Have Yourself...

A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS.

I love you all and I am thinking of you constantly.

It's true. I can't help it.

Warm tidings and a few bisous,

your Madeline

Berlin

So, WHOA.

Hello, my dears.

I know, I've been lacking. It has been a while, hasn't it?

Shame on me.

But the problem is, I have no IDEA how I can put into words just how crazy this trip to Berlin really turned out to be. It changed a lot of things. It changed everything.

Shall I make a list?

THANKS TO Americans for Informed Democracy:
- I understand the connection between the Cold War and the War on Terror, and why that means Europe will never respect us again. (Also: [fall of the berlin wall: 11-9] / [WTC bombings: 9-11]. It's weird.)
- I understand that there is a large portion of the United States that thinks of the war in Iraq as a war on religion, a war on Islam, and they support that.
- I understand that we are more divided within ourselves than we realize.
- I understand the connection between Neo-Conservatism in the US and pre-enlightened, 17th century Europe.
- I understand that many European countries, including both France and Germany, are actually spreading propaganda against the United States.
- I see that China is on her way to overtaking both us and Europe, economically speaking, and we better be ready for it.
- I understand that the AIDS epidemic will soon take to us, too.
- I understand that the US is trying to be both a great country (a world power, an empire) and a good country (a humanitarian nation, a model of morality), but is succeeding at neither.

I understand all of these things. They make sense to me. They must make sense to you, too. And I'd explain them more, because they're important, and because they frighten me, but that's not the point. The point is that even though all of these little details prove a point, they don't change anything. They just are. They're just the depressingly looming facts of our existence. And I'm sorry that I learned them. I'm sorry that someone made them clear, I'm sorry that all they do is make me feel more insignificant, I'm sorry that everything we do to change them basically collapses at our feet.

But, here is how it changed my life.

Through the influence of a few BRILLIANT college students and their pricy, well-earned college educations, I was taught that it will all work out. In the end, people become educated, people come around, people talk, people see. People come together. It's inevitable. The only variable, the only unknown in this whole mess is how long it will take, and therefore, what we will have to endure in the meantime.

All of this mess, it's just a matter a patience.

And, well, we all know patience is not one of my strong points.

But in the mean time, I'll amuse myself in France.

Christmas is just around the corner, and with it, Italy.

Since when did I become the luckiest girl in the world? Anyone? Anyone?

Berlin, otherwise, was great. I befriended lots of college kids studying abroad, and became really close with a girl at my own school. Cara Beth Rogers. She's in London right now, with family. We spent one of the nights together wandering the city. We snuck onto the roof of a Westin hotel, their private Christmas garden. It was just about the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Berlin is magical, it was casting winter spells.

It showed me that I will do something with my life. I will. I will DO SOMETHING. SOMETHING that makes a difference. I am determined now, you see. I am adamant.

We're all free, traveling, resting. Thank god for break. I haven't left the house in 4 days. AH I'm so gross, BUT I LOVE IT.

At the moment, everything makes me happy.

Especially you all. Thank you.

I'll be around. Merry Christmas, if I don't talk to you before then. And have Happy New Year.

Until Next Time,

"They are a nocturne
in argent and gold, and they burn

with the ferocity
of dying (which is to say, the luminosity

of what's living hardest.)"
:: Mark Doty, "Four Cut Sunflowers, One Upside Down"

COUNTDOWN to Christmas/Italy: 4 days
COUNTDOWN to my birthday (hey, why not??): 23 days
COUNTDOWN to return: 162 days

One vast conjugation of the verb TO SHINE

So, tomorrow I leave for BERLIN.

Right now I have more work that is humanly possible.

I have emailed Mark Doty. (my idol. Google him.)

I'm suspended in a state of anticipation so fierce, it is rivaled only by the last few days before my flight to France.

Is it snowing where you are?

It might never snow here.

Hopefully, I see some in Berlin.

The whole city is decorated for Christmas. Lights over every street, the big departments stores have beautiful, extravagent windows. It's festive.

Last night, Pierre and Claire and I decorated the Christmas Tree. It's really beautiful. Lights and tinsel and little santas and a Nativity scene. It's a perfect tree. I couldn't sleep last night, and so I came downstairs and turned on the garland and sat in the dark on the couch next to the tree and watched it glitter against the glass. Watching a christmas tree sparkle is almost like being home.

Almost.

Joyeuses Fetes, everyone.

Until Next Time,
the rainbowed school
and it's acres of brilliant classrooms,
in which no verb is singular,

or every one is. How happy they seem
even on ice, to be together, selfless
which is the price of gleaming.
- Mark Doty, "A Display of Mackerel"

COUNTDOWN to Berlin: 1 day

COUNTDOWN to Christmas (/Italy): 17 days

COUNTDOWN to return: 175 days

Le Coup de Main

I am weary of posting this in a public place, but I figure I can wipe the page from the history of this computer, and be done with it.

I am a part of this SECRET SOCIETY at my school which I happen to think is the coolest thing ever. Honestly. I wish it had been my idea, because then I would be cool. It's just awesome.

We call ourselves "Le Coup De Main" which is french for "A Helping Hand" (and, as there are five of us, it works out well...) and when any of the five of us (one from each class plus the founding member) see someone who's having a bad day, we report back, and then we all work together to get a little something organized to anonymously brighten that person's day. It is QUITE POSSIBLY the best thing in the whole world to see the look on someone's face when they read the note or wear the scarf or eat the candy and really SMILE.

Now, however many of you there are at Hawken, or at your own schools, reading this, I want you to email me if you could be at all interested in participating in a group like this so I can give guidelines or guidance or something for starting one. BECAUSE IT IS THE BEST THING EVER. And I know it sounds strange, in some form, but it's easy, and I know you will love it.

We just made our first pass this morning, and I shall post pictures some other day. God, warm fuzzy feelings should be used as money.

In other news:

I love you and I miss you and I'm just so happy.

Until Next Time, "Let there be light."

COUNTDOWN to return: ??? days

Happy Turkey Day

Have any of you seen Addam's Family Values? Wednesday and Pugsly get sent to a WASP overnight camp somewhere in Vermont for a month or two over the summer so an evil woman can marry and murder their dear Uncle Fester. And the theatrical production of the summer is a musical interpretation of The First Thanksgiving, in which Wednesday plays Pocohantas, and Pugsly is the turkey. And they dance around and pretend to be truly involved for the first five minutes or so, until they set the set on fire, and wreak general havoc.

It's a true American classic.

But right now I have the image in my head of that silly little boy in a turkey costume, dancing around all these lighted buildings, and it's making me laugh.

I'd set fire to something if I could.

Except that I hate fire.

But you know what I mean.

At the moment, I would kill for some quality mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. What is the country thinking? Who on earth doesn't want to celebrate the settlement of America? What are they DOING over here???

I have elected not to imitate the holiday for my family, because making turkey all alone seems so sad. And it wouldn't be the same. And I suddenly know why everyone hates to be away around the holidays.

But, still, it's a beautiful day today. Honestly, it's crisp and sunny and clear, the kind that makes your cheeks rosy and your ears cold and the sun gleams, a true glow, the kind people write sonnets about, metaphors for someone's toothy smile or the birhgtness of the future. Today is an inspiring day.

And last night I watched Love Actually, and that movie is so good. It's just so good.

And the night before that I watched Shakespeare in Love. Which is even better.

But right now, I hope that you are warm and well-fed and happy and home, safe, tucked in tight under the covers, and sipping hot chocolate as the first chirstmas decorations are drawn from the closets, dusty and musty, and ready for a new year.

I'm ready for a new year.

I miss you.

Until Next Time,
- Into the night we shine
Lighting the way we glide by
Catch me if I get too high
When I come down
I'll be coming home next year

I'm in the sky tonight
There I can keep by your side
Watching the whole world wind around and round
I'll be coming home next year -
:: Foo Fighters

COUNTDOWN to return: 188 days

GIP: Paris

Enfin. The Pictures from Paris.


Where are we? Oh right, PARIS!


Claire, Pierre, Phillipe, and I in front of the Eiffel Tower


And later, at night, while the tower was scintillating...


Mounting Montmartre to Sacre Coeur


The view from the steps of Sacre Coeur


The family (Pierre, Annie, Me, Phillipe) from Sacre Coeur


Yes, that WOULD be Moulin Rouge


And look at that. L'Arc de Triomphe.


And the Louvre!


