It's been absolutely beautiful lately in these parts and for some time a canoeing trip has been in order. After gathering up lifevests, anti-mosquito lemongrass spray, sunblock, and water jugs (all things we don't regularly use), tomorrow will be spent together in the company of Jérémy, our invité, on our state's main river, La Juine. We're going to Etampes, a medium-sized town in the south, and then coming back upstream again. It's a rather lazy river, fitting since we'll be in this lazy boat:



Cédric's grandpa built it around the time paid vacation was granted to French workers. His family has used it ever since on the Juine, which runs behind both of our houses, as well as on the ocean and on several lakes.

We have a couple obstacles to face, although the weather will be perfect. For one, there's a mill halfway through to our destination at Auvers Saint Georges, which will require us to lift the boat out of the water and carry it to the other side of the mill. Secondly, there are two river patrol officers that we may have to clear. Normally this shouldn't be a problem, since we'll all be wearing our life jackets, but the boat isn't licensed (I've been told there's no need for a boating license around here) and, having grown up on the banks of the Ohio, I just feel weird being in a boat without a little metal plate with the year on it attached to the side. All of the other boaters I've noticed don't have licenses (at least not visibly), so I imagine we're not in breach of the law.

I'm excited, worried, and adventurous, but most of all I'm ready. Donc soyez prévenus, demain La Juine est à nous !

One of my latest obsessions other than planning for our upcoming backpacking trip in County Carlow, where my ancestors come from, is hunting down the best gluten-free grub to be had in Paris.

Amateurs will content themselves with the gluten-free croissants and turnovers at Naturalia, but for those of us who have been there a few times too many, may I suggest Nature et Compagnie, a new start-up based in Brittany whose goal is to provide gluten-free gourmet fare for all celiacs. Their product line is scattered around several Paris locations , but if you get lucky, you might find a delicious three-cheese cake at your local épicerie like I just did!

Avril est le mois des anniversaires, de l'anniversaire de ma chatonne qui aura un an le 21, et de notre anniversaire de mariage le 28. Mai, pour tous les français, est le mois des "ponts" avec trois jours fériés en plus. Et juin, c'est mon mois, le 15 étant mon anniversaire et le 21... la fête du début de ma troisième année en France.

Quand on est étranger ici, c'est quelquechose qu'on nous demande souvent : Cela fait combien de temps que vous êtes en France? ( J'ai l'impression que ça fait une vie entière. ) Et cette question est parfois suivie par une autre, la réponse moins facile : Et vous pensez rester combien de temps? Je suis persuadée que personne ne sait vraiment, sauf les étudiants en programme d'échange ou les touristes avec leur billets aller-retour.

Mais quant à nous, les expatriés, et puis-je me permettre, les immigrés, nous sommes coincés entre nos cultures et langues d'origine et celles qu'on maîtrise maintenant. Et au bout d'un moment j'ai l'impression qu'on se retrouve à une impasse de vérité où on se rend compte qu'on ne peut réelement pas tout avoir et il faudra prioriser.

Moi-même maintenant à la fin de cette deuxième année, je réflechis sur le parcours de combattant au niveau de l'identité et de l'intégration que j'ai vécu -- souvent c'était difficile, plein de larmes et de tristesse, mais de plus en plus les choses s'éclaircissent et on s'ouvre les yeux au fait qu'on est chanceux d'être ici ( et non pas juste parce qu'on sait combien on y mange bien ! ).

Disons, pourtant, que nos coeurs sont pleins de troux de nos vies d'autrefois. Dans une capitale aussi grande que Paris on peut souvent tenter de boucher les troux en regardant un film en VO à MK2 à Bibliothèque François Mittérand ou en lisant un livre qu'on aurait emprunté de la Bibliothèque Américaine de Paris ( faut que je m'abonne, d'ailleurs ! ). Mais quand on vient du Midwest comme moi-même, on n'est vraiment pas à la conquête de la culture quand on parle de notre mal du pays. Il s'agit plutôt de la nature, voir les champs de maïs ( pour le moment, ils ne sont pas encore OGM ici, mais ça va venir..) et même... la neige.

L'autre matin je me suis lèvée pour me préparer pour la journée quand j'ai vu cette neige fine sur les buissons des voisins...et soudainement j'étais en Indiana, regardant le vent former les collines de neige dans le jardin.

Et encore l'autre jour j'étais au bureau quand je me suis retournée pour savourer le beau soleil de printemps ( tellement rare de nos jours à Paris ! ) quand je me suis soudainement retrouvée sur un des dizaines terrains de golf que je fréquentais pendant mon adolescence américaine. Heursement, j'ai découvert qu'il y a un "practice" ( a driving range ) juste à côté de mon bureau et c'est rélativement ouvert au grand public et peu cher (contrairement à, disons, le golf de Saint-Cloud). Mais que tout le monde sache que je n'appellerai jamais un "driver" un bois !

( Heursement qu'un sand wedge reste un sand wedge, car j'en aurai, après deux ans sans golf, très besoin. )

I believe in silence,
In the silence of truth in the train,
In listening to the problems of others,
The diurnal pettiness;
I believe we live in a post-democratic era,
That the ways of the soul
Are beyond politics;
I believe in multiculturalism, multilinguism,
In the ghettos skirting the city,
chaud, chaud, chaud.
I believe in blessed perspective,
In transcending the human condition
Aggravated by capitalism
And talk of "personal responsibility"
As if we had any control at all.

I saw you lying there
Enrobed in chestnut fuzz
Alone on a yellow plateau,
So I poked you,
Felt your soft belly,
And brought you along
For dessert.

It was never more apparent than it was that evening, the train skating along the steel slivers across the abandoned fields of failure. A decision is never made, but reached, and this only after much mulling, after shrinking the imminent monster into nothing more than an ant, to be ground under the heel.

You need some chicken soup, she told me
Too bad I can't make you some, ship you some
I don't eat chicken, I thought
No chicken for the vegan!
And yet I know that it is medicine,
That no being died in its making,
And that I am still there sitting
In front of Teletubbies
Slurping broth.

N'est-ce que moi à cette heure qui pense dans la lumière
Qui rend flou les frontières, les barrières,
Qui rend chacun partie de tout?
Je n'écris: je pense, j'entends, mon mari à côté
Et mon chat au-dessus;
Et ce dont ils rêvent est aussi réel
Que ce sanctuaire nocturne
Qui me force à penser au chagrin du destin.
Si je pourrais, je serais contente de cette routine
Mais n'y a-t-il rien de me débarrasser de cette liberté
Qu'engendre la nuit?
Avec mon grand feutre noir, je n'ai pas peur:
Ça doit être le silence qui parle;
Le silence qu'il est bavard!
Mais qu'est-ce que tu dis? Que tout est vrai?
Tes mots sont trop bruts pour mon âme.
Et qu'est-ce que cette lumière qui t'éclaire?
Moi je pars à l'Au-delà sans repères,
Sans aucune idée qu'est-ce que j'y trouverai.
Là-haut on ne peut pas rire de l'importance
Des ces êtres malheureux qui passent leur vie
À s'occuper, à s'encadrer.
Moi je pars à l'Au-delà, et ces yeux piquants
Que je crois voir dans le coin, et ces créatures
Qui vont me mordre les pieds,
Ne seront peut-être pas assez
Pour m'empêcher d'y parvenir.

We are supposed to fall into classes, personalities, extremes, niches,
Am I, for example, a woman, a wife, a student, or a daughter?
A perfectionist, a procrastinator, or possibly both?
Plutôt à droite ou plutôt à gauche?

