to watch your wallets down there. Super.

As for my work, I can set my hours. The only hiccup is that I have to do dishes twice a day which means I can't be gone one whole day and what's more, one of my daily chores is to mop the floors (the animals, remember). The place is so small however, that I can't do that when everyone's around, yet I can't do it early in the morning either because I have vacuum first and that's loud. I'll figure things out yet. She also wants me working saturdays, so as to have the house clean for Sunday. I hadn't counted on that. But they seem to be especially eager to take me places and show me around and they expect me to want to visit a couple places here and there so I'm sure I'll get days off and so forth if I have plans but as I haven't had any yet well, I've been given the general schedule. Joel has a month of vacation starting sometime early July so they have a few excursions planned for me during that time.

Church today was wonderful. Again, I've said it before, but no matter where I go in the world, walking into a chapel, I feel like home. It really helps with the fact that I know no one and have Chrys (independent woman that I am) doing her best to get me involved. It's so different from being a missionary. I felt like an utter no one today. To be a missionary is to be adored and spoiled by the members; it's impossible to escape unnoticed. I also had the strange feeling that I should be occupied, as missionaries are; that I should have certain things to do while at church and certain people to talk to.

What was single handedly the biggest relief all week consisted of two boys in white shirts sitting in front of me during the meetings. I thought they were missionaries but it turns out there are here from BYU for 2 months to practice their French. They work about 35 hrs a week visiting and listening to old people who don't have family or visits. Mathias and Drew. They've been here for 2 weeks and have a bit more holding than I, though they live in an appt and don't have internet or telephone at their place. As they'd already met a few of the youth here, we all sat outside after the meetings and ate lunch (with the exception of me, who brought a snack of nuts and a fruit leather and held out for Chrys's lunch of chicken and salad). Jonathan, one of the return missionaries here, served in Vegas and so he knew english so we had fun going from one language to another. Drew served in Africa-French speaking Ghana, and Mathias is just studying French at school. He's never been to a French speaking country and speaks really well. Drew made my day by telling me from hearing me speak during the meetings that he thought I was French. If I can fool a French speaking american, I most certainly won't complain. I may abandon plan Independent Woman for the moment in preference of burdening these two young americans with my presence (essentially, yes, being a tag along). It would be nice to come back home and not be all alone in my experiences. That's the only downside of something of this duration-you just get to meet people in time to say goodbye. They gave me some tips that their "agency" had given them for dealing with thieves and agressors and such. Nice boys. Young, but nice ;)

I did chat, ever envious, with the missionaries. The sisters are adorable. I told them to give me a ring to accompany them sometime. While talking with the Elders (actually, I was listening into to Mathias's convo with one of the Elders and introduced myself into it. Typical) I learned that their mission president is none other than President Carter, former member of Longueuil ward! The world never ceases to amaze me with its ever shrinking size. His wife and he accompanied us to several appointments with investigators and had us over for dinner several times in the 6 months I was there. I LOVE them. I am going to find a way to contact them. It makes me want to cry just thinking about them. They were totally hippies before joining the church. They still kinda are, minus the drugs and alcohol. They do yoga, ski, and eat healthy. Very down to earth and very quebecois.

I've included a google earth map which gives you an idea of the expanse which is Marseille and where I am in all that. You can follow me on Google maps and earth if you so desire. As this is public I'm not going to post the address but I'll email it if you really care to see. Oh google. How I love thee.

Well, now that I'm settled I think I'll only update this about once a week. I can't imagine things would be so exciting as to merit more frequent posts. I've enabled comments on the page now. Whether or not they work, well, isn't that a good question.

Paris, je t'aime

So, this is going to read much like a journal entry. I hope to master brevity and voice once I am no longer jetlagged. It's nice to hope, at least. For your viewing ease, I have bolded what might most interest you so you can 'skip to the good stuff'. Why I let the rest stay when I can distinguish between it and the good stuff remains an eternally "good" question; one that right now is rhetorical.


Et VOILA!


