Back in Town

Vacation is already over—only three half-days of work until the weekend.

The highlights: 11 days, 5 towns, 2 buses, 8 trains, and 1 boat…Ukuleles, Uruguayan election dinner, food ethics, lighthouses, artichokes, haunted house and trick-or-treat, hospital wine cellar, and flammekeuche. And did I mention I made the most wonderful pumpkin pie? Read further for more details.

I left you Friday the 23^rd, having invited two assistant friends from Lorient to an apartment-warming party/celebration of the umbrella party. Umbrellas form part of the basic necessities when living in Brittany. They were well celebrated on that rainy Friday evening.

Saturday I left for an overnight in Lorient, a Take II visit that redeemed the weekend before. Victo and I stayed with a very friendly American assistant in her very nice apartment next to a very good bakery. While I would not go back to Lorient to visit the town, I would return for these three things. However, we did luck out with a sunny afternoon at Larmor Plages:

Sunday I moved on to Brest, a large port city located at Penn ar bed, “the head of the world,” in the Finistère, “end of the earth.” There I met some other language assistants, one of whom was Uruguayan and intently awaiting the presidential election results…while trying to make dinner. We talked over the apéritif for about three hours, eating a cooled dinner at 11:30pm with an unhappy Uruguayan.

My main reason for coming to Brest was to visit the island of Ouessant, the westernmost point in France. Tickets for the ferry were sold out on Monday, so I decided to extend my stay by a day and ended up visiting the city Monday with two of my hosting assistants. Unfortunately, Brest like Lorient was completely rebuilt after World War II, and still looks to be under construction because of the three-year tramway project. Essentially, the main two roads in Brest that might be esthetically pleasing are now blocked off by red tape and orange cones.

I saved all my photos for the following day, which turned wonderfully sunny and windy. Katie, a New Zealand assistant, traveled with me out to the island. We caught the boat at 8:30 and had two and a half hours to admire the coast and the ocean before landing on Ouessant.

The island is only 3km by 8km (population 1000), so we gladly took advantage of bike rentals and spent the afternoon peddling around. Ouessant is enchanting, full of beaches and cliffs and boulders and lighthouses, roads like bike paths and trails, marauding sheep, and winds to boot. Cases in point:

At the end of a long afternoon of biking and being buffeted by the breeze, Katie and I slowly clambered back onto the ferry for the long commute home.

The next morning, Wednesday, I left for Rennes to catch up with Julien. After picking me up at the station he showed me around the city a bit, which I have passed through several times but never explored. It’s a beautiful place I will have to visit again; we spent most our time in the city gardens, where grows every type of rose and chrysanthemum imaginable. I would have taken pictures (sorry Mom), but I’d left my camera charger in Pontivy. I also realized I’d left my phone charger in Brest. And somewhere I lost my watch. To think, I used to be such a good traveler!

My visit with Julien was all too short, as the following day I left for Orléans to spend Halloween with the Noé. This is the former-Grand Rapids family I stayed with for Christmas during my year in Strasbourg: Isabelle, Frédéric, Lucie (13), Louie (10), and Charlotte (5).

We spent all day Friday readying the house for our Halloween celebration, putting up cobwebs and spiders, drawing bats and jack-o-lanterns on the windows, making a downstairs room into a haunted house, the works. Saturday we spent all day cooking, my personal contribution being pumpkin soup and pumpkin pie. And a fine pumpkin pie it was:

We all dressed up and went out trick-or-treating, but were largely unsuccessful since Halloween isn’t celebrated as widely as in the States (although Isabelle is doing her best to change this). This time of year revolves around All Saints Day, when people return to cemeteries to decorate the graves of loved ones. On this Saturday night in the middle of vacation, hardly anyone answered their door and fewer were expecting to hand out candy.