To all these questions I simply reply
That on sleepy Monday mornings I watch the fog come in
After a long, warm shower, and slowly melt away with the sun
And in the evenings the train transports me through the ghettos,
And around me sway entire cities of illuminated Chinese lanterns,
Almost collapsing with the breeze.

But permeating through us, great waves of humanity,
Gliding along rhythmically in this sea,
Far from the land of mutual exclusivity,
And I am far too mesmerized to choose.

Cet article vient de paraître dans Le Fig, plein de bonnes adresses pour ceux qui ont un goût pour la cuisine américaine et des endroits fréquentés par la communauté.

J'aurais trouvé ça utile l'été dernier (mais pas du tout aussi utile que mon plan des toilettes publiques dans la ville), pourtant il faut dire que maintenant je me sens tout à fait intégrée et je n'ai pas besoin de boire du jus de chaussette le matin.

Ca n'empêche pas qu'on pourrait, à partir de la rentrée, me retrouver écoutant (et probablement chantant) les Klezmatics dans les alentours de la Catho.

Cela fait longtemps que je cherche à renommer ce blog avec un titre qui réfléchit les differents aspects de cette vie que je mène.

Et voilà, ce soir en rentrant du travail, mes yeux fatigués de la concentration d'extrème richesse des alentours de la place Bellecour, j'ai décidé de m'évader en traversant la cour du Musée des Beaux-Arts plutôt que rester sur le trottoir comme d'habitude.

Et c'était là dans cet univers idyllique des Beaux-Arts, le bruit doux de la fontaine, les sombres visages des sculptures pensives, la pelouse parfaitement verte, que j'ai vécu l'oeuvre d'art de Dror Endeweld, artiste d'origine israelienne qui vit à Lyon, entitulé "Pain of Content" d'un côté de la cour, en lettres néon rouge brillant, et "kéév hatokhen" d'un autre.

Le juxtaposition des deux langues, l'une répandue et l'autre non, est interessant, mais plus profondement voici la raison pourquoi on s'exprime: être content se suffit pas, et cette malaise de bonheur doit prendre forme.

Je suis tombée dans le vent fou qui anime les Terreaux, qui verse de l'eau des milles fontaines partout, qui fait parler les clochards, qui fait tourner les brumisateurs si essentielles pendant ce temps.

Demain, je me suis promise, je prendrai l'essence de cet oeuvre en photo, et ce soir, je renommerai mon blog "Kéév Hatokhen."

Bracha after breakfast from maria_noland on Vimeo

To the doctor, to the pharmacy, to the doctor, to the lab, to the pharmacy, to the radiology clinic, and then home, to bed, mandated for the rest of the week, while I recover from acute pyelonephritis.

Alors....see you all in a while.

After all of the food I've thrown away, I've come to the conclusion that, had I known a few handy tips before arriving last June, weekly (okay, bi-weekly) grocery shopping could have been a lot easier. For all the aspiring France-bound expats out there, bookmark this list before you shop.

1. Print out a list of e-numbers (like Wikipedia's). Most ingredients lists on products here, since they're destined for every corner of the EU, don't spell out the product's additives in every language but allot an e-number. Rather than just avoiding them because of uncertainty or concerns about their safety and/or contents (like gelatin, for example), a list will help you ascertain which ones are from animal origin, which ones are artificial, and which are natural.

2. Be wary of trans fats. In France, labeling of trans fat is not mandatory, even in the ingredients list where it is frequently disguised by the innocent-sounding "huile végétal," like in the classic, trans-fat loaded Nutella. Many Americans come here with a preconceived notion that partially hydrogenated oils are banned in France, but in fact they are everywhere in the French diet, from croissants to cereal to tortillas.

3. Eating kosher (in or out) is no problem in France; however, things are a *bit* more complicated than back home, as many mainstream products are not kosher certified. For those things unavailable in normal French groceries, there are kosher grocery stores, some of them even quite large, aplenty. Kosher meat is usually not carried by the main chains, although Hallal, to cater to France's large Muslim community, is. There is no Jewish section consecrated to ethnic cuisine as there is back home, so you'll have to buy your matzo ball soup and gefilte fish at a kosher grocery store.

4. American food is expensive and hard to find. In France, if you like custard, Heinz baked beans, Coleman's mustard, scones, digestives, Christmas pudding, and mincemeat pie, you're in luck. The French, although few will fess up, are big fans of British cuisine, which you'll find in mostly every grocery store here. Many of the Americans I know, myself included, have taken a shining to British food because, although it's not *quite* American, it's pretty close, and because of its abundance and proximity, definitely cheaper. When nothing but the actual made in America will do, I suggest heading to Carrefour, Bon Marché, or another humongous store where you'll find peanut butter, Campbell's soup, marshmallows, fig newtons, Mississippi rice, BBQ sauce, honey mustard, blue cheese dressing, croûtons, pancake mix, maple syrup, popcorn, cranberry juice and sauce, mayonnaise (*not* the French version -- ick!), muffin mix, cottage cheese, Ritz crackers, Oreos, and even occasionally donuts. For other products, there is usually an American grocery store that caters to the expatriate community in each city. In Paris, the Real McCoy in the 7th carries all those American essentials -- yes, including Cheerios! -- and also serves them at its café, just a block over from the grocery. Here in Lyon, we have a similar venture, Best Bagels, which, with its Central Perk-style atmosphere, buzzes with business all days of the week, serving up real NY bagels (Cédric likes the kosher turkey or the pastrami), bowls of all of those cool American cereals you can't get here, donuts (Boston creme!), pancakes, and carry-out coffee. You'll also find a large selection of imported beer and drinks, cereals, desserts, and dressings. You can also order American goods online from this Parisian épicerie.

5. However, Américain doesn't mean American. Food marketers in France, as everywhere, know American culture sells, and in the past 9 months here I've seen an "American" panini, "American" kebab (barf), and "American" tomato-y sandwich spread that, well, wasn't American at all. There are also "American" cafés that are just normal French cafés hiding behind a façade.

6. Get used to fat, because you can't avoid it. The French like their milk whole and microfiltered (definitely not pasteurized -- ew), and if you can get over the American fear of fat, you'll find eating in France isn't so bad afterall. Also note that the same brands of yogurt which are made from skim or two percent milk in the States are, for the most part, only made from whole in France. Butter is omnipresent, and eating dark chocolate is hardly a diet no-no.

7. Salad dressing is not salad dressing. Mayonnaise is not mayonnaise. Mustard is not mustard. And the cheddar (mimoulette) is never sliced. If you like some snot with your salad, I'd recommend buying a bottle of any given French salad dressing, but if you're used to our thick, creamy American kind, you'll probably push your plate away in disgust. Mayonnaise is yellow and eggy, with a completely different taste and Dijon mustard usually added.

8. And last but not least, if you're so blessed as to be a Celiac, you'll need to head to any of the large natural food stores (Naturalia in Paris or La Vie Claire in Lyon) that carry a large variety of gluten-free products. Even the biggest French grocery stores don't cater to Celiacs, although I've found that Monoprix has a small rayon. If you're covered by the French social security system during your stay, the government will rembourse the difference between the cost of the gluten-free products and their gluten-containing counterparts, provided you mail them the labels that are found on all specialty gluten-free products.

Cool: my Israeli prof lets me translate Hebrew to English on my final exam.

Not cool: I, curious, ask my Israeli prof a simple question: what's with all these different spellings? You know: mikvah, mikveh, halacha, halaka, chanukkah, hanukkah, chabad, habad, shabbat, chabbat. (it's enough to make a newbie cross-eyed). And, arf, he didn't have an explanation, and didn't really understand “mikvah” or “halacha”. I should know better than to assume.

