Rebecca Michael's blog

Cold Nights . . .

9.9.08

Last night I was cold in bed.  I had several blankets piled on top of me and yet every so often the chilly air would settle on my face and send a shiver down my body.  It was nice.  Fall is around the corner and I have heard from various people how beautiful fall is here.  The New England snob in me scoffs a little bit on the inside because it’s hard for me to imagine any fall that could compare to the fiery reds, vibrant yellows and the rich oranges of a New England fall. I have been told that the aspens turn an intense yellow and that there is nothing like it, but I would argue that there is nothing like fall back home.  Truth be told, both statements could very well be true and it seems that there has not even been a satisfying autumn since before I studied in Dijon, which is now . . . three or four years ago.  I remember distinctly missing autumn when I was in Dijon and feeling so excited about the prospect of returning to the kind of fall I grew up with.  Then I got back the following year and it did not live up to my memories.  I suppose the problem is that I had certain expectations of what I would return to.  

In an attempt to preserve my ability to savor this time of year in Santa Fe, I am doing my best simply to not have expectations for what it will bring.  This strategy is my attempt to preempt any disappointment, for if there is nothing built up in my mind, whatever happens cannot be worse than the nothing.  I was telling Adi about all of this on Saturday as she and I drove up the mountain to the ski area for a nature adventure.  She agreed that the no expectations approach was a good plan, but also reassured me that I will enjoy autumn in this area.  

Our nature adventure, by the way, was just that.  Last weekend she went off for a hike with a friend of hers and afterwards told me that it was awesome and she found something super neat, but would not tell me what it was.  She wouldn’t tell me because she wanted to show me and that is what she did on Saturday.  The mysterious something is a big fort made out of big branches just off one of the trails.  It is kind of like a teepee made out of wood and you can sit inside of it.  There are also some parts to it on the outside that you can access by climbing the ladder that whoever constructed the structure also constructed.  It is clearly well made and sturdy.  Immediately it evoked a memory of Yellowstone National Park where my brother, sister and I discovered a similar structure on one of my family’s cross-country trips.  That structure, to the best of my memory, was more underground or at least not as built up into trees as this one was.  We took some pictures and hung out there for a while, laying on one of the decks looking up through the aspens at the blue sky.  It was one of those moments that would have been eternally satisfying.  Of course it did not last an eternity and eventually we journeyed on.

When Adi was there without me, she had not ventured much further than the structure.  This time she wanted to continue down the slope that it was built on to see what else we could find.  So up and off we went, barreling down the mountain until we hit a little stream.  I slipped at one point and my hand got a little scrapped up when I put it down to break my fall.  It was nothing serious but it stung and I figured that the best way to numb it would be sticking it in the clear, cool running water of the stream.  Umm, hm, “cool” does not really accurately represent the water.  No, the water was freezing cold and was perhaps more painful than the scrape.  We had had the foresight to bring my digital camera so we took some pictures, looked at some moss, swapped some stories about who knows what, and pressed on.  

Leaping from one side of the stream and then back to the other, we followed it for a while.  Not too far down we came upon a trail and decided to see where it would lead.  Full of fresh air and energy, we ran down the path through the woods until it suddenly opened up on a field that looked as though it belonged in a fairy tale, and that is no exaggeration.  The grass was a lush green and large trees and huge plants – some ferns, others I didn’t know, surrounded the opening.  The stream bordered the field on the left and there were actually two that came rushing out of the forest over rocks in two small waterfalls and converged by a large rock.  Bounding down towards the water I proclaimed my urge to jump in the water and Adi encouraged me to take off my shoes and socks and at least to stand in it.  While the clear, shallow water and sandy bottom of the stream were really appealing, I hesitated.  Then Adi took her shoes and socks off and I figured that I might as well follow suit.  I waited for her to test the water and she said it was cold, but also bearable and worth it.  I took a deep breath and stepped in.  “Not so bad,” I thought as I walked across to the other side where she was standing.  By the time I got to the other side, however, the cold had taken hold and I leapt out with a shriek.  We waded around a bit more.  Then we took turns taking pictures and laying in the sun.  

A giant rock on the other end of the clearing where the forest took over again was calling to me, so I ran off ahead to climb it.  Taking a few more pictures, Adi hung back but soon joined me at the top.  It was chilly and we realized that the day was slipping away from us.  A few more pictures for good measure and we headed back.  The return trip was easy and much quicker because we followed the trail directly back rather than following our own trail.  Having cut through the woods down a fairly steep slope, the return trip involved a great deal of uphill and thoroughly wore us out.  We got back to her car simultaneously exhausted and elated with what a fun afternoon in the woods it had turned out to be.  

It is so easy for me to lose track of how much enjoyment I can find in the forest doing nothing but walking, running, splashing, talking, exploring and being in nature.  The outdoors was such a huge part of my childhood in many ways – family camping trips, canoeing, hiking, the motor home, afternoons in the backyard, bike rides, etc.  Somewhere along the way, in adolescents I believe, I kind of forgot how to be and appreciate nature.  I guess I became preoccupied with adolescent stuff.  I’m glad that it was such a big part of my childhood and I’m glad that here other side of the teenage years I am able to find it again and again.  It also helps to be around other people who not only like it, but who react with such energy and enthusiasm as Adi and as my social circle here.  I like feeling excited about being connected to the earth.  Oh that sounds cheesy.  But whatever, it’s true.

You know what else I like?  I like teaching.  I can safely say that now that I have finished teaching my very first adult ESL class today.  I was feeling very nervous and also rather ambivalent about it all day today.  My students are the lowest level (other than basic literacy) and they are all native Spanish speakers (well, that is not entirely true, but to the best of my knowledge this afternoon it was).  Speaking not a single word of Spanish, I felt concern over my ability to communicate what I would need to with my students.  Of course not once did I teach a class in French last year, despite the fact that I could have, so my inability to speak Spanish theoretically does not matter.  But theory is theory, and the reality is that it was always comforting to know that worst-case scenario in France I could break into French and clear up any major confusion or issues.  I also felt very unsure of how much to plan, and what to focus on.  The class is two to two and a half hours long (depending on if anyone can show up early), which is a long time.  It is especially a long time to drill the same five sentences over and over again.  I mean, drilling isn’t really the best or only teaching tool available to me and two hours is nice in that it gave me a lot of time for a lot of different activities.  My nervousness there came from whether or not I could come up with those activities and whether or not I could explain the instructions easily enough.  Oh, and when I get nervous, I talk more and I talk faster.  That’s a great way to help my non-English speaking students – talk more and more in half-sentences that are mumbled and to myself quickly because I realize that they are not understanding and I am sinking fast.  