After an hour, the kids’ trick-or-treating satiated, we returned to the house, welcomed guests, and led them through the haunted house. Our creativity ranged from peeled grapes for eyes, a murder in the bathroom, a coffin, a Monty Python-esque Halloween Q&A, and Charlotte feather tickling. All was highly entertaining.

Finally, last leg of the trip: having found cheap train tickets, I couldn’t resist returning to Strasbourg. I stayed just Sunday-Tuesday, but had a wonderful time catching up with Hayley and seeing my favorite spots. We walked around La Petite France, the cathedral, and Place de la République; revisited the Cave des Hospices and my wine professional, Philippe; bought Alsatian pottery (after all, I did receive my first paycheck Sunday), ate tarte flambée, and imagined the Christmas market. I love this town.

Well, that town, since here I am back in Pontivy. I spent seven long, uneventful hours in public transportation today, arriving home to find that—you guessed it—the heat’s not working.

Did I mention it’s raining?

Off Galavanting around France

Now that I've worked ten days, I figure I deserve ten days of vacation.
Or at least that's what my school tells me. I can't complain, because everything has fallen into place for my trip:
Today: Lorient, Take II
Sunday: Brest, farther out on the Breton peninsula
Tuesday: Rennes, checking in on Julien
Thursday: Orleans, celebrating Halloween with dear friends the Noe
Sunday: Strasbourg, ticket price I could not refuse to visit a friend in the city I love
Tuesday: Home, prepping for classes the next day
Stories and pictures to follow...

Bum Week

You know, there are times when you just can’t catch a break. It’s not particular to France, or to the US for that matter: sometimes things just don’t work out as planned. And then they don’t work out as hoped. And then they just plain don’t work out.

For example, this past weekend Victo and I planned an overnight trip to Lorient, the other big city in our département (read “county”). We thought we’d meet up with other language assistants, have fun visiting the city, maybe peek in on some Lorient nightlife. But alas, very few assistants responded to my initial email about hosting. Only Alex, a Canadian who fulfills all the wonderful stereotypes, invited us for dinner.

So Victo and I arrived by bus around noon on Saturday and visited the town. Lorient looks much different than Vannes, notably because the town was completely destroyed and completely rebuilt. So I didn’t stumble upon any ramparts or tiny medieval alleys, but I did find lots of boats and likely the biggest anchor I’ve ever seen:

As the afternoon sun faded, Victo and I headed for the youth hostel where we’d decided to stay, since none of the Lorient assistants had offered to house us. I knew that the hostel was not downtown, but as we walked, waited a half hour for a bus, and walked again, I realized just how inconvenient the location was. My opinion slipped lower when we were slapped with a subscription fee to this certain hostel association (FUAJ), an addition that almost doubled the cost of the stay. Then, looking at the bus schedule, I went from disappointed to disgruntled as I realized that the bus back came only once an hour, and that we had just missed it.

So dinner was late. Okay, manageable. After dinner, we had planned to go out and meet up with the other assistants. It was a good plan, but the evening soured quickly as we met more and more assistants who said, as if surprised, “Oh, you could have stayed with me. I live in a house just a couple blocks away and all my roommates leave on the weekend.” A nice offer, but too late.

Speaking of too late, we could only visit for an hour because the “night bus” service stopped at 11:30. Resigned, we got on the bus and got off at the stop closest to our hostel: still a 25 minute walk, through confusing suburban streets. Thank goodness we had a map!

The next day, although Alex had invited us to visit a few other neat sites in Lorient, Victo and I were too exhausted and depressed to think about anything but going home. We walked twenty minutes to the bus stop; on a Sunday morning, we were lucky to catch a bus at all. After an hour bus ride home, we both crashed and crawled into our separate corners for the rest of the day. Next time, Lorient.

And that was just the weekend! I don’t want to bog you down with complaints. But after that weekend, and one teacher who skipped my class, and the never-ending expectation that I know exactly how things work here, and the heat that broke last night, and the difficult students, and the rain…

If you didn’t know before, “my life in France” is not all baguettes and bonheur. Wish I had my dog.

