Homesick For Pizza And The People Who Come With.

Lately, when I overhear tourists from the United Kingdom or the United States I linger as long as I can just to hear the thing that unites me to them; their English conversations. Yesterday, I even rode the train an extra stop just to listen. Coming home to English speaking flatmates is something I am beyond fortunate for. And joining the American library full of English books, movies, and exit signs, is where I have truly found sanctuary.

Springtime table setting. 

Homesickness is a strange thing. Besides the fact that I have mastered how to order "kebab and fries with salad but without sauce and to takeaway" from the restaurant on the corner, my French is not exactly fluent. I finally understand why it is called a foreign language. To be constantly surrounded by a vocabulary and culture so different from my own is exhausting. It's like getting dressed up to watch a foreign film,without subtitles, in a fancy theater in the city. While traveling is beautiful, enriching, and culturing, sometimes I just want to stretch out on my couch and watch one of my favorite family comedies from when I was a kid.

Two nights ago I watched Stand By Me on Netflix, one of my Step-Mom's favorites, and halfway through I realized I had forgotten I was in Paris. I felt like I was back in the house I grew up in on a warm spring night, watching a movie with my family after our Sunday ritual of takeout from our favorite South Jersey pizzeria. I could so clearly imagine the warm glow of the ceiling lamp over the kitchen table.

With the breeze blowing in through our wooden sliding door and our cat Tiger sitting just on the back step, we dined. He observed so many dinners with laughter and thought provoking discussions. Even though the invitation was extended frequently to join us indoors, Tiger for some reason preferred to observe us from outside our cage. Our other cats were the ones that would cuddle force their way onto your lap and demand your love and attention while watching a movie.

Self portrait of me and my favorite pizza. 

Attempting to pass the time with Stand By Me, I ended up having an unfulfill-able craving for a great slice of pizza, my cats (none of which are around to cuddle anymore), and most of all to sit with my family and enjoy the comfort of the home and company in which we shared.

My dad has always been very adamant about turning off the television and sitting down to dinner together. Before cell phones, if we were at the table and the phone rang, he refused to answer it. Dinnertime is a chance to focus on each other and talk without interruption.

Throughout my life my family evolved, and I sat in that kitchen with many different combinations of people and many different combinations of furniture. When my Little Sister was a baby i can recall a changing table in one corner and for years we had a piano that nobody played and it held my stepmothers purse and the Christmas cards people sent us. Throughout our time spent there we had numerous kitchen tables, we changed the counter tops, the floors, the wall colors, and more, but the one thing that stayed the same was the lamp above the table.

As far as I know my Step Mom hated the lamp, it was stained glass and very similar to something you would see in a pub hanging above a pool table. It had a dimmer switch which in my opinion was always set too low. This light set the tone for thousands of meals. Dinner is where the majority of our family bonding would take place. We did not take many vacations with just the four of us, in fact I'm not sure if we took any. We rarely even went on outings as a foursome. But, what we did do together was sit across from each other at the table to eat dinner almost every night, and often it was followed by a movie.

Pretty typical scene from the dinner table.
Reflection of  the lamp in background. 

Sometimes the whole of the dinner conversation would be focused around what movie to watch. Other times we would sit for hours and have lively discussions. My Step Mom would often get frustrated saying, "Why do you three always have to argue?!" In which our immediate reply would be to argue, "Were not arguing! Its just a discussion!" Around the dinner table my Little Sister and I seemed to get along better than away from it, laughing about things mostly forgotten ("Remember when she forgot to pick us up from camp in that bad neighborhood?"). On rare occasion we would get to hear unimaginable stories about the town our Step Mother grew up in. On rarer occasions we would get to listen to our Dad tell stories about his childhood in the town we love so much. (See beach blog)

Since we had moved away from that home last June I hadn't let myself think much about it. But, being so far away, I am slowly understanding the concept of homesickness. I am beginning to define it as, yearning for the small things that bring comfort to ones heart. Being far away from good peanut butter, my moms chocolate chip cookies that are the perfect amount of salty sweet, and failing multiple times at trying to make my family's baked mac and cheese recipe taste just right, makes me appreciate what the term comfort food really means.

For the past few days I have been dreaming about a slice of pizza. But not just any pizza. I want pizza with my family. I want hours of conversation with the promise of enjoying a movie together afterward. I want to hangout with my Dad and my Step Mom and my Little Sister. My Dad and I have been emailing back and forth almost every day and we have video chatted once or twice but we don't have the kind of relationship where we sit and I tell him every detail of my day like I do with my (oh so patient) Mother. My Little Sister and I occasionally send Facebook messages to each other and if I text my Step Mother I'll usually get a response a few days later.