And the Musee D'Orsay! (I love the shadows behind the glass. I wrote about them. Something I might post later.)


The Baths of Apollo at Versailles, my favorite thing.

So, that was Paris.

I hope you enjoyed yourself.

I miss you.

Until Next Time, "When the wind finds you, it fights you. It will wrestle its way into your eyes, your guts, your bones; it wants to freeze you into a delicate shell, to shatter, and scatter, to the city of lights, impervious below."

COUNTDOWN to return: 192 days

BERLIN, BABY!

So, let's talk about the COOLEST part of recent developments:

I.G.T.B.

- or -

*pause for dramatic effect*

I'm Going To Berlin!!!!

AAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

So, a full detailed description? Yes. The conference in Berlin is being held by Americans for Informed Democracy (http://www.aidemocracy.org), which is the cool little place where the Ohio-an Republicans are being tortured and malnourished for their crimes against the state.

I jest.

But they hold two "summits" every year for college students studying in Europe, and have started inviting SYA students to apply, cuz we're cool, and so basically half of my school applied, and I got in, but here's the thing... I'm going. There it is. There's the thing. Five other girls from school are going too, we're all flying together and what not. And they're all really cool and nice and human and I like them all and so AWESOME. And Berlin. And seeing more of Europe. And LEARNING HOW TO FIX AMERICA.

So all that's basically gotten me PUMPED.

I think I'm the luckiest girl alive. If I believed in God, I'd thank him. But since I'm still shaky on that, I'll thank the real people who made this possible. Thank you, you are wonderful, this is amazing. I can't believe it's really happening.

Now, onto other things that require fewer exclamation points.

The cat of the house, Mina, is a very fat, black and white, indoor/outdoor kitty who has sharp claws and does not like to be touched anywhere near her tail. She enjoys sitting on the armchair in front of the fireplace, and becoming blissfully toasty, while staring intently into the flames. The cat has an obsession with this chair, and this ritual. This morning, around 7h30, she was sitting there, watching the people eat their breakfast, waiting for one of them to allume the feu. Sadly enough, she had to wait a few more hours. But this cat is something of a mystery to me. What does she see in this fire? What could possibly draw her so close? Today, Annie moved the hard orange armchair to the oter corner of the room. So Mina curled up on the stone of the fireplace to stare as the embers fizzled out and gave up. Claire said we'd have to drag in a cushion for her, since the chair was MIA. Phillipe said the cushion would catch on fire.

I said nothing, as speaking french is not my strong point.

But the point of the story is that this cat has more appreciation for basic and neccessary convience than I ever had or over will. The cat is happy to be warm, and entertained by dangerous, orange burning. Is it a sign of intelligence that this isn't enough for us? That I can't stare into that big stone hole in the wall for more than thirty seconds without my mind wandering? That I'm afraid of being even half as close as Mina gets on her cooler days?

Sadly, I think it is something along the lines of counter-evolution that has led me away from the fire and into my sweatshirt to keep warm.

We're going back to fur, people.

Completely different topic, I'm reading David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, and feeling silly for not having known earlier that A) he's homosexual and B) he lived for over a year in Paris with his parner, struggling to learn French. If anyone has read the book, the title anecdote, and a few others that follow it -- "Jesus Shaves" "The Tapeworm Is In" "Make That A Double" -- are EXACTLY what this year is like. He takes a french class while in France with a bunch of other aging foreigners, and I have everyone one of those characters he describes in my class right now. He's a good man, that David Sedaris. I'd like to meet him one day.

Alright, I hope you're as giddy as I am right now.

I miss you all, very very much.

Until Next Time, "There are, I have noticed, two basic types of French spoken by Americans staying in Paris: the Hard Kind and the Easy Kind. The Hard Kind involves the conjugation of wily verbs and the science of placing them alongside various other words in order to form sentences such as "I go him good afternoon," and "He, one, we, it going to later see." The second, less complicated form of French amounts to screaming English at the top of your lungs, much the same way you're shout at a deaf person or a dog you thought you could train to stay off the sofa. Doubt and hesitation are completely unneccessary, as Easy French is rooted in the premise that, if properly packed, the rest of the world could fit within the confines of Reno, Nevada."
-- David Sedaris, "Make That A Double"

COUNTDOWN to return: 196 days

Chestnust Roasting...

Tonight was one of those crazy nights.

No.

Today was one of those crazy days.

Right now, it’s a little after midnight on Saturday and I’m slouched in my bed with my laptop on my lap, guessing blindly at the keys and wishing desperately for someone to keep me company.

So today. I got up around ten and ate breakfast, took a shower, avoided my homework, wrote some emails, watched some Sex and the City, avoided my homework some more. You know the drill.

Then I went to the Piscine St. Georges with my host mother and sister, Annie and Claire. Now, seeing this pool in the middle of downtown was like finding a quarter buried in the sand. It’s this beautiful occurrence of nothing, a glimmer in the sunlight. The pool is indoors, and it’s well heated, well kept. It’s in a good neighborhood, there aren’t any small children, the showers are clean. And the pool is a mosaic. The floor and the walls are tiled by these tiny ceramic squares of blues and reds and yellows. The best part is, you can’t tell if you’re standing on the edge. Then the surface blurs the swirls and stars into nothing, the pool is nothing special when you’re not in it. But once you’re submerged, you see these intricacies in every direction, they’re all around you. And there are a few foiled in silver or copper or gold, and they scintillate as you glide through the water, different from every angle. Since I didn’t have my glasses on, when I was farther away, I’d only see blurry halos of light framed by reds and blues coming to meet me head on as I swam. It was an out of body experience, and I felt like summer again. I wish you could see it, it’s amazing.

Then we showered up and came home, clean and refreshed, having bought a few goodies from the open-air market (momma, you would LOVE the marche). And we got home and I sat around some more and then I TALKED TO CARLY ON THE PHONE FOR THREE HOURS. In caps because it was fantastic to be able to squeeze that much contact into my day, I think it was sorely needed. I really do just need to wake myself up every now and then, remember that I’m not completely incapable of understanding, or of being understood. And it seems there’s always something, always a reason to get off the phone, never enough time to make sure everything is said. And of course, even with three hours, that was still true. But it was relaxing and familiar, and it brought me back to myself.

But I was stupid. It was a stupid thing. I heard the other line beeping, and I tried everything, but I could NOT figure out how to switch over. And of course, that was sort of alarming, but I was a little out of body, and I didn’t really pay attention to what time it was, and I figured they could call back. Plus, everyone has a cell phone. What could I be missing? Ai, I should’ve seen it coming. The phone always gets me in trouble. Annie came upstairs a half an hour after I get off and was very angry about everything. She yelled some, about me not paying attention and monopolizing the line, and I nodded along and apologized, and that was that.

So after the fight, all I wanted to do was talk some more (vicious cycle), but it was dinner time. And Annie’s parents are here. And we had five different seafood – oysters and mussels and shrimp, and some weird snail-type thing and some other clam-guy neither of which I can name in English. And sea food is not my favorite thing. No matter how it tastes, it’s still chewy and slimy and usually has eyes or guts or is still living when you put it in the pot. Or it gives off a strange odor. Or it isn’t cooked at all. All of these are characteristic of the craziness I ate tonight. It was a learning experience, really.

Then, we had chestnuts. Which had been roasted on an open fire. Yes, I sang the song. Yes, they gave me crazy looks. And yes, I’m going to need you to send me some Bing and some Peter Paul and Mary and some Roaches and some Harry Connick. Yes, all of those things are true.

And now I’m in bed, tired and tired, wishing I could be with you.

This is for baby Charlotte:

YOU’RE THE MOST WONDERFUL SISTER EVER, AND I’M GONNA LOVE YOU SO HARD IT’LL KNOCK YOUR LITTLE BABY SOCKS OFF, KAY?

K, cool.

I miss you.

Until Next Time,
A: Love is a chaotic crack in the armor.
B: Through the cracks we breathe.
- uncomfortable silence -
B: I surprise myself sometimes.

COUNTDOWN to return: 200 days [milestone, people, milestone!]

ps: Momma, can you call me tonight?

City Fiend

So, Paris.

Here’s the thing. I’ve been reflecting, and I don’t really want to tell the whole story, as I’ve done before and will do again. It isn’t because I don’t want you to know the whole story, or because it’s not worth telling. It is simply because there is so much to relay that I just want to tell you what’s important. It would mean a lot to me if I could have you know the basic truth, and know it well, so that’s what I’m going to go for.

