I've written pages upon pages trying to rid you from my bones.

I remember, sentimentally now, the weirdness of first arriving in France. But as much as I settled in and made a life here, some of that awareness of being in a foreign place always stayed. The longer I was here, the more I realized that I was isolated from France by my perception of it. In the same way that the English words "strange" and "stranger" are related at their root, so are their French counterparts "etrange" and "l'etranger"- the latter is the word most often used for "foreigner" in France. Anyway, in English, I always though the words were kind of charmingly chosen, in the style of curious and curiouser, as Lewis Carol played with the same concept of the weirdness of a foreign place in Alice's journey through Wonderland.

And the fact is that for all France was curious to me, I was curiouser by virtue of being an American in a small French city, and for choosing that life. I had a funny accent, funny habits, funny music. I may have looked sideways at France, but it grimaced right back. These past three months, I would say, my eyebrows have raised less and less at the things that were different, and when they did, I would laugh to myself. I will miss this feeling. Not that my own country doesn't make me raise my eyebrows all the time.

Which is why I'll keep this blog up, though it may be updated infrequently. If you want to keep reading you can follow my new quest to settle into Atlanta again, earn a living, and get over whatever culture shock I may experience.

When I got back from Hong Kong, my main shock was the shock of space. There was so much room, so much less of a crowd. But ultimately, my reaction was confidence, because America was so much easier to navigate. It is easier to not be a continual stranger in a place. It is easier to have a sense of it, to understand all the signs, to know instinctively the protocols. In two days, I'll be through with the expatriate life for a while. I would be lying if I said I weren't looking forward to that. And to Mexican food.

When I first started this blog, I listed some challenges I planned to take on in France. Here are my final stats for the season:

1. Train Travel - I loved it, the way you'd expect me to. My last train ride will be tomorrow to Paris.

2. The Jura Mountains (the Alps too) - I got to know the Jura really well, and hiked the Alps a few times.

3. French Language - I improved.

4. 30 or so middle schoolers - It was closer to 100 middle schoolers and high schoolers.

5. Breads and Cheeses - Delicious. I will miss them.

6. Isolation, Irony, and perhaps Fear, definitely Poverty. - There was less fear than I thought. But the rest of it I got in spades. Froverty, Frirony and Frisolation were definitely themes of my time.

7. Fripsters - THEY'RE EVERYWHERE. Hip, pretty, and clad in only black and white every night to go out.

8. The Continent - 6 months, four countries, including France. Not too shabby. I feel like I had a good run.

I just posted my England pictures on flickr, and when I get back to Atlanta, I will put together a general highlights album from my travels within France.

Today is my last real day in Besancon, and for all that it's been strange and hard, I have a knot in my stomach just thinking about how long it will be before I see this place again. I am ready to leave, ready to go home. But I still feel like I am losing something, if that makes any sense at all.

Paris in passing.

I got to Paris in mid-February with what the French would call a cat in my throat, the kind of voice only a Tom Waits fan could love, and met Louis for a couple of days of sightseeing.


We did important, touristy Paris things. We strolled by the Seine, watched the Eiffel Tower Sparkle, and enjoyed our charmingly cheap hotel. We walked around the Rodin museum and encountered the whole gamut of French waiters. Then we retreated to Besancon for the rest of the week.

For the record, Louis is a pretty ideal travel companion. He's good at dealing with maps and lots of walking. If you are looking for someone to navigate a foreign city with, I would vouch for him. I got him lost in the wilds of rural France, and he was completely unflappable.

Visitors and trips have really saved me while I have lived here. I don't talk about it much, but my day-to-day of life as an expatriate is not glamorous, and it is often stressful, lonely, and difficult. I will always be grateful for the time I have spent in France, but to be truthful, I couldn't have managed it without all the people from home who have made a point of letting me know that I am still loved on the other side of the ocean.

Thank you.

You can see all of Louis's France pictures here.

Oh, long silences.

I know you'll let me off the hook for not typing more in December. I spent the first part of the month getting ready to go home, and while I was home, blogging on France wasn't something I considered.

