Something good can work

Drew a smile during art class today. Funny how that made me smile.

What a nice little cycle. Life's full of 'em.

Made a mask at my host mom's company's christmas party (which lasted from 5 in the afternoon to 2 in the AM):

(You'll have to excuse all of these webcam photos, please and thank you):

What I'm listening to. Really fitting, as life's looking up over here.

I have my residency card, and my host mom has finally stopped calling me fat.

Leaving for Copenhagen on Saturday. Spending tomorrow in Vichy (so I can take the TCF, test de connaisance du français).

Tired but excited.

Ode to Grève

The world doesn't stop just because you have finals.
Public transportation,
however,
does.
Hopes of studying before class
dashed
for the second day in a row.
FML.

A pretty little description courtesy of Sylvie Germain

"Puis elle a léché ses larmes à la façon d'un petit chat" (Magnus 193).

(Found this little guy on the internet).

It's been a long, long time.

There is dog poop EVERYWHERE. I am continually amazed by my newfound ability (one could say superpower) to text, walk, and avoid the omnipresent caca all en même temps. This, my friends, is a cultural adjustment in it's most basic and stinky form.

I should probably follow my poop talk with a heartfelt apology. So, here it goes: I apologize to the world for living under, and maybe even in (because it's that serious), a rock more recently. My week-long, fall vacation s'appelle La Toussaint ended on Sunday. Over the course of several days, I visited both Paris and Strasbourg in the company of old and new friends and acquaintances. While packing for my trip, I made the last minute decision to leave my safety blanket, my computer, behind. While I can't say that I regret my decision, I am aware that it compounded my already poor performance in the "keeping in touch" department. One of my current goals is to try to honor the relationships that I have chosen to bring with me. I need chu people - in a healthy, non-codependent way, that is.

La Toussaint:

My vacation was a little more dramatic than I had anticipated, but most of that has come to an end now that I have broken up with my boyfriend of a month, Julien. No regrets. It's funny how people's reactions can tell you a lot about their personalities and how they can often serve to confirm your decisions.

Highlights of our relationship and examples of how it is ever-so-easy to get lost in translation when you and your partner don't speak the same language:

• Telling Julien I found him attractive and having him respond, "Jessica, I am not a woman," because I made the wrong accord. (Attirante is for a woman; attirant, for a man. Never will I ever forget.)
• Trying to explain the meaning of "suave," then being asked by Julien if it applied to him. "Ummm... No, not really. You're more of a nerd." Because I wasn't able to clarify the definition, he later took the liberty to google "nerd" during a meeting. When he came back, he asked, with a look of horror on his face, "YOU FIND STEVE URKEL ATTRACTIVE? WAIT. YOU THINK I LOOK LIKE STEVE URKEL?" Yes, Julien, I do. Steve Urkel makes me super-duper randy. He doesn't have the same affect on you? No, I am sorry. You don't look like Steve Urkel (and that is the real reason why we broke up). 
• Having to explain that "I love you" means a lot in the U.S. and that his telling me he loved me on our first date was, in my opinion, an insult. -- This one never really got through, but somethings never do. I can say without a doubt that this is going to be one of those long breakups, where I have to continue to clarify my already very clear stance. Oh well. Shit happens (everywhere in Clermont). 

But it's okay, because I have found love in a cute café-lecture called Les Augustes. Any man or woman is going to have to step up his or her game in order to compete for my affection. For the moment, I find that's better. Celibataire is the best way to fare - a more recent discovery. Thank you, La Toussaint.

Final two points:

1. A poor photocopy of Girl with a Pearl Earring (in which she looks like she just had her wisdom teeth removed) that I made for my art class :

2. Speaking of love: I am going to have to learn to feel some for myself real soon. Why? Because my host mom tells me that I need to lose weight on a daily basis. News flash: nothing has changed. I look the same as I did last year. Oh well! There's nothing too terrible about tough skin - good thing, because I am going to have it by the end of the year. Side note - I am eating a really big bar of chocolate right now. Can't stop, won't stop. Such a rebel.

Xoxo,
Gossip Gir... I mean, J Farms!

La narine

I will never forget the word for nostril in French.

Why? Because my art teacher probably yelled "Where is her right nostril!? She is missing her right nostril!" five million times. He was shocked that I didn't understand. Apparently, nostril is a word one cannot do without.

Oh, how I have missed artists.

Trivialitree

Today I drew a tree.

Why?

Because I had time, and I felt like it.

Novel concepts.

Drowning in a sea of French

Lists are fun, so I'ma make one.

1. Language learning is an exercise in creativity. How do you say "to sweat"? I have no idea. So how did I phrase it? "When someone makes water with their body that isn't yellow." Well, that works too. I guess.

