Eureka!

January. Long layovers are not fun except if you happen to have it in a place where you have friends! Jen and Lauren, two old college roommates from when we lived in the infamous, feared, and venerable Eureka* house both live around Denver and were kind enough to visit me on my way back to France. We sat on the floor of the Denver airport for several hours sipping hot drinks as we caught up on each others lives. Friendship is a very good thing.

*The house we lived in during college was probably not infamous or feared and was certainly nothing so dignified as "venerable" but we sure had a lot of fun!

Christmas

Thanks to some unforeseen circumstances, I had to go MT for Christmas. No, really, it was necessary! It had to do with unchangeable plane tickets and logistics but that is a long and boring story. All in all, it ended up an incredible blessing beyond my hopes to be able to be there for the holidays.


There is no need to gross you out with sappy stories about how much I love my wonderful family, etc, etc... I was quite sick most of the time but it allowed for relaxation and plenty of time with my mom at the Farm. In addition, to recount its sweetness would only make me homesick so let's just refrain from all of that, shall we? It was a lovely time and such a valuable gift to be back in the Valley for that period. The end.

Les Visiteurs

Visiters! December

For various reasons people I know from MT just happen to be here in Paris! What joy! It is a nice cultural transition to prepare me to go home for Christmas.

Willie, a friend from highschool was here and so we enjoyed getting to see each other and she introduced me to a great place to get pistachio gelato!


Connor, who was a Young Life kid a few years ago is now studying abroad as a college student in France! Does life really fly by that fast? He and his brother Andrew stayed with me for a few days. It was fun to see them.

BSF

Last scene: (A young woman in a cardigan stands in the middle of the stage, hands empty at sides, turns slowly around as though searching for something she may have forgotten.)

Voice from the other room: “Are you coming?”

Girl: “Yes, yes. I'm coming. Just wanted to check one last time...” (She looks around the room as she backs towards the door. Stage left. She reaches up, seems caught up in a distant thought for a moment, then taps the light switch off and closes the door behind her. The sound of footsteps fading away is heard.)

End of scene.

It is a small insignificant act but it stuck in my mind like a scene from a play. Last moments lend themselves well to such sentimental feelings. You know, the kind of thing that inspires plays at high school theatre departments where they follow the events of an assembly of characters for a year's time. There is always that inevitable scene of quietude at Christmas that pulls at our heartstrings and gets us in the holiday spirit.

Indeed, this vignette is about all of those things, Christmas break, the end of a period of time, a moment of goodbyes. However, this was a snippet from real life. The classroom really was festooned with red, green, and gold paper crafts cut out and pasted together by children's clumsy fingers. Outside, night had fallen and the frigid air laid itself in crisp layers against the old lead paned windows. Gnarled tree branches shivered stoically in the wind's breath beyond the glass.

It was December 13 and that girl of course, was me. This is the room where for the past few months I have learned how to be a children's leader for Bible Study Fellowship. It has been a journey to go from no teaching experience to having a job where I am expected to teach teens at a public French high school and then volunteer to teach 8-10 year olds. I'm still quite green, as they say but I can't help but reminisce a little as I take the unfolding of these circumstances in.

This is the room where we've taught kids about the history of God and His people in the book of Isaiah. Young children have been learning concepts like redemption, grace, recompense, discipline, and gentleness. Isaiah is an intense book, as spiky and uncuddly book as they come but they've borne it well. Their minds are like sponges and it is astonishing to see how they teach us too. We have the opportunity to teach kids about Jesus. Not the blue eyed, wavy haired, tall guy from the flannelgraphs but rather, the long awaited Jesus foretold by the too much truth talking Isaiah. They are hearing about it here, in this old Gothic style church with its pointed stone archways and rivet studded burnished wood doors. It is happening in this church, one of the first Protestant churches built in France after centuries of deadly persecution by the Catholic church.

A church, established in Paris, attended by children of many different nations. All hearing about God. That is awesome.

Tonight the children have gone, the materials are put away, the Bibles are tucked into bags, and hearts are full of Words. I gaze out the window where the spotlights are illuminating the opposite bank of the Seine river, turn on my heel, and head out. Thank you so much, Lord.

France, qui es-tu?

France, who are you? November.