But now that I am back on this side of the ocean with an hour or so of free afternoon on my hands, this thing is going to get a serious update. Serious may be too strong a word, but you get my meaning. Today, I want to talk to you about trains.

To get to and from Besancon from any airport in France you get to take a train ride. I have always had romantic notions, forged in classic literature and old movies, where trains are concerned. The truth is, deep down, I want to wait for a boy by a steam engine. Cue swirling, smoggy, sexy exhaust all around, better than any fog machine could manage and a big Hollywood style kiss. I know, I know. You're ashamed of me.

But, the only other swirly mist location options, in my opinion, are moors (too gothic) and Nepal (this could work too, if I get more Indiana Jonesy in my late 20's).

Anyway, I have taken more trains since getting to Europe than I had in my entire life before then, and I think this is the common experience of the expatriate abroad here. In the past few months I've taken short regional trains to towns like Arbois and Ornans and Belfort, long, express routes to and from Paris, and long, frequently stopping slower alternatives to Lyon.

It's been educational, and I want to stand by my love of trains, the romance is still there, along with a respect for the efficiency of a train system that connects every part of a country. It's amazing, the ease with which I can travel anywhere. With my handy Carte 12-25, I save about half the fare or more everytime I travel, so it's relatively inexpensive, which helps matters. It's actually pretty magical.

I'm writing this now because I think when I leave Europe I will miss trains a lot. Just like I'll miss pastries and cheeses and beverages. Though I think I may miss trains more because they make life here seem more genuinely navigable than it is in a lot of places.

The Week in Beverages.

We haven't talked about this, but I love beverages best. Particularly the hot, delicious ones- cocoa, cider, coffee, and even some teas. I used to greet visitors to my dorm rooms with the offer of a hot beverage, and I think that on winter days, nothing is better.

That's why I'm gone for vin chaud. Mulled wine, the stuff of Dickensian Christmases, is delicious. A friend's mom gave me the recipe, and if you want it, I will email it to you.



But, I've also always been one for trash. So I also love the 17 cent Greek generic cola I get at Lidl, the cheap supermarket. It is liquid delicious, also probably good for unblocking clogs in your plumbing. It goes very well with my euro microwaveable pizzas.



And of course, there's my new favorite beer, Desperados. It's like Corona, but with more tequila. It's the perfect summer beer, in my opinion, and I want to know if I can lay hands on it in the States, because it would be perfect for porches or pools.



And that's what I've been up to, really.

The Storms of Late Autumn

I jumped a barrier to walk along the swollen Doubs tonight.

I had hiked into town for a coffee and a croissant, to watch people and read a little. Sundays in Besancon are quiet. Not much is open, and people have been retreating indoors more as the winter is approaching. Anyway, I don't tend to need days of solitude, when I crave it. The fall rains this weekend left the city flooded, and I trudged through the wet streets and down to the river. I ignored the gate and walked by the Doubs, careful not to fall in. The moonlight reflected bright and hard off the water, the wind made my nose run, and a couple miles later, I felt like I'd gotten something out of my system. When I crave solitude, I just need an hour to be completely by myself- that's what I got. I stared up at the Citadelle for a while, wrote in my journal, and celebrated my two month anniversary in France.

Earlier this morning, I went into Vesoul, a small town near here, for the festival of St. Katherine. It was charming- it's a festival for unmarried girls, mainly. So many of the girls from my classes were wandering around in traditional costume. "'Ello, Linds-aye! 'Ow are you?" It was lovely to see them out of class and in their element. I felt like I understood this place more at that moment than I had the entire time I've been here.

Now, I'm in for the night, sipping white wine with Meredith, and in a bit I'll talk her into playing some Rummy. I love that my life here has this aspect of regularity- it's not exotic or strange. It's just France in the day to day, and it's beautiful.

The Citadelle

The Citadelle at Besancon is one my all time favorite things and places.



I am unsure why, aside from that geeky middle school girl side of me that favors historic locales with good stories. The Citadelle's stony, austere, gorgeous. I like to sit beside it and read and draw and think about all the soldiers who guarded it, why it was important strategically, and German armies trying to storm up the Jura to wage assaults on it. It's a fun place to sit, and I think it inspires a kind comfortable awe, if that is something you can say about "awe." Like, it's big and imposing, but not so big and imposing that you don't feel ok drinking wine near it.

