I am a visitor here , I am not permanent. And the only thing keeping me dry is (where I am)

You know you have a problem when someone has to "dedicate an entire day to reading your blog". Yes, that is a direct quote. Not that I hold it against you, Lisa. You exaggerate, in general. Which is not a Hendry characteristic, at all. But all the same, it brings the hard truth home to me that I am a bit excessive.

So, as is so typical of me, I am going to reason and excuse away my excessive tendencies instead of dealing with them. I should at this time share with you the fact that were it not for the auto check of this singular program, I would have already misspelled 4 words. French is corrupting my spelling of English, it's really unfair. Anyway, as to the reasoning. Imagine you are someone, for one reason or another, for whom living in the moment is simply not enough. Or rather, that you are unable to fully live what you are unable to express. You'd have a lot to say too, no doubt. Now imagine that you spend your days with a family-people who only a week ago were strangers, and that everyone else you pass on the streets-while beings strangers-are what the french call "étrangers", a word meaning both 'stranger' in its strict sense but also' foreigner'. You may be in their country, after all, but foreigners they remain.

And while this fact is precisely what makes the whole affair of living abroad wonderful and all that, the fact is that should you decide to speak to them or should they decide to speak to you, you lack conversational intuition. It's amazing how small talk differs when it comes to another language. You laugh at something they say and then realize that maybe it wasn't meant to be funny at all. Your jokes are a complete bust. You lack that essential expression in its natural-and therefore English-form, and, what's more, you lack people to talk to and things to talk about. Common ground, they call it. Is it any wonder then, that you should happen to be brimming with words; that they should come hurriedly and haphazardly when it comes to people that really know you, people that you want to bring "with" you, for all your so called claims of "independence"?

No. Not really. Glad we understand each other.

That all said, I probably don't have to mention the fact that I didn't socialize too much this week. I found a somewhat normal sleeping pattern on Monday or Tuesday. This normal sleeping pattern involves a nap virtually every afternoon, and it's a familial event I might add. It's this heat. The world would be a more efficient place if we didn't have to worry about the weather. Coats and boots in the winter, naps in the summer. The time these things consume! Oh air conditioning, how I love thee. And heat in the winter but no, not now, please not now. I don't know why they don't just buy fans here to at least circulate the air here. I'm really tempted to just buy one myself. So for a brief summary of the week (with random and more detailed observations to follow):

Monday I cleaned ironed for like 3 hrs because they also don't have a dryer so everything gets super wrinkled. Read. Napped. Then we had family night, I gave the lesson. Dinner. Ate dessert, had seconds. Watched a movie. Read.

Tuesday was much the same thing, minus the ironing and family night. I did go running though, as promised.

On Wednesday we went into town at long last. Shopped all morning and afternoon long and then spent the evening at the beach. Returned to the house exhausted, ate at the usual late hour of 9 pm and then went to bed. Did not clean at all.

Thursday we were supposed to spend the day at the beach but William (son) stepped on some broken glass in the morning and after a visit to the hospital was told he needed to wait out the weekend before going to the beach. The family still had some shopping to do so I stayed at home, cleaned, did pilates, took a long shower, read and then spend hours looking over maps of the town and trying to figure out how to get around. I made an extensive list of places to see and researched hours and costs and tried to map out the rest of my time here and how both my time and money would be spent. I reviewed my finances: France has so far cost me (plane ticket aside) $400.19. I realized that exchange rate had gone up 10 cents since I first started planning my trip in April and beginning of May, which accounted for me being more poor than expected. I literally spent hours doing this and the really sick thing is, I had a lot of fun doing it. You don't even want me near a university course catalog right now. Then I spent several other hours, given that I now had a clear idea of what my remaining budget was, researching small towns worth visiting in France, preferably in the region. I looked up train prices, hotel prices and decided on a 1 1/2 day visit to Carcassonne, a medieval town 3 hours by train from here. All for the all inclusive price of $75! You can find out about Carcassonne here and join me in getting pumped for my trip. Now I just have to pick the dates. Thursday was intense. I will provide no further details, you got them all here.

I had planned to go exploring myself Friday in town however given Will's injury I felt bad for him so I proposed we go to a movie. It was also really hot that day so I figured it would be better in a cool theater in the afternoon than anywhere else. So we saw Ice Age 3 in French. Sid's french dubbed voice is brilliant and nothing was lost in the translation.

Saturday we did some more shopping and then went to the library. Again, details to be provided later. Then my family had a bbq prepared for me for dinner in honor of the 4th of July American tradition.

So you see, nothing too exciting, really. If you want to know what I ate I could break down each day into three meals per days, what medications I took, what snacks I had and their quantities, how much water I drank and the frequency of my trips to the bathroom ;) The point of all this monotony is to build up to the climax of the week; today, Sunday. I'll have you know that while things have been mundane, it's true, I have enjoyed pretty much every minute of it. I've been smiling more or less incessantly since Friday morning. True, I have my music and I have devoured a bar of French chocolate but all the same. I'm in France, that mere fact does amazing things for me.

First of all, I was tearing my hair to pieces in anticipation of seeing the Americans again to make specific plans now that I had an idea of my week. I was ready to get to business. There was that and the fact that I was excited about going out with the sister missionaries. You would have thought it was the first day back to school, the way I was acting. In case you had any doubts, the first day back to school, specifically the sleepless night before, is one of my favorite and more vivid childhood memories (the smell of "a bundle of newly sharpened pencils", need I say more?)