Stages

Last Wednesday, Susi and Victo and I alighted in Vannes, a city located 45 minutes south on the Gulf of Morbihan. Our mission: to learn about everything that we had to do to be good language assistants and foreigners in France…a week after we’d already officially started doing so. Voilà, welcome to orientation!

“Stage” is the translation for “orientation,” but I prefer to use it in the same condescending way I would use the English “stage.” Oh, I’m just going through a stage; don’t worry, this stage won’t last long; at this stage of life, everything seems backwards. Etc. Orientation, hosted by the Academy of Rennes but specific to this Department, lasted all day Thursday and included 37 English, Spanish, and German assistants. And one Italian. But before I bore you with the details, let me include a few pictures of Vannes itself:

The city gardens and ancient ramparts.

The Hotel de Ville by night.

At the end of an afternoon lunching by the boat docks, wandering the city’s medieval quarter, and visiting the fine arts museum (notably hosts a Delacroix painting), S—V—I met up with our hosts for the night. We met Claire and Aurélien, a young couple with a penchant for traveling, online through the website CouchSurfing. The main mission of the site is to connect people all over the world who are willing to host other travelers or who are travelers: kind of like an updated Mennonite-Your-Way program. Claire and Aurélien have welcomed many visitors (60 in the past five months) and have various experiences couchsurfing in places like Spain, Ghana, and Madagascar. Next year, they plan to move to La Réunion, a French island near Madagascar. I enjoyed meeting and getting to know such a welcoming and adventurous couple. And the best part: Claire currently works in a pastry shop, so we were stuffed with croissants and chocolate tarts and given some for the road!

These travel pastries were, sadly, the highlight of the next day. Orientation commenced at 9:00…or rather 9:30…maybe closer to 10:00. I found the morning information session and accompanying guide very helpful—for hindsight. Half of the “very important things every assistant must do” I’d already fumbled through, mostly because someone very important already expected me to have it done. Case in point: my procès verbale d’installation (paperwork which certifies that I have in fact begun my job) required a certified copy of my birth certificate. Good thing I’ve always traveled with the copy I obtained five years ago! Then, Assistant Guide page 6: “You will be required to present a certified copy of your birth certificate in order to commence your teaching duties.” Thanks.

The hour-long break before lunch, followed by the hour-long break for lunch, gave me plenty of time to socialize with the other assistants. The Brits and Americans came in roughly equal numbers, along with a smattering of Canadians. I had the vague impression of being part of an exchange program again; I’m glad the feeling passed. And although I met some other assistants I’d like to keep in touch with, I’m glad I ended up with the ones I did here in Pontivy. One interesting story: I’m currently reading a Canadian journalist’s research on minority languages, and had just finished the section on Manx when I left for orientation. Manx is from the Isle of Man, another island nation between Ireland and Great Britain. The language died with its last speaker in the seventies, but revival efforts like a bilingual playgroup, school, and music group have formed. By chance, one of the assistants I met is one of the “new native speakers,” and her parents started the playgroup. Intellectual overstimulation! For me it was like meeting the lead in a favorite band!

The afternoon pedagogy session couldn’t compete with this lunchtime discussion, but it was entertaining and informative. None of the information or techniques were new, but it was a good reminder of how to elicit student participation in a foreign language. For example, don’t lecture for five minutes and then ask for questions. I was able to immediately apply some of this advice in my classes on Friday: instead of introducing myself briefly, I wrote five statements on the board, two of which were false. It was up to the students to find out which ones, and then explain their choice. My favorite responses:

“You probably don’t like to cook, because Americans never cook, they just eat McDonalds.”

Upon my insisting that I never eat fast food, they reformed: “You probably do yoga, because people who don’t eat fast food do yoga. And you look peaceful.” Better.