That's my kind of awe-inspiring.

It is done like so.

I'm legal! I got my titre de sejour today, and it feels like I accomplished something.



Now, if I can just get my internet working and my window fixed, I will feel much better.

Unrelated but also happy news, I am headed home for Christmas! Thanks, Mom and Dad. I will come bearing gifts.

In the Haut Jura, where I live, the regional cuisine is all peasant-y and delicious. It involves a lot of potatoes and meat and cheese. These are all foods that please me, so I think I wound up in the right part of France. I tracked down a recipe for a favorite local dish, and I will be making it in Valparaiso over break. So, if you're around, you can try my first attempt.

I'm really happy to be going home for Christmas, because despite my independent streak, I always feel terribly homesick when I'm away from Valpo for too long. The French term for homesickness is mal de pays, and I am sick for America too. The only prescription is a visit home once every four or five months. Valparaiso, Indiana will always be magic to me.

A rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.

For Halloween, I had my English classes do "The Raven," which was longer than I remembered it being, and is difficult for native English speakers to begin with. But, French kids are tricky, I find, because if you make things easy, they feel you're condescending. If you make things too hard, they are quick to give up. Still, they would rather be challenged. So I downloaded a reading of the poem with Vincent Price and played it for them approximately forty billion times.

Ok, I exaggerate, but really, I played it, stanza by stanza three or four times for each of my classes. Then I would make them tell me what they'd understood, turn to the text and ask me for vocabulary help. It was a task, but it worked. It worked, and I felt great. I don't know if I've ever felt prouder than when the youngest boy in one my classes, Olivier, told me he though the raven was Lenore's ghost and justified his claim with textual evidence. Can you imagine? An explication in a second language. Olivier is now my favorite.

I like teaching. It's unexpected.

Toussaints has been lovely. I've hiked a lot in the Jura, and I got a second pillow. Tonight, Charles is coming to visit. I'm going to splurge, I think, and take him to a nice fondue restaurant.

Besancon has settled into an autumnal loveliness I can't adequately describe. It's all golden leaves and golden light. It's a great place to pass a fall, and it's my first real fall in five years. If I can track down some apple cider, I will be the happiest girl in the world.

I also recently tried the favorite regional wine, a soft white from Arbois, and it was maybe the most delicious wine I've ever had. And, if you come, I will order you a triangle aux amondes, which is like a crossaint, but topped with a sugar glaze and almond bits. It is my new favorite breakfast food.

Toussaints

I woke up in love with Besancon this morning, but that isn't the way it always goes. On the coldest mornings, when I wake up and the winter is bent on blowing my face off, I wish I had been placed somewhere on the Riviera. There are also whole bad days, when I just wish I were somewhere where I could speak English. France is just like any other place in that there are days when I would rather be someplace else. This past weekend, in a fit of needtogetoutofheritis, I travelled to Burgundy, a beautiful and much needed escape from my mountain town. I know more about wine than you do now.

But I am happy to be here today, because it's lovely out, and I am about to get a week off work and get paid. As of tomorrow, I will be a young lady of sufficient means to get a second pillow, a ticket to the Beirut/Andrew Bird show in Strausburg, and perhaps the internet, if the charming people at France Telecom will oblige me. Cross your fingers. I might be able to stop nursing expressos for hours in cafes.

I don't think I have talked much about how I feel about French language, and it's time you knew that I love it. Even when it frustrates me to the point of tears, but that doesn't happen as often as it used to. French isn't too complicated or too pretty, the way I always thought of it being before I got here. It is musical but simple, and with just a few phrases you can navigate most situations. The forms of sentences are nice and regular, as are the rhythms of conversation.

Recently, trying to learn more practical French, I taped up all the vocabulary words for things like door and handle on the appropriate objects around my apartment. Drinking wine and playing rummy with Meredith, we quizzed each other on the important little things you don't learn in high school French.

But, as sensible as some of my impulses about learning French are, I love impractical speech, so I collect ridiculous French too. For instance, kids at my school are quick to call things they like "enorme!" This reminds me of my days at Valparaiso High School, when things were "huge." My accent is never so beautiful as when I hiss my best French curse, the one that impresses the locals, "putain!"