Cool: I got a 15 on my ivrit final. Yay!

Not cool: I still don't know what to think about liberal Judaism. Basically, halacha is the deciding question. What role does halacha play in defining Jewish life, and can it change to convene modern times? Or, rather, how much (if any) can it be changed without damaging the Jewish people? I just spent an hour researching Reform's Outreach program, which practically encourages intermarriage and conversion. Something's fishy (and it's definitely not the gelfite fish); Reform Judaism just may be the new Christianity. To further complicate matters, Phoebe's been on a crusade lately, asking why we're all fussy about intermarriage since American Jews (much more so than French Jews, from what I can tell) are so integrated into mainstream American society that it is only normal for them to accept such practices as casual dating and, eventually, marrying goyim. It's such a liberal, tolerant argument that one can't help but love it, but I'm not totally sold. Is she suggesting, then, that our own personal desires are more important than the future of the Jewish people? Or perhaps that mitzvah 162 is so passé, dating from a time when Jews kept to themselves and culturally were drastically different from anyone else?

From an open-minded point of view, the only redeeming quality of religion, like anything else, is to permit humans to inch closer toward the tip of the pyramid, self-actualization. And if the governing principles of a religion hinder that advancement by imposing a lifestyle that no longer allows a believer to live freely or comfortably in modern society, that religion has failed. Quite simply, the only reason, other than concern for Judaism and/or the Jewish people, or fear of G-d's wrath, that one would continue to keep all 613 mitzvot is if, despite the discomfort their observance may occasionally require, they imparted something that today's cushy lifestyle (and electric Ikea menorot....yes I'm guilty) couldn't.

And if respecting halacha and all of the mitzvot allowed a family to stay religiously united? And if the children resulting from the marriage grew up with a profound, solid religious identity that they would one day pass on to their children, and so on? If, through that identity, they were able to become responsible Jewish leaders with strong codes of ethics? A few mitzvot seem like a small price to pay.

Voici, one girl's story of saying yes that moved me to tears (even if you don't like love stories, it's worth reading for style).

Well, well. Soon it will have been two months since I was diagnosed with Celiacs, and up until yesterday I was afraid to eat quinoa. It just sounded so health freak-ish and looked like couscous mixed with tiny worms, so I stuck to my corn, potato, millet, and rice.

And blame it on the pretty package, but yesterday I succumbed and purchased a small box of Jardin Bio Quinoa et Petits Légumes, which included a mélange of baby carrots and mushrooms. Now, my friends, I am in love with this grain, which happens to be a great source of protein en plus. Quinoa, green lentils, steamed broccoli, and an avocado salad smothered in a balsamic vinaigrette: living sans gluten isn't so difficult after all.

I step out of my shower, slip into my clothes, and hop out the door with my rolling suitcase and E. Leclerc bag stuffed with my dirty clothes from the past two weeks. Today is laundry day.

One would think it spring with this weather, I think as the florist carts out new pastel flowers to replace the overbearing reds and greens of the holidays. Lost tourists on the corner shed their winter parkas before examining their guidebooks. And Mr. Philbiche, bless him, is out walking his little chien as usual. He looks as if he just might smile at me for the first time ever.

To my relief, I am toute seule in the laundromat, toute seule with my hundreds of t-shirts and socks and pants. They like this too, I feel it as I stuff them into the machine and lock the door. Anything involving water. I watch as they toss and spin and turn. I balance my checkbook to the beat of their turning.

White. White, white walls, bleached and cleaned with this glorious dust of lessive. A place of new beginnings, of washing out stains and sins and spills. Of renaissance. Whatever reasons many people give for detesting laundry day, I'll never understand: for me, it's a downright spiritual experience.

With my red rubber bracelet,
My ticket to heavenly buoyancy,
Hanging on my wrist,
I splash into the grand bain, again,
This time in a white halter one-piece
Instead of a ruffly Little Mermaid bikini.
The supporting floaties have long vanished
But I still feel them there, snug around my arms,
Giving me the confidence to finish the lap.
In my pink silicone bonnet, I'm just a bald baby
Floating and flipping in my mother's womb
Not worrying about my next meal,
Nor all the decisions I'll one day have to make.
I trust my momma, even though I've never seen her
I submerse myself in her omnipresence
And little by little she imparts unto me a soul,
My unique gift to the world.

Generally I tend to be more malicieuse than chanceuse, but lately I've been particularly blessed. First, Mère sent me silk socks, peanut butter, fine tea, and dark, dark chocolate. Cédric then sent me roses, one of my absolute favorite things. To top things off, I did mighty fine on my Hebrew final and came home to find Air France and SNCF tickets (neither of which I paid for) in my mailbox, meaning that I'm heading to Paris and then back home here in the coming weeks.

And I will so be seeing you all on the Champs for New Year's Eve. Happy holidays!

Finals week! And I'm well aware that my tsadi looks like the capital cursive 'z', but my Israeli prof (second from left) wears South Park, Corona, and UCLA sweatshirts to class: I'm thinking he won't be too horribly difficile.

Living in les pentes, the UNESCO-classified historical neighborhood clinging to the side of Lyon's second tallest butte, I have to admit my bum has gotten significantly more toned these past few months from the requisite vertical stair climbing and bike riding. What's more, I've even been able to profit from the hip quarter on the hill's summit, La Croix-Rousse, and all the goodies its Sunday market boasts: fresh-squeezed jus de poire, crisp pinkish apples, thick cottage cheese, and --my favorite-- flaky, heavenly, organic croissants.

However, as my mother always reminded me when I was tempted to eat the cookie dough before even spooning it onto the baking sheet, good things take time. And as I open les volets Sunday at eight in the morning and observe the rainy, overcast day, the question becomes, how much time is a good thing worth? The box of Quaker Oats stares at me, but I counter the urge by grabbing a banana and then my bicycle before I have time to think twice. Yes, it is Sunday, and I should probably still be in bed. Yes, it is pouring down rain, and my raincoat is hanging in my closet back in the Midwest. Yes, I really do hate pedaling up 75° inclines. But yes, how I love me some buttery croissants on Sunday (while watching Meet the Press on iTunes!).

The little Frenchman at the organic bread stand winks at me. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Vous voulez quoi?”

(In my thickest, “I'm thinking with my Anglophone brain” accent) “Je prendrai deux croissants s'il vous plaît.”

“Oulà! Une anglaise!”

“Non, non. Je suis américaine en fait.”

“Oh, mais que vous avez le même accent qu'une anglaise!” (Is it really necessary to remind me?)

“Bon, et mes croissants?”

“Mais, pourrais-je vous inviter, mademoiselle, à prendre un café?” Frog scribbles down his number and slips it to me with my croissants before I even have time to say non merci. (Just a note to all the frenchmen out there: stop hitting on me already. I'm so over it.)

A half an hour later, I'm back in my apartment (soaking wet, of course) with my perfectly plump croissants, thinking how deprived we Americans truly are, limited to those noisy Pillsbury “croissants” and sugared cardboard breakfast cereals that taste good until the minute we take a bite into one of these traditional French delicacies. Holding them up to the light, I notice their intricate layers, their full-figured courbes, their cloud-like fluffiness. And for a moment, un tout petit moment, I feel lucky to be living here.

I know most everyone has already heard, but I am still just so impressed by Maîtresse's singing.

You know, Mère, if you had my acting skills and I had your driving skills, we'd be in business.