As I planned my lesson I tried not to focus on any of that.  Because we had made the decision to continue registration this week, I decided not to use the book at all.  I also decided to err on the side of too easy and very repetitive.  One of my big concerns was making sure that the students felt welcome and not too scared of the fact that class will be taught entirely in English.  To this end I bought candy and a ball to throw around a bit.  I planned a lesson that would focus on introductions.  I made myself notes and wrote down important things to remember, such as “model everything I want them to do.”  I arrived very early and was able to breathe a bit before everything got going.

As I could have anticipated, when class began everyone was rather quiet and shy.  The silence, blank stares and realization that they have no clue what I am saying always causes a panic to wash over me.  I became a bit flustered and started to doubt my lesson plan.  I started in on, “Hi, my name is Becky.  What’s your name?” and went through that a few times.  Then I remembered that I wanted them to write their names on an index card so that I could take a picture of them holding up their name.  I am terrible with names and really, really want to learn them as soon as I can.  Pictures help.  Whipping the camera out, I tried in vane to explain that I wanted pictures to help with names.  I’m assuming that when I held up my card in front of me to show what I wanted them to do, they figured out what I was doing.  Again I felt a moment of panic and feared that I was going to totally embarrass, confuse and scare them.  Then I decided just to focus on telling them to give me pretty smiles in the picture.  I did so by grinning the biggest, cheesiest grin I could muster as I said, “give me a beautiful smile Ana!  What!?  Ana?  Where’s the smile!?”  I went through that whole bit with everyone and it actually got them laughing.  Some speak more English than others and so there was some murmuring in Spanish that seemed to help clarify things for people.  Once I got through taking everyone’s photo, I felt more relaxed and the class also seemed to be a little more at ease.

We went back to the sentences and practiced some more.  I had everyone stand up, and then I stood on a chair so that I could see them (oh how professional I am).  I had my trusty bag of candy in hand and got one person’s attention.  “Hi, my name is Becky, what’s your name?” I asked.  Maribel answered and I asked if she wanted a piece of candy.  I asked the whole class if I should give her one.  They seemed to agree she earned it, so I threw it to the back of the room where she was.  Candy throwing never falls to get a laugh out of a class, so there was some more laughter.  Then, instead of calling on someone else, I asked Maribel to pick someone and ask him or her his or her name.  Once she did, I asked her if that person should get a piece of candy.  Once I threw the second person the candy, I let Maribel sit down.  We continued on with this until no one was left standing and everyone had a piece of candy.  The exercise was helpful for me because it indicated a few people who are clearly struggling more than the rest.  The few people I am thinking of seemed a bit confused as to what the question was and what the answer was.  There were also two or three who were clearly having trouble pronouncing the words.  Hopefully I did not embarrass them too much.  It’s helpful for me to know who they are.

As we were going through the various exercises, a few new students trickled in here and there.  One of them was a Chinese guy who will actually not be in my class in the future; he was with me today because the other ESL teacher was doing registration, so I took her students.  We moved on and learned how to ask where someone is from and how to answer it.  One of the activities that I wanted to do involves breaking the class into two circles, forming an inner and outer circle.  The inner circle faces the outer circle and everyone should have a partner.  They were to introduce themselves to their partner using what we had learned.  Then once they finished, everyone in the inner circle would step to their right and introduce himself or herself to the new partner.  Well, talk about complicated to explain.  I started out by making everyone go in the hall with me because there just wasn’t room in the classroom.  That was fine and it was actually a relief because the hallway was cool and the classroom was hot.  Then I set up the circles, which involved physically moving some people around.  I tried my very best to demonstrate what I wanted to have happen and it worked until they had to rotate.  The rotation just led to chaos and they ended up randomly introducing themselves in what was more a lumpy mass than two organized circles.  But really, they practiced, they were up and moving and they were out of the classroom for a bit, so in the end it wasn’t a total failure.

Continuing to fly by the seat of my pants (for my “lesson plan” had been a bit too much of a rough sketch to serve me beyond a very general idea of what I wanted to get done), we went back into the room and worked on, “I speak __________.”  Seeing as all but one of my students are native Spanish speakers, it didn’t really last very long.  Xue Liang got to say he speaks Chinese, and I got to say that I speak English and French.  I also made everyone say that they speak Spanish and English, which caused them to all laugh a bit.  I insisted that by being in my classroom they spoke English – at the very least five sentences.  Feeling a little worried about filling the rest of class and being too boring/repetitive, I gave a five-minute break.  Being the genius that I am, I had forgotten to tell them that they needed to stay in or right outside of my classroom so after making a huge deal of saying “FIVE MINUTES,” I ended up chasing several of them down the hall.  One of the more advanced students said, “five minutes already!?” with a wink and a laugh.  I was able to corral them back to the classroom area and show them the bathrooms that are closest to us.  

My little forgetful moment reminded me that I needed to tell them a few basic rules/procedures, so after break I went over things like “stay here during break” and where the bathrooms are.  I also took that time to go remind them that class takes place Tuesday and Thursday from 5:45-8:00PM.  Wanting to make extra-sure that it was clear and also wanting to show them that I know how hard learning a new language is, I asked one of the guys in the front how to say Tuesday and Thursday in Spanish.  They got a kick out of it.  Then I turned to Xue Liang and in one of those moments where my memory kicks in and astounds me with what is tucked away in my brain, I said, “and in Chinese it’s xingxi . . .” and forget the last part.  Well, let me tell you, they were all impressed that I knew that much and again we got some laughter in.  Xue Liang reminded me of how to say it.  Then I asked how to say 5:45 in Spanish – much harder than the days of the week.  I finished up class by throwing the ball around in the circle and having everyone ask each other one question from the lesson.  It seemed to go fairly well.  As they exited I stood by the door and offered one last piece of candy to them all.  I know there were a few women who were rather lost and having a really hard time, but my hope is that they felt welcomed, cared for and relaxed enough that they won’t be scared off.  

Oh, the other interesting thing that happened is that the custodian popped in and hung out for a while.  Last week he was talking with another ESL teacher who was helping with registration and who speaks Spanish.  She told him that I’d be teaching level one and his eyebrows went up when she also told him that I don’t speak Spanish.  He was very curious as to how I would pull that one off, and the other teacher simply said that we use a lot of gestures and pictures.  He still seemed a bit skeptical and when he popped in today, I invited him to have a seat and to hang out if he could.  He ended up staying for a little while and we made sure to include him.  I get the impression that his English is a little better than most of the class, but it didn’t really matter much.  Technically if he wants to be part of my class he would have to register.  He also might actually be on the clock and therefore not really able to be in class, but I told him that he is always welcome to join us.