I've started picking up l'argot, French slang, and even better verlan, which is based in word play and kind of exploded out of the North African communties here. That, friends, is my favorite, because it's all reversing letters and shimmying syllables around. Even "verlan" is word play, coming from the word "l'envers", which means the reverse. My favorite verlan terms are "skeud" for record, and "chelou" which means shady.I have also started investigating French internet speak, which I find fascinating. In addition to "lol" there's "mdr" which is "mort de rire" and translates as death by laughing.

Beyond that, I have recently come to think of certain aspects of my personality as latently French, like that I love lying around, that I love sarcasm, that I love coffee and bread and hats. And of course, I love France, with a fierce, territorial feeling that continues to surprise me. But I get the impression though that some of you knew that would be the case before I did.

When a moment redeems a day.

I was having a terrible (some would go so far as to say shitty) day yesterday. I got stuck in the immigration office for several hours. I forget that I am an immigrant here sometimes. It is a pain. I think everyone should have to go through this stuff in a foreign country though, if only to understand how deeply important something so mindnumbingly dull can be. I had to stand in line for six hours yesterday, getting pushed between windows and offices. The kind officers could not find the form I needed, so I have to go back this afternoon. At least I have appointment this time. Anyway, this is the form that says I can legally work. It is something worth standing in line for, but yesterday, I was just feeling like giving up and maybe being illegal. Not really. My parents raised me right, but I hate this paperwork stuff sometimes.

When I got home, the window in the living room had blown open and shattered all over the floor. I swept up the glass, cut my hands, and mountain air invaded the apartment. Freezing and bloody, I set off to find something to distract myself, so I went to check the mail. A note informed me that I had a package... somewhere. So, I bandaided myself as best I could, shoved on some gloves and an extra sweater, and set out to find it. A little French quest. After riding two buses, and stopping at three wrong post offices, I found the right one, and I got my box.

Mom, you are at the top of my list right now. That package could not have come at a better time. I put on that new hoodie, and I felt like the world was as it should be. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I was on the verge of tears, and I felt like France was kicking my ass yesterday. You fixed it- my day, I mean. And today I was able to smile at work, wearing my favorite jacket.

Top Five Reasons My Mom Is the Best in the Land

1. That glorious package she just sent me.
2. Excellent Scrabble player.
3. Linda Cronk makes perfect snickerdoodles.
4. There is that thing where she has excellent, discerning taste in media of all kinds.
5. I love her.

That is all for today. I am going to try my hardest to get a work permit today.

Effortless Chic

Ok, so I want to talk about French women and their style. I had a funny encounter with a group of gorgeous women at the Cafe du Theatre, after they'd caught a concert, while I was enjoying a Grimbergen. They chatted me up briefly about the show, then drank glasses of wine elegantly. This is my favorite kind of French woman, and I could just look at them all day. But, a critique is in order.

Ladies, you're beautiful, you're trim, you're put together. In your forties, you have perfected a kind of jaded, haute couture hotness to launch a thousand ships, but you wouldn't be impressed when the boats came. You're bored and you're lovely and you arch your eyebrows at too much enthusiasm. But I don't buy for even a second that your hair swept itself into that flawless chignon. I don't think you just threw that military jacket over that perfect black dress on and looked like you stepped out of Vogue.

I threw on this hoodie and hat this morning, and I look like a young woman in a hoodie and a hat. That is how throwing things on works. Can we all just let go of the myth of effortless French chic? We all know you're a country that works hard to look like it isn't trying too hard.

Also, just so you know, readers, there are a lot of poorly dressed French people out there. There are a lot of unfortunate sweaters and harem pants and cavalier boots. There are a lot of man purses. The unifying factor seems to be that the French try harder at fashion than Americans do to mixed results. For instance, I saw a woman at Musiques de Rues with her hair dyed an atrocious shade of purple brown to match her outfit. And young men wearing white jeans and big belt buckles and track jackets are enough to make me wish I could go on literally blind dates.