Last weekend Cédric, Hélène, and Jérémy set my little world abuzz with their love for all things cultural. Apart from the requisite flanning in antiquated Vieux Lyon, we mainly lazied around my apartment taking in lots of films and music, comparing photographs, and drawing. Cédric, whose history of incessant art instruction puts mine to shame, suggested a Saturday morning drawathon. And in the end, as I think you'll agree, our styles are not comparable: he's a Realist and I'm an Impressionist. And of course, just like in the old days of Miss Humbarger's class, we feasted on the pears and cookies afterward.







Cédric's rendition:


and mine:

6h00: Alarm sounds. I run downstairs to battle the French shower and down a couple bowls of All-Bran while watching Today.
6h45: Just as I am walking out the door to go to my 7h45 SAT exam, I realize that I have no idea where it's at. Quickly fire up Madame Dell and hop to Mappy. Locate Cité Scolaire International and how I'm going to get there.
6h55: Miss a bus. On a Saturday. Putain.
7h15: Board the dix-huit.
7h20: Arrive at Hôtel de Ville subway stop. Hurry into subway car that incidentally has a drunken clochard that harasses me until the next stop. Prepare to change cars.
7h22: At Bellecour stop, quickly run into adjacent car, only to find myself alone with five casseurs and their alcohol (“Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Mais qu'est-ce que tu fais là si tôt?”). Merde, merde, merde. Turn up my music (trash from Missy Eliot, just to wake me up, if you must know).
7h27: Arrive at Perrache and find the stop for bus 96.
7h28-7h35: Waiting, waiting, waiting.
7h36: Notice a sign saying that bus 96 is en grève and will be stopping less frequently. Noooo!
7h37: The five casseurs approach me (“Mademoiselle, pourquoi tu te fuies de nous?”). I'm horrified but I feel that if I don't say something, as they are now up in my face, that they will become aggressive. “Je passe un examen ce matin, et j'aimerais si vous me laisseriez tranquille.” Immediately they smile to each other: “Elle est anglaise!” (I discreetly roll my eyes. I have been accused of being British about 50 times too many since coming here, but unfortunately, because of the dangerous climate, I always end up playing the part for my own safety. Yesterday, for example, I was at la fac, talking with a girl that takes British lit with me (and who apparently thinks I'm British), and she says,” I really hate the Americans, don't you? They are all right-wingers...insupportable.” I agree, “Oh yes, they think they own the world or something.” Inside, I am fuming.) One of the fattest casseurs stumbles toward me :“Donc, tu habites en france ou en angleterre?” I'd like to say that, from all I know now, I couldn't be paid to live anywhere else (and especially not in France or England) than in my beautiful America, but I settle for a “J'habite en france pour faire mes études supérieurs” instead.
7h43: Bus! I tell the driver that I have approximately two minutes to make it to le lycée international. He smiles and assures me it won't take much longer than that.
7h48: Step off the bus and make a mad dash for the lycée.
7h50: Relieved to find myself among thirty other SAT takers waiting outside in the cold. To warm the air, we begin mingling. Everyone is at least bilingual and many are trilingual. Nerd girl pacing nervously and memorizing math formulas out loud over in the corner is annoying me to death. The only other American arrives, one of these anorexic punk types with long hair. It's nice to know I'm in good company, I laugh to myself.
8h00: I forgot how much I love to fill in circles with my personal information.
12h30: Finally! It's over. And I definitely think (I'd definitely like to think, anyway) all that practice on number2.com helped my mediocre math score.

Growing up with a stepfather who worked for a multinational headquartered in Japan meant frequent trips to the airport (and weeks of Mom letting me stay up however long I wanted). Around me professional men and women bustled about in their stately black suits, chatting on their mobile phones and hammering on their PDAs and laptops en route to their flight. How much more interesting were their jobs than mine, toting a heavy bookpack to class, eating putrid cafeteria food, going to mass at 8:20 everyday (not much has changed). I was fascinated by the idea that these people ran the world, that they really knew what it meant to live.

“Someday I'm going to be a businessman jus' like you!” I assured my stepdad, tired from his flight. Never mind that he was an engineer, not a businessman. He proffered me a Japanese donut, plump with its gooey rice filling.

“But, Pook, I'd much rather be home with you guys than travel so often.” We never did (and still don't) understand how the other saw life. Look, I wanted to say, you get free flights, free hotel stays, free meals, free cars, free client dinners: what could possibly be cooler?

Much to my dismay, after we moved out of the city in the winter of 1998, he found another job that didn't require travel. I rarely crossed the venerated bunch (the lawyers, the financial analysts, the consultants) but I never lost that admiration, even jealousy, for their careers and lives. Airports, planes, and international travel grew ever more attractive. So it would only make sense that, when I was finally able to choose what to study, I would pick a major like economics, finance, or business, right?

Well, no. Voilà! I thought, I'll spend a year abroad perfecting my French, studying history, sociology, literature, grammar, English and Hebrew-- all horribly interesting except they have no direct real-world application. I miss management, economics, statistics, and even calculus class. Watching NBR, reading HBR. I miss knowing. And, come on, as if I consider fluffy fin de siècle poetry knowledge.

So sometime this winter, the big item on my to-do list becomes, once again, college applications. After much conversing and prepping, I have my safety, good match, and (slight) reach in line, my SAT and AP scores sent, and my Common App account created. And after the hassle of essays, professor recommendations, and transcript translations, how nice it will be to fill in the “intended major and minor” box without the shadow of a doubt. Because only fools (or certain stubborn Republican presidents) persist in error.

I stomp into the economics library at Quai Claude Bernard to do some research that I've been procrastinating for a little too long (oh, if you only knew). I plop myself down next to a French girl, flip open my laptop, and, um, why is there no wi-fi connection?!

"Hey French girl tanned from skiing in the Alps," I ask, "Is there no wi-fi here?"

"Si, si. Actually, you have to take your laptop outside the building, connect, and then return."

"You're kidding! But..," I glance over at the kid next to me, chatting away on MSN," He's connected!"

"Yeah," she concedes," but he's Chinese."

A beautiful essay over at my favorite Jewish website.

Ugh. I've just gotten off the RER C at Bibliothèque, taken the 14 to Gare de Lyon, and hopped over to Saint Paul on the ligne une, only to stroll mindlessly over to the Rue des Rosiers on Shabbat. Everything is closed, including Hollywood Bagels and the little Israeli-blue boulangerie where I like to buy my pain azyme.

"So where shall we dine, alors?"

"Ah, je crois qu'il y a un truc là-bas." Cédric gestures toward a growing queue across from the Québec flag. A maroon box adorned with golden stars of David, Chez Hannah is a falafel take-out that had caught my eye before; however, having a bland palette, I shied away from the spicy vegetarian favorite. Cédric pays the €3,50, and I watch, stomach churning, as the cook slathers on the creamy humus and then sinks in two falafel balls. I settle for a banana from the corner épicerie, and, dinner in hand, we eat as BHV peers down, eavesdropping on our discussion about the Mormon Church's new fancy conversion center at the end of the rue.

"Thank G-d Judaism isn't so inconsiderate,” I think aloud, maybe a little too loud. I am in France, after all, a nation far less Semitic than my own, as I am reminded by the graffitied train door, the numerous surveillance cameras outside each synagogue, and the omnipresent anti-Israel stickers throughout the city (which I take pride in destroying). All which merits, from time to time, a special effort to kindle the Judeophile within.