My flight at noon on June the 23rd of the year of our Lord two thousand and nine having been delayed, American Airlines granted me a non-stop flight on delta, some 4 hours later. Needless to say, I didn't mind. Because of the delay, I was also able to see my dear Susie Monterrosa at the airport, shipping out for Miami for 6 weeks. I'll be tanner than her when I get back, don't you worry.


I slept at intervals on the 10 or so hour flight here. Somehow, I was always sleeping when they were distributing food and had to wake myself up. A shame really, because it took me another hour at least to fall back into a sleep that was never as nice as the one before.


It’s funny because I probably said no more than 10 words altogether to either the man on my left (see, I’ve already forgotten his name) and Eric on my right (whose name I learned at baggage claim) until we were maybe 10 minutes from landing. We had about 15 minutes of taxiing during which time we broke into light conversation. Eric was a couple years older than me. He was Chinese so it’s kinda hard to say. I know that seems like a terrible thing to say, maybe, but it’s true that a lot of asian people have this eternal youth thing about them. Plus I’m not too hot at guessing ages anyway.


So Eric and I, we headed to the baggage claim together, almost getting lost only twice, which is really a mark of successful navigation in the Parisian airport. Eric asked which bags were mine and loaded both of them on the those carts (chariot in french, see, I’ve already forgotten my English). That’s when we shook hands and learned names. We found a map that was hardly helpful and made our way out of the baggage claim hoping to find an information booth on the other side. Sure enough, there it was. Eric was taking the RER (train) into Paris and felt really bad about leaving me unsure of where to catch my shuttle. It wasn’t until I was 20 feet away from the information desk that I was able to assure him that “j’etais une grande fille”. He was there to practice his French too, after all. I was a big girl, I said. And I’m suddenly doubting my translation, but as it was the first sentence in French I spoke, I’ll give myself a break.


I had this impractical impression that somehow the moment the plane landed, everything would come back to me; that I would know intuitively where everything in the airport was, where the shuttles picked me up, how to buy RER and metro tickets and how they worked and how to navigate my way around Paris without looking at my map every two seconds. It wasn’t only because my plane came in another terminal entirely that this was far from the case. Everything was as new to me as if it had been my maiden voyage. Apparently five years is not yesterday, and I’ve never really had a tactile memory anyway.



On the shuttle to the hotel I somehow struck conversation up with a family right behind me who weren’t sure they were in the right place and didn’t speak a lick of French. Each shuttle services several hotels and there are also several shuttles, so it can be confusing. Turns out they were from Utah and had been on my flight and were going to my same hotel. While I was turned around talking to them my backpack kinda slipped off my lap a bit, so I turned to the woman next to me to apologize (in French) and she responded “c’est correcte”. That may be French but it is typically Quebecois French so then I plunged into conversation with her easily in my rusty Quebecois. Upon arriving at the hotel, the family asked me if I would help them check in and ask for information about Paris. The family consisted of Joe, the father, Gwen, the mother, and Joseph the 18 yr old son. They were from Morgan, Utah but when I first asked them I heard “Oregon” so the fact that they were also LDS didn’t come up until a bit later. Turns out Joe is a pilot for Delta and was able to get seats on the plane last minute, maybe 2 days before. So they were really going on the fly, to celebrate Joseph’s graduation. Being unprepared and not speaking French, they thought I was a golden find and asked if they could tag along my Paris wanderings. They were just about as happy to help me as I was to help them. I should mention that I never did learn their last name. It was from their phone that I called home to tell Mom I’d gotten in ok.


We decided to leave for Paris some 45 minutes after checking in and then we were off. It was nice, really, not only to be of use but to feel not entirely alone. They paid for my ticket both to and from Paris (8 euros a piece) in exchange for my service as their guide into Paris. We got into Paris around 2:30. I was supposed to meet up with Jonathan after he was off work, which was at 3:30 so that didn’t really give me time for museums, plus I still had to contact him somehow. So we decided to go to Notre Dame which doesn’t take so much time and which is free to enter.

I have some very serious doubts as to whether or not I had ever been in the Notre Dame de Paris before today. I remember climbing it and looking out at the labyrinth expanse of city with gargoyles as company, but I have been in too many grand cathedrals now to be certain. It was an impressive sight, though more or less than I remembered I can’t really say.