So, if you were wondering what I was thinking about French fashion, as an inveterate clotheshorse that is my opinion. My first French clothes investment (which will probably have to wait till December) will be a good pair of brown flat boots.

On Sundays in France, everything closes, and you're left to make your own fun. Today I'm going to try to get some lesson plans put together and write a letter- later in the afternoon, when it's warmed up a little, I will hike up to the Citadel and read for a while. I hope all is well on the home front. Today I had a buttery cookie and a cocoa for breakfast. It was perfect.

On Besancon

There is a cloudy mist enveloping the city, and all the long underwear in the world cannot stop my ankles from chattering. I am going to hide in bed, once I get off of school. I am going to keep my winter hat on, burrito wrap myself up in my blankets, and huddle with chocolat chaud and a movie.

What movie? The Magnificent Seven. That is not very French, bien sur.

Now for some analogs, to get you better acquainted with my way of life here. If Besancon were a city in the states, it would be Boulder, Colorado. It is not very big, has an environmentalist streak, and a bourgie artistic flavor. In the same way Boulder is not as happening as say Portland, Besancon is not as happening as Toulouse or Dijon. Outside of Besancon, Franche-Comte, my region, is very conservative, and the hick to yuppie ratio is approximately 7:1 everywhere else. This reminds me of living in Atlanta. There is a big university here, so the city is young and liberal. On Monday, I went to an open mic night here- they are universally entertaining, I would argue. And French slam poetry is even more hilarious than most American slam poetry.

I go to a lot of bars and patisseries. A lot of those fancy French pastry shops are about like diners on the inside, and I like to sit in a booth with a book and a tiny coffee and eat some kind of tartlette every few days. There are markets for fresh fruits and vegetables, no haggling here. The bakeries are cheap, and the breads are so, so, so good. I drink two euro bottles of wine and tiny German beers. I drink expressos and mineral waters. There is no Diet Dr. Pepper here, there is also no analogous beverage for guzzling. I miss it.

I found the main library in Besancon, which is as about like Valparaiso Public Library. There are bookstores everywhere too, though books are pricey as you would expect them to be. Pas un grand chose.

I hope the the occasional French is not annoying. I think the language is kind of hilarious- which is problematic when I have to speak it upwards of four hours a day. Maybe it is just that I always feel like I am saying something wrong, or that my accent is ridiculous. It is funny, you know, to hear yourself speak a foreign language. Oh, well. Chances of me making it out of the cloud of doom in this mountain town were never good, at least I can laugh about it.

That is it for today, I think. I have to go try to conduct some middle school orchestra. I will tell you about it later.

People as Places as People

Today I went in for some fun paper work time at the prefecture, wound up with a headache, then hiked within a mile of Switzerland to clear my head. I flirted with a boy, made a friend, and filed some forms so that I can get a new pair of glasses.

It was amazing.

My roommates, who I am starting to know, are great. Tonight Meredith cooked dinner, and we sat on our porch, eating pasta, drinking wine, listening to the Smiths, and watching people go about their lives. I did the dishes afterward- fair trade. I'm always happy when people around me like to cook Katie pops in and out, but is upbeat and fun and interested in international politics.

I also love my job and the kids and even my teachers. I go to the middle school three times a week for orchestra rehearsals and music classes. Today, I had to explain some complicated musical terms in French, which taxed my vocabulary, but that's what I'm supposed to do here. How would you explain a hemiola in any language, really? But I'm finally starting to feel like I can talk. You know me. I kind of like talking.

Settling

I am moved in for all intents and purposes to my spacious, white, empty apartment. It's a good feeling. Right now, I'm sitting outside of the concert hall in Besancon, stinking up the internet, listening to the orchestra rehearse.

So much has happened that I don't even know what to write about anymore. I managed to get to New York, to get to Paris, to get to Besancon. It's been a lot of going and not enough taking things in. I don't have France down at all yet, and French is so taxing. I'd kill something small and slow moving to have my vocabulary in English transfer into French. I would lightly tap a baby seal. I imagine I talk about as well as a seven year old French child. Which is painful, of course. I know I'll get better.