Sometimes all I require is a visit here or there, or a brief Hebrew lesson. But in these particularly testing times for the global Jewish community, I need something more, like vegetarian matzo ball soup, or, perhaps, homemade falafel toned down a notch. Cédric helps me gather all the ingredients: fresh parsley, chickpeas, white beans, cumin, olive oil, and whole wheat flour. We follow the recipe to the letter, beginning with the three-hour tedious task of shelling each chickpea and white bean, finishing with frying the doughy spheres. And somewhere in between, chez nous starts smelling like Chez Hannah.

The morning after: I would prefer to wake up in a garbage can. My watch, my clothes, my books, and my food smell like fried falafel. The stench is so nauseating that, for the next week, I come home only to sleep, and I keep my distance from the Rue des Rosiers as I return to my traditional lunch fare on the Rue de la Roquette. Sure, tasteless matzah, square or round, plain or speciality, whole or refined, and I are still great friends, but as for those other Jewish novelties that I was planning to cook, namely a vegetarian breakfast kugel and mugadrah, their recipes somehow found their way, along with the leftover falafel, into the poubelle.

Culturally, I’ve always felt right at home with Judaism; culinarily, not so much. Here’s to hoping that these fine folks, with whom I’ll be spending quite some time very shortly, understand my aversion.

I’d like to deny it,
To say it never happened,
That I never saw him jump aboard that train
Alone
While I stood there watching,
As I had for the last half hour,
Thinking only what a great plot
He would make,
But never about his family,
Who wouldn’t be feeding him table scraps
This evening,
Nor about the children who
Would no longer bury their faces in his fur,
And tell him about their boyfriends,
Or how, last night, they had a bad dream
That he ran away,
Out of curiosity,
And took a train to Paris,
Never to be seen again.

I'm pretty sure that the TCF/TSF confusion can only be fully appreciated by American students in the French system (and their petit garçons, of course).

I went from this


to this


I've been literally living out of my suitcases for about two months now, so if anyone needs advice about how to best go about it, please don't hesitate to ask: I'm officially an expert.

A beautiful poem heard yesterday over at The Writer's Almanac..

Shutters closed, the morning sun couldn't expose the sleeping cherries.
A soggy brown skin clothed them--
Soggy like the dewy morns I passed there,
Home.
Where I felt the morning's first breath blow
In my cracked window,
And brush across my naked legs.
Where I heard the tea kettle whistle
And saw
The dew evaporate from those pure white walls.
Blankets draped around me, I stumbled
Into Mère's room
Where she slept
Alone, sweating.
"Mère, it's 7 o'clock already.."
On the green-and-white tiled floor,
Two cold feet sank
Into porcelain
Waiting for the tea kettle's whistle.
Like a vast eyelid,
Sleepy fog sheltered
The crisp, wet blades from the morning sun.
Sleepy fog, like the blanket
I would pull over my head
If the shutters weren't closed.

And what if the tears
The fountain poured on us before the Grand Palais
Hadn’t effected our own?
And what if all the narrow cobblestone streets
Hadn’t felt each footstep
We trod on them at 2 AM?
Or what if, when I gazed into the Seine,
Awestruck, it hadn’t baptized me?
And what if the wind ripping through my hair
As I pedaled, laughing and careless,
Through the quayside tunnel,
Orange fluorescent lights snaking above,
Hadn‘t blown me away?
And what if the miles you journeyed
Through the pouring rain, burning cars, riots,
To buy me organic raisins
Had been just steps closer to death?
What if Paris were just a city,
Life were just empty time,
We were just friends?

I feel him swoosh by
In his stately navy gown
And he tugs on my tassel,
And I gag: Calm down,
Breathe --no, I can’t!
Suddenly he’s leaning on my shoulder;
I dare not flinch, nor look at him:
‘Tis much too early for tears!
But, lo, they’re welling in my eyes
As I remember
This is the end of my high school life.
He squeezes me tight one last time;
The sun fragments the blues of his eyes
Into peach, olive, lime.

From my window seat I look out;
Fluffy clouds ice the world ‘round,
And the sliver of mango sun
Slices the expanse, and above
The azure of the heavens
From which, nineteen years ago,
God sculpted two perfect spheres
And set them aglow.

I have fuzzy hair--
The whispy breath of café au lait;
The strings of angel-hair pasta.
I have dark chocolate eyes,
Passionate and deep.
I have a beauty mark,
A baby California raisin.
I like to twist my tresses
Into a doughy brioche
Waiting to be dipped in coffee.
I have tiny ears, poor for listening,
Structured like buttery shortbread cookies.
I have long, thin eyebrows--
Seagulls gliding into an ocean sunset.
I smile generously, exposing
(Proudly earned) tea stains
That glaze my teeth.
I am clueless, lost in thought,
Quietly going about my day
In my secret world,
Threading together words to weave
The fibers of my existence.

Having successfully procrastinated writing anything for the second consecutive night, I go online to read Maîtresse’s blog. My mom slouches over hot chocolate in the living room, itching for some enlightenment.

“May I read you Maîtresse’s blog? You know, Maîtresse, the literature prof from NYC whom I met in March in Paris?”

She gently nods and grows ever engrossed in each story, a morsel of expatriate life in Paris. We’ve spent many a Friday evening like this, the fluorescent glow of the computer screen splashing upon our faces as the house fills with darkness. I watch Mom’s pupils widen, intrigued by the inner ramblings of one woman who was brave enough to share her writing with others.

Meanwhile, I imagine Maîtresse, traveling to Nanterre in the RER A, thinking about life (as all writers constantly are) and how to best translate it into a format understood by everyone --completely oblivious that she’s opening minds and enriching vocabularies half a world away.

Mère flops a slab of halibut on my plate
And sends me to my room.
My tears marinate the fish
As I remember the clochard dog
At the Place de la Nation.

He sits beside his master
With the empty guitar case
That we fill with Euros.
In the brisk March air,
He watches me
With deep chocolate eyes
That pluck the chords of the harp
Behind my breast.

I proffer a packet of golden raisins
To his master, wishing I had
A cigarette to give.
The clochard dog, a boxy shepherd
With a lion's ruffled mane,
Is more dignified than most humans:
He sees where they're really going
As they zip past him in their reeking cars.

I nibble at my salty dinner,
My appetite dead as I imagine
The clochard dog, 4150 miles away,
Slowly starving behind eyes
As mysterious as fate itself.

She peeked in the door while Les Jours Tristes from Amélie hummed. Neatly I folded my thick angora sweaters and tucked them in the green duffle marked “winter clothes” that will hibernate in Cédric’s cave while I spend the summer in Brittany. As she fidgeted with her nails, I paced over to the empty Perrier bottle which --sans tulip-- seemed to have changed from a sparkling emerald to a patch of mucky moss. Each time I looked at it I thought of nothing more than that fat multinational who produced it.

“What happened to your tulip?” she pried, almost condescendingly. “Did it die?”

I pursed my lips, unable to reply, and salty tears budded in the creases of my eye pods. I wrote about that tulip and photographed it adoringly. I saw it widen, change color, and die.

“You are much too sentimental, dear child,” she scorned as she exited.

Lately we’ve fought about my graduation party and my childhood scrapbook that we’re making, and with each harsh word I feel the rift between us widen. When I look out at the sky, beige like a smooth, matte eggshell, I wish I could get down on my knees and thank someone for having blessed me with such a mother. Despite our differences, I want to squeeze her tight and tell her that I will be OK, tell her that I will visit frequently after I leave. Tell her honestly that she hasn’t wasted eighteen years of her life raising a child that is more likely to look at a stranger’s feet than his face. But my rare talent of concealing all behind a blithely smile and an optimistic voice is jarred somewhere in my soul: such insincerity is too destructive when only 54 days remain.

