I've been home for twenty days, and I find myself sleeping in. Uh-oh. Ok, so maybe 9 am isn't sleeping in for most people, but for me it is. It makes me feel like such a slacker! Last week I housesat for some of my favorite people in the world. At first it was really strange, sleeping in my friend's room without her there. I even dreamed that the parents had asked more people than just me to watch the house, so all during the first night I had woke up thinking that I had heard someone open the door. After that, though, it was a fantastic way to roll back into my old life.
I had a lot of time to myself, most of which I spent trying to upload photos to Facebook. I mostly succeeded, and now all of my good (well, I mean, you know) photos of France are there. I still haven't finished Berlin, Prague, Dublin, or London. Silly Facebook sometimes just decides that I'm not allowed to create any more photo albums.
I haven't even been home a month and already France is beginning to fade in my head. I remember everything, don't get me wrong, but I also nearly feel like I was never even there. I've even asked myself a couple of times why I was so shy (pride) to speak when I first arrived there. This morning I went to buy some new running shoes, and just as I was walking to a bench to be helped my mom made a passing comment about how my old shoes made it far, but only as far as the other side of the world. Of course this ended in me explaining to the guy helping me that I had been in France. He asked the second of the only two questions people ask me when they find that out, "So are you fluent now?" (The other is, "So how was France?")
I shrugged. "I can get by. Maybe in conversations about philosophy and politics I'll lag behind a little, but I can handle myself pretty well."
"Cool." He sounded really amazed, and it made me think of how very few people in the States actually learn languages except to fulfill college requirements. I personally believe that every college student in America should spend at least a semester abroad, if not an entire year.
You know all the cliched reasons: it looks good on a transcript, you learn a lot about yourself, you made lasting friendships...blah, blah, blah. Transcripts don't matter very much when you've been in the working world fifteen years and you still don't understand why that dumb secretary can't ever remember to put certain files in a single drawer. And you change. You could learn a lot about yourself, even more, by climbing a tree in a field and journaling every day. Oh, and those lasting friendships? I can count on a single hand how many of my friends from the program will be talking with me longer than this summer.
Going abroad made me realise how small I am, and how no one, not the French, not the Americans, ever really listens to one another. So much talking and no listening. We lie too, about understanding things said to us. Something about not wanting to make the moment awkward by making the person repeat what they had just said. But why not make it awkward? Why not make some people uncomfortable? Isn't that what we're here for? To learn and teach? Grow into the people God created us to be?
I think that of all the things I wish I had done differently, I wish I had tried harder. I wish I had been able to better connect with Elisabeth, even though our personalities were so incredibly different. I wish that I had reached out more to the French monitors working with our group. I wish I had requested to be in the advanced level classes.
You can see that I have a lot of wishes, but I've also realised that I don't really see them as regrets. Regrets have sadness and a lack of satisfaction, I believe. I'm not sad. I did what I went to do. I learned that speaking out may take courage, but whether you get the response you wanted or not, you have to do it, otherwise you'll never get any response at all. Asking questions will always be hard for me, in English and in French, but now at least I know that in English, I can backpeddle just as fast as the best reporter in the world.
No worries, no fears, no more waiting for someone else to be amazing before me.
24 June 2008
17 June 2008
Beginning to look back
I don't even know if anyone is still reading this, since I'm home, and what could possibly be interesting about being back in the States? I've typed out so many stories, so many experiences. I look at the number of blog posts I created and wonder what in the world I actually wrote about.
I've been home 12 days. That's almost two weeks which feel like more than a month. All my friends are busy or somewhere else, so I've been spending my time in and out of boredom. I told myself that I was going to do some writing (finish an illustrated children's book, for one) and some art (chandeliers as usual, and maybe a collage). As of yet, I've read through the first three *chronological* Narnia books, and have watched a small mountain of movies.
So that's the summation of my life, though I'm sure I've made it sound much more pathetic than it really is. I'm fine with being home...but that's just it. I'm only fine with it. Like any person remembering something, I can remember all the amazing times I had in Rennes. Such as all the times when my host parents actually had complete conversations with me, without those miniature silences where everyone just sits staring at the TV. Nearly awkward, but not quite.
Things I am glad of:
1. If I'm not really hungry, I don't have to eat. I don't have to explain why I'm not hungry, and that I'm not sick, and that no, I don't just want some soup.
2. My CAR.
3. My CDs in my CAR
4. Chai tea whenever I want it.
5. Being able to be utterly sarcastic with a deadpan glare and not having to explain myself or recover after getting an answer to a question I wasn't really asking (did that even make sense?)
6. Having wireless internet that works
7. Making cookies with my sister
Things I miss
1. Speaking in French on a regular basis
2. Having friends nearby and pretty much at my beck and call
3. Cote d'Or Dark Chocolate and Hazelnut
4. the cafe on every corner
5. my international keyboard with all the accents on the letters.