First of all, just to get this out there, we did everything you’re supposed to do in Paris. We saw the Champs d’Elysee, l’Arc du Triomphe, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur and Montmartre, the Moulin Rouge, Versailles, the Musee D’Orsay, the Louvre, and of course, the Eiffel Tower. We saw it all, and it was an out of body experience. The sights and the sounds and the walking and the shopping and the eating and the living. This is the city of cities, everyone who travels to Europe passes through Charles de Gaulle, it has four different train stations, and combined that’s more train traffic than any other city on the planet, it’s been around for thousands of years, it gets more tourists in a month than Cleveland has seen in its lifetime. It’s just one of those places that you have to breathe to believe.

And it’s dirty and smelly and overwhelming and unreal and it’s all made for tourists and no one who goes there is actually interested in speaking French and you can basically drown in the homeless population. But it’s Paris. Come on.

I love the Metro. Everyone takes the Metro. It’s fast and easy, and it goes everywhere you could ever want to be. It’s the easiest way to see people. I did a lot of writing during the trip, I finished another section of my notebook, and almost all of it took place on or concerned the subway. These people speak all of the languages you’ve ever heard and are looking at each other in such mind-blowingly original ways that you will never, ever get enough. It nice, to be surrounded by people you don’t know, when there’s no pressure to meet them. I take comfort in the fact that they only see, they do not care. It’s pretty individual. And the thing is, it doesn’t work that way anywhere else. The Metro and the buses in Rennes, nothing like that. It’s a different atmosphere, and different reality. Paris is one of a kind.

I would go back just for the Metro.

Except that the real reason I’m going back is for the Baths of Apollo at Versailles. God, I wish I could get to the pictures right now. So, Versailles is this enormous chateau about half an hour outside of Paris that was constructed by Louis XIV to get the aristocrats away from the true affairs of the government. So it’s designed to make you want to stay, to get you away from real life. And, just FYI, it does that very well. The chateau is absolutely astounding. Unbelievable. And then the gardens, which are almost four times as large as the chateau itself. Just beautiful, even in the off-season. And we were wandering around in the woods, and there’s clearing, with a pond. And behind the pond is a rock face. And there are three caves carved into the rock, with Greek columns embedded into the walls. And then there are three beautiful, white marble statues, one in each cave, of beautiful naked women and Apollo’s chariot, and Apollo himself. I’m not kidding in the slightest, it was the most magical place I have ever seen. Dusk was settling, and the moon was casting its reflection into the pond, and I would not have been surprised if Oberon and Titania had materialized in the shadowed grotto. In fact, I’m sort of surprised that they didn’t. Sean! Chelsea! What happened there?

Otherwise, good stuff. Had my portrait drawn on the streets of Montmartre, by a man who spoke perfect English, and told me I was beautiful, and then gave it to me for free. And we went to a wax museum. Dude! I have a picture of myself chilling with J.P. Sartre! And I saw Paris at night from the top of the Eiffel Tower, and would’ve been happy with dying right then. And I wandered with my family down the street of the Moulin Rouge at midnight on a Saturday, I don’t know exactly why, and witnessed the slow opening of all the strip clubs and X-Rated movie theaters in France, and had Annie drag us into the Museum of Eroticism. I’m not kidding. I thought Pierre was going to cry he was so uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, could not stop laughing, which only drew unsettling attention from the surrounding unsavory public. That neighborhood is not a smart place to be. Philippe went into macho man mode. I laughed some more. All in all, I could not have had a crazier trip.

To be truthful, it was one of the hardest weeks of my life. Things with my sister reached an all time low, the apartment was one room, and we all slept in it on the floor, together. IE Too much togetherness. It was lonely, it’s a lonely city if you are not there for love. It will always be that way.

But still, thank you Paris. I’ll see you again soon.

So, everything else? A quick re-cap:

I HAVE A NEW BABY SISTER.

Tonight, Grace and I are cooking fajitas and guacamole and cheesecake for our families.

I might get to go to a conference in Berlin for a weekend in early December for students studying abroad who want "Bring the World Home." It's on the rocks...

Yesterday was Philippe’s birthday. Friday is Annie’s. Combined, their presents cost me 43 euros. I bought a paperback book and some little doodad guys. WHAT IS THIS COUNTRY TRYING TO DO TO ME?

We have to read Candide in French for Lit by the beginning of December. I wish I had been in Stacy.

The top group AP lit class is reading L’Etranger. Oh, the irony.

I’ve gotten two packages and two amazing letters in the past few days. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I saw a concert with the Portuguese version of Dispatch. It was awesome, by the way.

Grades come out on Friday.

I don’t have school tomorrow. Armistice Day.

I’ve watched Notting Hill five times since Saturday.

It hit me today that I won’t be baking Dangerfield Christmas cookies.

I can’t believe we’re already in the DOUBLE DIGITS of NOVEMBER! It’s too fast and it isn’t fast enough.

I still can’t speak French.

Alright, adieu for now.

I love you all.

Until Next Time, “And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free.”

COUNTDOWN to return: 203 days

ps: Pictures on the way. I promise.

pps: SOMEONE KICK GEORGE W. BUSH FOR ME, kay, thanks.

ppps: If someone could ask an English teacher at Hawken when the deadline is for the McCreery submissions, I’d be much obliged.

Don't Read This; GO VOTE!

You there! Hello again!

Did you have a happy Halloween?

Did you see Midsummer Night’s Dream?

Did you vote?

WAS IT FOR KERRY?

Oh la la, I’m sure everyone is happy to see the end of the election madness. I like being here, because the articles are basic and straightforward. I’ve read like twenty different opinions in the French newspapers. They all mock Bush. And I love them.

I read a quote from his speech in Columbus on Friday with good ol’ Arnie Schwarzenegger, and it said Bushie made a funny: “The governor Schwarzenegger and I have two things in common: We’re both bad at speaking English. And we with have massive biceps!” All I can say is, this man is not allowed to be our President. Again.

Alright, shall I pick up where I left off? This could take a while.

So, after Villandry, we went to the hotel and got our room assignments. I ended up in a double with a girl Mari, who is in group rouge avec moi. It was fine, we’re not very close, so we barely spent any time together, but it was easy to talk to her, and neither of us make much noise or have terrible body odor (that I’m personally aware of), so it worked out fine.

The night passed with lots of wandering around the halls and finding friends in random rooms and basically just popping in and out of everywhere for a few hours before scuttling back to our rooms just before check in and passing out on top of the covers with one shoe on.

No, that didn’t happen. But it almost did. I was tired.

The next day, our first chateau was Chenonceau. And alright, I don’t know if you know anything about castles or their construction, but this castle is just a freaking Frankenstein of castles. There’s a section from the middle ages, a section from the first Renaissance, and a section from the second. And none of the architects even tried to blend their style to the pre-existing sections. It’s just a line of buildings, which happen to be connected. Silly castle. Still, it was beautiful. It had great gardens and full-on wooded areas, which basically only make the fairy tale more plausible. And on the top floor, there was this huge exhibition of modern art by a one-named man, Tremoins. And it was astounding. He had these larger-than-life sculptures of people faisant l’amour, three separate ones, and it was ridiculously realistic. Especially their feet. He did feet really well.

I wish I could show some to you. Hopefully one of my friends took pictures. I don’t think he has a website. I have a brochure, but that won’t be any good until June. So be interested then.

Then between Chenonceau and Chambord, the next chateau, we stopped in a little tiny town called Amboise, and were given 7 Euros to eat on our own. So Evie, Leah, Bianca and I were wandering around looking for a creperie that wasn’t massively crowded, and we stumbled upon this little tiny Chinese restaurant. It was amazing. Unbelievable. I hadn’t seen Chinese food since August. I’m not kidding, we sprinted our way to the door, practically drooling, end ended up blowing all our money and then some on this funnily expensive, not-that-great but-still-amazing French Chinese food. I got lemon chicken. Dear me, I miss it even now.

So then we hopped back on the bus, and traveled to Chambord. Does anyone know the story of Chambord? It’s this great big castle that was built at the beginning of the second Renaissance. And it made all of these great architectural leaps. And it’s enormous. It’s ridiculous. It’s extravagant and calculated and completely unbelievable. My friend Hadas and I wandered around together for the full two hours, being quieter than normal. We were supposed to travel with an adult, but all the groups got separated, so the guards were picking us of in large, loud groups and kicking us out of the castle. Hadas and I managed to avoid any confrontation. We were two of maybe ten who actually spent the whole visit inside the castle.