I guess there are worse descriptions! I had a very peaceful walk this weekend along the canal that runs through Pontivy. Fall is a lovely time of year:

And lastly, me and roommate Victo:

Hospitality

I expected this past weekend to be slow and boring—as I know hardly anyone in Pontivy, and no one my age apart from Victo (my Spanish flatmate) and Susi (the German assistant living in the same building). But it could hardly have been more amazing!
Friday, after running around town a lot, the three of us decided to stay in. We made popcorn, had Breton cider, and watched a movie. Uneventful, but comfortingly normal.
Saturday, a German professor at school invited us to his house in the country Saturday afternoon. The three of us went, Susi being the only one who had met Jens before. Jens lives with his wife and 7-year-old daughter in Baud, a small town about fifteen minutes from Pontivy. We first went on a hike (I have a lot more contact with nature this year than when I lived in Strasbourg), the highlight being a gravel pit lake. Well, you take what you can get in the countryside around here. Then we settled in for coffee and homemade apple cake. It was about 6:00 when we finished visiting, and seeing our interest in board games, Jens asked if we would like to stay longer and play one.
The longer we stayed, the more generous the offers became. After playing till almost 8:00, Jens asked—or rather his adorable daughter begged—us to stay for dinner. We were enjoying ourselves so much, we figured why not! While pasta cooked and sauce simmered, Léna gave us a violin concert:

We drank quince wine for l’apéritif. Not only is it a fruit I have never even tasted before, but Jens’s German father made it!

After dinner—and this is when it really got ludicrous—Jens told us he thought we could drive ourselves home in their second car, and then use it the next day for any trip we might want to take. Afternoon visit, nice; coffee and cake, lovely; the board game, homey; dinner, exceptional…but borrowing the car?! I suppose he could have been too tired to drive us home, but there’s a long leap between being tired and actually offering one’s mode of transport.
Flabbergasted, we said yes.
And yesterday we struck out on the wild curvy roads of France to see the town of Perros-Guirec on the northern coast of Brittany. This region is known for its pink granite, and we were not disappointed: we hiked along a seaside trail to the next town, stumbling over pink boulders.


I have found that Victo and Susi are incredibly companionable, and I’m lucky to have ended up with such great neighbors. Victo is from Valdepeñas, near Jaén, Spain. It’s a town known for its olives, and Victo could practically bathe in all the olive oil her parents sent her this week, including “travel packs” of 5cL (about a tablespoon). She studied Spanish-English translation in school (though I suspect she’s a closet philosopher), and her French is improving rapidly. I find her incredibly well-organized, sociable, and gracious. While Victo is petite, Susi must be six feet tall and lithe. She’s from Berlin, and though her English is near-native, her French is “beginner.” She lives in a studio on the first floor, so I don’t know her as well, but I enjoy her sense of humor and her affinity for nature.

Fortunate I am. :)

Edu. Abbrev.

