Hello again!

It’s been a super long time since my last post, and things have progressed as they always do. I have a new computer, but I still don’t know how to use it and our relationship is tense. I would appreciate anyone who can tell me how to access caps lock on a chromebook. It’s not where I think it should be. Anyway, I am fully moved in to my (furnished and therefore requiring very little actual moving) apartment in Paris. I’m not sure that you can really call it an apartment because it is more of a tricked-out bedroom, complete with sink and shower. I am currently trying to cook a quiche in the microwave/oven that is in here, and am only now downloading the instruction manual, which means that this quiche will turn out like all of my other quiches: not quite right. This is not important.

Paris is wonderful, of course, and I feel so lucky to be in the position that I’m in. I’ve also decided that this is a good time to take my blog in a new direction. Not that it has much direction, but still. These past weeks I’ve found myself using poetry as an outlet for my creativity and I will be “publishing” it here. So I’ll go ahead and apologize preemptively for that, but I’ve gotten good feedback from my two most important critics, Megan and Abby, so I have been emboldened to take the next step: whoring out my blog as an experimental poetry sounding board.

But first, I would like to regale you with photos of my neighborhood and the things I’ve seen. However I’m having a lot of trouble finding images from my phone on this insane computer so here are a few instead of the onslaught I had prepared.

The view from my room. Plus shoutout to my fresh herbs. RIP already the mint that got a little too crispy on a sunny day.

Seen from a run, but honestly I was walking.

GOT HERBS! Had to manually capitalize all of these letters

Just next to my house. The Jardin du Luxembourg.

Feeling like a freak at the Sorbonne; signing my contract so they can’t change their minds.

 

Megan said that I am probably receiving divine inspiration from the ghost of Gertrude Stein (whose former building I live in,) which is why I am suddenly producing a bunch of poetry. I don’t want to do her ghost a disservice and claim that our work is linked. I’ll let you, the reader, decide what’s what.

Update: I’ve burned the quiche.

Here are two poems from my recent prolific catalogue. One lighter one more serious. Both based off of true events.

 

To the man

To the man who plays music

On a wireless speaker in public.

Who do you think you are

To decide that we all want to listen to “Senorita”

At the Tuilerie Gardens.

 

You are drunk with power,

You despotic fuck.

 

 

Otis

I thought I saw you on the street today,

In Paris, walking by.

Heading home, then there you are.

On the Boulevard Raspail.

 

You’ve never been to France, I know

You’ve not been on a plane.

But just the same, “it’s him, it’s him.”

My heart whispers to my brain.

 

He had something of yours

That made think that it could be.

His insouciance, his joie, they’d say,

I’d offer just a “oui.”

 

I stopped to gape and then of course

Realized it wasn’t true.

But I thought of all the things I’d say

If only it were you.

 

That I’m sorry, that I miss you.

That I remember every day.

That you made me love everything.

We walked, we ran, we’d lay.

 

I’d say that I lost everything

Try to make you understand

That when I think about it now,

I can feel you in my hands.

 

But it’s too late now

Our time has passed.

There’s nothing we can do.

I just keep walking and after all, that French dog isn’t you.

 

So I wrote this poem, an ode to you.

You’ll never hear it, but I tried

To say that after all these years

When I got home I cried.

 

 

Crash!

It is with great sadness and on a small screen that I announce the untimely but not unexpected death of my computer. We had six wonderful years together. She saw me through the end of college, graduate school, the beginning of my teaching career, and most of this current journey, which unfortunately, was too great a burden for her. I announce this loss here, because it, along with my dedication to laziness and procrastination, is the reason why this blog has gone to seed of late. Here is a photographic update of my trip, which has at this point evolved from an extended trip to a more permanent move abroad. However, I will be back in the states soon, in order to to buy a computer. Also, now that I’m at the end of my upload this is actually a SHITTON of photos and I would never have written a blog entry for each visit anyways.I wrote captions for each of these images and they were deleted. I will rewrite them once I regain control of myself.