The town hall had an exhibition recently where they featured citizens of France and their perspectives of What France Means to Me. Here are some of the things they said:

“It's eating couscous with bread.” Elsa


“It's a question of love.” Bernard (Retired)


“Equality, Brotherhood, Liberty.” Leila

“If I wasn't born in France, I never would have had the idea to become a chef.” Guy


“Cheese is France! France is cheese!” Gérard (Gerald)


“A country that's too proud of itself, of its philosophical roots. A totally hypocritical and outmoded bearing that engenders arrogance and pretension to seem like a model in other people's eyes. An unbearable selfishness, an absolutely ridiculous self-importance. Finally, a nation that as well as doesn't manage to own up to its historical contradictions, loathe to open itself to the world because it is unable to equip itself with a plan for the future.” Alexandre (Alexander, student at Political Science University.)


“It was liberty...” Guillaume (William, wilderness mountain guide, Chamonix)


“For me France, it's a country of racists and hypocrites. Yet among all of its defects, this country also has riches such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre museum and plenty of other things too...” Alik. (French Guyana)

“France, it's the country where I was born. It's the country of my childhood. But I don't really feel French. How can you feel French when you have to watch your back everywhere? Yet I am crazy about France and my father fought for France! There will have to be two more generations for us to be considered French. A second generation North African girl who's kinda sexy, for her it's ok. But for us guys, the blacks, the North Africans, it's ****. It's not that we're haters... we have love! When the French soccer team wins, we're happy!” RimK


“In India, I walk barefoot with my staff. The people kiss my feet. I go to Australia and they feed me. In France, they call the police.” Michel (Michael)

Le Château de Vincennes

The Vincennes Castle. November. This is about 10 minutes from my place. God is good!

Les Céréales

Cereal. November.

In France milk is not refrigerated until after it has been opened. It has to do with their pasteurization process. Don't worry. They know what they are doing. They invented pasteurization after all, as in, Louis Pasteur was French. So, in celebration of this lovely man, I have started eating cereal and drinking milk again. I don't have any bowls yet so breakfast involves a lot of pouring, re-pouring, and re-pouring. There is really no point of this post, it is just to give you a small glimpse of small differences that one faces in a foreign country.

Sophie

Noam (the son of a friend) and his Sophie. November

In France every child receives a little rubber squeaky toy giraffe named Sophie when they are little. It seems to be a prerequisite of being French. At first it struck me as extremely silly and straight up weird until I recalled my own dear Teddy from my childhood. Alright, so all French kids get Sophie giraffes whereas all American kids get Teddy Bears. I'm feeling a bonding experience!

Giverny

Garden and home of the artist Claude Monet. It was wonderful for us to get out of the city and into nature for a picnic.

Après Tout

After all. November 21.

One of the things I brought from Montana to Paris to share with my students is something we all have collecting dust back in storage. A high school yearbook. The venerable yearbook and all it represents does not exist in France and I am eager to share this experience with them.

In order to prepare for class, I decided to peruse the pages of this paper trail down memory lane. It's amazing how books catapult you into another world! I forgot how much I loved high school. I forgot how hard it was. The future was full of promise but absolutely unfathomable. Sure, people had told us stories about things like bills and taxes but it meant nothing. Our ability to analyze Joseph Conrad was newly minted and we deemed ourselves clever because we knew what genetically modified organisms were. We felt sneaky when we skipped class (Well Mom, you had to find out sometime...) and were insecure in all the wrong places. We weren't sure how all of these things would end up being useful but adults assured us that we had tons of potential and would “go far”. And you know what? We believed it.

And before you know it, you find yourself years later, sitting on your bed in your pajamas reading the careless scribble of old friends, “you are so genuine” and “let's go camping this summer” wondering what in the world happened. Those adults said you were so full of potential! You examine yourself and wonder incredulously, is this the potential they meant? I mean, of course, so much crazy stuff has happened since they flipped your tassel from one side of your cap to the other. When you think about what life has brought about it makes your head spin. But is THIS what they meant?

I was a decent student so of course I had future aspirations. There was no concept about what life might actually look like though, I just was sure I was going to “have the time of my life.” No kidding, the yearbook actually quoted me saying that. We are chock full of clichés when we are in high school. We're too young to realize they are way overused.