I thought I had a pretty good understanding of the French educational system.
Until, that is, I began teaching in it.
MUC. BTS. TGST. Term Spé. LV2. Even ASS! What does it all mean?!
As in other areas of French life, education is rife with abbreviations and acronyms. Some are comprehensible; others are unreasonable. For example, the DGELF (General Delegation of the French Language), SNCF (National Railroad Society) or SIUAPS (no one actually knows what this stands for, but it references the university sports complex in Strasbourg where I took dance classes). These acronyms are cumbersome and defy pronunciation. MSU (Michigan State University) I can understand. Indiana pushes the limit with IUPUI (Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis, sometimes pronounced ee-ew-pew-ee). But when the vast majority of people who work in a given sector have difficulty remembering the sector’s main acronyms…
It took my supervising teacher, Anna, a full half hour to explain all acronyms for the classes I’ll be working with—and this is just at the high school level. I’ll attempt to do the same for you in less time.
First, I work on an even-odd week schedule, although only a few classes change. I teach 12 hours a week, which is 2/3 time for professors. Most of my classes are Tuesday (5-6) and Thursday (4), with 1-2 on Monday and Friday, and no classes Wednesday. Having Wednesdays off is not unusual for teachers in France; until last year the school week included Saturday morning. For the most part, I’ll be working with groups of 4-5 students for a half hour to an hour, practicing oral conversation and presentation skills. My sessions will generally follow the main theme being discussed in class. For example, if the students are reading texts and discussing addiction in class, I can choose to talk about cell phone addiction. I can ask Are cell phones addictive? What defines addiction? What are some addictive substances? I might introduce some vocabulary, ask students to prepare a small presentation ahead of time, bring in extra articles or images, and basically invite and mediate discussion.
The students I work with come from a few different grades and specializations:
Première STG: Première would be Grade 11, one year before taking the high school exit exam called the Baccalauréat, a very thorough exam covering several areas of study but emphasizing whichever specialization the student has chosen. STG means business sciences and skills, students destined for work either immediately after high school or after a couple more years of study. Foreign languages are required in all high schools, and most STG students choose English (and possibly a second language) because of its practical application in business.
Terminale STG: Terminale is the last year of high school, Grade 12. These students will take the Bac at the end of the year.
Première Spé: Grade 11, specialized studies in either literature or economic and social sciences. These students will take a more difficult Bac and receive a higher mention on their diplomas. Think of this as the Honors course: they are intelligent and eager.
Term Spé: Grade 12, specialized.
BTS: post-high school work training. The classes further prepare students in more specialized fields. The students are not much younger than me!
MUC: BTS studies focusing on business management.
ASS: BTS studies focusing on the insurance industry.
TLV2: Grade 12, second foreign language. These students will be fluent in three languages by the time they graduate high school. Think of these as the top ten of each class.
Term Euro: Grade 12, European section. This course is designed for students who are either very highly motivated or already speak two or more languages. This is not an English class; it’s history and geography taught in English.
I have yet to meet all my classes, but so far I’ve attended five. Depending on what the teacher has time for, I usually spend time talking about Michigan (location, the Great Lakes, student stereotypes based on Michael Moore’s depiction of Flint and Detroit); my university, studies, and graduation (they like my picture with cap and gown, like in the movies); my interests, where I’ve traveled, and in turn what they like to do; and what they’re interested in studying (overall, American daily life, movies, music, schools, and Michael Moore films). My presentations to the Première classes (Grade 11) have been less smooth than those to Terminale, and my two sessions with Spé classes have been delightful! One student even invited me to spend a weekend at her family’s home in the countryside this fall!
What do I think will be difficult teaching this year? Classroom management should be okay, given that I’ll be working with small groups. Defining the line between professional and personal contact with my students, since I’m not quite a professor and I’m supposed to create a friendly atmosphere where they feel at ease speaking English. Maintaining a natural English could also pose problems (except for writing this blog and making phone calls to you all!), because my classroom “English for foreigners” is much clearer, slower, simpler, and free of slang, sarcasm, and expressions—essentially what make it worth speaking.
Details of this weekend soon to come…Otherwise, I dropped off my housing aid application (now wait three months), should be able to fill out paperwork at school (if the secretary isn’t still sick, or if someone has finally learned to cover), first month’s rent is due Monday (interesting discussion with the landlord today), and the phone technician comes Tuesday (pray the line is ready right away).
Even if I had something else to add, I don’t think you could stand it. Have a good day, and more soon!

It's Complicated

My view:

My room:

I think that all my life and training has but prepared me for this challenge: settling in France.

It wouldn’t be so difficult if it weren’t for the domino effect of services. For example, I am fortunate to have an apartment which was chosen for me by my supervising professors at the lycée, of which I have eight, all like mother hens. However, I would like to have internet and a phone in this apartment. But first I must have an open phone line, so I must go through France Télécom. But first I must have a bank account, so that I can be charged the monthly fee. To have a bank account, I must first have a certificate of lodging, confirmed by—for example—a phone bill, or say, an electric bill. But to pay the electricity I must first have a bank account and a certificate of lodging! I have yet to go through all these hoops in the US, but if this is the universal process, life is decidedly too difficult!