Bourg-en-Bresse

French pastoral

Rooftop

An apple with a view

Commentary on my number one zaddy

Monastery at Brou, built for Philibert le Beau. Hot take: he was not v beau

Besançon

A top spot

From the citadel

Do you know which river this is

The citadel

Clocks abound in Besançon

London

How many lives were lost before this initiative?

England in a pic, huh

Been plotting this one for years

Look!

Left my pencil case here. Tithe?

Got carried away in the national portrait gallery

There was alcohol

So soon?

Bath

Views

✨

Brighton

Came to Brighton and saw everything

White sandy beaches y’all

Stayed in a disgusting hostel. Here I am, blending in

Cambridge

The garden I worked in. Joy.

Toulouse

Back in France and feeling good

A gallery space I enjoyed

Cloister!

Went to a contemporary art museum and renounced all art

Tournon d’Agenais

A lil eggplant

Bordeaux

Arriving in Bordeaux, thinking about the 4th of July

Lyon: Highs and Lows

After leaving Bourgogne, I headed to Lyon, the second biggest city in France, (I think.) This wasn’t my first visit, but it was my first visit alone, and I was glad to be able to explore the city at my own pace. I was also there, alone, on my birthday, which made me feel surprisingly vulnerable. I don’t feel particularly attached to my birthday and I choose to live far away from my friends and family so I shouldn’t complain, but celebrating my birthday alone made me feel very far away from everyone. Plus, it’s my party so I’ll cry if I want to.

Luckily I had a good distraction to keep me from feeling too sorry for myself: Lyon, which is a truly magnificent city. It is also terrifically hilly. As I trudged up hills and stairs, I thought about my own highs and lows. In the end, I landed on the following super hackneyed realizations: there is no high without low. There is no breathtaking view without a climb.

Here are a few pictures of the things I climbed and the things I saw.

I spent three days in this city. When I arrived I was anxious, fearful, and fully transitional. Upon leaving, I felt calm, tired, and grateful. How glad I am to have another year to explore the highs and lows that certainly lie ahead of me.

 

An unreal tree in the Tête d’Or park.

This is 28

Viewing a church from inside of another church. Bananas!

The key to my airbnb. Giving me “The Secret Garden” vibes

 

 

City mouse//Country mouse: Bourgogne

I left Colmar on April 25th and went straight to Bourgogne, a nearly neighboring region where I had arranged a stay with a family. I was to spend nearly two weeks working as a farmhand, which is not exactly my wheelhouse, but I was prepared to give my all. I was received by the most incredible family who run a gîte on their truly lovely farm. After spending a lot of time eating pie and twiddling my thumbs in Colmar, it felt so good to apply myself to some manual labor and to be immersed in French family life.

This is the first of many homestays that I have found for this spring//summer and I don’t expect that it will be topped. Each day I performed different tasks, from tying raspberry bushes? plants? to posts, which is a brambly affair, to painting an endless ceiling, from which I still have a decent amount of paint in my hair. So much in fact that an acquaintance politely offered, “I don’t know how to tell you, but a bird has flown over you.” Hehe. My labor was compensated with room and board, in a warm family environment, which is always a desirable accommodation.

Each morning before I began there was homemade bread and jam, and lunch and dinner always included garden-grown vegetables, harvested and stored from last year. I hung around with the family and their myriad and diverse visiting guests. There were beautiful views, amazing food, and, as always, much and more to learn.

A Monet moment

The raspberry patch that I worked in

Every Raspberry plant has its thorns

A picturesque breakfast: homemade jam today, homemade jam tomorrow.

Champs de Colza and my stupid shadow.

A view.

This family was conveniently located near Dijon, which I was able to visit on a day off. I loved Dijon and found it to be super refreshing after spending so much time in Alsace, which is fantastically unique, if not slightly repetitive in its devotion to half-timbered architecture. No shade. I wandered around for a long time and ended up in the Musée des Beaux Arts right as it began to rain, a lucky break for someone who keeps trashing her malfunctioning umbrellas. There were portraits of the Dukes of Burgundy but I was very distracted by the fact that their nicknames and their portraits didn’t seem to correspond. For example, Jean 1er de Bourgogne is nicknamed The Fearless, but his portrait is just him holding a ring in a very fancy hand. Likely I am missing the context but I found the whole thing funny decided to take a selfie and add it to the collection. My work is not supported by the museum.