Look at your life. Is this what you expected you'd be doing right now? Are you who you thought you'd be? I know, I know, your concept of your future self at 18 was pretty vague, but try. It is disappointing, isn't it? You aren't half as cool as you thought you would be. I thought I would have accomplished so much more by now. Instead, I find myself in a tiny studio apartment with a sliver of a black city sky poring over a book of memories wondering what the heck happened to my dreams.

Since I've already said one cliché another won't hurt. Upon graduation our commencement speaker gave us a piece of advice that has rung more true every year; prepare to be surprised. That is to say, life is going to take you places you didn't expect. I sure didn't expect all of this! If you had told me I would be here in Paris, France you may as well have told me I'd be living on the moon. It was simply out of my scope of imagination. It is, I must admit, still a bit out of my scope but I am attempting to deal with it. Is this better than what could have been? I don't know. It must be, for it is what has resulted from decisions through Faith. Life is a funny story, yet funny not in the “ha ha” way. It is in the bewildered, “Holy smokes, how did I get here?” sense.

Remember that look adults would give us at times when we were teenagers? Like they had some secret knowledge? Often we just figured it was that Look; of adults being old, unimaginative, and condescending. Now we see a little better, and realize that look meant, “My, you are young. You've so much to do and learn in life. It'll be good for you.” Dang it. They were right. I hate being wrong! We haven't accomplished what we thought we would but seem to have done plenty of other things we never fathomed. Guess that's not so bad, is it? I am going to do my best to do something with this random, glop of a thing called "my" life, scary as it may be. You? We may not be half as cool as we thought we would be but at least we are here with beating hearts. That is something we can't say for all of our friends from back then. So, don't forget how unexpected life is. Don't forget how rich life is. If worse comes to worst, we can at least be glad we aren't in high school anymore.

Apprendre le Français

Learning French
(November) The other day I rounded the corner of a cobblestoned church courtyard and encountered this vision. This image recalled to mind all of the educational videos we watched in French classes back in highschool. It represented a France that was a little 80's, as the videos were a bit dated due to budgets. Everything always looked miniature, really old, a bit dingy, and so romantic. It always seemed like a different universe.

Les Cookies

(November) Judy, an American friend of mine gave me some chocolate chip cookies she made! Cookies are very American and considered trendy around these parts. They call them les cookies.

Oh, sweet cookies! Yes, the pastries here are delicious but homemade cookies with milk (of cow or plant) are pretty hard to beat. It makes you feel like you're eight years old again, sitting at the old wooden kitchen table telling your mom about your day at school.

Reconnaissante

Thankful.

Things I am thankful for today, on Thanksgiving:

The blowdryer I bought today*
Friends, whether they be old or new
Getting to live here in Paris and feeling more at home in it
The moon in the cloud scattered indigo sky, above my building in the soft Parisian night
Family to Skype with
Getting a letter from Rachel (why do I seem destined to have so many friends named Rachel?)
Chivalrous French men like the man tonight in the metro who stood holding the door from a long way off for me.
My bed
Two sinks in my apartment
The snow we received today
Delicious food, getting to eat pumpkin pie today
Feeling appreciated
Feeling poor but actually owning so much
Being able to draw, having more talent than I make use of, which I hardly ever do.
Having phone calls I need to return
Being able to speak French
Getting home safely despite a man hassling me on a deserted street (It was the only way back!)
This computer works, I have internet
Knowing God is ever present

*The posts got a little mixed up. Les Filles should actually go right before this post.

Chez moi, pour la première fois

My place, for the first time. October.

This will be the last entry about housing for a long time, I swear.

I never would have imagined that my first place would be in Paris. Wow! I have never lived alone and always relished life with roommates. It will be an adjustment. No more enlightening discourses about boys, nerd sessions of surfing the net together, “Let's Google it!”, or late night runs to play pranks on the neighbors. It is a 12m squared studio apartment with a bathroom (yahoo! I have my own bathroom!) in a closet. All of the fridge space is mine! All mine!