We crossed the street afterwards in search of water. We were all dying of thirst. Me, I was also on a quest to find a phone booth, having picked up a phone card in the train station. Joseph spotted one for me and then they went off to find water while I made the call to Jonathan. Jon didn’t answer and I left a message, explaining my phone situation and that I hadn’t forgotten him and that I’d call back. I came out to find that my delta family had bought me a water bottle and wouldn’t let me pay them back.


Gwen and I were zombies now. We weren’t awake enough to really be aware but it’s all clear now, looking back. So the 2 of us plus Joseph decided to lay back on a patch of shaded grass in a small parc just kiddie corner to Notre Dame and take a power nap while papa Joe got a feel for the territory. There were a bunch of frenchies sitting on benches all around us and their voices lulled me to sleep and just before I nodded off I remember thinking that French men weren’t as bad looking as I remembered. In fact, they were actually really good looking. Zombies, they’re funny.


Post nap I called Jonathan and arranged to meet him in an hour, which we killed winding in and out of streets and traffic. One thing I had forgotten completely is the noise of traffic in Paris. Those French really love their horns, they just can’t get enough of them. Delta family and I parted ways on a bridge overlooking the Seine river, just beyond Notre Dame. It’s a famous view, hard to put in words. I didn’t even try to take a picture. We hugged like we’d known each other for days and not mere hours. Weird how traveling does that to you.


With some difficulty I managed to find the metro exit where Jonathan was waiting for me. He’s good. After 4 years he recognized me with my hair pulled back and my sunglasses on. Or maybe my bag or dress was the tip off, I don’t really know. As for him, he blended in well with the multitude of nicely dressed men. Not a tshirt in sight.I had to do a double take because he looked younger than I remembered.


We went to this scrumptious fruit restaurant-Paradis des fruits-and ordered something like smoothies. He remembered so many of my friends-Liz, Ghazal, JD, Chris and we talked about old Utah times as if, yes, it was only yesterday. Then we discussed school and jobs and where we think we’ll be in 5-10 years. This is when I found out that Masters programs in Franch are not very competitive or selective and that not only could I get in easily but that it would be free (well, 200 euros a year so yes, basically free). This is also when I realized that I had caught the bug again; much quicker this time and perhaps for good. You know of course, the bug I’m talking about: the I’m-going-to-move-to-France bug that I was supposed to shake off by going there again. I started thinking, though, about how much luggage I would have to haul around for such a move, not to mention all that I would have to leave behind and the bug quivered. Ah, my fickle ways.


As for Jonathan, he wants to move to the US, if possible. We make a fine pair, we really do. I sometimes wonder if I am truly independent enough for such a move. My short time in Paris had taught me one thing: that everything I knew about getting around I had at best learned from someone else or more likely, I had followed until it became intuitive. What I was capable of on my own was another story entirely. At 25 years old, people are still taking care of me, left and right. My companions on my mission, no matter how long they had been out, seemed to end up taking care of me. My co-workers take care of me, and I often get the impression at school that I could easily be one of the students, for all that I have yet to learn. The fact that packing all by myself for France was an entirely new thing that struck me as out of place at the time sums up how much I am taken care of at home. Then Eric takes care of me at the airport. Then Delta family looks after me, even though I was the one who was supposed to be looking after them. I explained this all to Jonathan, my half successful attempts at becoming an independent woman. You wouldn’t have understood it either, without me giving you three detailed pages of my dependant adventures. He laughed, told me I was being silly and that I was independent and then told me he was paying the bill and that I could be independent the next time we met up for dinner. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the desert I had. Double chocolate goodness, it was so rich I couldn’t finish it. It was also my first trespass into the world of French gluten. Gorgeous.


Jon walked me to the metros. I told him I was a big girl but that didn’t stop him. He told me which line to take and where to get off and I thought I had him then, but no, he wanted to give me a metro ticket. I told him I was never going to be an independent woman if no one would let me buy my own tickets. ‘You’re right’, he told me. Then he walked me to the ticket machine. “Alright, independent woman,” he said, “you’re not allowed to put the machine to English.” As if I needed to (bluff). I did everything right and he coddled me the whole time, congratulating me for my knowledge of language and buttons. Which is why I love him, of course.