A few years ago at our family's Christmas Eve Party
we won fanciest dressed guests. 

This chunk of my family is harder to stay in touch with via the internet. That is because we have the kind of relationship where we like to sit down and enjoy a good meal together (don't even get me started on my Step Mom's cooking). Right before I wrote this post I was video-chatting with them and they said goodbye so they could sit down together and eat their pizza. No TV, no phones, just slightly dimmed lighting, and comfortable conversation. That was the moment I realized I was homesick.

I have been away for periods of time before and while I may not have any comfort food (except the TastyKakes my Grandmother mailed me) I do know that the comforts of home and good conversation are waiting for me when I get back, and while it might not be the same table, kitchen, lamp, house, or even pizza place, the company is the same and we will have a lot to talk about.

Lessons from Buddha

As you walk and eat and travel, be where you are. Otherwise you will miss most of your life.

Buddha

Irises, Vincent Van Gogh
These flowers were painted twice. Once with a white background to 
give the flowers a soft pastel look, and once with a yellow background. 

I very much believe that each day of your life is just as important as the one before it. Every day is made up of the same number of minutes as the next. When I was sixteen I did a project where I took a  photo 365 days in a row. The challenge was to include a one inch wooden figurine of a smiling Buddha in each image. The goal of the "3-6-5" was to practice and improve my photography, the end result was so much more.

 January 10, 2011
Everyday things can be so comforting. 

In order to take an attractive photograph, you as the photographer are required to put a lot of thought into what you find attractive. Some days are easy. Being surrounded by bright colors and long summer light sets up lots of happy images and inspires many memorable moments to be recorded on film.

Other days are not as easy to capture an instant. Days that are spent home sick watching television or figuring out how to move forward when you feel stuck in a rut are harder to find the happy moment. I've found when I am stuck in a funk the world is not as beautiful, not as easy to snap a portrait of.

As that year went on and I periodically looked back at where Buddha had traveled so far and all the friends he had laughed with I realized why he was always smiling. Buddha appreciates every day for what it is. I learned that I shouldn't live my life looking forward to things, or spend my time missing the past, I must try to welcome every moment of every day.

April 20, 2011
Sunny days in Munich

People seem to look at their lives in regards to major events; graduations, weddings, birthdays. But why should those days be any more momentous than any other? I spend more time each year in the shower than I do the mountains. But that doesn't mean I am going to consume my brain with wishing I was in the peaceful mountains when I can take delight in the peace of a hot shower every day.

If something makes me smile, no matter how small, I replay the moment in my head. I write it in my journal, I snap a picture, I type up a note in my phone, I highlight the well written passage of the book. It doesn't have to be the main event for it to be the headline.

Ever since I learned this lesson from my little smiling Buddha I have enjoyed life so much more. I don't fret about the notifications from my phone, I focus on the painting hanging in the restaurant, or the laughing children in the park, I take note of the details on the shutters and doors of the buildings as I pass by. If something catches my eye I stop and explore it.

This weekend I went to Amsterdam and was blown away by the beauty of the city. My new friend Becca and I walked through Vondel Park on our way to the Van Gogh museum. We almost did not make it to see his art because we were admiring some sculptures we discovered on our own.

By the time we arrived at the museum we had about fifty minutes until it closed, we rushed through trying to see everything, yet allowing ourselves to be enthralled by the beauty of so many paintings. I found myself lost, gazing into tulip fields through Monet's eyes, staring into the sea from Van Gogh's vantage point, seeing purple Irises from his perspective, and so much more.

Becca was off finding her own paintings that she was falling in love with. I would have to pull myself away from a painting and forbid myself from looking back. With time ticking down we would run to the next floor, not to rush through, but to seek more paintings that triggered such intense emotions. We hardly spoke to each other in that hour, all through the crowds and the excitement. We were both so affected by the art.

Appreciating art in Vondel Park Amsterdam

No photos were allowed so I stared deep into the paintings trying to memorize how I felt and what I loved about each. I was so overwhelmed with happiness that my brain overloaded and I knew I wouldn't remember anything. While I stared at Monet's tulip fields I knew I had to return some day.

