February 25, 2010

As I sit waiting for a certain redhead to arrive, I can't help but think of the first time I came to France many months ago. What comes to mind is a sad, pathetic image of a boy who was, and is, happy to be the sole member of his audience that somber day. I think I first realized what I had gotten myself into while waiting for my flight to Paris. I was sitting in the international terminal of the Atlanta airport, and, suddenly, everything changed. People, language, dress, and my comfortability began to shed its american skin. I can remember taking great strength from my biography of George Washington. Could there be a better model for strength and courage when you begin to doubt yourself than Washington? George was my cocoon, my shield from what was changing in front of me, as I moved further and further into a world I struggled so painfully not to enter. I always told myself I accepted everything, could adapt myself comfortably, and pleasantly, to what was different and unknown. But, I didn't know what I would come to feel. In truth, when put to the test, I became, and was for a long time, the exact opposite of what I had once thought I was capable of. When it came time to put up or shut up, I shut up and wondered why I had put myself in the position where choosing to put up was a necessity. Difference and the unknown are much easier to confront and experience when seen on a television screen or through the pages of a book. I wish I had known this at the time, it might have changed my pathetic appearance. But, how was I to know? Who, what would have prepared me properly? When the world shakes you up a little, I have noticed, it's not so bad.

The international terminal put me in the international world. The Air France flight to Paris put me in the world of the french. I can remember not being able to understand the flight attendants as they spoke french over the intercom. My incomprehension led to what I would consider my longest, most pathetic cram session of my life. I dove deeply into every french grammar book and learning CD I owned, in the vain and unrealistic hope of making myself fluent by the time I reached Montpellier. For once, french was spoken without an english word or phrase after it, and I realized how little I knew. The flight attendant, who seemed to be one of those intellectual types who fit the mold of an intellectual because they try to look and talk like one, made a joke I didn't get. The joke had to do with my studying, a "you are doing a so-and-so" type of joke. Whatever it was, it fell flat with me. I can remember his response. He patted me on the back, looked at me with sorrowful eyes for my lack of intellectuality and said "nevermind." It might seem trivial, but, when uncertain of your own capabilities to the point I was, any slight rebuke makes your whole world seem more ominous and ill-fitting. So, not only was the language problem first surfacing, but I also felt that someone such as myself was not fit for this experience. Whatever it took to be international, I didn't have it. I was a kid from Kentucky who had a dream once and should have left it at that. When it came down to it, I thought I was of the wrong mold, that the place for me was with the same people, in the same city, in a world of custom and the common.

Three things repetitively crossed my mind when I reached the airport in Paris. First, this place is depressing. I find it interesting, from coming and going to France a few times now, how ugly and depressing the terminals are when you arrive, and how beautiful, clean and pleasant the terminals are when you leave, at least that is the case in Paris. The only reason I can fathom is, once they have you in their country, there is no longer a need to mesmerize you with luxury and pageantry. Once you've arrived, you are stuck as a purchaser in a foreign land, and their work, getting you to that point, is done. When leaving, it's simple. They want your business to come back, and a nice memory of your last hour-and-a-half in France helps this cause. Now that that's over, my second thought was, "oh shiza (used different word, which is far less poetic, but