And then, of course, the machine wouldn’t accept my American credit card.

And the machine only took payment in coins, not bills.

And I only had bills.

And all the ticketing offices were closed for the night.

And I if Jonathan hadn’t been there, I would have had to walk my way to the Arc de Triomphe and then back to Notre Dame to take my train, which I would have been unable to ride if my Delta family hadn’t already paid for my ticket. Independent woman, indeed.


Jon didn’t even rub it in my face. And he told me that if things turn out bad in Marseille that his Parisian apartment will be vacant in a few weeks and he’ll come down from Lille to give me the keys. Bases covered.


I wrote in one of my mission letters home that all metros have that same metro smell. A kind of stale, winded smell that rides on the light scent of something-a circuit maybe- burning. The metro cars themselves have that same smell hidden underneath the perspiration. I don’t know what people have against deodorant, I really don’t. Every step down I take into the metro takes me back in an instant to all I have travelled in before. Montreal, Rome, Barcelona, even Rennes. The Parisian metro however bears the distinction of a people who don’t go out of their way to find a bathroom. Not the whole metro, mind you, but every corner or so your nose catches a glimpse. It’s a smell that takes me no where at all, but rushing past that corner where I caught it.

I emerged from the metro to find the Arc de Triomphe at dusk, exactly as wonderful as I remember it. I spent the next few hours wandering down the Champs Elysée and then finding my way through longs streets to the Eiffel tour. I was alone and I ended up taking the same path I had walked on my last night in Paris, almost 5 years ago to the day. It was not intentional, either, just simple navigational logic. I walked past the Mcdonald’s where I’d had my last supper. Full of proper French food, I had no desire to enter, not even for nostalgia’s sake. There were a couple of moments where I had to catch myself, to keep a few tears from escaping. They seemed to stem from my soles instead of my eyes. My feet had a strange feeling in them. They felt at home. Then again, my shoes had walked those streets and what’s more they were French shoes to begin with. But nostalgia can play tricks as sure as light can. I felt the absence of Mom and Chris, my previous travel companions, on certain streets. I turned my music up and much as I missed them, I was glad I had a chance make Paris my own again, set the past back where it belongs and keep walking.


I got off the RER and heard my name. Family Delta was getting off from the next car down. It’s a strange town, Paris.

By way of explanation

You knew it was inevitable. In a way, it was a miracle it didn't happen earlier.

I am now a blogger. I still don't know how I feel about it.

I thought that creating a facebook profile was difficult. And customizing my myspace, well wasn't that a nightmare. So many choices. So many colors. So not tech savy.

Truthfully, the difficulty with a blog was finding a title AND choosing a URL. So permanent. Thank my lucky stars, the brilliant minds behind the blogosphere understand this dilemma and they have made even that editable. So, should I (or perhaps, when I) change my mind, there will be another post explaining myself.

Now. I am getting ahead of myself. Let me just sum up my current dilemma in two words: music and lyrics. So many delicious lyrics. And all so definitive.

(As a side note I should prepare you for my exessive usage of the word 'so')

But something wouldn't let me use someone else's words on my blog. Now, it is highly probable that I will quote lyrics on here more than I should, but that's different than having your blog name and URL be someone else's brainchild. So I decided to look closer to home. I won't explain my thought process or where exactly my eyes wandered to. The important thing is that I ended at the Bell Tower. And this is where I sound conceited (a still unanswered and slightly troubling question: is it possible to blog and not?), because you see, the Bell Tower is a poem. You guessed it, I wrote it. My anticipated travels inspired this blog. Past travels inspired this poem. It was only fitting. The circle of life, my friend, the circle of life....

If this blog were a book, this post might be the prologue. Possibly an introduction. Most likely however, it would be a dedication, summed up like this: this book is dedicated to a poem which is, inidentally, dedicated to me. And so, you see, this is just the flowering of what may become a pretentious and self-involved monster. You'll pardon me if sometimes, I flatter myself that you want to read all I have to write and my dramatizations and analyzations and so forth. Because heaven knows, I am one long-winded son of a gun. Not to mention a bell tower.