It was really beautiful, though. Honestly, the grounds and the art and the view. They had all these imitation pieces on display, copies of the Mona Lisa and Madonna on the Rocks and all those famous pieces that you can only see after waiting in line for seven hours at the Louvre (which I didn’t do, by the way). So that was cool. I don’t know how to describe this castle. This was the one where you could stand on a balcony and lean over the railing, and think about what must’ve been going on three hundred years ago in that exact spot. The glory and the power and the riches and the fame that must’ve crossed that courtyard to this field. It just doesn’t exist anywhere else.

So that was Chambord. Then we went back to the hotel and ate dinner and found Life as a House on tv in French. Let’s put it out there right now that Hayden Christiansen is just as terrible in French as he is in English, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is ungodly attractive. But it was awesome to see the movie in French, and without any commercials or anything. God, it’s such a good movie. GO WATCH IT RIGHT NOW.

Finally, our final Loire chateau: Breze (pronounced bray-zay). I’ve never hated anything so much in my entire life. Ever. Ever. EVER. It was a guided visit through this small, ugly old house that lasted three hours and was completely in French, and no one was paying attention, and THREE HOURS. It was excruciating. I don’t remember anything about it. There was nothing special about this chateau. It only opened to the public a year or two ago, and they’re gonna have to shut it down again because no one has been going, so it costs too much money. It was absolutely pointless. Everyone basically died. My friend Evie, who’s a filmmaker, had her video camera, and she made a movie of us all being tortured by the sickness of this man’s monotone. That part was actually a lot of fun.

So then we came home. I got a big huge game of Psychiatrist going on the bus. That was cool. And I listened to Transatlanticism on repeat, also cool. And I read The Dream of Scipio for the millionth time. Have I told you yet that you have to read this book? Read this book. Please. I’m begging you. Please. It’s so good. It’s so GOOD. Read it, please, read it. You have to. It's cool.

So that was the Loire Valley. Whooo, I’m tired.

Paris will be just as long and involved, I’m afraid, so I’ll leave it at that for now, and get you another update within a few days time.

I hope that’s alright.

Just so you know, it was amazing and impossible and incredible all at once.

So, there we are.

Long live John Kerry.

I miss you.

Until Next Time, “Watching a coast as it slips by a ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you – smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with and air of whispering. Come and find out.”
-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

COUNTDOWN to return: 212 days

Medieval Eden

So, a long recap of a long weekend, shall we?

Friday, I went out with my friend Grace and my friend Evie, and we saw a 22h15 show of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in V.O (voix originale, ie IN ENGLISH). Let me paint you this picture: The three of us, exhausted from a week of hell, me almost straight from gymnastics, Evie out of a fight with her French parents, Grace as perky as ever, and we go to a theater in the center of town, absolutely crawling with people at ten o’clock at night, and we sit down close to the front because Evie doesn’t have her glasses, and are assaulted by a wave of body odor so viral that there are absolutely no words to describe it. I will let my silence create an image for you… So, on the verge of violent nausea, the movie starts. And, very quickly, I am dumbstruck by the brilliance that is this movie. For the two hours I sat with my neck craned to the screen and my hand over my nose, I was completely absorbed. It was amazing, without question. Just so good.

So I go home, and am in bed by one or onethirty, and just pass out. And I have my alarm set, but the next morning, it doesn’t wake me up. At all. I sleep right through it. It turns off on its own after one minute of ringing, so the rest of the family assumes I am now conscious, because it takes talent to ignore a bell like that one, and I end up sleeping for another hour and fifteen minutes, right until 8 am, and I’m supposed to be at school to meet the convoy at 8h15. And it takes 20 minutes to get there. And we’re picking up two other Americans on our way. So, basically, hell on earth. In any case, we made it by 8h30, everything was fine, we didn’t die. But let’s just say, stressful morning.

Followed by an amazing day. I slept the whole bus ride, which is about three hours long, and we take our first stop at the chateau d’Angers. It’s the least involved of the castles on our list for the weekend, from the late middle ages, very standard military. I could astound you with my knowledge of the evolution of chateaus through the early seventeenth century, but I will leave that for another day. So anyway, this is an old war castle, which was built for one of the Henry’s, and was later converted into a prison. The craziest part was crossing down into the dungeons, where the prisoners were kept. They carved things into the stone of the walls, with bits of metal or their fingernails. It was ridiculous, we could actually read these messages from 500 years ago. They were written in poor French, angled and misspelled, but simple and straightforward. It said things like “C’est pour nous punir que nous sommes ici” and “Je suis le dernier condmane” And I can’t impart to you just how creepy it is to read these ancient phrases in a musty tower with a dying flashlight, thinking of these tortured men, unsure if you can ever really understand what they were trying to say. But otherwise, the castle was very old, and straightforward. No delicately decorated rooms or interesting symbolism. Just protection against medieval warfare. But it was cool going to the top of the donjon, the tallest tower, and staring out across the town. The sky was perfect, and you could honestly see forever, past the ends of the city in all directions. It’s so strange because this great stone chateau is in the center of this thriving metropolis. It’s a ridiculous contrast. But anyway, my friend Susannah and I sat on the railing of this tower and looked over the edge, and watched little bits of rock get chipped off of the edge and spiral ten stories to the perfectly cultured gardens below. It was really wonderful.

Then we ate our picnic lunches in the gardens and hopped back on the bus for a schlep over to the Chateau de Villandry. Now, there is nothing absolutely extravagant about the building itself. It was interesting, and exquisite, but only average in the lines of buildings to come. However, the gardens. Dear lord, the gardens. Does anyone remember that random plantation we visited in Williamsburg in sixth grade? How amazing they were? Yeah, nothing compared to this. They stretched on for a mile at least, and there were flowers and mazes and fountains and pretty pictures and beautiful paths. It was like the garden of Eden, and I’m sure they did that on purpose. There can’t be anything like it anywhere else on earth.

The other cool thing about Villandry was the random donkey pen in one corner of the garden, with donkeys that walked right up to me and started nuzzling my neck. That was freaking awesome, by the way.

Ok, there are three more chateaus to describe, and two more days of events to recount, but I only have a few more minutes at the computer, and tomorrow we’re leaving for PARIS for a week or so. SO I’m gonna have to put all of this on hold, and hope what you have so far can tide you over for a little while.

Pictures ASAP as well.

I love you all, and I’m thinking of you.

Until Next Time, I’LL BE IN PARIS.

COUNTDOWN to return: 218 days

Cambodian Birthday

Quickly...

This week is ridiculous.

I have a test or a paper every day.

But after that, VAY-CAY.

Chateaus in the Loire Valley, and then either Paris or Venice.

Paris. or. Venice.

By the way.

OH MY GOD.

And in other news, Pierre has a stomach virus.

I'm looking forward to having that.

Because, inevitably, I will.

And this weekend, I went to a Cambodian birthday party with my family, where everyone spoke Cambodian or French, and I held a one year old for the first time since I've been here, and almost cried because I miss Jackson so much.

I miss my family. I miss my babies. I didn't think about the withdrawl.

I have to go, but after all my tests are done this week, I'll write again.

I love you.

Until Next Time, I am what I know?

COUNTDOWN to return: 225 days

Num-Squat!

So today I took the PSATs, and this thoroughly complexed my French family, because why the hell would I take a test to prepare for another test that has nothing to do with this crazy year that I’m spending abroad.

And since universities in France are free, the whole scholarship thing took a little more explaining.

But, you know something, WHY DID I TAKE THE PSATs???

All they did was make my French a little worse that it would be at this very second.

My cough has progressed from a catch in my chest to a full-on mucus-full embarrassment that attacks every time I laugh, or breathe deeply.

Which makes me French a little worse that it would be.

SO YAY.

In other news, I have gymnastics tonight, it’s raining like crazy right now, and tomorrow in Art History, we’re having a crazy quiz where we have to identify the artists of fifteen paintings that we’ve never seen before based on the characteristics of their previous work.

HOW COOL IS THAT??

Also, reading the best book ever from the Franco-American library here, which has ENGLISH BOOKS. It’s called The Private Life of Helen of Troy by John Erskine, and I think that it has stolen my heart. I think in return, I shall steal it from the Franco-American institute and bring it back to the States in May as a souvenir.