2. Cultural Spotlight: Speedos. Two Saturdays ago, Liz and I discovered Clermont's allegedly olympic pool. We spent the majority of our time there breaking the rules by sliding down le toboggan head first, bellies on bottom. While in line, I told Liz that there was no such thing as a graceful recovery. As if to prove my point (however unintentionally), I flopped onto the slide - limbs everywhere - screamed the entire way down, and flooded my nostrils with chlorine upon my oh-so-splashtastic exit. I may or may not have been laughed at by a hoard of attractive men as I tried to locate one of my contacts after all was said and kind of done. Anyway. Liz and I were later joined by five German students that we met through the ESC exchange program. Our German lady-friends arrived first, leaving their male counterparts behind. An hour later, we found out why. Apparently, it's not just a cultural norm to wear speedos, it's a rule. Wearing swim trunks is strictly prohibited in some pools. As a result, our guy friends were actually turned away for sporting their all-too modest swim trunks and were forced to buy some slightly more scandalous speedos from a nearby store. All of a sudden that super sexy 2.6 euro student admission fee turned into a 27.6 euro mini-fortune for our German arm-candy. And all of a sudden, Elizabeth and I were a lot better acquainted with our new friends and the effects of spandex on the male form.

3. Making mistakes in French is like shooting yourself in the foot with a rocket launcher. Last weekend, I went shopping for shoes with my two host sisters and Elizabeth. In between visiting forty or fifty shoe stores, we popped into Sephora to buy some nail polish. While browsing, I managed to pick the only tester bottle that wasn't tightly twisted shut. So when I picked up the top, the bottom didn't come with it. Instead, the bottle flew off and out of the nail polish tower (looks like a rainbow-colored Mordor in my memory), the hot pink contents of which exploded EVERYWHERE, including all over the woman standing next to me. How do you apologize for something like that? Shrug your shoulders and say, "You look good in pink?" Nope. "I am absolutely sorry." Not I am so sorry or even I am extremely sorry, but I am "absolutely" sorry. Who says that? Someone who clearly doesn't speak French or belong in France. On top of that, I am not sure if I told my host sisters whether I was embarrassed or pregnant. If I happened to say pregnant, then I later asked, "Are you pregnant of me?" Quelle horreur!

4. Good thing I can't speak English either. Yesterday, a French student had to remind me of the word for countryside IN ENGLISH. I guess I got too greedy. Linguistically, that is. I came here to speak two languages, and now I speak none. Serves me right for going against the American way.

5. I am perpetually lost in translation. This week, I finally started taking classes with French students. While studying at ESC, I will be participating in the Pepiniere. Also known as the worst idea ever, the Pepiniere is a competitive project where one Kalamazoo College student is grouped with six French students in order to come up with a marketing model for a local business. Here's why it sucks: I understand maybe 1/10th of everything that my group says. My group mates speak so quickly that they often have to take deep breaths after finishing their sentences. As a result, when we were asked to list our "tension zones" in working together, the French students put my name as the last but not least response. Right after that, Alexandre, one of my group mates, looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Sorry." In English - just to add insult to injury. Warms my heart, really.

View of the Cathedral

Lost in Translation

Just to clarify, not everyone in France speaks English. On Sunday, I visited my host uncle's apartment and learned just how little English my host family speaks. Here are some examples:

Barbara: How old are you?

Louane: I am fine.

Wrong answer. Let's try again.

Louane: How old are you?

Barbara: I have 93-years-old.

Me: Barbara, that's not true.

Barbara: Oh, merde! How do you say 39?

Me: Not like that.

Then later...

My host uncle tried to ask if I was mocking his wife, but by accident he asked, "Are you fucking my wife?" "NO, I am not having sex with your wife!" I made him promise that if he ever came to America, he'd never ask this question.

That night, I took Boon for a walk. I think my host father phrased it pretty accurately when he said that Boon has "une tête de bois," or a head made of wood. If curiosity killed the cat, straight-up stupidity will be responsible for Boon's demise. He started licking pee or petrol off of the street. Who does that? Let me restate that Boon probably understands me the best of everyone in my family.

C'est pas grave.

I realized during my French Literature class that I accidentally told my host parents that my sister was mentally handicapped. Great. I meant to say that she had a learning disorder. It's funny how that happens. As it turns out, I am like a five year old in France. Sometimes, I can't even communicate my most basic needs. Communicating in broken French has turned out to be a very humbling experience. Buying a phone in French is proving to be an even more humbling experience.