Nickname: Without Fear

Nickname: The Bold

Nickname: The Childish

My education pass, furnished by the French government (Thank you Zaddy) granted me free access to a hôtel particulier, which is a sort of former aristocratic home that has been converted into a lavish museum. This space was called the musée Magnin, named for the brother and sister who collected art in their home, which now serves as a gallery. But! The rooms have been preserved and so instead of a gallery feel, it is more like being in a decadent home that is heavy with paintings. I loved the art but I also loved the decorations and general splendor: heavily ornamental furnishings and fabrics. Reminded me deeply of Rihanna’s recent evocation: More is More. It also satisfied the perverse part of me that desperately wants to explore strangers’ private spaces.

An endlessly entertaining portrait: What if, back in the day, if you wanted to know how the back of your hair looked, you had to wait for a portrait to be painted. How else!?

The wallpaper and the curtains match: the effect is SUMPTUOUS

The same room. MORE IS MORE.

Me, chanDELIRIOUS in my surroundings. I have no business being here, clearly.

Curtains and wallpaper matching again. Don’t fight it.

My favorite part, the viewing bench fabric. A good place from which to admire.

The sister Magnin, whose face has been replaced by the chandelier glare, but whose waist is the stuff of RuPaul’s Drag Race Dreams.

After the rain, I walked around the city and didn’t take very many good pictures of the general architectural splendor, which was vast. There was a lot of green space incorporated into the city as well and I found myself drawn to green things. Plants and paints. Also I visited an excellent market bursting with vendors and took a picture of the only repulsive thing.

Ahh

Ooh

I would hesitate to call this a cake but I guess it is.

Someone’s residence. Can you imagine?

 

After another week of wonderful work and family immersion I visited Beaune, another nearby city/town (never sure when one becomes the other.) I was prepared to like this wine spot, but I ended up loving it, preferring it to Dijon, which surprised me. Surrounded by walkable ramparts and covered in ivy, Beaune was painfully beautiful, albeit crawling with tourists like myself.

 

A house along the ramparts. Good Ivy.

A market in the center. Not a great pic.

A tapestry in the church illustrating the life of Mary. Unfortunately I found the plot difficult to follow.

Only took this picture because of that “selling merch at the crucifixion” meme.

Look at these textures! Look at these colors.

Had to zoom heavily to capture these ostentatious topes.

 

Beaune is known for its Hospices, which is a former hospital run by nuns, that now has an insanely expensive charitable wine auction. I considered not entering which would have been a huge oversight and I’m glad I did. 10/10 would recommend, although the free audioguide is very campy and boring.

 

A shadowed simulation of nun/patient care:

The floor. More is more.

Example mannequins: the sort of thing I hate. But these sisters were doing God’s actual work so I won’t criticize.

A close-up of the tuiles vernisées de Bourgogne. Glistening.

My visit was after a heavy lunch and I thought only about the certain comfort of those beds.

Tuiles vernisées give this effect. The ceiling is the roof.

 

My time in Bourgogne was exactly what I needed after a long stay, spent in one fashion in Alsace. Spending time in nature and a family environment meant having a space for learning and rumination, as well as comfort and supportive communication. The proximity to the city allowed for independent exploration and the type of cultural foolery that I like to employ during my discovery. These two weeks passed too quickly but were the balm for all of my restlessness; the balance between city and country, work and rest, felt like a revelation. I know I will be back and I look forward to admiring beautiful Bourgogne in a different season.

sPRINgTEMPS

Spring is in full bloom in Colmar, and with the rebirth and renewal of all things natural, I have found the inspiration necessary to bring my blog out of hibernation. This season is so beautiful and refreshing, I hardly know how to begin to describe my joy and gratitude. This winter felt long, as they often do, but I have quickly forgotten the months of suffering and am devoted to fully enjoying this new season.