Hey! Souvenir! That’s like the French verb souvenir, which is to remember.

Sad that I never thought about that before.

And, I got my first package from my mommy and it was the best thing in the entire world EVER. Peanut butter and the AffNo and Mark Doty and face wash and my blue-suede flats (Mommy, where did you find them???). It was amazing. Thank you, mommy and ga-ga. It’s perfect.

Okay, so that was just a random update of what’s going on right this very moment, here in Rennes.

Hope it sounds CRAZY, cuz that’s what it is, and that’s what I am.

I miss you.

Until Next Time, Helen: “One ought to make one’s child happy. But not one’s lover; I deny any obligation there. If we only knew beforehand, and accepter the implications, that happiness is the last thing to ask of love! A divine realization of life, yes, and awakening to the world outside and the soul within – but not happiness. A man or a woman loved is simply the occasion of a dream. The stronger the love, as we say, the clearer and more life-like seems the vision. To make your lover altogether happy would be a contradiction of terms; if he’s really your lover he will see in you far more than you are, but if you prove less than he sees, he will be unhappy. I am peculiar case – every one is who has known love – but we have to build up the illusion before we can be disappointed.”

COUNTDOWN to return: 231 days

Class Breakdown and Drunk Hostels

So this weekend was quite the French weekend.

Friday night, I saw a movie. It was called “Old Boy.” It is a Korean movie, it is in Korean, it is the definition of Korean. And it was subtitled in French.

Let’s talk about how crazy that was.

The movie was violent and surreal and personally assaulting, but it was fantastic. In the way that Fight Club is fantastic. It was so good. It was SO good. But wow. Korean/French/bloody… just all around overwhelming.

Then on Saturday we drove out to a hostel in the-middle-of-nowhere, Bretagne, and slept in a hostel that had the most amazing chocolate cake on the planet. Ever. I almost passed out it was so good. But of course I spent the night following some little French nine-year-old girls around, practically begging them to throw me a bone, but I was perky about it, so I don’t think it was that demeaning. It was just blending. But the best part was seeing all of the adults who were part of the weekend get drunk, and then proceed to break out a CD player and start dancing to YMCA and Mambo #5. By the way, the YMCA arm choreography never made it to Europe. They just sort of jump around and shout out muddled versions of the letters. Which is the best thing ever.

But on to bigger and bright things. Let’s talk shop:

European Art History
This class never ceases to make me smile. I’m not kidding. My teacher, Jean Philippe Lemay, is quite possibly the funniest man ever, in the most unassuming way imaginable. Really, truly fantastic. He’s in his late forties, healthy, slightly balding, glasses, pale skin. He’s basically the most average teacher ever. He’s in love with his slide projector, and he carries one of those little pens that converts into a pointer. And he’s hysterical. He’s always cracking small jokes and leaving little hints to how brilliant he is. I wish I could recount a specific incident, but it’s practically impossible to do him justice. Just remember, he’s awesome. And the class should be great. We’ve split it into two halves, painting and architecture, and we alternate every class, so it’s never boring, and looking at paintings is basically a intense search for religious and psychological symbolism, so I’ve found that I LOVE IT. Which is always fun.

French Civilization
This class is basically a crash course in French social history, and it’s fine. Pascal Monteville, le professeur, is always fun times, and it’s my best as far as grades are concerned. So there you go. It’ll be useful and all that. Plus, he’s the theater director, and he’s married, and he’s metrosexual.

So basically, I’m all for it.

French Literature
Wow, French Lit. Scary, to say the least. There are three requirements:
ONE Do the reading
TWO Understand the reading
THREE Discuss the reading
Now, let’s address the fact that discussing anything in French is a challenge, and trying to use words suited for poetry and manuscripts from the 16th century is, well, it’s a joke. Plus, I can conjugate verbs notatallever. Silly, really, trying at all. And that feeling really comes to a head during this class. But of course, we role with the punches, and it’s interesting, and the teacher, though intimidating, is just the kind of teacher I really respect: demanding, intelligent, and impatient. She won’t cut us any slack, but if we work as she expects us to work, we won’t need any. One problem: We’re three weeks into the school year and I do not know her name.

French Language
This class is, well, it should be perfect. We’re starting at the beginning, but we’re moving fast, so all the basics that I’ve forgotten or never really learned or missed completely are getting engrained. Whish is another thing I’m definitely all about. It’s one of those classes that you don’t think anything of because it is what it is and it is what you need, but on those days when you’re tired and frustrated, it’s the perfect class, because it’s always the same, and the homework is standard, and it just makes you feel like you have something to rely on. Does anyone else ever feel that way?

But yes, good teacher, good pace, good material. Five stars.

English Lit
Let’s see. While my teacher is fantastic, and I love writing, and the stuff we’re studying this year kicks all the ass there is to kick, the people I have in this class make me want to bang my head against a wall. I do not exaggerate. They never listen to each other, their opinions are naïve and offensive more often than not, they’re constantly competing for time to speak, they never support each other. It is one of the most frustrating classes I’ve ever been in. And it’s a paradox. I don’t particularly want to fight tooth and nail for the time to get my thoughts heard, but almost just as aggravating are the few kids who sit there and scowl because they think they’re better than everyone. There is no happy medium, and there are only a few people in the class who I respect enough to appreciate, and I’m thinking I’ll just imitate them. Where do these people come from? Today, we were talking about “Lost in Translation” which we just finished watching as a class at the end of last week, and the subject of the stereotyping the Japanese people was brought up, and someone said that they were just like that, short and loud and hysterically eager to please, all of them, all the time. It was depressing, to hear someone think that out loud.

I don’t know, am I being completely petulant and judgmental?

Regardless, I love Ms. Stephens, so that’s what counts as far as English B is concerned.

Advanced Pre-Calculus
First, let’s discuss Algebra II Honors, from last year, with good ol’ Mad Dog Davis. One of the most productive classes of my life. It was torturous and intimidating and I hated it half the time, but the other half I knew that I loved it, learning that way from him, and that it was worth all the blood, sweat, and tears. The man rocked my math world, and I miss it.

This year, math is the bane of my existence. My teacher is a bumbling, awkward old man who is ridiculously similar to Mr. McCrackin, only not in that crazy fun endearing way. It’s in a sad, unintelligent way. We go by the book, he never teaches us anything, and half of the class is taught by the students.

Which is SO AGGRAVATING.

TPL
I don’t actually know what this stands for, but this is the class I have once a week for pronunciation. And it is worth its weight in gold. Although the teacher is tough and crazy, and although she reads our grades out loud to the rest of the class, and although it’s really early Wednesday morning, I have to say that any class that helps me to speak French better is basically the only class I want to take.

So that’s that.

In other news, I’m SICK. Ugh, being sick just makes everything thirty times harder to understand.

On the upside, my wonderful laptop can play older DVDs! I just learned! It can’t handle the new ones with their crazy menus and loaded special features and jazzy moving colors, but my friend Grace lent me First Wives’ Club, which is coming up on its 9th year on disc, and it’s awesome! Now, you can’t watch with more than one person because there is no real sound system, so it’s really just like the moving pictures are whispering at you, but in headphones and snuggled into bed, it keeps me company when I need it.

Plus, the movie is HI-larious. I’ve watched it three times in the past two days.

I needed comfort.

Anyway, that’s a fairly sufficient montage of French life, don’t you think?

I really miss you guys. There's no cure. None whatsoever.

Until Next Time,
“This weather has me wanting love more tangible Something I can hold cause it’s getting cold Let's hold up our fists to the flame in the sky To block out the light that's reaching for our eyes Cause it, cause it would blind us Yeah it will blind us. But, all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time And a melody to keep me from worrying Some simple progression to keep my fingers busyAnd words that are sure to come back to me And they'll be laughing”
- Bright Eyes: “A Song To Pass the Time”

COUNTDOWN to return: 232 days

PS: Today is my ONE MONTH anniversary in France. One month. I can't believe it. I can't.

One down, eight to go.

GIP!

A.K.A., Gratuitous Image Post.

Who wants to see France?

So, chronological order…

Samedi le 25 septembre 2004

Here you have Lorient,


A tiny town,


The beginning of the sunset in Trinite sur Mer


The end of the sunset, from the road


And the beautiful church of Carnac

Dimanche le 26 september 2004

The cliffs on L’Ille de Groix (can you see the glass churning?)


Me, overlooking.


And overlooking yet again.


And the cliffs, from across the way.