I guess what amazes, fascinates and excites me about teaching is how much goes into any given class.  I suppose that is why I am so addicted to journaling about it and writing down all of these details, reflections, thoughts and stories that are most likely boring to anyone other than myself.  I’m not trying to be conceited talking about how much we laughed or how successful various things where (really, there was a lot of chaos and a decent amount of disorganization in what happened in my class tonight).  I’m just trying to sift through the layers of what happened/happens to figure out what works and how it works (was it successful in teaching them new vocab/expressions? was it successful in achieving my goal of welcoming my students? was there some other goal that I hadn’t consciously considered? etc.).  I am sure that the majority of the class missed the majority of what I actually said tonight.  But, that is part of immersion and of jumping into a new language.  I get tomorrow off and then have to continue on with them Thursday.  I hope they all come back.

Hm, last thing to note here is that I finally was able to submit my application to be a substitute teacher for the public schools so hopefully I’ll be getting called soon and finally get a foot in the door here, which more hopefully will lead to something a little more concrete, long-term.

Life At The Beach House

One-Hour Commute to France

9.6.08

I had a dream last night that I was at Lise and J’s apartment, helping put Lise to bed.  In the dream I realized that I had been doing these for several days, commuting to their apartment in the evening to spend a little time with her and to make sure she got to bed safely.  She must have been a little younger in the dream than she is in real life because in real life I never actually had to put her to bed (though I did have to nag her to turn her light off and to actually get some sleep).  In the dream I was happy to be there with her and thinking about how I didn’t mind stopping by every evening even though I no longer lived there and was not paid for it.  Then I started to think about how it took me an hour to get there and to worry that maybe it wasn’t sustainable because of the price of gas.  Now I am awake and thinking about how wonderful it would be if Paris were only an hour’s commute from here.  I would definitely spend the money to go all the time.

I am sure the reason this dream constructed itself last night is because I e-mailed both Lise and J two days ago to say hi and to give them a brief update on my life.  I have e-mailed with Lise a few times since being back in the States but it was the first e-mail I sent to J.  I seem to have a bad case of the “people hate me” complex and have convinced myself on some level that J didn’t really like me and kind of just put up with having me in her house for the year.  She wrote back yesterday morning and said “nous sommes ravies d’avoir tes nouvelles,” which means that they were delighted to hear from me.  Stupid complex, of course she doesn’t hate me.  She sent a nice little note about their summer adventures and it was so clearly J that it made me smile.  I heard back from Lise this morning.  She’s starting high school this year and she told me all about it.  Strange to think that one year ago I didn’t even know them.  Also strange to think that I lived with them for a year and then one day just went home.  I mean, the day was planned and all (duh), but I could so easily just disappear from their lives never to be heard from again.

I have gotten quite good at the disappearing act recently it seems.  I guess growing up in the same town does not quite give you the opportunity to attempt it or to need it or to play around with it at all, and when I left for college I was still so attached to my past that I was terrified to let go of it and to lose it.  These days I find a different kind of comfort in coming and going, losing touch, watching invisibly, forgetting, neglecting and erasing myself from places I’ve been and people I’ve known.  Sometimes when I lose touch with someone for a while I fear that they are going to be upset with me, and so the longer I am out of touch, the scarier it is to try to reconnect.  There are other people who don’t intimidate me that way and it’s always fun to send or receive a random e-mail reminding me that there are people all over this world with whom I’ve shared experiences and moments of my life.  I am generally up front these days with people about the fact that I can be rather out of sight out of mind about relationships.  It sounds awful when I put it down on paper like this.  To give myself a little slack here, I will admit that it partly has to do with the fact that I am much better about living my life in the present these days rather than clinging to the comfort of moments already lived and therefore safe and understandable.

Sometimes I wonder if my newfound ability to disappear is indicative of an inability to connect, to trust, to truly open myself to other people.  This thought sounds depressing and the fact that I can just as easily slip out of touch with my family and my best friends when I am not living in close proximity to them makes me think that I’m not entirely incapable of emotional relationships.  I did realize the other day that it is easier for me to have love affairs with places than with people.  It seems like a paradox for me because when I think of this past year in Paris, one of the big waves of thoughts that washes over me is, “Oh man I loved my third year students – they were just so awesome!  Oh and my little tiny Thursday afternoon class . . . they were so much fun and so adorable and so great to work with!  Well, all of my first year classes were adorable really!  Damn and those second year kids I had second semester . . .”  This line of thinking, of course, refers to groups of people and to students with whom I had a very particular relationship.  I was a certain version of myself and I knew them in a very specific way.  Granted I pushed and blurred the teacher-student line a bit and ended up hanging out with many of them outside of the classroom once I was done being their teacher.  Even so, it was . . . particular.  

Maybe what I love about places is that you can love them without worrying about whether or not they will love you back.  Hell you don’t even have to worry about whether or not they will like you back.  They just are.  They are there and I can do with them whatever I want.  It is up to me to figure them out; it is up to me to find my place inside of them or to pass through them.  When I leave they won’t get mad if I don’t stay in touch and I can always go back without wondering if they want me back.  Sure they will change over time, just like me, but I can still go back looking for the familiar.  Places don’t move and I don’t have to keep track of where they are headed off to this year.  Falling in love with a place allows me to be as much or as little of an egomaniac as I want.  It allows me to be as much of an observer as I want and to choose my level of participation.  The people who make up a place fascinate me, and being able to connect with them on whatever level I can certainly adds to the way I experience a place.  But it’s not necessarily establishing long-lasting relationships with the people that makes the place what it means to me.  In fact, sometimes it is the fleeting, brief interactions that get stored away as small pieces of what Paris or Dijon or Strasbourg or Santa Fe or Worcester is that are so precious to me.

In some ways I think that this theory is complete bullshit.  It came into my head the other day and I’ve been teasing it out a bit.  I love people too, but I guess maybe I am more guarded with people in general and that’s the difference.  Cities don’t judge, cities can only break my heart as much as I let them, cities don’t care to know my secrets or stories but let me create more of them thanks to our relationships.  Relationships with people are satisfying and one of my favorite activities is spending a long, leisurely, late night swapping stories and dreams and fantasies and ideas and secrets with another human being in the safety of the night.  Relationships with places are easier to manage and simultaneously so much more and so much less about me.  I remember that on the very first day of my “Paris in Arts and Lit” class my sophomore year in college the professor began simply by asking us to discuss what a big city means and what it feels like to be in a city.  At the time my city experience was rather limited and I was stuck in the mindset of “have to impress professor, have to be smart, have to understand the material and get good grades,” so I was a little confused by the vagueness and openness of his question.  I didn’t have much to say but I do remember how excited he got as he and some of the other students talked about feeling tiny and insignificant, feeling awed and dwarfed, feeling lost and found all at the same time.  In some ways it seems a shame that I took that class before living in Paris, but actually I think it was a really great way to introduce me to the city and to get me primed for my then unknown to me rendez-vous with Paris.  Huh, I went to Paris, the city of love and romance, and did indeed fall head over heels in love.  My love affair was just with the city itself.