One thing for sure I will need to adjust to is the shower. Oh shower, I have only spent time with you once and already I know you will be the bane of my life. Are you so frustrating because you are only 2ft by 2ft? The real reason why French women don't get fat is because they don't have any room to grow! How does one cleanse oneself in this cranny? In order to wash one's hair one must stand at a certain angle so there is enough space to lift the elbows. Why on earth would you want to turn around in a shower? Ridiculous! As for shaving legs, well, let's just say going old school French is the principle option*. It is a good thing I like quick showers, there is only enough hot water for one! Once again, it's astounding how this city, the most “civilized” of the world, home of Dior, Cartier, and Hermès, lacks in such areas. Perhaps it is this paradox that makes it so attractive. The shower head is affixed to the wall by two brave rubber bands - it's kind of fun, you feel clever like MacGyver every time you take a shower. Figuring out a way to reach the bottle of shampoo on the bottom without toppling headlong out of the stall is a lesson in persistence and creativity. Something about it recalls using a turkish toilet at 17,000 ft in the Himalayas while reeling with altitude sickness; not exactly an experience that one daydreams about. But it certainly makes for an unparalleled sense of accomplishment every time you take a shower. It adds a great boost to the start of the day.


Putting my table together from IKEA. Two firsts. Feeling handy.

My mattress looks as though someone may have died of cholera on it but who cares. It is in the most beautiful city in the world!

*The French are actually very well versed in hair removal. The stock in any pharmacie (drugstore) demonstrates that.

Ne t'inquiètes pas, petit moineau

Don't worry, little sparrow. Last week of October.

We climbed the four flights of stairs to look at the apartment. It was Parisian, which is to say, not much*. But it was great compared to what I had seen already. So fantastic that I was ready to say yes before we had taken two steps inside. We examined the place and at the end I told him that I would take it. Would he like my papers now? When would he want to meet to do the other paperwork, and then, consequently, when could I move in?

He reflected for an instant, lips pursed in the French way. “It is very important for us French to welcome you Americans here to our country” (every other landlord I've met with missed that memo!), “I am going to do this because I trust you. I am going to give you the key right now. You can move in today and I will not charge you for this last week of October, and you can just write me a check for November. We can do the rest of the paperwork later.” What? This is the part where you could have scraped my jaw up from the floor. You are giving me the key? You don't know me from Adam. And, free rent for a week? Pinch me, somebody, please. Many landlords would have asked for a vial of blood if it was legal.

So to hear this man utter these kind, generous words to me made me wonder if perhaps there was a van waiting downstairs to kidnap me or... is God just this good?

I considered it. He's giving me the key. It really works in this door so it isn't a scam for the check. I ran through the other details. Yes, it was bizarre, but it worked. Seriously, God?

We settled the matter and he took me to meet the lady who looks after everything in the building “Parce qu'il faut le faire.” (It's a must) Francois assured. She was not the gardienne (concierge), but kind of a hen mother. Aka she'd taken it upon herself to occupy herself with everyone's affairs. She looked perfectly honest and French. She was of a certain age, her eyes were myopic and distorted by her glasses in a charming way, and like many older women, loved to visit. After seeing her genuine affection for Francois, I felt reassured.

Francois and I shook hands. He scooted off on his moto and I scaled the stairs again to look at the studio apartment. Mon apart. (My place)I turned each lock two times to the left in the old paint chipped door and stepped inside. It will need some work and a lot of javel (bleach) but it is going to be my home for the next few months! I had to laugh at myself. I have been turning myself inside out about housing, and here it is! The timing, although it seemed all wrong, worked out perfectly. The old tenant had just moved out which allowed for me to move in today. If I had insisted on shoving my way into one of those other living situations it would have been all wrong.

You'd think that after a couple of decades we'd learn basic lessons like trust, obedience, and patience. Instead, we end up having to learn these same principles repetitively like squealing broken records. It feels like we are walking blindfolded with only a voice to guide us and claw as we may at the blindfold we cannot tear it away. We must trust that it will be ok and discern that one voice from all of the screeching around us. I have a lot of stubbed toes from tripping but I'm trying. “Don't worry,” the Voice says, “I know what I am doing little sparrow.” God is just this good.

*There are many chic apartments in Paris, just not any in this budget. Also, this is not intended to be a complainer or a princess. It is loads better than what you'd find in many a third world country. It is "not much" in comparison to American standards. Phew. My conscience feels much better now.

Quel drôle d'oiseau!

What a funny bird! (An expression to describe a weird person. In this case, me.) The last week of October.