Vendredi le 01 octobre 2004

The view from the window

Samedi le 02 octobre 2004

The Mehnirs of Carnac


Again, in color.


SYA France 2004

So, that’s what I have to share. I wish that I had A SINGLE PICTURE of my family, but it wasn’t my camera, so I’m just scavenging from others, and they don’t find those to be quite as interesting.

But, that’s what I’ve got. I hope you see it as I did.

Until Next Time,
"(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;

only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"

- e.e. cummings, "somewhere i have never traveled"

COUNTDOWN to return: 238 days

Carnac

So, we went on our trip to the coast. To the very essence of the middle of nowhere. To the very essence of Bretagne. Intriguing, non?

When I said in my last entry that I was going to the northern coast, that was a blatant lie. I was purposefully deceiving you. We went in the exact opposite direction, plus pres de L’Isle de Groix where I had been last weekend. In fact, we passed through the same small towns. It felt very ironic.

So we went to the Gulf of Morbihan, which is about two hours south of Rennes. It was quite the trip.

We started at this crazy chateau in the middle of all of these adorable French cottages and farmlands. It’s the craziest (MUSIC: *is madcap*) chateau I’ve ever been to. It’s centuries old, I think it dates back to the sixteenth century, but it has been beautifully restored, and on its property (which is enormous) it houses 22 outdoor pieces of modern art. They’re in the woods and the river and the lawns, and one had to take a map as a guide. It’s really funny to appreciate all of this newly envisioned art on this truly antique property. But my art history teacher, Jean Philippe (who is the funniest man alive), thought it was fantastically interactive, it was adorable to see him get all excited about the greenhouse of empty flowerpots that had been painted bright red and arranged meticulously into rows of 67, or the giant silver fence surrounding half of a tree trunk on its side and a cardboard tractor.

I didn’t get it either. But JP found it fascinating.

And I have decided that when I grow older and make my fortune, I’m going to come back to this chateau and build an enormous birdcage on the middle of the front lawn, and have its door fixed open. That is my art. What do you think? Do you get it?

I’m going to name it “Pandora.”

And then I’ll put you all inside it, and lock you here in France with me. That’s right.

Also, there was an American artist in residence at thechateau while we were there, he gave a lecture. He is one of the coolest men walking the face of this earth (parallel to Mark Doty and Mr. Harris and whoever played Jamie in the Last 5 Years when we saw it at Dobama. Scott Plate.). He made this video of a gallery in Houston where he had fourteen different groups of people from all over the city like a 90-woamn barbershop choir and a yoga class and a special education class and a garage band and a crazy dance troupe come into this gallery and hold a normal meeting in the space while he recorded them, and then he edited all 14 together into this hilarious 30 minute piece that he projected life-size onto the gallery walls, and had people come in to see it. This way, he got all of these people and their friends and relatives involved with the gallery and interested in each other, plus it was the funniest video ever. He does stuff like this all over the world; he interacts with people and facilitates all this amazing personal exposure. It’s brilliantly done. He made another video of these men who work at a gas station/auto garage reading excerpts from Ulysses by James Joyce off of cue cards. It was unreal. And it was the randomest thing to experience here, of all places. In France. In a chateau. But I think we’re going to go back at the end of the year to see what he accomplishes. Everyone thought he was fantastic. His name’s Harrell Fletcher, I think he has a website (www.harrellfletcher.com) that I haven’t seen yet, but if he has any of his videos up for public enjoyment, take part. You won’t regret it.

After the chateau, we went to this tiny island to sleep. We stayed in a hostel of some kind, with dorm rooms and what not. And they roomed us! As in, they selected our roommates for us. The whole 3 days we were in Boston, it was completely up to us, but for that one night, they had us randomly arranged. It was slightly aggravating, but we spent very little time in our rooms, so no big deal, of course. The island was too small and bland to house any stories worth telling.

The next day, we went to Carnac, and saw the mehnirs. Does anyone know what a mehnir is? The one that everyone knows is in Great Britain, Stonehenge. Great formations of standing rocks, constructed by humans. Well, a menhir is one of the individual rocks that contributes to the overall structure. While this was no Stonehenge, it is still basically unbelievable. Carnac has over three thousand rocks and they’re over six thousand years old. I couldn’t think that largely. In the US, we have amazing sights, but they’re Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon and things, and we just happen to have gotten lucky in the geographic lottery. This stuff was made by human beings, it was planned and constructed and left standing over millennia. And the carvings, in the stone. I kept tracing my fingers in the ridges, wondering how many people must have felt the same thing for five thousand years. It’s so alien. The rocks are arranged into lines, and they stretch for miles. People have been trying to understand the method behind the madness of the way they are arranged, but no one seems to have an answer yet. They’re some kind of sacred collective, most likely associated with the sun. But can you imagine how hard these peoples must have worked, and for how long? The way they stretch, I can imagine them never really finishing, just adding another couple of stones every season, letting the time pass. But I hope they felt successful, I hope it brought them renown. Is it only wonderful because it has been standing for six thousand years?

So I was basically just overall astounded by these big rocks. I mean, how could you not be? Seriously, this is not a rhetorical question. How could you not be astounded? You’ve seen it all before? You think all ancient civilizations were just being silly messing around with their rocks? You don’t believe in rocks at all? You have no brain and no soul and are merely a body that manages to move and speak and wear expensive clothes?

Ugh. I’m sorry. But the people here, they are disappointing. First of all, they are not nice. Many of them will not hesitate to exclude you to for no reason. While it hasn’t happened to be personally, thank god, I sit in the common room sometimes and it kills me a little inside every time I see this girl turn her back to that one, or that girl walk right by this one when she was waving hello. It’s almost savage. I thought I was going to come here and meet all of these brilliant, motivated, life-changing people who were seeking to expand their horizons and learn about themselves and feel at home in the world. But really, I feel like I’m surrounded by a large group of well endowed young boys and girls who wanted to add some spark to their college apps. Which I should’ve expected. But since I didn’t, it’s extra disappointing. And I’m sure that with time, I’ll get to know each and every one of them, and realize the intricate things about them that are being masked by the meaner defense mechanisms. Or that they are harboring some golden creative spirit. But until then, the comparison of these to those who I’ve left behind is just silly. It makes me miss you all so much.

I don’t want to make this sound like there’s no one here. It’s not that way at all. There are a few people, a good number of people that I have gotten close to and whom I appreciate honestly and sincerely. I hope I know them for the rest of my life. And there are even more who I’m hoping to get to know. But still, there are those people who looked at the menhirs and said, “Huh. Well. I’m tired.”

And that just… It made me die a little inside.

But through all of this, I know that I am growing. I can be independent, I can explore on my own, I know that no matter what, I have myself, and that’s good enough. And honestly, I’m finding that to be one of the most crucial things I’ve learned so far, even more than how to ask where the bathroom is, and it has only been three weeks. So there is a wonderful silver lining.

And, again, for my iPod donors, you are the smartest and best friends ever, and I can’t tell you how this wonderful little guy is getting me through my days.

It’s amazing.

I now have 1800 songs on it, and I don’t think I’ve used half the memory yet.

I have it with me every second.

We’ll be married as soon as it’s legal (happily, this issue is not being written into the constitution as of yet, but we’re trying to lay low and keep off of Bushie’s radar screen. Who knows who’s next once he’s done with those evil same-sex couples…).

No kidding.

Next entry, a full description of all my classes, because they do play such an enormous role in my life, and I feel this journal is somewhat lacking as far as their influence is concerned.

I miss you all.

Until Next Time,
"To come on all courageous
And offer you my hand
To pull you up on to dry land
When all I got is sinking sand
The trick ain't worth the time it buys
I'm sick of hearing my own lies
And love's a raven when it flies"
David Gray: “The Other Side”

(The other night, I fell asleep with his CD “White Ladder” on repeat, and I realized just how wonderful he is. I suggest you all get out there and live it too.)

COUNTDOWN to return: 241 days

Once you are Real

Hello my dears, my faraway loved ones.

I assume that all is arriving, and passing well.

As is true of me.

But the end of this week has been a hard one. I will tell you plainly, it is not easy as of late. It becomes harder to excuse my numerous grammatical errors within my adjustment period. I don’t feel like I’m improving at the speed they expect us to be. By December, all of the teachers will stop writing on the board, and expect us to take notes from lectures alone. I know I’m not even three weeks in yet, and that’s a good three months away, but there are so many words I do not know. I learn at least ten every day, and then promptly forget them.