She peeked in the door again, this time with meringue dogwood flowers, irises, and a hopeless fellow with poor posture called a bleeding heart. From my bedroom window, I had secretly watched her pick these flowers; I had secretly watched her arm recoil as she, wincing, snipped the bleeding heart -- it meant a lot to her, but I meant much more.

Night fell upon my room, my writer’s den, and I sipped my chamomile while my fragrant friends looked on, sipping water through their straws and grinning as they awaited death. Our parallel plights --helpless yet meaningful-- moved me to tears. With each passing day, we’ll watch one another wither, one mirroring the other, begging Life for a little sip of sweet release.

As I came into the room, the peach tulip suspended in a Perrier bottle beckoned me.

It had been sitting there all day in full blossom like an exploding firework suddenly frozen. Its petals were waxy tongues, the breath that rolled off them filled with fragrant notes of tangy mango and orange zest.

I wanted badly to immortalize those fine hairs combed across its petals and to bottle its scent. Caressing its frosty stem, I felt the Perrier trickle through its veins.

In a meek little girl voice, it whispered to me: “And to think that metals from the dungeons of the earth are worth more than I! That’s how you know you live in a mixed-up world. What would President Bush see if he really looked at me? He might throw me against the wall because of this Perrier bottle and yell, “Sissy French!” No, he wouldn’t see the peace sign formed by my stamen nor would he smell my sweet perspiration as it permeated the air and tickled his olfactory glands. Life’s a bitch: you blossom then you die.”

And it coughed out pollen that danced like confetti in the afternoon sun.

What if we would just stop to observe the beauty of a tulip each day? For one, I know I’d never look into the mirror again.

When I look into the mirror
I see who I want to be:
Someone who doesn’t waste time
Writing poetry.
Someone strong, thick-skinned,
Ready to force the world to make room.
Too smart to be bothered by lost causes,
Too wise to care about politics,
Too pragmatic to delve deeply into the arts.

When I look into the mirror,
I see who I want to be,
Who I am,
Who I’m becoming,
Who I’ll regret having become,
And who I’ll become, having regretted.

In the métro going to the Saint Paul station, I erupt in laughter. My fishbone fingers grasp the sweaty pole, strangled by a girl who cut her hair by pony-tailing it and chopping along the hair thing. Also on board is a middle-aged woman who slept with her mail last night and slobbered all over her American Express statement hoping it would melt. Her boyfriend, his balance off because his hair-hating chérie half-shaved his thigh, wobbles as the train races through the tunnel. Amongst métro screams, the laughter brews: here I stand, une étrangère, swinging around this slick pole with my fellow humans, each with our own eccentricities, worries, dreams -- trying to hide our secrets with our pride.

Cédric and I stroll over to the Dutch pub Klein Hollande, windows curtained with twinkle lights and glittering cigarette smoke. Together we squeeze through the entrance and whittle our way to the back. An elegant blonde whispers to her girlfriend, “It’s Maria!” Put Your Flare On’s chunky turquoise necklace refracts in her glowing cocktail. I chat with Maîtresse about psychotic psychiatrists, Frenchmen, and the riots at Jussieu.

Back in the métro, I curse myself for being so socially inept, so introverted. So ready to spill my life’s guts onto anyone’s computer screen but feeling like someone is pouring Draino down my pipes when I have to converse intimately.

I tiptoe through the sleeping streets back to Cédric’s apartment at the Place de la Nation. In my unlevel bedroom, I battle with the obstinate French shower; it’s hard to shave one’s legs while being blasted with a super-soaker. “What a fucking lake,” I mumble as I waddle through three inches of water on the bathroom floor. Then I sail into my dreams.

Dreams of my student room at 193 Boulevard Brune. Filling my green market sac with crusty whole grain baguettes, goat’s milk yogurt, Russian Earl Grey. Literary evenings at Village Voice. Falling onto the street drunk from the neighboring Frog and the Princess. Reading Sartre on the steps of the Pont au Double in the shadow of Notre Dame. And the grandest of all: never having to ride that giant orca across the ocean to a land where dreaming of happiness is the closest one ever comes to it.

You clutched my purse by its tender handles,
And I slipped between the smoking Parisians,
Through the terrace curtain,
Into the café, humming with the tintinnabulation
Of mugs and brioche plates,
And into the restroom with the pull-flush toilet.
I washed my hands under the bony knobs,
Chaud and froid: hot and cold.
Water streamed through the pleats of my palms,
Suiciding in a waterfall.
I stepped out into the early morning light
Pouring through the windows,
Glistening like a bathroom mirror after a shower.
The French script menu seemed to spell my name,
And Santana bellowed “Maria, Maria!”
In the over-easy sun, the garçon bustled about.
Through the smoke, draped cheesecloth,
I saw you standing there, purse in hand,
Swooning in the banalities of life.

Like a rainbow painted across a dreary sky,
Its colorful spectrum lured me.
“Des raisins, s’il vous plaît,” I kindly asked
The grinning, ragged African.
Cradled in his hands, palms petal pink,
Arose my plump grapes,
Perspiration glistening on their smooth flesh.
With each pluck of the harp,
Parisians scrambled to and fro, sans direction,
Betwixt morose cement walls.
In the mesh sac slung around my twiggy forearm
Bobbed the grapes, cheeks touching.
We ascended the narrow staircase
Out the mouth of the métro,
l’Hôtel de Ville peering down
Like a Cyclops with its baroque clock.
“Fait froid,” I shivered, swinging the fruit stand progeny,
As you, smiling and sad, cloaked my violet skin
With your autumn jacket.
In the mid-day shadows of a Haussmannian passage
Devoid of the ant-like Parisians,
We ate without appetite,
watching pigeons war over stale crumbs.
Neither crêpes nor grapes could hide us
From the omnipresent eye of the Cyclops god
Boding my imminent departure.
We dashed back into the station,
And, like a toilet sucks down a tangerine goldfish,
The sea foam train whisked me off to this rotten void
Where I hunger for the harp’s resonance
And the day we will devour our crêpes
Oblivious to the twitching eye above.

Oversized snowflakes floated down into my hair,
Blonde with delicate, innocent curls.
In my thick pink winter jacket, I felt like a warm marshmallow;
But how did you feel, pulling me up the steep hill
In my two-railed sled, against the blasting winter wind,
Screaming and spitting in your face?
You persisted because I insisted.
The dogs panted around me, their fuzz-covered bellies
Heaving like bellows; their lungs stinging, their tongues swinging,
Translucent fumes of life spewing from their mouths.

Even today I see two lines behind me, carved by your effort,
And the memories created in their carving,
Only to culminate in dust. Before we reached the top,
Your addiction won out; Your gaunt frame withered;
A weak soul collapsed. But what I would give
To cover your feet with my feet and dance;
To look into your face and see myself staring back at me.
To ride the sled again in lieu of pulling you
Up this vertical incline, growing ever steeper
In my dreams of what we might have been.

Oh, why do we bicker?
We are but skeletons
With holes for eyes
And a cavity for a heart.
Our friendship evaporates before my eyes
In slow motion, one last time.
If we had any sense,
We would fight for us, not against.
You breathe down my neck
Air polluted with your lamentation
Of my ignorance.
Tensions tighten as I wring my hair
In a tourniquet around my finger;
Your perfect little soul suffocates with egoism.
I hate you.