It wouldn’t be so bad if services were a little faster, a little more efficient. Today I was promised that my salary would come through in a month (and that's an advance), my telephone line would arrive in three weeks, my bank account would be valid in one week, and my traveler’s checks couldn’t be exchanged for two days. I wish my employer, phone lady, bank man, and landlord, would sit down together over a beer (or hard cider, the drink of Brittany) and decide to give each other the benefit of the doubt and me a bit of sympathy. Three weeks!

It wouldn’t be so trying if it weren’t in another language. The reason I have become so keenly interested in linguistic policy is because I know as much as any immigrant that language is power. Comprehension is one level of reclaiming that power, and expression is another, but real communication takes courage. It is difficult not to allow a bureaucrat to speak down to you, especially when you are not a native speaker and can be easily bowled over my practiced legalese.

It would be hell, however, if this were my first go-around in France. If I didn’t know all the services available to me, like health care and housing grants. If I didn’t have all the documents in order, my organization being my greatest asset. If I didn’t speak the language, at least well enough to say, a second time, in a sweetly insulting way, “Excuse me, sir, I would appreciate it if you spoke more slowly, if that doesn’t bother you.” It would be hell.

For now, it’s okay. I have an apartment with a view. I like the food. The pay is better than the last year I spent here. My landlord is like a grandpa, I speak the language, and the baguettes are fresh. Even the high school has ceased to be intimidating! If I can face up to a sullen French teenager, surely I can handle all these bureaucrats! Wish me luck!

Bien Arrivée

Sorry to have kept you all waiting so long! I won’t blame it on the internet, but I will mention fiendish French keyboards—which are similar enough to lull you into confidence, only to have you hunting and pecking with abandon after a simple sentence!

Yes, I have arrived. In France, nonetheless. I spent several days chez Julien, and I could not have asked for a warmer welcome. Julien is a friend from my year in Strasbourg, who studied hydrology (and dance!) there and is now at home near Rennes. We’ve done a bit of a tour of the surrounding region, starting with Brittany’s most famous asset: the sea.

On the coast the Atlantic, you don’t just lay out on the beach and splash around in the water. You also catch dinner! Julien and I collected sea snails, oysters, clams, and crabs, and later went fishing.

Eating seafood is very adventurous. While your usual fish entrée may pose problems of extracting tiny bones and avoiding the glassy eyes, crabs are a matter of hammers, claw-crackers, and very tiny forks. Shrimp begs beheading, then prying off legs and scales. Sea snails require long pins to extract them from their curved shells. Oysters? You just eat them alive and let the slimy saltiness slide smoothly south!

Although I don’t have much of a taste for seafood, it was well worth the experience of gathering tide-to-table.

And then a bit of sorcery

The next day we traveled to the Forest of Brociliand, ostensibly the site of many Arthurian legends involving Merlin and Morgan La Fée. Wait, didn’t King Arthur live in England? Because of the common Celtic heritage between this peninsula and the island across the Channel, the written records of the Arthurian period often confuse Bretagne (Brittany) and Bretagne (Britain). The Forest of Brociliand is said to be the home of Merlin’s tomb, the Fountain of Youth, the Valley of No Return created by Morgan La Fée. While legends abound concerning different sites in the Forest, I can assure you that the tomb was not magical, the fountain was not flowing, and dragons were significantly lacking. Sigh, maybe next time…

In the meantime, it was a great hike!

Finally, we spend our last full day in Gacilly, known for its small artisanal painters, glass-blowers, designers, and photographers. There was a fantastic photo exhibit at the Yves Rocher Institute, but our visit was cut short by the need to return home for a crepe party with friends...