Also, quick note. When I said that France is similar to the US, I didn't mean that the two countries are exactly the same. Cultural differences exist! But on a very basic level, I could survive life in France as I am now. Why do I say that? Because little things like gestures are the same. For example, when I nod my head up and down it means yes and when I make a fist and point my thumb up it means good stuff! France is a little more formal than the US, but in a way I almost prefer that. You know what else I prefer? The mountains! This city is beautiful. I'll post pictures later. 

Francey Pants

Warning: I am going to write candidly. Normally, I worry and worry about how this or that sentence sounds, but the whole point of this trip is to get rid of my perfectionistic tendencies (and to learn French, bien sur) so "to hell" with grammar and diction. If you're looking for literary finesse, leave.

A lot has happened since I arrived in France on Saturday. It's probably best to start from the beginning, so let's get chronological. Shall we?

Saturday was a disaster. I left for Paris on Friday at 4, which means that I left my house at around 12:30. Saying goodbye was hard and talking to Katherine on the phone afterwards was even harder. I'm going to miss that bottom-head (term of endearment used by my mom and her family). While her talk is tough, her insides are like custard. My plane ride was interesting. I didn't sleep like I wanted, thanks to my bladder (which is the size of a pea) and the man sitting next to the aisle (who never woke up). I must have poked his shoulder and said "Excusez-moi, Monsieur" a thousand times. The other two people, a Frenchman and a Mexican woman, sitting next to me had a much better time. They developed an interesting dynamic: he talked in Spanish while she responded in French. How romantic! By the end of our flight, they were holding hands. Before that they cuddled and even made out under the protection of a blanket, which they ever so subtly placed over their heads during the night. First they swapped languages, and then they swapped spit. Classy.

Upon my arrival to Paris, I was sick, tired, and confused, so much so that I started to sweat uncontrollably, perhaps from nerves. When I went to use the restroom to splash water on my face, I learned my first real-live lesson in French culture: sometimes you have to pay to use public restrooms. Of course I couldn't find my wallet when I approached the desk to pay, and I didn't have the vocabulary to say wallet (un portefeuille), so I tried to walk off without being noticed. The man guarding the toilets stopped me before I was able to get away and said "Do you not have any money?" "Uuuum, I have money, but I don't know where it is. I am sorry," I responded in really broken French. Apparently smiling pays off, because he ended up telling me, "You don't need to pay. You can use the bathroom, because you are very nice."

Taking the train from Paris to Lyon and then Lyon to Clermont-Ferrand wasn't bad, but by the time I arrived I was an absolute mess. Fortunately, my host family wasn't there to see me in that state or even greet me. Pourquoi? Because someone at the Center for International Programs told my Resident Director Joëlle that I would be arriving on Sunday, instead of Saturday. When I went to call Joëlle, I found that her number was listed incorrectly under the EMERGENCY section of the Clermont-Ferrand Study Abroad packet. Sure, things could have gone more smoothly, but eventually everything worked out. Joëlle rushed to pick me up soon after my mother left an angry, angry voicemail for the CIP. When she arrived, she first apologized and then explained "C'est pas grave" (It's not serious), which may be my moto for this trip. So far, it works for just about everything.

My host family is wonderful. I live with Barbara, Patrice, Eluna (that's probably not how it's spelled, but that's how it's pronounced), and Louane. Oh! And Boon, the dog. Barbara and Patrice are a funky couple. Because they are not married, they are called "des concubins." To be un concubin is the same thing as being in a common law marriage, or at least that is my understanding. Patrice has sleeves and loves Harley Davidsons. Barbara is obsessed with Native Americans and cactuses. Naturally. Imagine a room filled with Native American heads made out of clay*. You're picturing my new living room. Eluna and Louane are my saucy host sisters. Louane, 13, thinks that she is Eluna's mother, so much so that I hear Barbara tell her "She (Eluna) has a mother!" everyday. Eluna is a little childish. Fancy that, she's eleven. She whines and argues with her parents (playfully) about everything. There's lots of stomping. It's kind of endearing. Classic Eluna: when Patrice asked me if the Reporters on TV were speaking too quickly, she responded, "Doesn't matter because that's how everyone talks." No pitty points from her I guess. Then there is Boon. Boon is an idiot, but he probably understands me the best. Such is life.

As it turns out, France, or at least Clermont-Ferrand, is not that different from the US. Sure, people fold their lettuce instead of cut it and eat lunch and dinner for hours on end, but for the most part I feel pretty at ease here. I am not worried about making so many cultural faux pas, at least not with my host family or professors, especially because I think it's clear that I am trying. The biggest difference about Clermont-Ferrand, and this is an obvious one, is that everyone speaks French. It seems dumb for me to even mention, but being surrounded by a language that I don't know is totally bizarre. That constant cacophony of too-fast French, which is now the background for my everyday life, is something that I am going to have to get used to. By the end of every day I am completely exhausted. I finish eating with my family around 12 and go to bed immediately afterwards. Of course, I have to wake up at 6:45, but encore une fois (once again), c'est la vie. Already, I can tell that my work this year won't be in my classes, but in living life as an American in France. This whole language-learning thing is rough.