Saccharine, indigo neon lights glitter over the Seine;
The midnight mist sprinkles me with chill
As I summit the Passerelle Solférino.
My tears of awe blend with the evanescent droplets.
The sight is lasered into my cornea so that
Wherever I look for the rest of my life
I will gently be reminded of tonight;
The illuminated French flags twist and dance
Through the swirling sheets of rain
Propelled by the clubbers’ boundless energy.
Little nipples from the rotundas of the Musée d’Orsay
Kiss the enchanted, star-lit sky
While the jagged peaks of the Seine flow below.
Neon indigo light spills over onto them,
Festooning their bobbing heads with dance fever;
Inhaling all this beauty, my weak hands tremble,
The pumping of my heart falters,
And my cheeks are forever stained from
These tears I cry.

Statistics class is an opportune time to do some morale-boosting Chicago dreamin’. Never mind the prof’s shrill voice; the only audible sound is the scream of the Metra above, the way its steel riveted skeleton trembles with each coming train. Lines of parallel fluorescent lights illuminate each car, creating a glowing aura as it maneuvers the striking skyline. The round butts of the conjoined buses, proudly bearing their CTA tattoos on their plump hips and flashing “Congress” across their wide foreheads, slither through the streets past the flocks of shivering pedestrians. A perfectly powdered Lake Michigan contrasts with the obsidian black of the Sears Tower. French horns adorning Marshall Field’s yawp Auld Lang Syne as we, sipping our reds in a lively Lil’ Italy ristorante, bask in the prevalence of Chicago’s arresting beauty.

Honestly, who really listens to the statistics prof when she can reminisce about heaven on earth?

I could feel the gentle brushing of my corduroys against the coarse, bumpy sidewalk. The majestic lamps lighting our way flowed with a certain aura, as if some magic potient in the cool evening air was reacting with the luminescent energy. Back and forth, back and forth: a woman pushed her daughter on the platform swing dangling under the cubist sculpture, contrasting with Eden Park in its flamingo dancer red. It zigged and zagged, jetting toward the firmament, in which one by one the twinkling stars emerged, working collectively with the glowing street lamps to guide us along.

From afar, the city sparkled in its radiance, rejoicing at the arrival of the night, the celestial gradient of blue, black, and indigo. And we, consumed by awe, strolled on, carelessly, drunk off the moment's euphoria. Down the pebble sidewalk with all its curves, past the swinging and squeaking of the living red sculpture, the silhouettes of the stately oaks in their meekness and hibernation. We crossed the midnight road, that noir, mysterious, paved path, to sit and wait under the Metro bus stop sign.

“Do sit down,” I urged him, the look on his face hesitant. His masculine hand rose from the pocket of his noble velvet coat, took the end of his cashmere scarf, red like the living sculpture, and unfurled it from its coil. I watched it unwind in slow motion, reminiscent of how I ate a cinnamon roll as a child, of how I devoured the bits of crumbs and icing as they fell from their stronghold. Slowly, in perfect rhythm with the living sculpture --back and forth, back and forth-- it flew with the sigh of the gentle night wind, landing next to me on the coarse pebble path.

“You should sit on my scarf instead,” he persisted, grinning and generous.

Realizing, at long last, we were waiting for the bus going in the wrong direction, we drifted across the rue, taking refuge under the awning of the bus stop shelter, its floor a whimsical mural of the sun and moon, of turquoise, sand, and Cheerios-box yellow, secured firmly in place by the juices that reigned over this night -- those of the living sculpture and the gothic streetlamps. We could feel, even through the roof, the stars’ approval, gazing down upon us: two friends transcending cultures, waiting for a bus that, secretly, we hoped would never come.

"Her angora sweaters, her actions, everything about her reminds me of a fluffy Persian cat."

Probably one of the best compliments I've ever been given from the most unlikely of teachers.

*Alexandre is my feline fantasy that I hope to welcome into my college studio next year.

After enduring three and a half hours of the French fluency exam Test de Connaissance de la Langue Française last week at the beautifully minimalist French Consulate suite in Chicago, I shuttled Cédric, my Parisian penpal of nearly 3 years, between the borders of four states at breakneck pace. It was just yesterday at 4:00 am before terminal 2 of the Cincinnati Airport that we exchanged "bisous" and parted ways, promising to see one another again this March.

Upon returning home, I went online and bought my Paris spring break tickets on Expedia -- Air France direct flight for $598 dollars (what a steal!). The feelings I have toward this coming voyage (only 86 more days!) are quite different than those I had toward my October fling. Again I am excited, painfully counting down each second, perusing guidebook after guidebook compiling my itinerary. But the sense of adventure has subsided. Paris is home to me, my "hub" from which all else essential in my world flows. I no longer feel this arousing sense of curiosity and exploration, but rather comfort and ease, which only confirms my belief that Paris, c'est mon destin.

Permeating my entire being, the winds of change howl once again. I long for that adventure, "la découvert," as the French would say. My feeling toward the French Language runs along those same lines; Reading Libé, Nouvel Obs, and (gasp) La Tribune is still a daily ritual for me, but my soul longs for something foreign and awkward. I've been half-heartedly attempting to learn Italian for almost a year now, but I always had a cloud looming above my head, telling me that it would be better to perfect my French so I get a higher score on the TCF than embark on another language. Now that the TCF is over and my performance and comprehension will soon become cause for champagne or reason for depression, I am linguistically free to pursue whatever endeavor I so desire. And boy, do I desire!

But Italian? It is almost too mundane, as I tend to think of things European melting together into a thick soup, languages transcending borders and tradition. My heart yearns for something truly foreign, perhaps Asian. Reading about the “Chinese threat” to Europe’s economies in a popular European webzine, I couldn’t help but root for the free-trade camp. Yes, I love Europe (especially France), but more and more I tend to think myself a global citizen above a European citizen, a French citizen, or an American citizen. This growing tendency made ever stronger by the howling winds of change is truly opening doors in my mind, and reality is soon to follow. Dishes I’ve never tried, accents I can’t even recognize, landmarks that cause onlookers to tremble, entire societies being lifted from poverty -- there is no better time to be alive than the present, and I am so ready to be a part of this grand dance.

But where, oh where do the winds of change blow? For now, they’re sure to blow me into my local Borders to pick up some sort of beginning Chinese or Japanese language book. For this coming year, they’ll blow me to Paris, my home, twice, once for vacation and the other for life. And for the many years I have ahead of me, I hope those winds move me to every country through every obstacle and only continue to add to my appetite for adventure. Here’s to hoping you’ll all hop along for the ride!

Scroll down the page and click on the Flickr "Daily Zeitgeist" to see all of my pictures from my Winter Vacation in Chicago and Cincinnati with Cédric. We had a blast! I'm super busy but plan on writing as soon as possible!

Happy Holidays!

In looking at my carte orange, I noticed a strange beard around my mouth. Or is it a skin disease? Actually, it's just the glue that was used to adhere my picture. Definitely not kind to the self-conscious.

And oh yeah, I've uploaded even more Paris photos on Flickr... vas-y, mes amis!!

For someone who yearns to live in one of the biggest cities on the planet, it might come as a surprise that my favorite vacation was in a small, off-the-beaten-path Colorado ski town called Winter Park. In fact, I'd go even further to say that it was the best two weeks of my life.

Adrenaline-rush mountain biking, whitewater rafting, hiking, swimming, star-gazing, dining. Everyday when the sun came up, I would jump out of bed, do some yoga, cook breakfast, and lace up my sneakers. Running in the Colorado mountains, blessed with miles of untainted forest, at the break of dawn is an experience unlike anything else. Afterward, I would return to the cabin and sunbathe on our sprawling deck out back listening to Jack Johnson. I ate lunch with the parents at some upscale restaurants; who would've thought that a restaurant deep in the mountains would serve haute cuisine? The rest of the day was filled with hard-core mountain biking, whitewater rafting, or hours of hiking.