No Big Rivers In The Desert . . .

9.5.08

From day one in Paris Marannie insisted that I invest in an 8E map of Paris.  When I say map, I don’t mean a complicated to fold roadmap type map, but a street map, the kind that comes in a handy little book that fits nicely in your purse.  I didn’t have a purse and I was adamant that I did not need to spend 8E on a map when I could just as easily navigate using metro maps and the Internet.  It drove her a little crazy from time to time because small streets are not marked on metro maps and it’s true that the 8E map would have allowed me to find very specific addresses as opposed to general areas.   But I rather enjoyed getting mildly lost and finding my own way around.  

When I wasn’t looking for specific addresses and ventured out in Paris simply to explore, I very rarely got disoriented.  I could almost always figure out which direction the Seine was from where I stood and that allowed me to figure out how to get home – of course sometimes I ended up getting home taking very, um, interesting, scenic routes that would not have made sense had I been looking at a map.  Using the Seine, my intuition and allowing myself to get lost was how I came to really know and appreciate Paris.  That is how Paris became my city and that is how I worked my way into the cityscape for a year.  One afternoon in the spring Lise came along with me for one of my daily walks and I spent a fair amount of the walking quizzing her, “Ok Lise, where is the Eiffel Tower in reference to where we are standing?  And Invalides?  And the Seine?  So to get home we would have to walk in which direction?”  

Katie left for work around noon today and I was alone at the house.  I had some cookie dough from last night that needed to be formed and baked as well as a few odds and ends to take care of.  By 1PM I had gotten most of what I needed to do done and decided that today would be the day that I actually walk down to the Plaza.  Walking down there and back has been on my list of things to do since before moving here, but it never quite works out.  Some days I’ll procrastinate so much that by the time I leave for a walk I don’t have enough time to get there and back and do whatever else is waiting for me in the later evening.  Other days other activities will pop up – a shoe shopping adventure, a job interview, cleaning, etc.  I tried once very early on but it was hot and after about fifty minutes of walking I gave up, turned around and came back.  Katie and I almost did that walk last week, but we didn’t go quite as far as the Plaza because by the time we got downtown we were both hot, tired and ready to head back.

And so with no one to distract me and nothing pressing to do, I set my mind to it and headed out at 1:14PM this afternoon.  The air was almost vaguely chilly and I came close to turning around to grab a sweatshirt, but once I was out the door I felt the need to press on.  It’s a good thing that I did not get a sweatshirt because by the time I was on Cerrillos and no longer protected by shade, it was hot.  I knew I could take Cerrillos all the way down to downtown and when I got there I made a few random turns, but eventually stumbled across the Plaza.  There was a lot of activity and people everywhere.  Suddenly I felt like I was almost in a city again.  It was nice.  When I decided it was time to head back, I wanted to find Agua Fria.  I had a sense of which way to walk but then it hit me, there is no big river cutting through the middle of Santa Fe for me to use as a reference point.  I also have not been very active in exploring the city by foot.  Luckily I have enough of a sense of how to navigate and found the street without much difficulty.  

The walk home was easy enough, although I was rather under-hydrated and the sun was intense.  Once I got back I was thoroughly drained of energy and the very intense sunburn that I am currently sporting is a reminder of part of the reason I haven’t been spending my days exploring Santa Fe on foot.    

Hard To Believe . . .

9.3.08

It is September and I’m having trouble grasping the fact that summer months are over and autumn is around the corner.  When I went to bed last night my room was cold and my blankets were not quite sufficient to keep me warm.  Falling asleep posed no problem but I awoke several times in the morning shivering and yet too tired to do anything about it.  When I finally rolled out of bed the house was quiet and empty – Katie was still in her room – and the day was gray, wet and cold.  

This week is the week that schools are starting up again and part of me is jealous and sad to know that so many people are there and I am not.  The other part of me just cannot believe it; it still feels like summer and every day is the weekend.  I am sure there are many people out there who would gladly trade lives with me.  Day after day of little to no responsibility and enough money saved up in the bank that I only get stressed out about my money situation every so often, it looks really good on paper.  But I am my mother’s daughter and I find the emptiness and the lack of things to do frustrating and saddening.  I reference my mom because she’s big on accomplishing things and getting things done.  And my mom is really good at finding ways to occupy herself and I’m trying hard to do the same.  I wash dishes very often and straighten up the house.  Cookie baking continues to be a regular event in these parts and I’ve been pretty good at daily walks to get me out of the house.  By evening time I can usually find people to hang out with (mostly Katie and Adi).  Yesterday I did laundry, today I did some work in my room, but it’s just not the same as having structure, responsibility, expectations, goals, etc.  

Adi told me to use this time to work on my hobbies.  My immediate internal reaction was, “Um, I’m really boring and don’t have any, so free time scares me.”  Part of my external reaction was, “a lot of hobbies cost money and while I’m not on the verge of going broke, I do need to be somewhat conscious of the fact that my savings are not endless.”  Perhaps that’s a bad excuse for me not being able to motivate myself more.  I mean, I go up and down, back and forth and sometimes I think that having a job will suck because then I won’t have so much free time.  The grass is always greener, I suppose.  The landscape here is mostly dirt and there are endless variations of browns, tans and reds.  I guess I just need to look at the dirt below my feet and focus on how beautiful it is to be standing where I am.  

Of course me being me, my brain is getting clogged with memories of last September.  Ramadan, getting to know Guy and Ikram, throwing myself back into the French language and starting to walk through my new neighborhood, becoming so comfortable at Guy and Ikram’s that I did not want to leave, the Rugby world cup, Ikram’s birthday, etc.  If I could live last year over again, I would do it in a heartbeat.  It makes me happy to feel so nostalgic about it and the fact that I already have friends and feel comfortable in my home here bodes well for how I will remember this September.  

I think I had more to say and it is escaping me now.  I’m happy autumn is arriving.  I love chilly air, scarves, cold mornings with hot coffee and such.  Oh, I know, I was also going to say how my jealously is coupled with happiness for others who are starting out on new academic/school-related journeys right now, even if I am not.  I heard from one of my South High students a few weeks ago.  She has graduated from high school and is starting college.  I am excited to get an e-mail from her telling me how she is doing.  I have also been in touch with the guy who is taking over my job in Versailles and while I wish I were there instead of him, I’m wishing him and my former students there well.  I am very curious to hear about how that goes.  Adi is starting a job as a teaching assistant in a pre-school.  Her four-year-olds had their first day yesterday.  Margo, who I have known since she was ten months old, began high school yesterday and Jayne just skipped third grade to begin fourth.  There is so much potential and possibility right in front of all of them.  I know that there is potential and possibility for me too, but for them it is much more tangible and real and I am trying to reconcile my jealously and excitement for them.