Every event was a peak of the mountain and the final summit was nowhere in sight. It's rare to visit a destination and the tourist attraction is just as wonderful to see as the serendipitous discoveries. I need to return so I can spend hours in the Van Gogh museum, picnic in Vondel Park,  and ride bikes along the canals. I had fallen in love with Amsterdam (Valentine's weekend none the less).

Irises, Van Gogh
With a yellow background these contrasting
colors are stunning in person. 

I had been stuck in a bit of a "Paris funk" lately. Not doing much besides school and hanging around my apartment I was reminded of those tough times during my photo a day project. Some days it's hard to capture the happy moment, but it's important to remember those days don't last forever. Make the most of them and appreciate them for what they are , never wish the day away.

Find the good in the pit days, and peak days will come along as well. The view might be best from the top of the mountain, but that doesn't mean the view from the bottom is bad. As Buddha says, " be where you are, otherwise you will miss most of your life". You can see hundreds of world famous paintings in the same hour that you see an unknown artists work hidden in the trees and be equally touched by both of them. It's all up to how you decide to look at whats surrounds you.







The other highlights of our weekend and activities we would recommend:

1. Lunch at Cafe De Ceuvel. Check out my new friend Becca's blog to read about it. Off the beaten path, hidden treasure.
2. Waiting two hours in the cold to visit the Anne Frank House. Well worth the wait, but if planned in advance you can get timed tickets. However, we did enjoy chatting with our new friend Kristin, who was on a business trip from Boston.
3.  Vondel Park, search for the tree support sculptures.
4. Van Gogh Museum, allow hours to explore and appreciate. It's expensive, but worth it.
5. All the food. We had a No Kebab rule. Everything else we discovered was incredible.

My Mommy Is My Valentine

My Valentine for this year

I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day. I don't have much reason as to why, I just have no interest in taking part. I don't like the phony cards, chocolate, and excessive pink hearts. I feel like the idea of forcing people to be romantic is not very romantic.  Ever since I was a kid I have disliked the holiday, I just don't get it.

The winter I was in the fifth grade was when Webkins were popular, they were a stuffed animal that came with a specific code you could use to play online in an interactive world with them. This was quite a new idea to the world that now has apps and virtual realities for every toy, gadget, and kitchen appliance you can imagine.

That February my Mom came home late from a business trip and stopped to pick up my sister and I from our Dad's house. I was always happy to see my Mom after she had been away, and that was a gift in itself. I remember sitting in the family room, hearing the garage door open, and seeing her walk in. She was always so fashionable in her Ann Taylor ensemble that she would wear to work. After hugs and hellos she handed us each a card with a heart and a Webkin. What a special surprise!

My little sister and I all dolled up in pink on the day my
Mom declared her  LOVE to our StepDad forever. 

A few years later on a sunny day in February my Mom came and picked me up from middle school. As she used to work full time I remember this being a lovely surprise. We were on our way to the car and I was giving her all the exiting details of my day in the seventh grade. Right as we were simultaneously opening our doors to her silver Acrua TSX she said, "I have a present for you."

Six of the greatest words ever spoken to a kid. She reached into the back seat and pulled out a Hollister tank top that was a wonderful shade of dark pink. Hollister was the coveted store at that time, everyone had Hollister clothes except me. My little sister had a similar shirt in the bag waiting for her in a slightly different pink.

Spring semester of my Freshman year of college I lived at home. That semester was a lot more snow than it was spring so getting out of bed on that early February morning was a cold and daunting task. By this point my Mom had gone from working full time, to being a full time Mom of four. Arguably she was busier now than she had been when I was growing up.

After I was done brushing my teeth she stopped me in the hallway, both hands behind her back she pulled out two graceful and soft scarves that she had made, both were red. One scarf had delicate lace that she had sewn around the edges, the other she had sewn together in a circle (infinity scarves were popular that year). Since my little sister had slept at my Dad's house the night before I got the first choice. I admired the lace and its elegance, so I initially chose that and took it back to my bedroom, after a few minutes I ran back, I thought I would be more likely to wear the other one. So I swapped out and left the more beautiful one for my sister.

This morning my new friend Becca came into our room with mail, she handed me two envelopes. I had been expecting a piece of mail from my Mom that would include some practical bank items. Upon opening that letter I was happily entertained by the elegant decorations on the inside of the envelop (I am easy to please) and I laughed at what was written on the stationary inside.