Little did I know, a much bigger surprise was awaiting me. I rode to church with the intention of asking the missionaries how often the mission president (Carter, see last post) and his wife attended church at that building. I found myself in the first meeting sitting several rows behind someone who very greatly resembled Sister Carter and when the meeting was over and everyone was up and leaving I realized that it was INDEED her. Unfortunately, from what I gathered from her body language and a few glimpse phrases, she was taking someone home, or giving directions and left before I could catch her. A few minutes later however, the Elders come chasing after me to tell me that both she and President were down the hall to talk to me. Oh Elders, ever so thorough. I had a good few minutes in between classes to talk to them both and then they opened fast and testimony meeting by speaking and bearing testimony. It was like being back in Longueuil again. I really had to hold back the tears I was so happy to see them and to be reminded of those wonderful six months I spent there. The mission, it's pure magic and it keeps working on me despite the lapse in time. As it turns out, the Carters, who I saw for the last time July 8th, 2007, have been in Marseille for 1 yr as President. The mission home however is in Toulouse and in that year today was the first time they had ever attended that particular ward where I just happen to be. Magic. I had a chance to talk to them after my meetings, just before they left. I gave Sister Carter probably 3 huge hugs. I think I am going to write them a note and have the missionaries deliver it to them so they know how wonderful I think they are and to thank them again for all their help in Longueuil. I'm a real failure at that when it comes to expressing these things in person. At least I've embraced the hug as a means of communicating that; to a degree. I'm still not really a fluent hugger, as you probably know.

Drew comes up to me today and one of the first things he says to "I was thinking this week, wondering what you were up to, and I realized that you must have a lot of free time on your hands". All too well put my friend, all too well put. I knew then that I was going to be saved from having to beg to tag along. He pulled out a makeshift calendar on the spot and showed me all the stuff he had planned for the coming week. Beach on Tuesday, pizza on Thursday, Aix-en-Provence on Friday and Saturday. It was a nice reminder of how passive I had been being and how I needed to step it up. The independant woman is out of her element here, that's for sure. But independent and assertive are two different things though, right? I'll settle right now for managing independence and handle assertive later. Anyway, Drew then went around informing all the youth at church of his plans so now it's a big party, all week. With Frenchies!

I had my first metro experience this afternoon on my way to meet with the sisters. Of course, everything went wrong, there were unexpected (and legitimately unusual, as I came to find out later) delays, and I was late. This must be a terrible shock to you all, I know. The Tramway here, which I use to get to the metros, is about as slow as trax is downtown. The lesson went well, the sisters forgave my tardiness, especially since the man we were teaching was on the same tramway as I was. I have to say though, after a day with the Carters and then with the missionaries, teaching with them was a wonderful but especially a nostalgic experience. I miss that feeling of going into a strangers home and having them tell you all sorts of odd things and companions, who finish your sentences while you turn to the page that they are about to introduce before a word has even been said. Magic and miracles, that's the life of a missionary and it was good to be on the other side as much as I missed it. In any case, I realized (far too late) that I was way too hard on myself as a missionary. I apologize for all the missionary stuff, but it was just that kind of day.

Well, I know I said I was going to fill you in on certain other things throughout the week. Really I was going to describe what I'd finally seen of Marseille. But seeing as how I took no pictures and as how I am going to take pictures next week and see much more all the same, well I decided to spare you the thousand words a picture would be worth and save them for next time.

I will just say that in my hours of research this week I ran across a few chatrooms and stuff as far as travel advice goes. And I read several places that Marseille is a great place, but that you need a guide here as it's not geared toward tourists as Paris and not only that but it is bigger than Paris. There are also sketchy areas to be avoided. So I feel better about not getting out more and lucky that I have a family to "guide" my stay.

Unlike most metropolitan centers which consist of the wealthiest in the center and the poorer on the outskirts, Marseille has the blessing of being a port and so receiving immigrants who come in by boat. Old port being the "center" of the town, they don't make it much further before they find a place and settle down. So the city has that distinction, which makes for others. The city is a huge expanse and the closer you get downtown the more chances you have of running into dazzling buildings, museums, bridges, arches, and apartments. But they are scattered, here and there mostly from what I can tell. I almost like it better that way.

I got used to seeing the expanse of apartment building after apartment building, and two days into my stay I stopped expecting much from this city other that cramped buildings and cramped streets and a strange accent. And then I'll catch a glimpse, or the cramped streets will open their arms to me and I will see and be embrace in what is, to my foreign eyes, France. I take it in and I will go on walking, and the noise of traffic and motors, the smell of the filthy streets and the dirt will weigh down my feet until I forget that there is anything else. It's always at those moments that I catch another glimpse and my breath catches in my chest and I remember again where I am. See, the sad thing about living somewhere foreign or different is that you get used to things so quickly. My little bedroom had me feeling claustrophobic the first day or so. I wondered how anyone could possibly live like that permanently. Yet I stopped noticing its size after 3 days. I always underestimate our ability to adapt. It still takes me by surprise, you know. And I mean a huge surprise. This ability to adapt is a lucky thing, most of the time. Except that you get used to all the good things too and instead of being special they become everyday, a backdrop. Marseille, like a pair of old jeans whose pockets you find the occasion 5 dollar bill in, will probably illude fading into a backdrop before my two months here are up.

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.