The warmth has transported me home in a way, as I have not been here long enough to have seasonal associations, and I sometimes find myself longing for the warm promise of North Carolina weather. However. Spring in North Carolina is a joke. Balmy winter days give way to unpredictable, unforgiving extremes, and soon enough, any joy found in the half-hearted transitional season is lost as literally everything is awash with pollen. Here, I have been experiencing a true spring, and it is LOVELY. There is no pollen to coat all exterior surfaces, and, as frequently evidenced in years past, my nasal passage.

The flowers are in bloom, the trees are the most beautiful sampling of colors: deep green, a perfect purple, the freshest light green, flowers and buds.

The best part of this spring is seeing people reclaiming all of the spaces that winter made inhospitable. Restaurants have produced terraces all over town and people have flocked to fill the seats. Parks are full of people reading, laying, playing, eating, drinking, smoking. The town’s fountains are back on, looking beautiful and stinking like chlorine. There is also a sort of playful ground fountain that shoots water up in the air in the town’s main plaza, and while it is presumably a decorative element, I think this fixture only exists to tempt children into running through it, to their parents’ sincere chagrin.

I have found so much pleasure in leaving my window open (accidentally inviting in a legitimate colony of flies,) taking long walks around the town, and appreciating the full mobility that I have, no longer confined to a winter coat.

This weekend will be my last in Colmar and I hope to take advantage of the local splendor and regional specialties before leaving Alsace next week. I will be traveling around this spring/summer, but leaving is bittersweet. I am sad to leave the people I have met here, when I think about the kindness they have shown me, I can hardly bear it. But! Spring reminds us that all states are temporary and I feel comfortable leaving, knowing that I made the most of my time here.

I’ve been saying goodbye to friends, coworkers, and acquaintances this week. Last night I ate dinner with the family whose daughters I tutored for the past few months. Their mom prepared beautiful, white, local asparagus. They are not like the snappy green guys we eat at home. They are thick and sweet and the heads are light yellow and buttery soft. I was explaining this to the family and probably sounded like a fucking idiot saying what translates to “I have never seen such an asparagus.” But it’s true. I was surprised when I arrived to find the mother peeling the vegetables, as I have never considered peeling an asparagus before. She explained that these ones have a firm exterior skin and it’s best not eaten. During dinner I noticed the others were sometimes shaving off a thin skin with their knives, but I couldn’t recognize the difference (having never seen such an asparagus,) so I ate everything and it seemed fine. One of the daughters noted my plate, devoid of skins and said that I must be good at selecting well-peeled asparagus. I laughed and sort of nodded but knew that this was only one item on a long list of offal that I have eaten here in an attempt to hide my ignorance and maintain politeness. The list includes a lot of animal fat.

Other than eating things that I probably should not, I am well. Also my hair is the longest it has ever been, I think, and today, wearing my birkenstocks for the first time this year, I felt like an unkempt secular Jesus. Anyways, here are some pictures of Colmar in its recent splendor.

Reached through a fence for this private pic

Taken from beneath, which felt artistic (which IS artistic)

A lovely flowering guy that looks like the Forsythia that I ate last week, thinking it was Honeysuckle. The more you know!

a highly structured tree: from beneath. Potentially upside down.

Took this while hanging upside down off of a park bench (lengthwise.)

Took this snap with good intentions but I have no luck with dusky photos.

What a caption!

View from a tower in the écomusée near Bollwiller. 10/10 recommend.

WaterWorld

This blog has basically turned into a space where I recount the details of my lengthy and frequent vacations, and so I will continue the trend. This entry concerns the February//March vacation which I spent with my best friend, most impressive role model, and meanest Jeremih impersonator/blog troll, Megan. Megan had an extremely fortuitous business trip that sent her to Zurich, Switzerland, a mere two hour bus ride from my home. What an unexpected treat to see each other again so soon, and the perfect antidote to my winter madness, recently exacerbated by a truly unbelievable cold spell. Megan’s work put her up in a swanky high-rise hotel in Zurich where I joined her and took full advantage of the amenities while she worked. There was a penthouse pool, complete with a sauna, which I didn’t realize was unisex and full nude until I was making determined eye contact with a naked man. Oops.