Anyway, I put some posters up in my room and now the sun is out so I should go for a walk while it is safe to do so.  

Not in France, Not in School . . .

8.29.08

I Want A Job . . .

I received an e-mail two days ago from the boy who is going to France this year to take over my job at the University of Versailles.  He has e-mailed me a few times with questions about the position and the procedures involved in getting there.  Every time I hear from him there is a part of me that wants to scream, “NOOOOOOOOOO, you are NOT allowed to go!  That is MY job!  Those are MY students!  Paris is MY home and I want to go back.  YOU need to go away and give me my life back.”  Of course the rational, logical side of me responds to him with as much friendliness and helpfulness as I can muster.  I know that the job was only mine for one year and I know that it is a pain in the ass to get everything ready to go over and therefore I feel very strongly that it is my responsibility to do what I can to help him before he goes there.  I want my position to be as enjoyable for him as it was for me and I want to help him minimize the stress involved in getting there.  But still, I get very nostalgic and jealous whenever I hear from him.  The e-mail he sent this time around was in regards to his visa.  It reminded me of the drama and stress involved in getting my visa.

Nostalgia also snuck up and attacked me in the kitchen yesterday.  For no reason in particular, I started looking through the calendar we have hanging on the wall.  The calendar has all of the holidays for many different religions marked in it, and when I flipped to September I saw the beginning of Ramadan marked.  BAM, nostalgia.  Why?  Because during the period of Ramadan last year I was living with Guy and Ikram and Ikram observed Ramadan by fasting every day and breaking the fast at sundown with a huge meal.  Despite the fact that I did not fast with Ikram, she always invited me to eat with her.  She made a traditional Moroccan soup and Guy, who is a chef, would often prepare other delicious things to eat with the soup.  Ikram’s mother had sent her some very, very sweet Moroccan pastries and we ate those too.  We ate in the living room and watched TV.  These meals were a big part of what helped me to feel at home and at ease living with Guy and Ikram.  

I’m trying to honor my nostalgia and to allow myself to dip into those memories and the gentle sadness that accompanies them, while continuing to live my life here.  I remind myself time and time again that I made the decision to leave France and had I stayed, it would not have been what it was.  It’s a little hard at the moment given that I don’t have very much in the way of things to do here.  I have been hired as a part-time ESL teacher at Santa Fe Community College.  I spent three hours in training/meeting yesterday and we start up next week.  I only work two nights a week for two hours each night.  It’s more than nothing, but it’s not enough.  It’s not enough money and it’s not enough to keep me busy.  I substitute taught one day last week for one of the French teachers at Santa Fe Prep – a private school.  It was the very first day of school and I taught two 30-minute classes.  I walked away feeling simultaneously exhilarated and sad.  Being in front of a class, speaking in French and just being in a school is what I found so exhilarating.  Realizing that they were not my classes and that I wouldn’t be returning on a regular basis made me sad.

In fact, it is very, very strange and disorienting for me to not have something academic beginning in my life right now.  It is the end of August, though the way my life is going these days I don’t really keep track of the date these days, and schools are starting up again.  The French word for this is “la rentree” (though the rentree in France won’t be for another month or so).  In an attempt to cheer me up, one might suggest that my ESL position is teaching and is starting up right at the same time as other schools, but it just does not feel the same.  Wow, this is making me a lot sadder than I thought it would.  I think I need to stop writing for a little bit.  

How Quickly and Oddly It Can Strike . . .

8.7.08

The moral of my story that I always forget is that I need at least a week to freak out and to completely doubt myself whenever I arrive someplace new.  Ok, that’s not really a moral; it’s my pattern.  Perhaps the fact that recently it seems to take only about a week for me to feel mostly at ease and at least comfortable in the discomfort of transition is proof that I am growing up a bit.  It was startling to watch myself slip so far away from myself last week though.  There were a few really low days when all I wanted to do was to sit around and stare at the wall.  Or maybe all I wanted to do was to return to Paris and all I could bring myself to do was to sit around and stare at the wall.  I felt as though I was twelve years old again and the most uninteresting, boring, uninspiring human being on earth.  I could not find reasons why anyone would want to hold a conversation with me and I couldn’t even figure out how to relax enough around new people to feel like they weren’t all wondering what was wrong with me.  Becky slipped away and was replaced with Katie’s-little-twelve-year-old-who-doesn’t-even-know-how-to-be-herself-or-who-herself-is-sister.  Let me tell you that is heavy.  It is also frustrating to feel that way at the age of almost 24.

But, like I started to say, the good news is that about a week after those few really low days during which I cried more than I did during my entire ten months in Paris, I have bounced back and while I am still worried about finding a job and while I still want to find venues through which to make my own friends, I have remembered who I am and I no longer want to spend my days curled up in a ball hating everyone.  On Monday morning Katie helped me drive around handing out cover letters and my resume to various private schools in the area.  While none of the schools are currently hiring, I was able to speak with some of the principals and hopefully I made a good impression.  A few of them were very interested in keeping me on file as a substitute teacher, which at the very least could bring in a little money and get me known in the schools.  Tutoring also seems to be a possibility and there might be some clerical work that I could do at one of the schools too.  If nothing else, I was reminded what a difference it makes to look someone in the eye, to smile and to at the very least pretend to be full of confidence.  After the first school the fake confidence was replaced with real confidence because it went so well.  I am just bouncing all over the place emotionally here.

I did just have a very unexpected, very sharp moment of “I miss France!”  It was actually simply “I miss Europe!”  I was looking around on facebook to kill some time because I don’t have anything in particular that I need to be doing right now and since I am at a coffee shop with Internet, I am taking advantage of it.  I looked at a picture that someone had put up of Eva in front of a door and something about the picture, Eva and the way she and her friend were dressed caused this sharp intake of breath and “I miss Europe!” moment.  I really cannot put words to it or explain what it is that I miss precisely.  Part of me wants to say that I miss the adventure and discovery of exploring Europe, but I am in an entirely new part of the U.S. that I can explore and discover here.  Maybe part of it is the language.  Maybe part of it is the fact that I was there on my own.

One realization to which I came last week was that part of my unhappiness here came from the fact that I don’t feel as though I have anything to look forward to at this point in my life.  It is actually the first time in my life that I have really faced this.  Up until now there has always been something – school, my Masters degree/student teaching, living abroad, moving in with my sister . . .  Now I have moved in with my sister and the future is really up in the air.  The job situation is so undefined right now and last week I had convinced myself that I simply would never find a job here; therefore getting a job was not in the realm of things to which I can look forward.  I kept reassuring myself that I can move back to France next year if life here does not turn out to be something that I wish to continue, but it still wasn’t the same as having something on the horizon to look forward to.  I guess it’s just that moment of “I’m no longer a student and have to deal with big grown up adult life.”  After handing in my resume, I have been able to turn that from fear and anxiety to excitement and possibility.