This post has become a lot longer than I anticipted, so I will stop babbling, I promise. Before I go, I must mention Chantal, my French teacher and new heroine. When someone asked if it was possible to phrase something a certain way, Chantal said, "That is absolutely impossible!!" "Why?""Because it is prettier this way," and then she went on to explain some arbitrary grammer rule. Later she said, "French is like music," which is true, "Unlike German." You tell 'em, Chantal!!

*That's an exaggeration.

College Town Tango

The theme of this week has turned out to be college towns, what with most of my friends and now some of my family leaving for school. Over the past four days, I have lived life practically clinging to the edge thanks to my adventures in San Marcos and College Station. As mentioned in my previous post, my mother, my sister Katherine and I spent Thursday dropping off my middle sister Becca in the oh-so-sunburnt San Marcos. What I failed to bring up is that later that day I began to "trip balls" on my newly prescribed pain pills.

Last Monday, I had my wisdom teeth removed. While the procedure went well, some slight complications arose when my pain medication launched me into another universe. As we found out on Wednesday, when I complained in an English accent of being "as itchy as an octopus" and worried about "my marshmallow feet leaving my body" (I put extra blankets on my feet just to make sure they would not float away), I was suffering from an allergic reaction to oxycodone. Just to confirm this was the case, I spent the night cuddling my parents' toilet. How tender. In retrospect, I wonder if pain medication and I should ever mix, because my replacement prescription was equally as far-out, in the sense that it catapulted me to Pluto (still a planet).

At first, my reaction to the new medication was subtle. A little clumsier than normal, I fell headfirst into the door of a Chile's bathroom stall and started talking to my mother's "dress Keens". Then, while my family was shopping for last minute supplies at Target, I fell asleep in the dressing room. I cannot be blamed, for I had nothing better to do; my cart-pushing privileges were revoked when it became clear that I found that activity all too entertaining. My mother was worried that my cackling might attract the wrong kind of attention, so she banished me and my fifteen-year-old caretaker Katherine to the sportswear department. Altogether, no harm was done. I may have embarrassed Becca, but that is my job as the eldest.

By the time I decided to pay Po a visit in College Station, the home of Texas A&M University, on Saturday, my mother had hidden my medication from me. Donald, who was also in search of an impromptu adventure, turned out to be my carpool buddy. Unfortunately for him, he unwittingly hitched a ride with a grandmother in disguise. Somehow I managed to turn a two hour trip (tops) into a three hour one. It was, however, easy to see the silver lining in the situation: a wonderful conversation with someone I have always wanted to get to know better. Our night consisted of cliché college activities: booze, beer pong, and bonding in a rather sketchy abode. All that I have left to say on the subject is that English me is much better than American me at beer pong. My secret to spotty success? Speaking with an accent. Quite the game changer.

Freshly freckled, I left a little sooner than expected (a.k.a. I bolted) early Sunday afternoon thanks to the sudden arrival of someone I care all too much about. No regrets. So far as I am concerned, I am leaving the country in twelve days and need to spend the rest of my Texas-time wisely. That means avoiding hurt at the hands of unrequited like. While I can say with confidence that I acted irrationally, I believe that everyone is allowed a couple (dozen, hundred, maybe even a million) do-silly-to-stay-sane coupons. I am cashing in on one of mine. Luckily, I cannot dwell on my decision for long. Come September 2nd, my life will be full of new distractions.

San(s Water) Marcos

I am writing from San Marcos, a college town in Texas that makes me very glad I moved to Michigan. They say the grass is always greener on the other side. If the other side is Houston, that statement could not ring truer! All I can see is yellow, yellow, yellow for miles. San Marcos, it appears, is proof that the drought actually exists. Who(ustonian) knew?

As I type, my sister Becca is becoming a big girl. She is registering for her dorm room, a colossal 9x13 double, at Texas State. I cannot pretend that I am not worried. My sister has never struck me as a big, state school kind of girl. Regardless, change is in the air (I would say wind, but it does not seem relevant in San Marcos, where there is not any). Now that Becca is moving into her new life, it is becoming more and more apparent to me that I am about to do the same.

Bonjour et Bienvenue!

If your intent is to read my, Miss J. Farmer's, musings then you have clicked on the right link. This blog is to be my cyber-home for the next 9-12 months while I study abroad in Clermont-Ferrand, France. Hopefully, my posts will be as entertaining for you as they are cathartic for me. All commentary (/human interaction) is welcome and appreciated!