Excusez-MOI!

Excuse Me! There is an art to knowing who to ask for directions when you are lost. Men in suits walking briskly, teenage girls on cellphones, and shady men are generally good to avoid. So, a woman walking slowly with a babe in arms ahead seemed reasonable. She carried the air of someone walking in her own neighborhood and didn't have the "I want to mug you" vibe. The black folds of her hajib (head covering traditionally worn by Muslim women) was modestly arranged and her manner rather solemn but she was my best bet. "Excusez-moi, Madame, pourriez-vous me dire où la gare est situé?" (Excuse me madame, could you tell me where the train station is?) Well, at least that was the intent before the words congealed in my throat as she turned to face me. Bam! Her breasts were bare as could be and she was nursing her baby as she walked along the street. It was the shock of all shocks to approach a conservatively dressed Muslim woman from the back to find that she is literally letting it all hang out in the front. She clarified in a thick accent where to go while I tried my hardest to act as though it was perfectly normal to converse with a topless Muslim woman on a frequented street.

After, I reeled on the sidewalk convincing myself this would not scar me for life. The whole process of childbearing is beautiful and slightly revolting to all those who have not experienced it. We observe from a distance, bewildered, but know this is the mystery of life. This particular situation however, was a bit extreme. For lack of a reasonable explanation of what just transpired, I stepped off the curb and resolved to just laugh at the irony.

Une Carte Postale de Paris

This SDF (homeless man) was sleeping alongside a lovely building with classical proportions named after René Descartes. It was Descartes who said, “I think therefore I am.” I wonder if this man feels he Exists as much as you and I simply because he thinks.

A Postcard From Paris. Paris. Say it out loud. Just the sonority of the word evokes an aura of sophisticated indulgence and unattainable chic. We as foreigners acknowledge it as just a little out of reach, as a place with narrow alleyways and candle lit cafés that will never reveal itself to the étranger (stranger, foreigner). It is the Paris we see on postcards: antiquated buildings steeped in charm near Montmartre, of beret topped book sellers along the Seine River, the elegant feat of engineering that is the Eiffel Tower. It is the Paris we see in movies: amorous couples entwined on park benches, intrigue and quirky story lines, all of course, in melodious French. The list goes on: the baguette, a mademoiselle pedaling a bicycle, stems of wine, and wheels of fragrant cheese. We hear of Paris and the mouths of our imaginations water.

This Paris is breathtaking, and it is very much what it is. However, just as all of us carefully construct the image we desire to present to others without appearing artificial, Paris has done just the same. The self we present to the world may be a facet of our person but certainly only skims the surface, as much as we like to tell ourselves we are “real” and transparent. Of course you are real - but you are only showing me 10% of your entirety.

And so it also goes with Paris. Paris also is gritty, the Seine is revoltingly polluted, and the handles in the metro are sometimes so greasy you can hardly take hold when it lurches. The aromas of patisseries (pastry shops) interweaves with the stench of the gutters. The mystery France likes to arouse our jealousy with is also the same engine that drives a confounding bureaucratic system with millions of sheets of superfluous paperwork. As winter approaches, the sky falls into a gray depression. Below, homeless people sleep under the city's famous bridges and on the doorsteps of boutiques, and the crotte (droppings) on the sidewalk doesn't only come from dogs. Guys drop trow on the boulevard to take a leak – this is the “most civilized city in the world”? People with names like Jiwon (Asia) or Suleman (Arabic) rather than Marie or Antoine know what it feels to be marginalized. Smooth Bordeaux wines cannot soothe racial tensions or wash away the raw messages spurted out in graffiti.

This is Paris too. And it is good to know this part. As we develop friendships we begin to learn more about the other person, the idiosyncrasies, the weird things, the down right annoying things. However, in finding these things out we find they are a real person too, just like us. Not perfect, yet interesting. And if you ask me, that is way better.

Nothin' But Class.

I have never tried this stretch but this man seems to think it works well enough. Oh, the French.

Qu'est-ce que tu fais, toi?

Little toy boats ready to set sail.

What are you doing? Many of you have found out recently that I am in France. The general response is, “What in the world is she doing over there?” Well, as luck would have it, a random plane ticket for Paris arrived in the mail one day and I figured, “Heck, why not?” And skipped towards the nearest tarmac.

Ok, not really. Here's what really happened.

During college a professor mentioned a program through the French Ministry of Education and French Embassy to teach English in public French schools. It sounded a bit pointless to me at the time; why would I go to France to speak English? And teaching? Scary! Then, after college a friend of mine did this same program. She hated it and left early. Then, two years ago, a girl next to me on an plane just happened to be on her Christmas break from this program. We discussed it, and it began to sound a bit more interesting. I listed it under my “Maybe but probably not” section of my mental Life Plans diagram. (Yes, I am weird like that)

Fast forward to this past January. Life was good, I was loving being in the Valley, snowboarding, having a stable job, etc... However, even though I was enjoying my cush life, I know myself well enough to recognize my tendency towards restlessness. “Yes, I like my life now, but come Fall?” I wondered. Being restless can be a blessing, since it propels us forward but at other times it feels like a blasted curse.

It was then I remembered this teaching program. Hmmm... The funny thing is, if you can call it that, is that the deadline for the application was in a week. I considered, prayed, and it soon became apparent (as in, 5 min) that the clincher on the whole thing would be getting recommendations in time. I figured that I would ask the appropriate people (old profs) if they could do this within the time frame. If not, no problem, I would take it as a clear indication and would go on with my life. With this, I figured I probably wouldn't be applying. I asked, they were thrilled, and they had submitted them within days. Wow! Alright. I switched the “French Brain” back on and set to work writing essays and applying in French.

April: An email arrived with “Acceptance to the 2010-2011 TAPIF Program - Académie de Versailles” in the subject line. “WhooHoo! Er, I think?” You see, I had held this opportunity pretty lightly. I had applied without the full intention of saying yes if I was accepted. Now I had to really decide.

We all have different ways of coming to decisions and my pattern of reasoning consists of anything but a pattern. It is illogical, influenced by many superfluous factors, and is overall backwards in its execution. Have you ever heard of how the sure sign of madness is doing the same thing repeatedly with the expectation that the next time the result will vary? Classic case right here. But I'll spare you the details and will share with you the central reasoning of why, in the end, I said yes.

1. God gives us passions. Eric Liddle* said it best, "God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure." The world is vast, beautiful, and fascinating. Why do I love France, French, and traveling? No clue. I am going to maximize this absurd passion and trust that God uses me through it. Perhaps someday He'll reveal why.

2. The concept of doing this absolutely freaked me out. If something intimidates you, that is the very reason why you should probably do it.

3. I would like to become fluent in French. We'll see how that goes!

4. I knew that if I didn't do it I would always look back and wonder, “What would have been?” 26 is young but it is old enough to know that regret weighs down the spirit.

So, with more than a little trepidation I pulled together my little life and flew over the Atlantic. I am teaching French highschoolers in a small town south of Paris for eight months. Everything is topsy turvey and I am still homeless, over two weeks in. When I return to the question, “What are you doing?” I hardly know what to say myself. However, I know God is here and I know with that, things will be alright.

*Eric Liddle – Chariots of Fire is about him, Olympic runner, missionary in China.