6. All the gardens and pretend forests.
I could go on and on, but then I'd feel even more like I were complaining, and I really hate that. I keep rolling France around in my mind, like dough for a cookie. I think I'm satisfied with everything that I did and everything that happened. I know now what I would have done differently and what I wouldn't've changed for all the scholarship money in the world. I guess that's the most I can ask for at this point, right?
Now if only the rest of my friends will free themselves up and come home.
Except for you bums who are already home but actually have jobs this summer. Psh. Money? Who needs money?
I've been home 12 days. That's almost two weeks which feel like more than a month. All my friends are busy or somewhere else, so I've been spending my time in and out of boredom. I told myself that I was going to do some writing (finish an illustrated children's book, for one) and some art (chandeliers as usual, and maybe a collage). As of yet, I've read through the first three *chronological* Narnia books, and have watched a small mountain of movies.
So that's the summation of my life, though I'm sure I've made it sound much more pathetic than it really is. I'm fine with being home...but that's just it. I'm only fine with it. Like any person remembering something, I can remember all the amazing times I had in Rennes. Such as all the times when my host parents actually had complete conversations with me, without those miniature silences where everyone just sits staring at the TV. Nearly awkward, but not quite.
Things I am glad of:
1. If I'm not really hungry, I don't have to eat. I don't have to explain why I'm not hungry, and that I'm not sick, and that no, I don't just want some soup.
2. My CAR.
3. My CDs in my CAR
4. Chai tea whenever I want it.
5. Being able to be utterly sarcastic with a deadpan glare and not having to explain myself or recover after getting an answer to a question I wasn't really asking (did that even make sense?)
6. Having wireless internet that works
7. Making cookies with my sister
Things I miss
1. Speaking in French on a regular basis
2. Having friends nearby and pretty much at my beck and call
3. Cote d'Or Dark Chocolate and Hazelnut
4. the cafe on every corner
5. my international keyboard with all the accents on the letters.
6. All the gardens and pretend forests.
I could go on and on, but then I'd feel even more like I were complaining, and I really hate that. I keep rolling France around in my mind, like dough for a cookie. I think I'm satisfied with everything that I did and everything that happened. I know now what I would have done differently and what I wouldn't've changed for all the scholarship money in the world. I guess that's the most I can ask for at this point, right?
Now if only the rest of my friends will free themselves up and come home.
Except for you bums who are already home but actually have jobs this summer. Psh. Money? Who needs money?
11 June 2008
"How to check in at the airport", 101
On Tuesday night after I finished repacking, I went downstairs and talked to the front desk guy about what time I needed a taxi to get to a flight that left at 10:20 am. The conversation started in English and moved into French once we both figured out that we both spoke French. He told me that he would call the guy and would have him at the hostel by 7:45 at the latest. It would take 25 minutes or so to get to the airport, and that would totally be enough time.
The next morning I walked out of my room at 7:36 with all my stuff. I rolled it all over to the elevator...which was out of order. I looked at my suitcases and laughed. There was no way in the world I was going to lug all that down three flights of stairs by myself. I carried the two small bags down, then went back up to get the suitcases. Just as I opened the door to upstairs a couple walked past me, grabbed something from their room, and headed for the stairs again. I had learned my lesson, I apologised for interrupting them and asked if they could help me get my bags down the stairs. They agreed and the guy reached for one of the suitcases, I got the other.
Downstairs, I waited for the taxi driver to get there. After five minutes, I grabbed a glass of orange juice. After ten, I grabbed a piece of baguette. After twelve minutes, another girl needing a ride to the airport showed up, and we agreed to share the taxi whenever he got there. He didn't come until 8:20. I forget what his name was, I'm not even sure he told us, but he bowed once he stepped into the hostel lobby. He cited two accidents on the road up to the hostel as reasons for being late. I guess I believe him.
On the way to the airport he asked me which terminals our flights were in. Neither of us had any idea, we just knew that I was Delta and she was American Airlines. He drove first to Terminal 1, and ran inside to ask. Nope. Both were in Terminal 2. He drove us up to where he knew AA to be. It was then 8:55. He helped us out of the car, apologising that he didn't know where Delta was. He asked if I wanted help with my bags, but I, envisioning a surprise charge or even just being more late, politely refused.
I walked in to the terminal and walked left, checking with an official looking woman wearing a nametag as to where the Delta Airlines check-in desks were. She told me to walk the other way. I turned around and walked the other way before stopping a man with a nametag and asking where Delta was (this is all in French by the way). He pointed me back the way I'd just come. "I'm pretty sure it's in 2E, but you should talk to the info desk lady hidden behind that wall to make sure." I found the hidden desk and sure enough, I needed to be in 2E, whereas at present I was in 2A. They're on the same side of the terminal, but on opposite ends. The woman pointed me in the right direction and told me to walk 12 minutes that way.