Sitting and smiling at my Mother's remarkable

Valentine's Day isn't the only holiday
that involves the color red. 

ability to insert humor into the littlest moments of everyday life, I remembered there was a second package and on the outside there was some sort of customs form that had been filled out and under "detailed description of contents" was listed, "fabric headband". While I had been expecting the first envelope I was a little confused about this one. I had not asked her to mail me a headband, (although had I needed a specific headband from home I know she would have mailed it within minutes of me asking).

As I began to tear it open I knew right away what it was. Once again, my Mom successfully surprised me with a simple but sweet Valentine. A pink headband (with inside jokes written on the label as per expected) and a charming card with a hand written note inside, "Happy Valentine's Day! Love, Mamacita".

 I always forget that Valentines Day isn't about chocolate or pink hearts or cards or spending money. It's just an excuse to let someone you love know that you love them. And my Mom always makes an effort to give me a card and something pink on Valentines day, to show her love. Every year I like to let the world know that I don't like Valentine's Day because I hate how forced it is. When February rolls around that's the attitude that comes to my mind, and every year, my Mom surprises me and makes me remember to change that attitude. She does so with an unexpected card and a gift that reminds me how much she cares.

On the other hand she makes sure that the notion of showing love with chocolate, happens on every other day of the year, not just in February. She does this through baking delicious brownies, cakes, and cookies (things I am missing very much so far from home) As the wonderful mother she is, she shows her love in every way possible and I would never denounce that, Valentine's Day or any other day.

Loving my Valentine in Montreal! 

If you are lucky enough to go to the beach, then you are lucky enough.

John F. Kennedy once said, "We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch - we are going back from whence we came." 

June Sunsets

Long before I was born my Grandfather would say to my Nana, "Lets go down to the beach and see if it is still there." While the beach often suffers severe erosion during major storms there is never any real fear that our dear little beach will disappear from us entirely. It was more of an excuse to go for a walk on the beach during the off-season when the usual beach crowds are back in Manhattan hibernating. Another time when the two of them were sailing on the bay he said to her, "Our children will always come back here." She tells this story and explains that it wasn't necessarily that they would come back to visit their parents but that the attractiveness of  where they live on Long Island would be impossible to stay away from. She was right, not only has my father always returned to the beautiful beaches and landscapes where he grew up, he has infected us with the attatchment and love of that little Hamlet as we grew up.

Childhood days at the beach covered from the sun.

In the off season going to the beach is just an outing with very little preparations and even less commitment. It's a peaceful walk to see the waves. A regular trip can take place in under thirty minutes there and back.

Growing up summertime meant weeks at Nana's with the cousins and days at the beach. A day at the beach in the peak season is not an outing, it is an ordeal. In order to spend a day relaxing at the beach the whole family had to be up early, fed, and sun screened. Everyone trying to get out the door at the same time was not exactly relaxing.  Hours would be spent "getting ready for the beach", and after putting in that much time beforehand you were obligated to stay and relax until dinner.

  After breakfast was over the preparations would begin; packing the cooler with snacks and drinks, counting towels and gathering umbrellas, arguing over who got to use what skimboard or boogie board, and much to the distress of all four children- sunscreen. While the others prepared everything else, one adult would arm themselves with a big bottle of pasty white sun screen and would manage to coat every inch of us from behind the ears to the bottoms of our feet with the dreaded cold goo. Once at the beach it would be reapplied every hour or so, each application would be more annoying then the last as the greasy lotion mixed with the sand and salty water.

Some days unfortunately no matter how persistent our warrior parents were with the lotion, the umbrellas, and the surf shirts, the sun still won and I  (the palest of them all) would come home fried like the poor little Jersey tomato that I am. After years of fighting the sunscreen and being scarred with enough freckles to be confused as a dalmatian, I have become the wiser. Sunscreen is now my best friend in the summer, so are hats, sun glasses, surf shirts, and umbrellas. (My friends love to joke that I am "afraid of the sun" as they lay out and tan. While they enjoy their browned skin now I like to remind them that when we are old I'll be the one with the beautiful skin.)

Once we arrived at the beach we had to find parking, then the whole car had to be unpacked; the cooler with the snacks and drinks, the multitude of towels, the beach umbrellas, skim and boogie boards, and bags of other various tools to keep us busy got carried up to the beach and dragged what felt like miles across the hot sand. Once we had successfully crossed the scorching desert and made it to the water the day could begin.

At the beach during a hurricane, steel walls
exposed and stairs washed away.

After hours of preparations the majority of the toys, snacks, and towels were never even touched. The endless exploring, digging of elaborate holes, catching crabs in the bay, letting them go free in the ocean, and trying to master skim boarding entertained us for hours. A day at the beach is a treasure and I have always known our beach was my favorite place to be in the entire world. Long before I had even left the tri-state area I knew our beach was special.