While Megan was working I wandered all up and down the city, which is beautiful. The streets are impeccably clean, the river (and eventual lake) are crystal clear, and the city barely bustles, rather it seems to flow, with the precision and poise I have come to expect from the Swiss. The traffic was perfectly maintained and the bikers, walkers, and drivers coexisted harmoniously. I think I heard one car honk in the space of five days. All of these things contributed to the vibe of this pristine city. The immaculate streets were filled with beautiful buildings, lovely gardens, and healthy, well-dressed people.

Zurich from the University. I think I walked up 10,000 stairs to reach this spot. Was it worth it?

Megan and I knew that the city, in addition to being an aesthetic marvel, would be cost-prohibitive. I came from France with several sandwiches, several bottles of wine, and a large assortment of produce. I also brought my water bottle, which allowed me to take advantage of the most impressive and delightful detail of the city. All over Zurich you can find water fountains. This is already exceptional, but these water fountains were especially excellent. They were beautiful to look at, and they piped cold, refreshing Swiss spring water from a nearby forest. Classy. I lost my mind over this feature and drank so much of the amazing water that I spent the whole of the trip looking for free bathrooms. Not so easily found. I also started taking pictures of the fountains, which will now be displayed and rated, at the request of no one. There were many more, but I started taking pictures late in the game and also forgot to stay dedicated.

Shadowy and had some litter in it, but 8/10 for being the original haunt of the man whose leg is pictured. Megan and I would see him at least three more times.

A top notch fountain, 9/10. Peep the dolphin. Nice.

Not running and slowly becoming a trash receptacle but 6/10 for existence.

10/10 for statuesque drinking.

This one was near our hotel and I frequented it. 10/10: gold spigot//bird of prey statue.

Was too intimidated to use this stunner, 9/10. Loses one point for approachability.

Not actually functioning but 3/10 for the thought.

Look at that crystal clear water. 8/10 because the reachable spigot wasn’t working.

My favorite fountain, hands down. 10/10 for great shape and perfect placement on a sunny, uphill walk.

Shadowy pic of a good courtyard fountain. Didn’t drink from it, but 7/10 for delicate spigot work.

A good one. Basin style, multiple spigots. 7/10.

Not very beautiful but steady drip and was discovered at a moment of true thirst. 6/10.

 

Megan and I spent an evening at the thermal baths which is on brand for this post and was a luxurious, bubbly treat. We also admired the swimming spots all along the river, and can only conclude that Zurich is a great place for a good soak.

Snug as bugs in our hotel bed, watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, which is obviously 10/10. Unlike the movie Water World, which I despise.

Timberlove

Abby recreates the 20/20 Experience

Cannot waste a trip to the optometrist y’all

A separate visit.

People here ask me somewhat often if I am homesick. “It must be hard being so far from home,” they say. “No,” I answer, “I don’t mind.” This is mostly true. And it’s the correct response, after all. When people offer these kinds of niceties, it is not because they want you to pour your heart out to them; you aren’t really supposed to take the bait.

I would say that overall, I am not homesick, which is why it comes as a surprise when I do experience a wave of homesickness. I am surprised by the feeling, its strength, and usually, its origin. The things that move me are unexpected and seemingly unsentimental, but they trigger such deep feelings of loss that I can’t deny them, even in their absurdity.

My most recent bout of uncontrollable homesickness came on while I was sitting on a bench, eating a cookie and listening to Justin Timberlake. I was having a very nice day, and the cookie was very good, but suddenly, MIRRORS started to play, and as the (synth?) orchestra swelled, I found myself fully crying, cookie in mouth. Even though Mirrors is, without question, one of the most perfect songs ever created, I wasn’t moved to tears by its sheer beauty. Mirrors is a matter of grave importance in my family, where it is an anthem of affection. Megan, Alex, Abby, Austin and I are bound by our relation to one another, but we are united by our love for JT, and for Mirrors, above all. Many gatherings have ended with an unrequested rendition, and although we have sung it many times, I don’t think any of us knows anything but the chorus. Sitting on a cold bench, weeping, I suddenly felt so alone. “I am the only person here who understands Mirrors,” I thought, and was devastated.