12 minutes later, sure enough, I found the Delta desks. I went through the mini security checkpoint, let the lady sticker my bag, and because I was flying stand-by was led out of the normal line and told to fill out a piece of paper and then to talk to the guy at desk 12. He smiled when I asked if I could borrow a pen and I thought, "Sweet! A nice French person!"
And then he looked up at me and said that he couldn't get my bags on the flight. It was too late. I asked if he was joking. He said no, but that he would call. He made two phone calls and came back with a negative. No-go for the bags. I asked him, with my snazzy use of French subjunctive, what I had to do next. He laughed at me a little (Americans don't really grasp the subjunctive, and I'm pretty sure I pronounced my conjugated verbs with a silly sort of self-satisfaction) and told me to head over to the Delta desk to see if they could get my flight changed.
I pushed my cart of suitcases and carry-ons behind all the other people happily checking in, let myself out of the barrier, and went to talk to the desk lady. Again, in French. So proud of myself. I handed over my papers and explained the situation, and in under two minutes I was set for a flight going to Cincinnati. I went back to the mini check point, and back in line for the stand-by desk. The man was gone and a woman had taken his place. When it was my turn, she just barely glanced up at me. I swear she rolled her eyes at my accent, too.
Then she handed back one of my papers and told me that she needed a date. Date? Date of entry into the company, she said. I was flying stand-by on a buddy pass from Gwen, who loves me, and I hadn't put in the date of when she started working for Delta. I looked at the page and sunk a little into the ground. I didn't know the date, much less even Gwen's last name. The woman told me to go talk to the Delta desk to see what they could do.
I knew that there was no way they were going to be able to help me if I didn't even know Gwen's last name, so I stepped again outside of the check-in area and sent my mom a text message (calling wasn't working). Then I stood there, waiting for a reply. After four or so minutes, she replied, and in less than ten I had all my information. For the third time, I made my way through mini security, where I think they were almost starting to recognize me. The woman was still there, and she took my papers this time and I was all set to go through. The only problem I had after that was that one suitcase was 20 kilos, and the other was 24. The limit is 22. A little bit of switching was necessary, but in the end I got everything onto the conveyor belt and I myself headed to real security. I almost lost my ticket on the ground, and I could barely move because of the 70 pounds of carry-on baggage I was carrying on my shoulders (yeah, it was fun dropping things on the ground and trying to pick them up without putting things down).
Once through to my gate, I had no energy left to go and buy chocolate, as I had wanted to do. That's the thing I hate about airports. You can't leave your bags anywhere. People freak out if you do, and that means that it's that much harder to go to the bathroom and to shop. Even buying a bottle of water was difficult, since of course there was a minimal amount of room between the counter and cafe-style chairs. I think I spilled a couple of drinks then. Oops.
From there everything went smoothly. I flew first class from Paris to Cincinnati (thank you, Gwen). Oh, man. If you can fly first class at all, do it, but flying internationally was just fantastic. Free movies, I got to choose my lunch, AND I got to lay down to sleep and listen to music. Best thing ever, not even joking.
Cincinnati was fine, I learned my lesson in Paris and before I even took more than one step away from the security point, I went up to the info guy and asked him which terminal my connecting flight would be in. Saved: twenty minutes of lost walking. On my flight home I sat in normal class next to an older man who talked to himself and his seatbelt. He'd put on the belt, look down at it, and mumble, "Yeah, that looks good. That's where it goes. Right there. Yeah." It was kinda...interesting. I spent my time looking out the window, trying not to fall asleep.
My family was waiting for me in Denver, as was my friend Stephanie, who hid behind a pretend tree and then jumped out at me when we walked by. We drove home and had dinner with the Rudds (enchiladas.....I don't think I've ever been so happy to eat spicey food....yum...).
The next morning I walked out of my room at 7:36 with all my stuff. I rolled it all over to the elevator...which was out of order. I looked at my suitcases and laughed. There was no way in the world I was going to lug all that down three flights of stairs by myself. I carried the two small bags down, then went back up to get the suitcases. Just as I opened the door to upstairs a couple walked past me, grabbed something from their room, and headed for the stairs again. I had learned my lesson, I apologised for interrupting them and asked if they could help me get my bags down the stairs. They agreed and the guy reached for one of the suitcases, I got the other.
Downstairs, I waited for the taxi driver to get there. After five minutes, I grabbed a glass of orange juice. After ten, I grabbed a piece of baguette. After twelve minutes, another girl needing a ride to the airport showed up, and we agreed to share the taxi whenever he got there. He didn't come until 8:20. I forget what his name was, I'm not even sure he told us, but he bowed once he stepped into the hostel lobby. He cited two accidents on the road up to the hostel as reasons for being late. I guess I believe him.