Summer days at our beach are sensational, sunsets at our beach are spectacular, and winter days at our beach are just wonderful. To some the seashore is a place to spend summer vacations. To us a trip to Nana's without a walk on the beach just does not happen, no matter what time of year or what kind of weather. I've been to the beach on the fourth of July, walked through the sand during Hurricane Ernesto, gone swimming in the bay on my birthday in April, and climbed on top ice chunks in February.  One of the things I love most about the beach is appreciating how no matter how much it changes between visits the level of beauty is always the same.

There are many characteristics of our beach. What makes it unique is how close the ocean and the bay are to each other, close enough that during big storms the seapoose will open up and a river will flow between the two bodies of water. This event only lasts a few days  and only happens a few times

Seapoose opened up in early March

a year so when it does it is exciting news. Their are also big steel walls that are buried deep under the sand to protect the dunes. Every couple of years when a big storm hits the sand is eroded and the barriers are exposed. Our beach is not lined with boardwalks or ugly hotels, our beach is not covered in garbage, our beach is beautiful.

While we always recite my grandfather in saying "lets go see if the beach is still there" the visit is more about observing how it has changed since we last left it. To see the seapoose open, the bay frozen over, or to see the enormous piles of sand dredged up by the town that can be up to four stories high. My Nana and I like to sit and just watch the waves, in reference to a book she owns we call it, "the greatest show on earth".  Like JFK said, we are tied to the beach, once you have fallen in love with the sand and the sea, your life revolves around something new. If you have been apart from the sound of the waves for too long their is an internal urge to smell the salt and feel the wind, no matter what time of year.

Labor day weekend, observing the world
from under our shady hats. 

Before I left the United States for four months I knew I had to visit Mecox Beach. I hadn't been since Labor day and knew there was no way I would make it to Memorial day without getting my fill. On January third I bundled up and went for a walk on the beach. Just as beautiful as it always is I felt relaxed and at home.

I got a valentines card in the mail today from my Nana.  I was so focused on the beautiful card and the note inside that it wasn't until afterward that I found a newspaper clipping she had also included. A big storm hit the North East recently and the clipping was a photo of the steel barriers exposed to the water at our beach. As usual the beach is ever changing to keep us on our toes. Away in Europe I am eagerly awaiting my return to the sand, the sun, and the salt.  I sent her an email thanking her for the card and that I was glad someone went down to the beach to report back to us that the beach is in fact, still there.

"Last weekend's storm caused severe erosion and the loss
 of some of the dune..."

Meditation, Mountains, Monks, and More.

Move the body, still the mind. 

Part one: Meditation 

I think a lot, and I talk even more. I find it nearly impossible to clear my head. The ex boyfriend of mine once foolishly suggested I try meditating. I knew that wouldn’t work. To actively attempt to sit alone with no distractions and clear my head is impossible for me. In fact, this is when my mind is loudest.  

There are only two places where I know I can clear my mind. Two places where I can focus on nothing but the sensory experience of the place around me. Those places are where my mind can reset itself to calm.

The first is the shower. While some people find baths relaxing, I cannot get behind the idea. It just seems like a wet place to do this so called “meditation process”. What am I supposed to do in the bathtub besides stare at my feet? I just don’t get it. Sitting in a bowl of hot water while it slowly gets colder and my fingers get prunier just is not pleasant to me.

Showers are different. Showers are symbolic. They give you a clean start, literally.To stand in the shower with the warm water massaging my scalp is a total sensory experience. To be warmed up on damp days when I am cold to the bone is revitalizing. To be cooled down on summer nights and wash away the stickiness of the day is refreshing. 

A shower is always how I start off before I get all dolled up. It allows me to start with a clean slate, freshly shaven legs, silky clean hair, exfoliated skin, and a blank palate for makeup. After an excursion such as a date night, three days of backpacking or anything in between, the shower is what I look forward to most, it is where I will wash away the mascara and the blush, the mud and the dirt, and the sweat and the blood.

Some people measure their days from when they wake up until when their heads hit the pillow. I record my time counting down until my next shower. Collecting traces of where I have been. I can record my day by the dirt on my shins from a game of softball, the grease in my hair from an all-nighter in the library, or the sweat on my brow from a night of dancing. Whatever comes from the day, the shower brings a time to reflect, be alone, and create a clean slate.