My cry was pretty involved so I listened to the song twice, but the radio edit, not the super-long original version. I texted my sisters some of the more sentimental bits of the song, in all caps, to illustrate my sincerity. I DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU NOW. I’M LOOKING RIGHT AT THE OTHER HALF OF ME. Then I spent a while thinking about Justin Timberlake and how much I love his music, even “Señorita.” This was before the Super Bowl, which I did not watch, and which I hardly read about. I do know that people were upset about Justin Timberlake’s performance, and feel that it was tone-deaf to the current cultural climate. This may well be true, but when I see the words tone-deaf and Justin Timberlake in the same sentence, all I think about is my own perfectly tone-deaf choir, singing Mirrors, and I am grateful.

I was hoping that writing this post would help me to exorcise some of my JT-inspired homesickness, and of course, to document my devotion to Mirrors. I also want to use this space to say that I don’t know if any of my siblings follow this blog with regularity, but if they do, they should know: you are, you are, the love of my life.

 

 

Christmas/New Years: Megan and Alex Visit

Before I begin writing about my time with my treasured international guests, I want to give a shoutout to my newest (and second) follower, my mama. Hi mom! Thanks for following my blog, and for loving me even if it’s trash.

My two-week Christmas vacation kicked off on December 22nd, when I took a train to Paris, two days ahead of Megan and Alex. There was a very sick child on the train, which is all I have to say about that. I arrived at my hostel Friday evening and spent most of the night rolling around in my bunk listening to a very bad and loud band play covers of the important hits: the Macarena was played twice. I arrived in Paris ahead of Megan and Alex so that I could take advantage of my Pass éducation, which grants me free access to all national monuments and museums. Thus, in the interest of getting my money’s worth, on Saturday I visited the Louvre, Le Musée de l’Orangerie, the Musée d’Orsay, and the Palais Royal, to which I never found the entrance. Walking around Paris by myself was fun and I enjoyed the freedom of visiting the galleries at my own pace, glossing over the things I find boring and spending more time with the things that really captivate me. And maybe, listening to Drake.

Me acting like a child in the Louvre. Pearls before swine.

Felt like a trick

My second night in the hostel, I snagged a pair of earplugs, my first, and slept like a baby. The next morning, Megan and Alex arrived after a long series of planes, trains, and automobiles. Our first order of business was to walk to our Airbnb and then to explore until it was time for our Christmas Eve program to really begin. That evening we took a very touristy and extremely fun boat tour along the Seine. It was a new way to see all of the bridges that cross the river and the major sights that flank it. The tour guide was very good at her job, succinctly describing everything in perfectly timed French and English. As we passed the Eiffel Tower, it lit up and began to sparkle in the darkness. “She has the button for that shit,” Alex said, and I think he was right. This was also a good place to drink tallboys, which, I am now wondering, would be called boaties, instead of roadies?  After our tour, we walked about 35 minutes to a restaurant where we had made a reservation for a traditional Christmas dinner. This is not a food blog and I couldn’t do justice to how delicious our dinner was, but suffice it to say, we had a long and lovely meal, and rang in Christmas five pounds heavier. We FaceTimed with mom and dad (first feature, mom) and realized that we looked like weird triplets, so we dedicated some time to capturing that look before bed.

Booze cruise

Our album comes out in 2019

Us after facetiming with Mom and Dad and realizing we look like weird triplets

Megan and Alex arrive in style

 

Christmas Day was spent wandering around the city, seeing some sights and attending to Megan and Alex’s jetlag, and my own sympathetic sleepiness. On the 26th we visited Vaux le Vicomte, which is a lovely privately owned chateau with a very interesting history. An unhappy one. The weather was bad but the gardens and fountains were excellent, and were improved by the presence of Megan and Alex who are able to identify and discuss plants and grading in a way that I find equal parts captivating and baffling. The interior of the chateau was decorated for Christmas, but ultimately the effect was creepy and noxious. Each room was a staggering display of Christmas kitsch, complete with enormously fragrant trees, colorfully sprayed with some chemical that certainly reduced the number of Christmases we will experience.

A picture is worth a thousand words. This one says: I have something in my teeth.