Colorado sunsets are breath-taking. I basked in the smooth radiance of the light as I swam in a cerulean-blue heated pool, surrounded by dim lights and luscious conifers. Dinner was a small meal (I have particularly fond memories of a raspberry and walnut salad) at a local bistro. As I flanned around in my nonchalant bliss, the ambiance of foreign languages and interesting lives -- lives full of natural beauty, of meaningful relationships, of fulfilling hobbies -- filled the air. For the first, I wanted to be nowhere else.

Near the end of the trip, I stayed in Denver, where I witnessed one of those beautiful Colorado sunsets on board a gravity-defying roller coaster at Six Flags. I shared a lime-green couch with a drunk man during a lively street concert. I sank my teeth into a hamburger cooked to perfection at Hard Rock Café. And the shopping? You can't even imagine.

As I helplessly watched the silhouette of the Rockies diminish below, I sat aboard a monster Boeing wishing I could relive it all again. Today, as I prepare to depart to Paris in 9 days, I find myself reminiscing on my Colorado experience, moved to tears. There's a good chance that Paris will be all those things I've imagined, but I'm doubtful it will be everything that Colorado was -- breath-taking, sensous, and perfect.

My good friend Katie is attending Rose-Hulman Institute of Technology studying biomedical engineering. Recently, she sent me this hoodie which, if you know how anti-math I am, is rather humourous. Nonetheless I feel super smart wearing it out, being truly incognito.

Dreary, destitute
Drizzling drops of depression
Ominous lightning crashes
Smooth breeze

Slippery chilled lawn
Fresh cut damp grass
Blood flowing to feet
Rush, rush, escape

Creatures amongst me
Alone, terrified, blind
Shaking, trembling, crying
Ominous lightning crashes

Stop, stop, shoo
Whispering down my neck
Ambiguous, evil, empty
Get off, leave, escape

Slippery chilled lawn
Blind, run, escape
Tripping, falling on face
Piercing stare

Get off, leave, shoo
Danger, dying, freezing touch
Alone, terrified, blind
Whispering in my ear

Drizzling, murmur, murmur,
Rattling my existence
Shaking, trembling, crying
Howling wind

Voilà a sign that I painted which has given me inspiration throughout high school, hanging inanimately in my locker. And with just 39 little days left before I jump aboard that giant Airbus and zoom across the Atlantic, I've decided to take it down. Just Because. Today I telephoned Hotel de la Paix, where I have decided I will be staying. It's so much cheaper than an appartement, and it's right in the 7th with AUP. Anyway, speaking with the concierge en français was so amazing! I. Can't. Wait.

This time we're getting philosophical.

1. The Republic, Plato (Penguin Books 1987, 2ed., 455 pgs.)

2. The Portable Voltaire: Candide, Zadig, Micromegas plus letters, essays, and selections from other works (Viking Press 1964, 13th printing, 596 pgs.)

3. The Apology, Phaedo, and Crito of Plato, The Golden Sayings of Epictetus, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius (P.F. Collier and Sons 1968, 61st printing, 345 pgs.)

4. Jorge Luis Borges, Selected Poems (Penguin Books 1999, 477 ps.)

5. Wuthering Heights (SAT Vocabulary Edition), Emily Bronte (Kaplan Publishing 2004, 679 pgs.)

Today, as I gassed up my car at a gas station, I saw a familiar smile. It was Mrs. Hughes, a guidance counselor at my school. She slipped out of her sleek, silver Toyota Camry and went inside. Watching all of this, I was met with a challenge: to see it through my own, small-town eyes, or to see it as though it were a car commercial. Sometimes there are events that never again allow us to see the world as we once saw it. Events that leave us to piece it all together for ourselves: do we see an individual or a consumer? A car that creates jobs or a mere air polluter? A rich gasoline empire or people starving in Niger because unequal distribution of wealth?

Such events are rare, but just as the qualms of the last wear off, a new one comes along. Two years ago, I had the privilege of visiting a Toyota plant in Georgetown, Kentucky, along with my step dad, an engineer at Delta Faucet, and some other businesspeople. What I learned there about the automotive industry forever changed how I see cars. Instead of seeing Mrs. Hughes’ Camry as a whole car, I see a giant machine hanging in the air, holding the bumper. Then two workers, one at each end, grab hold of the bumper and slam it seamlessly into the car’s body. Simultaneously, another worker sporting goggles jumps underneath and welds. A buzzer goes off, the car moves on, and along comes another one, identical. And just to think that each driver of each car was going to develop a unique relationship with it blew my mind. So this is what it’s come to, I thought sadly.

The list goes on and on from there. From documentaries showing mass-production Chinese garment factories where workers wear masks to money printing in the Capital, it becomes difficult to see one’s existence as important or necessary. So today, as I reluctantly filled my gas polluter with the disgusting aroma of OPEC and unfairly rich Saudi Princes, I waved an innocent goodbye to Mrs. Hughes and her quickly-assembled Toyota. At just the same moment, a cardboard sign flapped on a pole just to my left. When I looked, all that I heard was the fierce roar of a chainsaw, and all that I saw was another tree being felled. A cold wind blew through the cement poles of the station and spawned chills in my soul. So much for summer being warm and sunny.

The rain splatters on each leaf
One drop suddenly becomes five
Hummingbirds, nature's fighter pilots
Chirp, zoom, and play
Undeterred by the wetness of the day

In the distance a silhouette
An old white rustic farmhouse
Enduring the rain just as the birds
Appearing almost ghostly
Undeterred by the wetness of the day

The rain splatters on my apple
Racing down its slick red skin
Fading onto the blue lines of my notebook
Soaking into the deep black of my words
Undeterred by the wetness of the day

In the distance a silhouette
A new white shining car
Speeding through the puddles at a breakneck pace
Today, for them, is just like any other
Undeterred and oblivious to the beauty of rain

When it comes to writing, my main problem is just getting my thoughts down on paper. Most of the time, I get a good idea in my head and, if it is truly good, I forget it. On purpose, oddly enough. "Oh, that is SO impractical!" my inner Devil's Advocate barks. "And besides, if you write it down, you'll just be killing another tree. Plus, I'm sure it isn't anything compared to what Candace Bushnell or Mitch Albom could write." Oh, how I detest the Devil's Advocate! Responsible for indecision, decision, and lots of wasted good fiction stories.

Then last night, after a long day of shopping, I lie sprawled out on my bed staring at a spider on the ceiling. The air was thick, and a draft swept in from outside. Could it be possible that all of those ideas that I intentionally forgot somehow diffused out of the pores of my scalp and into this very air which I breathe? Perhaps the spider has breathed them instead. And should unwanted thoughts be disposed of in the atmosphere, that could explain a lot. For example, how ideas get stolen or how, sometimes, people say the same thing at the same time. What a serious waste of intellect! If only I could develop a way to pull the trillions of ideas out of the air and put them down in ink. Surely that would give the intellectual property lawyers some business.

And after five little minutes of thinking, I had it! The design, in measurements and all. A blueprint of sorts. But just as I clicked my pen to write down my ingenious invention, the Devil's Advocate appeared. "What a dweeb, gimme a break!" it hissed.
"No, please! Not now! This is essential! You must leave me be, for this idea is grander than Einstein's Theory of Relativity! Greater than Thoreau's Walden! Than Trump's comb over!"
"Is it smarter than President Bush?"
"Why, duh! Of course it is!" I pleaded for it to stop.
"Why, I suppose you can right it down, then. And you should. But first, you must tell it to me."
And with that, he had made me forget everything. Every last crumb of an invention that would've easily won me