 By focusing only on myself in an atmosphere where there is no one to judge, no opinion to worry about but my own, and nothing to feel but the hot water running down my back, the shower is the perfect sensory only, head clearing, body cleansing experience. 

Part 2: Mountains 

The second place is a little different. In nature is where I find my almost parallel, sensory only, head clearing experience. However, instead of it being a body cleansing experience, it is usually the exact opposite.

Have you ever sat and really thought about why people go to the beach? Why they choose to spend their time in that natural setting? 

People go to the beach to feel the heat of the sun kissing their skin (or in my case sizzling it). They go to the beach to appreciate the texture of the sand slide beneath their feet, grit between fingers, clump in their baiting suits, gather on their towels, and stick to their snacks. They go to taste the salt on their lips and to breath in the hot humid air. They float in the ocean and listen to the water crash against the shore.  

On the beach people walk, they play sports, they read, they swim, they nap, they do  so many things that they can do at home. Why do they do them at the beach? Why do they choose to be in a nature setting? For the sensory, for the sunsets, for the sight of a seashell and the slime of the seaweed. People go to the beach to observe the world in its untouched form. 

People go into nature to feel at peace. They go to get back in touch with their most primal form. The beach is not the only place for this experience; there are the woods, the fields, the lakes, the mountains and so much more. These places offer revitalizing and healing fresh air, relaxing sounds, and the purest sights. 

Part three: Monks

From a young age I remember being very opposed to cities. They were dirty, smelly, gray, concrete, busy, crowded, and people were homeless. As I got older I began to see the positive aspects that came with cities such as diversity, activities, history, culture, museums, and opportunities. I grew up on the East Coast of the U.S. and lived within a very accessible distance of three major cities. I always enjoyed going and visiting them whether it was for dinner or for the weekend, but I also loved that I could go home.  When I decided to live in Paris for four months I somehow did not take into account my dislike for cities. 

After about two weeks in Paris I was antsy. In my life I had never spent so much consecutive time in a concrete world. I needed to get out and away from the concrete and the cigarettes. Every time walked past fruit and veggie market I found myself inhaling deeply, to smell something fresh and something natural. So I begged Becca to flee the city for the weekend with me. 

After the ordeal it took us to get here (See Becca's blog for explanation) , we were able to see a beautiful lake and to hike. Up and up and up the muddy mountain we went until we found a clearing with a little stone house. We must have spent an hour 

lounging around the lawn and looking out across the lake towards the snow covered mountains of Switzerland. We stretched out and lifted our shirts feeling the warm sun on our pale faces and bellies. 

We sat in silence and listened to the sounds so different from the city: the wind through the trees instead of the whoosh of the metro tunnel, the wild birds chirping from their nests, instead of the pigeons picking from the garbage, and the sound of the bumblebees buzzing around the daisies.

Becca said to me, “I now understand why monks live up in the mountains: to be farther from the manmade world, and closer to nature, and therefore peace. Here they can meditate and see much more clearly.” In that moment, I realized the ex boyfriend’s foolish suggestion was maybe not so foolish, and that maybe my preconceived notion of meditation was wrong. I could meditate and I had already been doing it for years.  I have been finding peace while being outdoors and clearing my head with views of perfection and calm in nature. A place where the world is not corrupt and ecosystems live in perfect balances. 

My Nana has an impressive collection of books, one of which includes a wonderful book of hand colored photographs and discusses the relationship that people have with the beach. Growing up we read this one many times together and often still reference it when visiting the seashore. The author lists the ways in which people entertain themselves at the beach, he says something along the lines of “some come to lay in the sun, some come to eat ice cream, some come to swim, some go timidly into the water, some dive right in”. 

When I am in nature I am reminded of the ending to this story.  Whether I am looking at the mountains of Switzerland covered in snow or on the beach watching the tide pull, I find that my mind has been cleared and I imagine the last page of that book. There is a photograph of a man sitting in the sand looking out at the waves, just enjoying the natural beauty that exists in the world.  I am reminded of the very last line in the book, “And some come just to watch the greatest show on earth.”

                                                                        Part four: More

 Just as quickly as the rest of life passes by the weekend came to an end. We rode past almost nothing but farm fields for nearly four hours until we were about twenty minutes from Paris when the buildings began to appear and the views of nature were gone. Our high speed train arrived into Gare Lyon station and when I got off the train I searched for Becca in the mass crowds of people. We headed for the metro as more and more people surrounded us. We passed a small string orchestra playing by the entrance to line one, the oldest line in Paris. When the train pulled up there were even more people, it was packed like the New York Subway. Our sweet little town of Annecy quickly became a far off land in my mind as I rode the elevator up to my apartment. I dreamed of the long, hot, cleansing, meditative shower I would take after a long damp, dreary, day of train travel.  