Alex on brand

The chateau as seen from across the gardens

Perhaps this is Neptune

The following day we continued our castle garden inspiration tour and went to Versailles. The weather was worse, as there was some rain and I had previously trashed my malfunctioning umbrella in a fit of rage, but the chateau was incredible. Apparently I didn’t take very many good pictures of the gardens, but this is not surprise, as we mostly dedicated our time there to drinking a bottle of wine, and eating a galette des rois, though a little prematurely. Alex found la fève and was therefore king for a day, complete with castle. In this way, I learned the phrase “dilly dilly.” Miss you, America.

King and Queen

His dilly dilliest

I always think this is interesting. Maybe it’s not.

In the hall of mirrors, paying tribute to our family god, Justin Timberlake

Alex and his hero, André Le Nôtre

The pose, recycled

The next few days saw us to Colmar, the town where I live, and from which we traveled to Freiburg, Strasbourg, and to a nearby ski resort, where none of us skied. We embarked with every intention of doing so, but upon our arrival and my subsequent utter meltdown about the “tire-fesse,” we decided to try our hand at showshoeing. It was a success. We also had a running game of gin for the entirety of the trip, but after Megan and Alex left, I discovered that the deck had been tampered with, and therefore the entire tournament is void. This matter can only be resolved via a second visit.

Peak snowshoe

We played

a lot

of cards

 

 

Feeling Fomotional

FOMO is a recent term for a well-established feeling. The fear of missing out. FOMO strikes anytime that you make a decision that precludes the possibility of other options, which is practically all of the time. When I left for France, I was distressed by the certainty of future FOMO. I feared missing weddings, births, holidays, and the less-celebrated but equally important daily pleasures; laying on the couch next to my sisters, drinking 16 ounce coffees, being a proficient eavesdropper. Unfortunately, staying in America gave me another vague, but compelling feeling of FOMO. I couldn’t even imagine the things that I would be missing out on if I didn’t leave.

Even though it has the qualities of a good abbreviation (fun to say, internal rhyme,) I take issue with FOMO, because it doesn’t really extend far enough. FOMO only refers to the fear of missing out, but not to the confirmation of said fear. When I came to France, I was not only afraid of missing out, I was certain I would, and I have. This past Thursday was Thanksgiving, and the knowledge of everything I was missing out on had me feeling “fomotional,” which I have decided is the extension of FOMO, but which is more classically referred to as loss.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and it is also distinctly American. It is not observed outside of North America (which makes sense) and it cannot really be properly replicated. The bizarre pre-made staples of the Thanksgiving table don’t exist here, and I am not a deft enough home cook to make my own cranberry sauce. It was this thought that really stirred my fomotional pot on Thursday; the absence of King’s Hawaiian Rolls and endless Libby’s products made me feel profoundly sad. It wasn’t the lack of their physical presence or taste (even though King’s Hawaiian Rolls are obviously delicious,) it was the fact that I couldn’t really talk about these items with anyone. No one knows what I’m talking about. For some reason, this silly thought wielded an enormous feeling of loneliness.

Maybe though, that is the root of all homesickness. There are things that we miss, physically, like processed foods that can only be made from harvested amber waves of grain, but more than that, we miss the cultural knowledge and acceptance of these items, the familiarity. Fomotions were running high as I sat on a park bench, prowling social media for glimpses of people’s Thanksgiving tables and, inexplicably, listening to “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” by John Denver, which has nothing to do with my life in the United States, but seemed broadly on theme.

This moment, wallowing in public, listening to John Denver on repeat, is probably the lowest that I have had in my time in France. Luckily I was interrupted by the presence of at least 100 children, suddenly freed from their classroom and running up and down the bike path where my bench was located. After a while I decided it was too cold to keep feeling sorry for myself outside, and I had better do it in a coffee shop. As I was walking, a young girl ran up to me and asked me if I would like to join them. “No thank you,” I told her in French. Surprised by my accent, she asked me if I was English. “I’m from the United States,” I answered.  “Did you come to France because Donald Trump is your president,” she asked, without a moment’s hesitation. “Yes,” I answered, with equal speed, and then laughed very hard.