But worse than this is the fact that it is easy not to speak French. In classes, of course, it’s necessary. And during dinner, or when I’m having a conversation with my host mother. But at school, we all speak English with each other. And whenever we go out, it is always together. This past weekend, since my friend Grace came with her family, she and I spent most of the time together, speaking English. At lunch, in between classes, after school, on the phone. We all speak English. And how can that be right? When I’m not interacting with my family or doing my French homework, I’m writing or reading or listening to music, usually a combination of all three, and that is of course in English. It’s all in English!

When I first got here, it seemed like French was everywhere. Now, I realize how easy it is to avoid it. And it’s crazy, because half the time my head is pounding as I’m trying to materialize the foreign words from the empty space that was once my brain, and the other half of the time, I can barely believe that I need the language at all. It’s a paradox, one that never ceases to leave me exhausted, and frustrated, and lonely. It’s like I don’t belong in any language right now.

So, in order to accelerate my growth, I spent most of the evening in front of the television, and avoided all of the channels with American music (there are two, one of which is MTV, and that’s all stuff from the USA. They have a show called “Top Ten USA.” Would we ever watch “Top Ten Europe” or “Top Ten Australia” or “Top Ten Borneo” at home? I don’t think so… Why do they have all this stuff? It’s all in English!) and English movies, and managed to get in an episode of French friends (which is butchered but still comforting, by the way), and then I watched a French-dubbed version of Forrest Gump.

I love Forrest Gump, and I knew it well enough that I could understand almost every line. It was like an out of body experience.

So that was my evening, and I feel like it was at least immersive, right?

What else is there? Bah oui, things have been hard lately. I get homesick at the worst times, like during classes or in the cafeteria or during dinner. It’s crazy, not knowing where it’s safe to let yourself go. Here, I’m always on guard, trying to be on my best behavior, or something like that. You can’t show your cracks, this far from home.

And I don’t think my sister likes me very much. She doesn’t like the attention her family has to give to me. So we don’t really talk anymore.

But classes are good, I’ve been doing well on tests and things.

And I like biking everywhere.

And my friend Evie and I are planning a bike trip, for the end of February, or March. A real bike trip, with hostel stops and everything. It’s a long way off, and there are a million things to get approved, but a lot of students travel this way, when they’re here. I think we want to go to Rouen. It should be amazing.

And tomorrow, instead of school, we’re going on a trip to the Northern Coast, and staying overnight. It’s a bonding thing. I don’t know what it’s going to entail, but I’m always up for travel in France.

I’m sorry this was not a happy entry.

But I miss you and I love you and I’m sure there will be beautiful things to say about La Manche.

Until Next Time, "It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."- Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

(I miss that book so much.)

PS: If anyone wants to fill me in on the debates and how the election is going, feel free.

COUNTDOWN to return: 244 days

L'Isle de Groix

Here’s what it is:

Being in France is like drowning. That’s what it is. It’s like my brain is drowning, and French is the water, but English is air. So basically, I have to turn my brain into a fish. Complete with scales and gills and googly eyes and a tail.

The next time you see me, I shall have fins.

If I’m lucky.

Now, on to other things.

This weekend, I went with my family and my friend Grace and her family (they’re friends with my family; we’re neighbors) to the lower west coast of Bretegne. It was quite the trip, we fit in an unbelievable amount of sights into Saturday afternoon and Sunday. But here’s the rundown:

We started on Saturday in this tiny fishing village just on the coast. It was quaint and lovely, really lovely. At least one hundred years older than anything I’ve ever seen in the States. We just walked around and saw the classically Breton things there were to see. So that was nice. Everything was cobblestone or wood and crumbling in the authentically tired way that makes you feel like years and years of different people have seen this little part of town in varied states of being. It was very cool.

Then we went to the Trinite sur Mer, and stopped in a little bar for tea and cookies, and looked at the boats on the water as the sun started setting. It was really calming and small, an intimate sort of tourism. Great cookies, too. They were bought cheap in bulk from the crazy patisserie/marche next door, but they were unbelievable. Buttery and crumbly and thick. I had four without thinking. Ah, so good.

Then we drove a little to the little tiny plot of land that the Houssel family owns just outside of the Trinite. They just use it to store old bikes and grow squash and tomatoes and peaches and radishes. It was one of the randomest things I’ve ever seen. But that was fine too.

The real amazing part of Saturday was the drive to Annie’s parent’s house in Lorient. The sun was making its final descent, and the sky was partly cloudy, and the colors were starkly contrasted and really one of the most purely beautiful things I have ever seen. The clouds were black and then in the gaps there was a yellow light, which changed to a deep orange, and then a thick pink, until it was purple, and then faded right into navyblack night. It was ridiculous, seeing these colors over the Atlantic, and then over the countryside, and out across cityscapes. They painted everything; it was like sitting in the middle of a postcard. I’ve never been so astounded by the sheer force of color, its depth and its brilliance. Grace took pictures, so I should hopefully be able to post them here once she emails them to me, but it’s something I don’t think you can capture. It was magnificent.

Then we passed through this little tiny town with one of the most beautiful church entryways I’ve ever seen, and the picture we have of this is fantastic, so that I think will be shown unabashedly and without pretense. It’s really awesome.

Then we got to Annie’s parents house, and ate, and slept.

And then the next morning, we work up at seven, and drove out to the coast, where we got on this massive, smelly boat, and sat there for an hour out to this dinky little island called the Isle de Groix. I did not have high expectations for this day, and to be quite honest, it was one of the most high-and-low days I’ve ever had, but that’s hard to explain.

So we get to this island, and as we’re getting off the boat, I slip down a flight of stairs.

And then we rent bikes. All eight of us. They’re great bikes, but the brakes are a little sketchy, and the gear shift is really hard to maneuver. So, alright, they’re not great bikes. The Bikes are just fine.

And we proceed to bike around this little island for seven hours. And let me tell you, this is no simple task.

First of all, it’s a small island, so that from wherever you are standing, in most cases, unless there is a big tree or building next to you, you can see the ocean. So that’s really cool. But the vegetation on this island is pretty much untouched, so the bugs are very eager and come in big groups to feast on any exposed skin you may have, and the paths are very overgrown and scary and bumpy with potholes and roots and other craziness. So it’s a hardcore bike trip. But in between the extreme riding, we stop on the different rocky coasts and beached of the isle. And these are astounding.

On the cliffs, the drop is steep. They said about 150 m, average. And it falls to these rocky cauldrons where the water looks like churning glass. It rises and falls in patterns you wouldn’t think possible, like it’s defying the laws of nature, when really you’re seeing the laws of nature at their finest. The colors were steely and opaque and cool; the sky was overcast and gray. And the wind was whipping and fierce, the kind of wind that blows during the scariest scenes in Disney movies, the kind that foretells bad, bad things. But it was so beautiful. You’d see someone on another cliff a few meters away, and their hair would be flying everywhere and they’d be crouched over the edge of the drop, staring at the sea, and you’d think immediately of some movie scene where the leading lady runs to ocean with her skirt tangled and flapping and her hair falling out of its bun and crying like there is absolutely nothing else she can do. That’s the kind of coasts they have, that’s what belongs there. You have to come see it.

And the beaches always have waves and most interesting sand and there isn’t as much to say, but they’re breathtaking. There’s a beach here that is concave instead of convex (meaning that the sand actually goes further out in the center than it does at the sides) and it’s the only one in all of Europe that’s like that. We didn’t get to swim, it was way too cold, but they were definitely cool.

But all of it, all of the beautiful stuff, just made me wish that I could see it with all of the people I love. I’ve never seen a world like that, and not being able to marvel in it vocally with someone who knows just why I love it so much, or someone who appreciates it the same way I do was just terrifying. I tried to describe the churning glass to my French mother in French, and that was just silly. It not only made me sound stupid, but I felt completely adrift. She didn’t even really want to know, so I was mostly struggling pointlessly. All of these beautiful things and no passionate appreciation. It was frustrating! I kept feeling like I was on the verge of tears. That was frustrating, too. I hate the cheek kissing. I want a hug, I want someone to hold my hand, I want everything to be comforting and warm and close.

This place is the loneliest place I’ve ever been.

But it’s also the most beautiful.

So wherein lies the answer?