There are certain things we think we can handle. There are other things in life that are just beyond us. This is a story about the latter.

The other day I left a message on a landlord's phone inquiring about an apartment. If you are obliged to to leave a message you don't really expect a call back. So, when I left a message for Francois I figured it would amount to nothing more than saying at least I was making an effort.

However, lo and behold, the next day I had a message on my phone! Yes! “The apartment is taken.” Oh sadness. “But, listen,” he said, “I have another apartment by Nation. Perhaps that would interest you?” I nearly laughed. Actually, I did. Nation is where I wanted to live but hadn't found anything in the environ that fit my budget. I called him back, dang! Not there! I left a message, even though I knew if this apartment was as good as he described, it would be gone in a day, maybe two.

This is the crazy thing though. It took us over a week to connect but during this whole time he saved the apartment for me. This is unheard of. Absolutely unheard of. It is so absurd that when we finally set a day to look at the apartment I wondered if I should have someone come with me – what if it was a scam to kidnap young foreign women? The description of the apartment, the price, the whole set up seemed too good to be true. Yet, I had prayed a lot these last few months that God would lead the housing situation in such a way to show that only He could have led it.

I went to the neighborhood before our meeting to get a feel for the area and was filled with even more trepidation. Why? It was exactly, absolutely, what I had hoped for. As you may well know, I am not Mademoiselle Emotional or Compulsive. Decision making is a long and annoying process for anyone within a 10ft radius of me. However, as soon as I walked down the street a sinking sensation plummeted like an anvil. “If I don't get this place I will be really disappointed.” The neighborhood was typically Parisian with improvements in all the right places. It had a wide boulevard crowned with leafy trees down the middle. Trees! Do you know how rare this is? Sinking down onto a park bench it was just too easy to imagine life here. I could select produce at that fruitier, do laundry there, and it was easy to envision bands creating music in that gazebo a few steps away. The boulanger (baker)across from my hypothetical apartment had a long line of customers outside: the tell tale sign of a good boulanger. City is city, but this neighborhood, although vibrant, was charming and quieter. It was Paris for Parisiens, not tourists.

Several days later found me waiting on a green park bench for Francois outside the building. This time was spent praying that in two hours time I would not be either a) on my way bound and tied to some human trafficking depot or b) out on the street, insanely disappointed. He was late so I had more time to think than I had anticipated. This is a dangerous combination. Although God didn't gift me with quick decision making skills he did give me an overactive imagination. So, the next few moments were spent musing about who this Francois would be. Would he be old? Hope not, old guys struggle with being available to help you if you need it. They would much rather be at home tending to their bunions. Do old men even get bunions? Would he be young? Hope not. A very straightforward, professional relationship sounded great. He was going to be my landlord after all, with a key to my place. What then? Dark? Light? French? Armenian-French? Hmm... Francois, qui seras tu? Who will you be? Ideally, he would be a man in his 40's, married – loyally, very nice, sandy colored hair, and very professional. Why spend precious brain cells thinking about such things? And you thought I filled my spare time with cultured thoughts, ie, Sartre and his philosophical legacy in Paris. Ha! Except I don't know much about him. Tant pis.

Across the way there was a man stepping off his motorcycle. I knew it was Francois. I told myself to not be ridiculous, there are 10 men getting off of their motorcycles at this intersection. And there are about 30 other men hanging out around here. Why did I think this particular one was him? It just was. So much so that I hopped off the bench and walked straight up to him. Yep. It was him. Weird. Then he took off his helmet, and he looked exactly like how I had envisioned him. He had the air of one who reads Bonsoir Lune (classic French children's book) to his children at night before he tucks them in. Ok, God. This is really weird.

Deux Filles

Two Girls. Nov 25

There are two kinds of girls in this world. I, who once was of one kind am now one of the other. It took months of reflection in this place called France if this was truly worth the cost. It doesn't come for free, this change. Is it worth it? Once you traverse the void, you can't go back. Do I really have space in my life for this? Every morning, like the rising sun in the eastern sky, far from the eyes of anyone waking up in this city of concrete and stone, the question arose. Do I really want it? Do I need it?