Speaking of possibility, I have begun reading a book that my host mother Brigitte gave me for my birthday last year.  I have attempted to read this book on multiple occasions with no success.  The name of the book translates to “The Knights of the Subjunctive” and it’s a book about the subjunctive, which is kind of a verb tense, often called a mood, that exists in French and some other languages, but which does not exist in English.  It is often one of the hardest parts of French for Anglophones to learn because we have not grown up with it.  The way it works is that after certain expressions of doubt, hope, and possibility such as “I imagine that” or “It is possible that” or “I am afraid that” the second verb must be used in its subjunctive form.  The book that I am reading is written like a fairy tale/adventure book about a girl who has been stranded on an archipelago called “Words.”  The book I am reading is actually a sequel that I have not read.  The first book is the story of how Jeanne and her brother get stranded on the island.  In this book Jeanne, who is twelve years old, is on a quest to find out what love is.  Along the way she ends up exploring the island of the subjunctive with a cartographer and I am at the part in the book where she starts to connect love with the subjunctive – the mood through which hope, possibility, doubt, fear, and other unclearly defined realms of emotion and expression exist.  Now that I have forced myself to read past the first few chapters, I am really into it.  I love it when grammar makes sense and is meaningful.  In some ways it seems like I am living in a subjunctive period in my life and that is perhaps why I am feeling such a strong connection to this book.

Oops, it is later than I realized and I should go eat some lunch chez moi.  The gym is in order today and then I believe that the plan is to do karaoke tonight.  Everyone seems to be feeling mildly under the weather right now, so I’ll go rest a bit with Katie before heading over the Chavez Center.

Living Between Three Time Zones . . .

7.28.08

I’m having a hard time feeling any sense of emotional stability.  The hardest part is when I feel good and optimistic and excited because I get tricked into thinking that I’m done feeling bad.  Then when I start to feel not so great, I get frustrated.  For whatever reason a serious funk took over yesterday after an unsuccessful day of bed hunting.  I ended up at Michelle and Jordi’s house, two of Katie’s friends, hanging out with all of them.  Though, to be perfectly honest, “hanging out” is a bit of a stretch.  I mean, physically I was there.  When addressed directly, I responded, but that was about all I could muster.  Finally I said that I had a headache and needed to go home.  It was true.  The headache started in my right shoulder and crept up my neck.  I was also hungry.  When I got home, I found Casey, Rosie and Rosie’s friend Bucket at the house.  Rosie was cleaning the kitchen and cooking.  I was able to grab a snack but felt completely unable to be around people, so doing my best to seem mildly cheery and friendly, I excused myself to go to the Chavez Center for a workout.  

I had been planning on going in any case, but getting away from other human beings became a very strong urge and while I was rather tired at the beginning of my workout, I ended up staying at the Chavez Center for at least an hour and a half.  One thing that I’m surprisingly good at is being really nice to myself when I feel like total shit.  It took me a while to perfect this and it doesn’t always work, but very often when I feel crappy and am aware of it, I will be very conscious to do nice things for myself or to be extra nice to me.  For example, I will go get a latte and sit quietly with it, feeling bad and not even trying to change it.  Last night at the gym I decided that I wouldn’t do a hard workout, but I would just go easy on myself and take my time.  I realized that I had all the time in the world and so I started on the treadmill.  Intended as a simple walking warm up, I actually worked my way up to running and successfully completed ten minutes of running (well, eight minutes running, two walking, two more running).  I hit the elliptical after that and went much more slowly than usual.  I followed this up with a nice, calm session of stretching and breathing and finished up with a gentle ride on the recline bike, pedaling along with Beethoven and Bill Bryson to help pass the time.  I felt much better when I left than I had been feeling when I arrived, but I was still not particularly in the best of moods.

I’m sure that the details of my visit to the gym are not actually all that exciting and maybe it says something about how I am easing into my life here that it was the highlight of my day, but in the worst of moods it definitely helped.  The other reason why I bring it up is because while I was on the treadmill, I looked down at my iPod to see what time it was.  Much to my surprise I saw 4AM and then remembered that my iPod is set to Paris time.  Later on in the car I glanced at my stereo, which is brand new just bought before leaving Massachusetts, and saw 12:30AM.  I have yet to change that clock from Eastern Standard Time.  My cell phone automatically changed to the correct time zone all by itself and the watch that I rarely wear, I would assume, is still set to Paris time.  I was struck by the idea that I am living among three different time zones right now, not quite ready to settle into the one where I physically exist.

A Little Bit of Masochism . . .

7.26.08

A little bit of masochism never hurt anyone, right?  My weapon of choice this evening is the fourth chapter of Bill Bryson’s book “Neither Here Nor There; Travels in Europe.”  The title of chapter for is . . . “Paris.”  I began reading “Neither Here Nor There” on the drive here simply because I was in need of a little bathroom reading material and since I had nothing with me that I was reading, I borrowed it from Katie.  I was not particularly excited about it and assumed that it would serve it’s purpose by providing me with some fairly interesting reading while I was doing, uh, business, but expected little more than that.  I mean no offense to Bill Bryson; my lack of expectations was simply because so many people I know LOVE his writing and the few times that I attempted to read “A Walk In The Woods,” I was rather disappointed.  For me, it was a book that I put down and simply never felt the urge to pick up again.  I was told that I needed to give it a chance and to force my way into it, for a few chapters in I would discover how hysterically funny and interesting Mr. Bryson is.  I just never got that far.

Perhaps it is simply that “Neither Here Nor There” is about Europe and I am coming off of a European high that grabbed me when I started to read this book.  Maybe the style is a little different.  For whatever reason I found myself asking Katie for it on several bathroom trips and then I even felt compelled to read it in other venues.  When I went to the gym today (it’s actually a fabulous community center with a gym, a huge pool, an indoor ice rink and other athletic facilities), I was in Paris.  When I read at the gym, I can only read when doing the recline bikes.  Actually, the recline bike is my moment of being the best human being I can possibly be because I combine exercise, reading and classical music for a solid twenty-thirty minutes.  Ok, maybe that makes me the epitome of the overscheduled American who is juggling so many things that life has become one continuous exercise in multitasking, but it’s a nice moment to read and the classical music is more soothing and less distracting than music with words.  Anyway, I am getting off track here.