I don't want Mom to see me cuss)! What have I gotten myself into?" My world was spinning as I passed the morning work crews and bright advertisements, written in french, for french companies. I couldn't understand anything at the Customs' station and got lost looking for my terminal. In the plane, my introduction was blunted, but, when I reached Paris, it came at me in full volume. Before, despite the lack of confidence, I took comfort from the situation still being in the future. As far as I knew, miracles were possible, maybe I would receive one. However, as I tried to answer the customs officers' questions about what was in my bag, my situation was in my midst, there was no more time to ask myself if I would be alright. My third thought arose from the second. Once I cleared all official areas, I stopped caring. Whatever happened, happened. If I was to fail myself or surprise myself and do well, I no longer cared. Perhaps, it was the lack of sleep, but I stopped foreshadowing and worrying. I was there, I wasn't happy about it, yet the moment became more important and irrelevant to what I had once thought and predicted. My last memory of the flights was seeing the monuments as I flew above Paris. The crazy blank-mindedness was to only grow with time, but the serenity and beauty of the moment made me realize how lucky I was to be in such a special situation.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Sunday, we set out to see the french infantry museum in Montpellier. Two germans and two americans walked across town, befitted with a panoply of jokes and a thimble full of respect for the modern french infantry, or even the entire french military in general. We couldn't help ourselves to pry at some of the french blemishes of the past. Flanks and feints were far from our minds, and the way to a fashionable retreat was what we thought we stood to learn. Nevertheless, despite our jokes, we trekked a few kilometers only to find ourselves at a military base, sight of the museum, with closed gates and abandoned halls. At some point in the recent past, the museum had been closed and, as of now, is in the process of being relocated to a more prime piece of real estate in the area. Perhaps, we should have taken it as proper amends for our jokes and lack of respect during the walk. Or, maybe we were right. An infantry museum in France is similar to the bocci ball club at the ice rink in Louisville, destined for failure. Sometimes it's not the building, but what the building stands for. Of course, the french infantry and military are respectable, as well as warranting a museum, and we were genuinely excited to hopefully see it. But, I can't help strike at what squashed our hopes for a nice, Sunday afternoon. Add one more to the countless times I have walked far for a bona fide cause and walked back after realizing it was, in reality, not possible. At the same time, my frustrations coordinate with an admiration of mine. The french population seems to really relish the present moment. If you spend more time waiting than doing, you might as well enjoy it. Whether sad, mad or happy, the small stuff warrants concentration and effort, passion and interest. I see far fewer sales clerks ignored by busy-body citizens who find whatever errand they might be on as far more important, and warrants more attention, than human interaction and communication. In France, people seem to treat people more as people and less as a means to attain something. The ice cream vendor and/or waitress are people with opinions to be valued, not skills and a "know how" to be exploited. Perhaps, they hold the solution to your problem or confusion, and you hold the same for them. We, as americans, could improve in this matter, in my opinion. That is not to say we are all "scrooges," walking from place to place and spattering humbugs at those we meet, nevertheless, I think we forget, at times, that we are around people and not objects or objectives. If we give a chance and expend some energy, maybe we could have a little more fun.

This past Sunday, football came to France. Throughout my stay, when asked which sports I prefer to play and watch, I have received cold replies, just as I bevy injustices towards soccer, to my life-long attachment to football. So, when I was informed of a Super Bowl party put on by the local, professional football team, I gravitated to it with excitement. Finally, I was to be around a handful of men and women who shared my hardiness for the game.

The game started shortly after half-past midnight Sunday night. Having to be up the next morning for class, I made it to shortly after the start of the third quarter, returning then for a few hours of rest before class the next morning. What did I find? Mostly, it was much as you would see and experience in millions of american homesteads the night of the big game. If one can imagine, or retrieve from memory, the sight of a large quantity of food, beer and stereotypical football fans equipped with a beard and a beer-belly, you have an exact mental image of my setting. The game was viewed on a large projection screen at the far end of a reception hall at the International Relations House, my office. From the screen, spanning more than two-thirds of this rather large hall, were seats for nearly one hundred football rowdies. Towards the back of the room sat the buffet tables, which, although far different from the nachos and hamburgers I am used to on the "Big Night," were filled with excellent, non-healthy, belt-severing appetizers and entrees. The buffet, or at least my abuse of the buffet, was what made my bed look awfully well by the start of halftime. It was interesting to watch the game broadcasted by a french television station. I am convinced that the only thing that sounds more beautiful, as far as languages go, than the french language, is english with a french accent. Needless to say, the names I know so well took on a sweeter tune that night. Other than french being shouted and not english, the fans cheered much the same. Big hits with arms and legs flailing, as well as a high probability of injury, drew the more fervent bursts of enthusiasm on display Sunday night. All in all, the setting and the inhabitants, coupled with the refreshments and the fare, made an excellent evening and a wonderful night's rest.

I understand I have not written in a while, so I will try to update certain things I have done and particular projects and routines I have going on at this moment. My schedule this semester could not be more perfect. Monday and Tuesday are long days, as I total thirteen hours of class between them. Other than that, I have school one other day, Thursday, to give me sixteen hours of classes per week, three days each week. I work Wednesday and Thursday at the same job, doing the same tasks. Recently, I received a new project from a local organization which hopes to promote and celebrate the 150th anniversary of the relationship between Louisville and Montpellier as sister cities. My job is to present Louisville, through photography, personal stories, advertisement, and personal presentation, to the best of my ability and, hopefully, generate some enthusiasm for french students doing the reverse of what I have done. Therefore, if one sees a sudden spike of french-born immigrants to the United States over the next few years, we all know who to thank for it, me. School and work have kept me busy and, overall, very happy for the action.

Socially and culturally, new events have surfaced in my station as well. As of this past weekend, I am the proud owner of a theatre pass which permits me to go to any four plays, concerts, and/or other spectacles, I would choose to choose at the beautiful Place de la Comedie. Last Wednesday, I went to a chinese party for the beginning of the new chinese year. Coming up is the year of the tiger. I'm not sure what this is supposed to symbolize, if anything, but will post any information I find of interest. I am sure I have left something out, but this is all I have for now.