I am so thankful for that very smart young girl, who reminded me that if I’m going to miss a Thanksgiving, it might as well be during the Trump years.  Because I didn’t have a platform (table) to cement the gratitude that I feel, I wanted to make a short list of things that I am thankful for, some of which I would have missed out on if I had stayed in America, some that I was able to bring with me, and some that I miss very much indeed.

This year I am thankful for:

My family, who deep-fried a turkey this Thanksgiving and all lived to tell the tale.

My roommates, who made a Thanksgiving meal with me on Friday, complete with a Spanish tortilla, a turkey gratin, sweet potatoes without marshmallows, and a bottle of wine from our region.

My students, who ran into the classroom in order to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving, with genuine excitement.

My friends, who celebrated all over the country this year, and who are perfect.

The country of France (and my number one Zaddy, Emmanuel Macron,) for letting me live here.

The town of Colmar for selling hot wine, which is a balm for all ailments. Except for medical ones.

The band Maroon 5, who has been good for so long, and I am just grateful for the consistency.

 

 

 

 

 

Eguisheim, and time goes by

Two trips to a nearby village, one month apart. Have not yet figured out how to imbed pictures in text.

October 7th

November 10th

 

On October 7th (shoutout to my phone for keeping track of the date,) my roommates and I boarded the bus to Eguisheim. This neighboring town has many things to attract local and foreign tourists. It is charming in accordance with the local style, half timbered houses, geraniums spilling out of window-boxes, cobblestone courtyards, etc. The village is set against a stunning backdrop of vine-covered mountains, complete with castle. All of these factors contribute to the fact that Eguisheim was voted “France’s Favorite Village” in 2013. Bea and Jenny and I took the bus to the town and spent a few hours walking around and pushing the envelope on how much wine you can reasonably sample before you need to buy a bottle. The town was full of tourists doing the same. After much sampling and one purchase, we headed out of the old city and up into the vineyards, where helpful signs guide you through the vines and give you some information on the origins of local wine. This was all very interesting, but the path had a very steep incline and we decided to abandon the vineyard ramble in favor of boarding the return bus. Unfortunately, as we were to discover, there was no return bus. This revelation led to an hour long panicked run-walk in the chilly dusk, through a variety of poorly marked fields and back roads, finally leading to salvation, in the form of a bus-stop. Buzzkill.

Me, Bea, and Jenny in Eguisheim, in October. White sneakers obviously on trend.

The vineyards and castle

 

A fine vine, with just a hint of fall coloring

 

On November 10th, I decided to take a bike ride back to Eguisheim. The ride isn’t very far but does following a series of directions that guide you from road to bike path to eurovelo route and utilize a vocabulary set that I am not familiar with. All of this to say, this was my second attempt at this bike ride; the first time I got profoundly lost. This time I translated the unknown terms before setting out, which turned out to be the key to success (duh,) and I was able to pinpoint my previous wrong turn. Things went smoothly and I arrived in Eguisheim with relative ease. As I approached the town, I was surprised, by the fact that I had correctly interpreted the directions, and by how changed the town was in the space of only one month. The throng of tourists had disappeared and the village was more or less empty. I walked my bike across the cobblestones and up into the vineyards, following the steep incline. As I had my bike, there was no worry of a dubious return trip, so I ate a sandwich in the vineyard and thought about the seasons. Like most people, I feel saddened by winter, especially how it plays out aesthetically. I wondered how I hadn’t previously noticed the stark nakedness of the vines, as I pass through the same vineyard on my daily bus ride. I thought of the same scene, only one month before and the profound degree of change. Maybe that is the difference between seeing change slowly over time and the striking revelation of direct comparison. I felt saddened by the altered landscape, the approach of winter, the promise of cold, the constant march of time and how hard my brain works to deny its relentless advances. But I guess it’s not all bad. After all, time goes by, but in that time I did learn how to correctly interpret a map.

 

Riding into Eguisheim on November 10th

 

A shitty picture, but still castley

      Winter coming to Eguisheim, evidenced by arctic deco

Stork alert

My bike and vines

Just trying to keep up with the times.

An American-inspired restaurant I spied on the way home. Complete with play-place.