What I am trying to write about is the fact that I sat there pedaling away on a stationary bike after a long empty day of no responsibilities, no scheduled activities, no structure, listening to the second movement of Beethoven’s 7th symphony and reading about the city that I just left with a very strong sense of nostalgia and longing.  I also felt a certain measure of guilt as I engaged in my own little conversation with good old Bill about whether or not the stereotypes about Parisians are true, Bill’s opinion being that, when he visited years ago the stereotypes were painfully accurate and today there are certain elements of Parisianness that align with the old stereotypes while a new level of friendliness and politeness have developed.  Not having the ability to compare today with twenty years ago, I was rather put off by his claim that the stereotypes hold true until I realized that he had changed his mind somewhat upon his second visit.  The guilt arose because I made the decision to leave Paris and being in a new city facing a new stage in my life, I feel as though I should be looking forward with hope at the opportunities and possibilities that are in front of me rather than looking back at what I had and where I could have chosen to stay.

Of course there was the rational part of me that reassured the nostalgic and guilty parts of me that I am allowed to feel sad and to miss Paris, even if I did make the conscious choice to leave there.  I have only been in Santa Fe since Wednesday night and it doesn’t even make any sense to compare the two cities or the two lives.  Paris is the sum of ten months of me carving out a place for myself on my own and right now Santa Fe is barely three days old and holds little concrete for me aside from my sister, Casey (her boyfriend), and her circle of friends.  Plus, I moved to Paris because I was offered a job.  When the job was finished I came back here because I wanted to live with my sister.  Living with someone is more abstract and less structured than a job is.  It means that I have the company and support of someone I love.  I guess over the past two years I’ve become really accustomed to having my life be shaped by requirements, responsibilities and structured programs/work.  My graduate program and my job teaching English were what dictated where I needed to be and what I needed to get done.  Creating a social life and finding friendship and camaraderie was directly related to whom I met through my work and what I was able to fit into my spare time (when I had it).  Part of what I value so much about the past two years is that I have learned to be very independent and to fill up days on my own in ways that are fulfilling and pleasing to me, even though others might find it boring or strange.

When I was a kid one of the many visions I had of my future was that I would be Aunt Becky, the crazy, eccentric, free-spirited aunt who spent her life traveling the world and adventuring from one continent to another only to sweep through the States from occasionally with enough time to give her nieces and nephews some exotic presents and to share stories of the wonders she discovered on her travels.  For a while I forgot about that dream of mine because I became very focused on the idea of motherhood and of creating a life in which my most important role would be mom/wife.  When I remembered the Aunt Becky vision, I was struck by how that dream placed me in relation to others as sister and aunt (and daughter to my parents, to whom I would also give fabulous gifts from afar).  There was no husband in the scene, no children, no house, nothing to tie me down to any one place.  My friendships, in fact, would not come from a community, but would last as long as my stays in any given location and hopefully be sustained through postcards and future visits.  I would simply be on the move and when I needed to rest I would come back to my family.

Clearly two ten-month stints in France do not really count as this Aunt Becky version of myself becoming a reality.  For one thing, there are no nieces or nephews to shower with gifts.  But the little piece of it that rings true and brings this childhood dream back to my mind right now is the idea that my time abroad was a mixture of independence and adventure allowing me to exist not in relation to my family or anyone else.  I arrived as Rebecca Michael and was able to shape Rebecca’s life into whatever I wanted.  Me in relation to my family stayed in the U.S.  Well, I suppose that’s not really entirely true or fair.  Who I am is, no need really to even say it, so hugely the result of my family and my relationship with them.  Even so, I was just me there.  In Dijon I wasn’t entirely sure who that was and I spent a lot of time with myself working it out.  In Paris I still was not entirely sure, but was able to force myself into social situations and interacts that allowed me to come out of my shell and to develop more in reaction and in relation to other people.  I also cherished the ability to slip back away from all of that and to be that solitary person that I grew to love in Dijon.  

Paris is beautiful.  Walking through the streets from arrondissement to arrondissement, watching the sometimes gradual, sometimes more abrupt shift in neighborhood character and flavor, getting almost run over while crossing the street, impatiently pushing past tourists who seem to take up the whole sidewalk, salivating over pastries that I would rarely actually eat, noticing the way the air smells different as I pass in from fruit market (mmm) to fish market (ew) to cheese store (mm in my opinion, though many would say ‘ew’) to butcher . . . I am lucky to have had the time I had to experience and to enjoy it.  And yes I just f***ing miss it.  I am here in Santa Fe where the sky goes on forever, where the clouds are so close above head that I could reach up and grab a handful, where you can watch a storm cloud pour rain over some distant part of the state while standing under a blue, sunny sky, where my life is right now and I miss Paris.    

I think that it’s supposed to be like this though.  There would be something severely wrong if I didn’t miss it.  The joke among my friends and family these days is that I have a heart made of stone and that I have no emotions.  It’s true that I detach very easily, that I cry rarely, that I push forward in my life taking no prisoners, getting things done and doing what I need to do.  I don’t like to depend on others and I don’t like to be taken care of.  I don’t like to have regrets and I have learned to stop being afraid of change.  But there is a difference between being afraid of change and allowing yourself to feel sad in moments of transition and change.  Beginnings are full of possibilities and excitement, but beginnings follow endings and when leaving behind something that was as wonderful as the past ten months that I spent in Paris, the ending not only requires, but also deserves a bit of mourning.  It was hard to feel that when I was home because home was a temporary moment between two times and two places.  Home is so familiar and worn in that it is easy to arrive there and to forget that anything else exists.  Even now I still feel like I’m on vacation, but with these uncertain days of job hunting and figuring out how to make this place mine, the reality is setting in.

The fact that I am jobless and directionless (that is a bit of an overstatement, but still) is something else that might be worth exploring through writing as it is something that I am finding mildly stressful and uncomfortable, but for the moment I just want to wallow in this moment of longing to be back in France.  Actually, ironically enough, sitting out here on my front porch, listening to the chirping of crickets and having the ability to sit alone writing and thinking reminds me a little of what I loved so much in France.  

Finishing What I Never Finished and Starting Something New . . .

7.24.08

Somehow the end of my time in Paris slipped through my fingers but my fingers were not on this keyboard typing out the stories that made up that bit of time in my life.  It’s hard to put words to it really, which is why I suppose I never bothered forcing myself to sit down to work it out on paper.  I did everything that I wanted to do before leaving.  I walked and walked and walked through the city, and spent time with the usual suspects and some who were not so usual as well.  I reconnected with Ikram finally only to find that my fear and apprehension that she would hate me for having been so out of touch with her was simply misplaced guilt.  My good friend Katie C. came to visit, which I have perhaps already mentioned.  I know I brought up the fact that I went skydiving.  I spent a good amount of time with Lise.  On the day before I left I had a very poorly organized goodbye picnic by the Eiffel Tower and a good number of people actually showed up despite my very vague invitation – come have a picnic with me on the Champ de Mars next to the Eiffel Tower between 4PM and 7PM.  The Champ de Mars is HUGE and on a beautiful day incredibly crowded, making it a challenge to connect with friends unless the meeting point is very specific.  I also had the misfortune of running out of credit on my cell phone and since my bankcard had been turned in on Friday, I had no way to recharge it.  In the end the people who I really anted to see somehow found me and it was a nice afternoon.  Sarah had a party at her apartment on Saturday night and that was lots of fun.  I ended up staying the night and as I walked to the train station to go home at around 8AM on Sunday, I thought sadly about how that was the last time I’d be walking home to catch a morning train after a night out in Paris (not that I did that all that frequently, but it happened and there was always something really special and particular about being up that early).