Pontivy

My bus to Pontivy was Saturday afternoon, and one of the English professors, Isabelle, arrived to chauffeur me to the apartment and around town for the necessities: food, toilet paper, and bedding. The apartment is on the third floor with beautiful southern exposure, nicely decorated if poorly appointed. More on that as soon as I have pictures; I spent all Sunday cleaning before unpacking, and it shows!

A bientot!

Return to the Drawing Board

Hello all!
As I will be traveling again to France in just a few days, I've decided to give blogging a second chance. It turned out to be a helpful tool for communication and reflection...plus photos. Here are the facts:
I will be an English assitant in a high school (lycee, pronounced lee-say) in Pontivy, a small town in the middle of Brittany. The region, known in French as Bretagne, forms the northwest peninsula of France, jutting out boldly into the Atlantic. As you might guess, Bretagne touts beautiful coastlines, a variety of seafoods, and excellent hard cider. I'll keep you updated on all three.
You can keep me updated through email, Facebook, or post letters (and packages!) to me at:
38 Rue Leperdit
56300 Pontivy FRANCE
Thanks for playing!

Letters from Home

Nothing beats a beautiful Michigan summer day. Or a beautiful Michigan forest. Or my beautiful Michigan family. Can you tell I’m glad to be back in my beautiful Michigan home?
The readjustment has been anything but painful. I can’t say I’ve experienced any “reverse culture shock,” because how can I be shocked by everything which is so familiar? The places remain the same, the people the same, the habits and personalities the same. And right now, I like familiar. I like going to brunch again with my sisters; though now, we’ve deemed my niece old enough to join. I like sipping morning coffee with my mom; though now, the coffee pot has changed. I like goofing off with my dad; though now…no, still about the same level of goofiness. My dog and I take the same walks, I’ve reclaimed my room, and the “welcome back” party was just as good as any other. So what has changed?
I have changed.
I have changed. And it makes me notice strange things, like public drinking fountains, or the way the dishwasher here closes differently than the one at my Strasbourg home, or the different feel of the telephone here from the cell phone I used all year. I notice the differences in social interactions: at restaurants, leaving a store, or talking with customer services. I need a moment when someone asks “Can I help you?”…and when the server brings the food before I’ve forgotten what I’ve ordered. I need a moment when I get into a car…and when I fill it up with gas. I find myself wishing for the “bisous” cheek kiss instead of my awkward hugs. I do foolish things like greet everyone I interact with before beginning my request, and ignoring everyone else. Foolish things like checking train tickets for a big trip coming up (even at $4.20 a gallon, the ticket was 4 times as expensive as driving myself). Foolish things like buying a Meijer baguette, like tuning the radio to my usual French news station, like thinking I can ride a bike anywhere.
This world is not the same, I am not the same. But I am in this world and it is mine. I set about claiming it…now.

I am coming home

We're in the home stretch: after ten months of living, eating, studying, traveling, struggling, managing, thriving here (and the last two weeks traveling with the parents--many stories to come), I am heading home.

It's a long and rugged road
and we don't know where it's headed
but we know it's gonna get us where we're going
and when we find what we're looking for
we'll drop these bags and search no more
cause it's gonna feel like heaven when we're home.

I am looking forward to:
SEEING MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS
Hanging my clothes on the line
Gardening
Wiling away entire days reading with my mom
Going on motorcycle rides with my dad
Watching the sun set over Lake Michigan
Petting my dog and my cat
Untrimmed trees
The screen house at my "retreat center" of a house
Being on the grounds crew at Manchester

I am dreading:
Driving

I will miss:
Bakeries
French
The city of Strasbourg
The sense of history
The French idea of a meal
Friends

I am afraid of (among others):
The undeniable fact that things will have changed while I was away
Forgetting French
Losing contact with friends here
Never coming back

Of all my reflections on this year, the one thought I have that is the most true is this:
Time passes.

See you soon,
Colleen