That’s about all, I think. Oh, except! I saw dolphins in the Atlantic Ocean!!! There were two of them, they were really dark, and we were on boat back to Lorient. They swam right up to the wake and were jumping and diving along side us for like twenty minutes, and they came all the way into the harbor. It was incredible. I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. They were a lot darker skinned than I thought they would be. Not at all that crazy silver-blue color that I drew all over all of my school supplies in elementary school, which was something of a let down. But you know, it was still amazing.

So everything has a happy dolphin ending.

And now, homework.

I wish you were here.

Until Next Time, “That’s when I miss you, that’s when I miss you, You who are my home.” (please go listen to that song, right now.)

COUNTDOWN to return: 247 days

Avenir Rennes

So, let's pause and reflect.

Hmmm.

Where do I start?

Two days ago, I was walking down rue Duchesse Anne, which is perpendicular tothe allee (the little street that my school is on), and a little girl was standing on the sidewalk in front of me. She was no taller than a foot and a half, she had straight sandy blonde hair and little blueandwhite striped railroad man overalls, and I couldn't see her face. She had her back to me, and was perfectly still. Walking up to her, I couldn't tell if she was a child or a doll. Every part of her was proportionally ideal, impecably positioned. It was almost creepy. But then her mother came out of the door just to her right, annd they took hands, and she started walking/skipping/frolicing down the street. It was amazingly perfect. I swear to god, it came from a storybook. And here's the thing. Something about this little, tiny doll of a child was so alluring, I was speeding up to catch a glimpse of her face. But I couldn't. I didn't reach her in time, and so I actually have no idea what she looks like. But I've been thinking about it ever since. A captivating little french girl in blue overalls, making the world go round.

Yesterday, on my way to my second gymnastics place, I passed a butcher who had all these cartoon pictures of the three little pigs and the wolf, and the boy who cried wolf and all those sheep, and cartoon cows and Bambi and Peter Rabbit in his shop window. I laughed out loud of the irony, and then I felt like I was a sick, sad, strange young woman, and that I should be shot, and then someone should draw a cartoon of it to put on display at my funeral.

Now that was a terrible string of images, but that's what ran through my head.

The french have a very strange sense of humor.

Oh yes, I started a second gymnastics class, to test it out. Avenir Rennes. It was a million times better than the last one, I actually enjoyed myself, even though I was the WORST one in the room, and I was the only new person, so the isolation was unreal, but I felt like I was working again, and I know that I can make my body remember some things. So it meets Wednesdays and Fridays, and if tonight isn't fun, that's what I'm doing.

BUT TONIGHT, I have Trampoline and Tumbling.

And let me tell you, I am BEYOND excited.

So yay.

Except, pain.

So sore, biked to school today, there's a big hill, so sore.

I wish I was writing more. For myself I mean. I haven't worked on anything worthwhile since before I left.

I'm crap.

Today is a strange day.

I slept poorly last night, I had twisted dreams.

I miss home, a lot, today, especially today.

But of course, that's normal, right?

Of course it is.

I'm sorry that I'm behind on my emails. I promise, I'm doing my best.

I love you guys.

Until Next Time, "The Atlantic was born today..."

COUNTDOWN to return: 253 days

PS: I can get on AIM express at school! So if anyone is around the computers between like 8 and 10 am, I'll be doing what I can to catch you LIVE.

French Gymnasts

So let's examine the facts:

1 Two days ago, I fell into a river.

2 I've biked more in the past three days than I ever have in my life

3 I walk more in France than I ever have in my life

4 I did gymnastics yesterday for the first time in YEARS.

Add them all together, and what do you get? Madeline is:

10 times as sore as she thought humanly possibly in every place on her body.

So yeah, that's cool.

The gymnastics was fine, not exactly crazy amounts of fun, but it was familliar. Though it's messed up to translate moves like those into French in your head, and then try and remember them with your body. Let's just say, I can't do the things I could when I was 11.

I'm gonna try a dance class, and a trampoline class this week. We'll see which one works out.

So there you go.

Today, school, and homework, and I'm TIRED. Just moving takes wayyy more effort than normal.

UGH, and you can't take long showers in this country.

But there is lots of tea.

Anyways, I love you all.

Stay tuned.

Until Next Time, soursaulte!

COUNTDOWN to return: 255 days (thanks Bo)

PS: KatieMary, you're amazing! xoxoxo Kiss the babies for me, and keep updating!!!

La Chute

So.

Will, you’ll be happy to know that lately, I bike everywhere. Europe is the most amazing place in the world for people who like to bike, there are special bike lanes marked in green on almost every main road, and one Wednesday per month they encourage everyone to travel by bus or by foot or by velo if they possibly can (which is code for “they egg your car”). So tomorrow, and the day after, when the weather is supposed to work in my favor, I will be biking to school. It’s not too close, not too far, the hills are hard, but it’s gratifying. Basically, it kicks ass. I love biking.

But not all experiences that happen on bikes. Oh my. Let’s see. I’m going to give this to you flat out:

My bike and I, we fell into a river today. A deep canal. In the middle of the day. Not on purpose.

And then I got lost.

How about that?

You want some back-story? There is a dirt road here, in Rennes, which runs along a river called La Villaine. The road (it’s more of a strip) is called le Quai d’Auchel. It’s mostly used by pedestrians, but it’s nice for biking during hours when the traffic is a little heavier, or if you’re in the mood for a simpler trip. And it’s less confusing, so my host mother thought it would be better than the main roads, at least in the beginning. For the most part, this little strip of dirt is fine. Not too bumpy, not too thin, mostly flat, easy to follow. But it runs right next to and a few meters below the level of a main road, called le Quai de la Prevalave. Every now and then there’s a staircase leading from the Prevalave to the dirt path, and it’s then that the strip thins out, and there’s maybe a foot and a half of passable space for twenty meters or so. There are three of four of these sections along the trail, which is probably a mile and a half, all in all. The last set of stairs caught me slightly unawares. My host mother was riding in front of me, and she was fine, and she called out, over her shoulder, “Ne tombe pas dans l’eau!” as something of a joke, and I was looking up at her after she said it because I hadn’t really heard, and then my front wheel hit a rock, so the bike veered to the left, and then right away hit the wall, and so it bounced back to the right, and of course to the right is a foot of dirt and then, La Villaine. So there I went, right over the edge, bike and all.

It was sweet.

The bike dropped right to the bottom, thank god I wasn’t tangled in it. The fall itself was rather graceful, if I do say so myself. But the bottom was like 13 feet away. So there was no hope for the bike, as far as I was concerned. My mother ran to lift me out right away, everything was fine. I was only in the water for maybe 20 seconds. But I came out sopping wet, and covered in weird canal crap, and completely unable to remember French. At all. Three guys were walking in our direction when it happened, and after they saw that I was okay, we were all laughing hysterically at my little mishap. Real, hysteric laughter. It was unbelievable. I FELL IN A RIVER ON A BIKE.

So then Annie said that she would call Philippe and the fire department about the bike, but that I should take her bike and ride home to shower and change. But of course, I shouldn’t follow the river again.

So I did, I left her there, and took the Prevalave towards Cleunay, our little district. And I got completely lost.

So here I am, dripping wet and covered in river crap, freezing to death and unable to speak French because my brain, and all of our plans for the day, decided to stay in the river with the bike, and I don’t recognize anything. All the bus stops I’m passing have unfamiliar numbers, I can’t remember the nave of the street off of which I live, and ever car that drives by feels like the wind of death. Of course, I practically gave myself a heart attack worry about whether I could actually ride a bike. And this time I would fall into the street, if I lost control.

So all in all, I was a mess.

A mess.

But it all turned out alright, of course. I am stronger than I thought, and after I stopped for a few minutes to reflect on what a dumbass I am, I pulled myself together and remembered that I do know some French, and found out that my neighborhood was just a stone’s throw from where I was wandering aimlessly. Covered in river crap.

And that’s the story.

But all in all, it was sort of… interesting.

I learned to watch out for stones. And I could feel it in my bones that no matter what, it could always become worse.

Alright, I’m exhausted, and tomorrow, I bike to school.

Goodnight all, and watch out for big rocks and tight spaces.

I missed you especially today.

Until Next Time, if at first you don’t succeed, try try again.

COUNTDOWN to return: 267 days

PS: I think tomorrow, after school, I try gymnastics. Think flexible thoughts.

PPS: I didn't realize I had the posting comments stuff all messed up. It's enabled for anonymous comments now. Sorry about that, guys. And for you who made blogs, you rock my world, and I hope you update them so I can check in!!!!