I want to tell you everything. Paris was beautiful and filthy and smelled like a smoker's lounge at an airport. I loved it from the first despite myself. Besancon is like a toy city, small and pretty and easy to get around. I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long. I know this must be frustrating for you, not knowing what's going on. I'm sorry. It's been so exhausting, getting into living abroad this time. I think because of the pressure of paper work and the difficulty of moving everything I need to live on buses. Also, before I had a kitchen, I was eating even worse than I normally do, if you can believe that. Anyway, all I did for the first three days I was in the city was get soaked in the mountain rain, freak out about housing, and sleep. Don't worry. I've been to parties and dried off since then. I even got a ridiculous blue plaid umbrella, and I already had hiking boots.

I'm prepared for any mountain town eventuality.

The Big Move

My father’s side of the family comes from Germany, and as a young man during World War II, my grandpa returned to Europe and rolled over it in a tank. I’m on an southbound train from Paris, watching the countryside slide by now, and I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like to see this autumn landscape in smoke and ruin. My grandfather was ordered to shoot out church steeples in hopes of killing snipers. This, he said repeatedly, was his major regret of the war- the part he played in the destruction of so many beautiful places.

If my view proves anything, it’s that pretty things have a way of reasserting themselves. There have been a few small and glorious villages complete with picturesque chapels to my right for most of this trip to Besancon. My first.

For the record, I’m a window seat girl. Windows are good for looking out of and for resting against. I tend to sleep on long rides, and on the aisle or in the middle, there’s no place to put my head. I’ll half fall asleep, then realize that I’m dangerously close to a stranger’s shoulder, On the plane from London to Paris, some perky undergrad on her way to a program in Nice cheerfully offered to let me lean on her. You know what would be worse than accidentally falling asleep on a stranger? Drooling on the nice girl who sweetly gave up all claims to personal space. Needless to say, I was embarrassed and downed a coke in an effort to stay upright.

This trip though, I’m up, coursing with the nervous energy of a big move. I’m wide awake with the almostness of the last part of this long trip from Atlanta to Valpo to Chicago to New York to Paris to Besancon. As of a couple of days ago, I’m so cosmopolitan. Now, I’m ready to settle in and learn how to be at home in this new place

I love Paris every moment of the year.

I’m in Paris, and courtesy of Danielle, I have a mattress and even sheets to sleep on. Today has been full of moments so cinematic as to be surreal. The biggest, most amazing movie life moment came after dinner in Mont Martre. Danielle, her friend Sandy and I picked up a cheap bottle of wine at “un tabac” a convenience store. The owner was sweet enough to pass us three plastic cups, and so we jumped on the Metro to ride to Point Neuf. Once there, I did the twirling Paris fan girl thing, and took a few pictures, before we settled in on the bank of the Seine to drink. The air was chilly, and every hour the Eiffel Tower sparkled for me.

But the thing about Paris is that when I say it’s beautiful, it feels like I’m not trying hard enough to convey to you its dirty, overpowering loveliness. If it were scrubbed clean, Paris would be uninhabitable. No one could take so much prettiness, and I saw that in the juxtapositions that made me love it at fourth glance. After dinner, walking to find wine, I saw the Sacre Couer rising over a neon sign for an Indian restaurant and garbage cans in an alley in Mont Martre, and I knew Paris and I would do alright with each other.

Danielle lives in the 20th Arrondisement, in Belleville, where there are North African immigrants, Chinese bakeries, and dime stores everywhere. There’s free wireless in the park nearby, and I could spend days just drinking coffee and watching the way this place is. Maybe someday I will.

First Post

You're here!

Welcome to the France blog. I created this one specifically to keep people updated as I make my way in the Franche-Comte. I'll be trying my hardest to teach English while really learning French myself. This promises to be a tidy sort of epic- you'll like it. Read along for no less than seven months of angst and triumph, a story for all time featuring your favorite heroine.

I'm going to take on, in no particular order:

1. Train Travel
2. The Jura Mountains (the Alps too)
3. French Language
4. 30 or so middle schoolers
5. Breads and Cheeses
6. Isolation, Irony, and perhaps Fear, definitely Poverty
7. Fripsters
8. The Continent

You're intrigued. Stay tuned. I miss you.