Silence and Silliness in French Class

       In high school, I took four years of French and had the same teacher throughout. Referred to affectionately as "Madame," she put up with so much when it came to our class. We were loud, obnoxious, late, distracted, we never sat in our assigned seats, and usually at least one of us was eating at our desk or was asleep. If I ever have students like us I know it will be karma biting me right in the butt.

She had a lot of reasonable rules and requests that she constantly reminded us of, and that we constantly chose to ignore. I am sure her voice is ingrained in all of our heads with the phrases "pas de telephone"(put your phones away) or "assieds-toi"(sit down!).

Madame pretending to ignore my goofiness. 

We almost always did our homework as teams during our lunch periods, or as she was coming around to check it last minute, but it always got done. We often talked during tests and quizzes but we never cheated on them. We ratted on each other constantly and may have given her more than her fair share of trouble, but it was only because of how much we loved her and believed she was an equal member of our much loved and crazy group.
   
We were an unavoidable nuisance at the end of the day but we knew that deep down she looked forward to having us in class (whether she would admit it or not). We loved to joke and we would laugh until we cried. The shenanigans were endless and our crazy group of ten gave our French teacher one hell of a ride.

She was a wonderful and knowledgeable teacher and everyone else in our class seemed to understand the material. I remember one day I was absent and everyone joked that they had learned the secret to French that day and everything suddenly made sense (I still wonder if that is true).


French was not my forte as I would often remind myself and my classmates. It was fine though because as long as I got my homework got done, raised my hand at least four times in class, and participated in the vocabulary games, I could almost always pull off a B on my report card. And since I stuck with the class all four years I got college credit for it and believed I would never have to take another French class the rest of my life. I was wrong.

For some silly reason when you study abroad in France, your home university expects you to also take a French language class. So, even though I have spent over 700 days of my life in class with the beloved Madame, despite all of her valiant efforts, I can not speak more than one full grammatically correct sentence in French. I could study French for the next 700 years and I would still not be able to say anything other than "J'aime au foot" (I love soccer). This incidentally, I wrote on every quiz and test from chapter one French one, until the final exam of French four in June of my senior year of high school.

Today was day one of classes here in Paris, and my first class was French at  eight in the morning . My first French class since high school as well as my first time being-up-before-the-sun-for-class since high school.

I would like to place this two hour class above the grocery store incident on my list of traumatic incidents so far while studying in Paris.  During the lesson, taught entirely in French, I only understood every 9th or 10th word. I could not follow what the professor or the other students were saying, I could not understand any of the questions the teacher asked me, and I could not answer them. There was no English translation afterward like there used to be, and there was no group of close friends to look to for help as English was not the first language for many of the other students in the classroom. The girl to my left was from Brazil and the girl to my right was from Taiwan.

Laying on the heater instead of my
assigned seat while taking notes  in class . 

The first day of my high school French class we were told that everyone was going to mess up and that we should not be embarrassed or upset, we should be encouraged to try again. We quickly learned that we still got points even if we were wrong and that when others messed up it was good because it gave us a chance to correct them and get the participation points for ourselves.

 Above all what I got out of my high school class was a supportive group of friends. By senior year the eleven people who were in that room at the end of the day were a nice escape from the intimidation that high school struggles can bring. Had we never had class together I most likely would never have gotten to know those people. Looking back on high school a lot of my best memories came from that room in the northern most hall of our building. They were the reason I stayed with French until I graduated, not because I understood any of it.

While sitting in my classroom today watching the outside turn from night to day, I went from stressing and struggling to daydreaming about my old friends. When the professor randomly called on me it was nowhere near as safe and fun of an environment as before. Suddenly eyes from around the globe were staring at me, the dumb blonde American, who didn't even know how to properly say what nationality she was.  I started sweating, did I say "Je suis americaine"? I wasn't sure. I freaked out because I would never say that in English as generally I tell people I am from the United States. I didn't want to offend the Brazilian girl or the Canadian girl who were also American. Then I realized that if I decided to say United States I would have to say "Etats-Unis", but that didn't make sense either I couldn't say "I am United States"! I'm not that dumb!