Anyway, these last minute Parisian moments come flooding back to me now as I sit on the couch on my new front porch in Santa Fe, New Mexico.  After about three weeks at home my sister flew in from Santa Fe to help get me packed up and then to drive back here with me.  The time I spent at home was hard.  It was hard in that I was jetlagged and tired at first.  Going from a huge bustling city like Paris to a little suburban town like Longmeadow was a huge culture shock.  It felt lonely and quiet and boring.  I missed walking everywhere to do everything and found that getting physical activity required a lot more motivation and was much less appealing than it had been.  I did not unpack my bags really, though one kind of exploded because I needed the cloths in it, and never really felt like I was settled in.  I guess that’s because I was not settling in as much as I was passing through.  

Of course my brother, sister-in-law and parents were there and it was really nice to spend time with them.  Luckily for me they were able to put up with my sometimes-strange mood swings and to ignore me when I needed to be left alone.  By the time my sister flew in I had gotten into a fairly acceptable routine and was starting to almost feel settled and content there.  I finally saw some of the kids I normally babysit for in the summer and it just about broke my heart because this summer I am not home babysitting for them.  I guess that is perhaps the strangest thing for me right now.  Instead of packing up at the end of August and heading out to begin another academic school year, it is the end of July and I have just packed up basically everything I could ever want from my parents’ house and moved out to New Mexico.  I have no job lined up, even if I have plans to find one soon, and I have no idea what my life holds beyond this year that lays in front of me.  Up to this point I’ve always had at least some vague thought, but for the first time in my life, I just don’t know.  And what makes me think that maybe I’ve grown up a little bit is that I’m feeling fine with that.

The drive out was fun.  We left at 5:47AM Monday morning Eastern standard time and rolled in here about 10:15PM Eastern standard time yesterday (Wednesday).  We drove about 12-15 hours a day and spent two nights in random motels.  The air conditioning in my car broke right before leaving, which only really became a problem yesterday as we drove through Oklahoma and Texas, where temperatures ranged from 94-104 degrees.  My entire left arm is very sunburned from hours of driving with the sun beating down on it and though we guzzled bottle after bottle of water, we both felt dehydrated last night upon arriving.  I know that Katie was anxious to get back to Santa Fe because already has various things with which she’s involved here and she wanted to get back to life here.  I would have been happy to drive forever.  For the entire first part of the trip I kept waiting for the landscape to change, but even through Illinois and Missouri it was not drastically different from home.  I haven’t driven out west since . . . wow, I want to say I haven’t driven out west since my brother’s junior year in college when I was still in high school.  I drove from Santa Fe back to Massachusetts right after my freshman year of college and I drove from Massachusetts to Chicago the summer after I lived in Dijon France, but I have not driven from Massachusetts out west in a long time.  

When the scenery did finally start to change, the land looked expansive and it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.   I kept wondering if people really did live in those little towns we’d speed past and I wanted to know if they were happy there.  We passed many run down, dilapidated buildings and houses that could not possibly have been in use.  I wondered about the people who had first built those and whether or not they thought these structures would be somewhere that people would call home for years to come.  I want to know why they were abandoned and who is responsible for them now.  At some point in the worst of the heat in Texas yesterday we decided to stop so that we could stretch and sit somewhere air conditioned for a while.  We ended up pulling into McLean, Texas, population 830.  Right off of the highway there was a kitschy looking steak house and we went in to get some food.  For a place that seems to be in no man’s land, business did not seem bad.  Our waitress was not the friendliest person I had ever met in my life, but I kept thinking, “Well, she is a waitress in a steak house in McLean Texas, maybe she just isn’t very happy.”  Then I would think, “Who am I to pass judgment just because I would never want to live in McLean?  Maybe she really is happy here.  Maybe this is exactly where she wants to be and what she wants to be doing . . .”

I sometimes think that I was born with the need to be on the move in my blood.  It seems as though a migratory life is, in a way, a part of my heritage.  If I look back to my grandparents’ generation I find one grandmother who moved from England to California and a grandfather who settled in California after having grown up in Kansas and served in WWII.  My other grandfather also served in WWII and though he stayed in New York where he grew up, he still did a fair amount of travel with the Navy.  Pushing back one generation I have great-grandparents who came through Ellis Island from Europe, presumably in search of a better life.  Keeping closer to my life, even my parents did their fair share of moving around before settling in Massachusetts.  They lived everywhere from Pennsylvania to Alaska to California.  Sure when they finally arrived in Massachusetts and were ready to raise a family, they really settled in and have not moved in twenty-four or twenty-five years, but before they got there they tried out a lot of different places.

It was easier for my parents to try out different homes in different parts of the country than it had been for my great-grandparents to leave their homelands to cross the ocean in hopes of something new and better.  Perhaps it has been easier for me to pick up and move to France for ten months here and there than it would have been for my parents to do so.  Mobility is something that I take for granted too much I think.  Because of those great-grandparents and grandparents and parents who wanted a better life for their families, I grew up with endless choice and freedom.  I can chose whatever career I wanted and live wherever I find a place that really feels like home.  It’s exciting and I am grateful to have a life that is so open and full of possibilities.  Sometimes it gets a little overwhelming though and I wonder what it would be like to come from a small town in the middle of nowhere where the expectation is that you get a decent job when grow up and settle down to raise a good family.  I’m sure that’s a horrible oversimplification of what small town expectations are, but I guess I mean I wonder if everyone dreams of going somewhere else to seek . . . I don’t even know what.  Maybe part of what I get out of moving around and traveling is simply the opportunity to see what I can find somewhere new.

Well, here I am somewhere new and when I awoke in my new bedroom this morning, I thought to myself, “This is my room.”  I liked it.  I did not feel disoriented, anxious or stressed out about what comes next.  The sun was shining but not so much that it awoke me.  I could see trees through my window from the futon mattress on the floor that is currently serving as my bed.  I was neither hot nor cold.  I was able to fall back to sleep for a bit but did not feel exhausted.  Now that I am outside writing this, the air is almost cool with a slight breeze and the sky is clear and blue.  Who knows what this year will hold for me, but so far I’m feeling good about it.  I think that I will do my best to keep writing when I feel inspired or maybe even not when I feel inspired.  It is no longer Michael en France and I should mention that I do miss Paris a lot.  But now it is Michael out west and new adventures await . . .