On the way to the airport he asked me which terminals our flights were in. Neither of us had any idea, we just knew that I was Delta and she was American Airlines. He drove first to Terminal 1, and ran inside to ask. Nope. Both were in Terminal 2. He drove us up to where he knew AA to be. It was then 8:55. He helped us out of the car, apologising that he didn't know where Delta was. He asked if I wanted help with my bags, but I, envisioning a surprise charge or even just being more late, politely refused.
I walked in to the terminal and walked left, checking with an official looking woman wearing a nametag as to where the Delta Airlines check-in desks were. She told me to walk the other way. I turned around and walked the other way before stopping a man with a nametag and asking where Delta was (this is all in French by the way). He pointed me back the way I'd just come. "I'm pretty sure it's in 2E, but you should talk to the info desk lady hidden behind that wall to make sure." I found the hidden desk and sure enough, I needed to be in 2E, whereas at present I was in 2A. They're on the same side of the terminal, but on opposite ends. The woman pointed me in the right direction and told me to walk 12 minutes that way.
12 minutes later, sure enough, I found the Delta desks. I went through the mini security checkpoint, let the lady sticker my bag, and because I was flying stand-by was led out of the normal line and told to fill out a piece of paper and then to talk to the guy at desk 12. He smiled when I asked if I could borrow a pen and I thought, "Sweet! A nice French person!"
And then he looked up at me and said that he couldn't get my bags on the flight. It was too late. I asked if he was joking. He said no, but that he would call. He made two phone calls and came back with a negative. No-go for the bags. I asked him, with my snazzy use of French subjunctive, what I had to do next. He laughed at me a little (Americans don't really grasp the subjunctive, and I'm pretty sure I pronounced my conjugated verbs with a silly sort of self-satisfaction) and told me to head over to the Delta desk to see if they could get my flight changed.
I pushed my cart of suitcases and carry-ons behind all the other people happily checking in, let myself out of the barrier, and went to talk to the desk lady. Again, in French. So proud of myself. I handed over my papers and explained the situation, and in under two minutes I was set for a flight going to Cincinnati. I went back to the mini check point, and back in line for the stand-by desk. The man was gone and a woman had taken his place. When it was my turn, she just barely glanced up at me. I swear she rolled her eyes at my accent, too.
Then she handed back one of my papers and told me that she needed a date. Date? Date of entry into the company, she said. I was flying stand-by on a buddy pass from Gwen, who loves me, and I hadn't put in the date of when she started working for Delta. I looked at the page and sunk a little into the ground. I didn't know the date, much less even Gwen's last name. The woman told me to go talk to the Delta desk to see what they could do.
I knew that there was no way they were going to be able to help me if I didn't even know Gwen's last name, so I stepped again outside of the check-in area and sent my mom a text message (calling wasn't working). Then I stood there, waiting for a reply. After four or so minutes, she replied, and in less than ten I had all my information. For the third time, I made my way through mini security, where I think they were almost starting to recognize me. The woman was still there, and she took my papers this time and I was all set to go through. The only problem I had after that was that one suitcase was 20 kilos, and the other was 24. The limit is 22. A little bit of switching was necessary, but in the end I got everything onto the conveyor belt and I myself headed to real security. I almost lost my ticket on the ground, and I could barely move because of the 70 pounds of carry-on baggage I was carrying on my shoulders (yeah, it was fun dropping things on the ground and trying to pick them up without putting things down).
Once through to my gate, I had no energy left to go and buy chocolate, as I had wanted to do. That's the thing I hate about airports. You can't leave your bags anywhere. People freak out if you do, and that means that it's that much harder to go to the bathroom and to shop. Even buying a bottle of water was difficult, since of course there was a minimal amount of room between the counter and cafe-style chairs. I think I spilled a couple of drinks then. Oops.
From there everything went smoothly. I flew first class from Paris to Cincinnati (thank you, Gwen). Oh, man. If you can fly first class at all, do it, but flying internationally was just fantastic. Free movies, I got to choose my lunch, AND I got to lay down to sleep and listen to music. Best thing ever, not even joking.
Cincinnati was fine, I learned my lesson in Paris and before I even took more than one step away from the security point, I went up to the info guy and asked him which terminal my connecting flight would be in. Saved: twenty minutes of lost walking. On my flight home I sat in normal class next to an older man who talked to himself and his seatbelt. He'd put on the belt, look down at it, and mumble, "Yeah, that looks good. That's where it goes. Right there. Yeah." It was kinda...interesting. I spent my time looking out the window, trying not to fall asleep.
My family was waiting for me in Denver, as was my friend Stephanie, who hid behind a pretend tree and then jumped out at me when we walked by. We drove home and had dinner with the Rudds (enchiladas.....I don't think I've ever been so happy to eat spicey food....yum...).
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