I sat through the next hour and forty-three minutes watching the clock and trying to avert my eyes so as not to be "randomly" called on again. I imagined myself running home and climbing back into my bed for the next five hours in hopes that my next class wouldn't be so bad. So at 10:01 when she let us leave I raced home to dramatically proclaim to Becca that I was buying a plane ticket and flying home.

 I then rationalized. I made myself breakfast, took a long hot shower, and sent my supervising professor an email to find a solution. Her response was hopeful and so am I. She has helped me so much already on this trip that her patience for my problems (whether they be French or not) remind me greatly of my dear Madame from high school. I am hopeful that I can spend the next four months in France the way I spent  my four years of high school French. I plan on making good friends, laughing until my sides hurt, taking lots of photos, and knowing just enough French to get by.

"I am salt"

Stranger Than Normal Strangers.

Becca and I at our last and least
traumatizing stop of the day. 

      Have you ever had one of those instances where a stranger starts talking to you about their life? Maybe you are at a party, or maybe you are at the post office? Has this ever happened where the conversation was completely unprompted and you have no idea what you did to make this person start talking to you?

      What makes the situation even more uncomfortable is when you have no idea how to make them stop talking to you. The conversation is inescapable and so strange that you are trying not to make any comments or ask any questions for fear of leading them on.

      This happened to me today. The conversation lasted five whole minutes. Only it wasn't a conversation it was a soliloquy.  Only the soliloquy was in French and I don't speak French well at all. We were also on line four of the metro with no escape until we reached Saint-Michel.

      Becca was sitting across from me and when my new friend sat down next to her he seemed normal enough. A glove fell unnoticed from the lap of the woman opposite us and my friend was kind enough to point it out to her so it would not be lost. For the next few stops he read his book in Arabic. Then he noticed me and it got strange.

      One or two sentences were said in French and I quickly gave Becca my panicked, "please-translate-for-me" look but she had not heard anything yet. To my surprise, he continued speaking and I had no clue if he was asking a question or looking for some sort of response from me. So naturally I stared back, mouth ajar, panic in my stomach, looking forth and back from Becca to this man as he continued to chat casually.

      He was doing some sort of motion. Was he scratching the back of his neck? Was he trying to say something about my braids? There was no telling. I looked back at Becca who had begun listening to our one way conversation.

      I heard him say croissant. I knew that word. I nodded still bewildered that he thought I was following what he was saying. The train came to a stop, he didn't get out, neither did we.

      There were still four stops left, until I could escape. That meant about four more minutes on the train. I was counting.  Was he going to stop soon and go back to his book? I had no idea. None at all. Then he said something about Amsterdam and I knew there was no hope for even pretending I knew what was happening in our one way exchange.

     The train stopped again and he still didn't get off. Neither did we. I was starting to worry this would never end, what if he followed us off the train? I just wanted to see Marie Antoinette's prison cell in peace! Becca was looking out the window acting as if nothing was happening. This guy was definitely off his rocker and she could actually understood what he was saying!

     At this point it was too late to politely turn away, I knew I had to just smile, nod, and make polite eye contact.  Meanwhile he was still chatting at me, I could have been agreeing to wear a puffy shirt for all I knew! Becca let out a giggle and I knew it was all over. I tried to hold my laugh in while she composed herself but it was only moments before our suppressed snickers escaped again (he continued with no notice).

      Finally we had reached our stop and I practically leaped over the girl next to me to escape. Before we were even out the doors of the train Becca and I were bent, holding our sides, and crying with amusement. It took us so long to settle down that when Becca finally told me that he was talking about Jesus we broke out all over again.

       Apparently my braids made him think that I was Dutch, and he began talking about Amsterdam. Him and his wife had been there many years ago and they thought it was very beautiful. According to him however, Paris is a much better place to raise a family because it is not as free and the culture is more focused on Christ.

Standing outside of la Conciergerie with my Dutch

 braids smiling about seeing Marie Antoinette's cell in peace.

A man feeding the pigeons outside the modern art museum. It dawned on me
moments before it happened that someone was likely to be pooped on.
Turned out that someone was me. 

 Only it took him five full minutes to tell the story and Becca did not intervene. She only laughed at me because she knew that I had no idea what he was saying. Some friend she is huh?

However, later on in the day when a pigeon pooped on my head she did clean it off for me, so I guess that was some redemption. 

After the pigeon incident there was an encounter with a Parish Priest who begged me to take a photograph. That story would have been exciting enough to be blog worthy had I not run into my new friend on line four of the Paris Metro.