Without it meant every day was haunted by an inescapable chill. No matter what I did, it persisted. It was like a wet frog perched on my shoulder, mocking, never leaving. Once the rhythm of the day was set and daily cares brought welcome distraction I thought I could dismiss it. Oh! Of course I don't need it! Look, I can live just fine without it. What a wasteful, plebeian need it was. What fool would insist on it?

But then, in the weakness of morning, when the covers are warm and the waiting world outside is cold it sounds so good. So warm and dry.

So after two months of this soul searching, partially due to an emotionally exhausting day, I gave in. Headfirst, all in, throw the key away abandon. I became one of those girls with a sèche cheveux. A hairdryer. My American hairdryer won't work here in France. Now, when I step out of the shower I am able to have the luxury of truly dry hair. In this damp country your hair does not naturally air dry. Thus, if you start out your day with wet hair, you will end it with wet hair. This combination promotes a constant penetrating chill. Of which no longer must be endured! As guilty as I may feel leaving the world's majority of women who cannot own a hairdryer, the luxury is sweet, and most poignantly, dry.

L'Histoire des Trois*

Story of the Three

Due to my current location in the banlieue (suburbs) I take the RER. A lot. Riding public transportation allows for prime time people watching if you are into that sort of thing. The other night two young guys of Middle Eastern origin gallivanted onto the train and plopped themselves down several seats away. They were garbed in the typical look of their station: large watches prominently displayed on cardamon skin, stream lined track jackets with full length zippers, stone washed jeans, thin soled Pumas, and close cropped dark hair. This wouldn't have warranted any out of the ordinary attention save that they were singing in gorgeous, honeyed voices. They were singing in Arabic style but with French lyrics. Arabic music is beautiful but seems a conundrum with its lilts and flourishes.

Well, these RER troubadours broke it all down for me without realizing it. One of them was being silly, proclaiming, “La Gare d'Austerlitz, la Gare d'Austerlitz, c'est pas bon, comme les francais” (The Austerlitz train station, The Austerlitz train station, it isn't good, like the french). In doing so, he revealed how simple Arabic pop songs can be. That simple phrase became a long curlicued descent of melody. It was pretty neat. He kept singing for several minutes, adding onto the song he'd created, enlightening a foreign girl several seats away of the delights of his music, without even knowing it.

Several nights ago a little girl of was perched on a seat in the train with her mother. She was adorable! Her hair was bobbed in a straight line below the ears in typical Chinese fashion with a purple bow neatly tied upon it. Eyes bright and full of enthusiasm, she sat straight backed on the edge of her seat telling her mother a story with much animation. In perfect French. Ok, so no one speaks a language perfectly when they are seven but hers was still superior to mine. She has clearly been speaking French since she could walk, as her accent was native. Every time she opened her mouth, I was thrown into raptures over her impeccable pronunciation. Yep, I was envious of a seven year old. I suppose it struck me as unique since we are both Asian and her round little face reminded me of my own. Despite the cuteness of her speech she was also the brunt of all of my jealousy. She doesn't know how lucky she is to be fluent. Mom and Dad, why couldn't we have lived in France when I was little? Then I'd sound like her too. Lucky little sucker.

It is such a joy how polite people can be here! Case in point, not too long ago I found myself sitting on a bench with a black teenage boy on the train platform. He had his “cool” look altogether: Nike high tops with the fluorescent tongue lapping out, slim jeans with rips in all the right places, black jacket, and black Eastbay brand backpack carelessly slung over his shoulder. (The French love Eastbay brand, don't ask me why). To complete the look, he had shaved a racing stripe into one of his eyebrows, a practice celebrated by young mecs (guys). In the morning crisp his breath left white puffs in the air. He was just that cool. And because he is under thirty five in the city, he had earphones shoved into his ears and a cellphone in his hand like a regular appendage, sending out texts at the speed of light. You see a million like him every day. I returned to my book.

“Excusez-moi, Madame.” Who?

Oh! Is he talking to me? Madame? That is so formal, and old! I am so not a Madame! I'm a Mademoiselle.

He was addressing me. He then proceeded to ask in the most humble and polite fashion possible if this might be the train that passes by M___? I gave him his answer, accepted his genteel gratitude, then chuckled. Never would I have pegged him to be such a gentleman. Guess you never know.

*Title is a play on words from Balzacs Histoire des Treize.


Racing stripe.