Homeward Bound

I am homeward bound. Home, where my music's playing, the land of milk and honey, where the Holy has been hiding in ink this whole time. America, land where my people died, where they want YOU, where the star-spangled banner is still waving.

After 8 months away from the good ol' U S of A, I am a little apprehensive about moving back. 'A little' might be an understatement. Kili is going to have to carry me kicking and screaming from the French bakery on the corner. For as much as I hated it to begin with here, I've begun to think of France as home. And it's always hard to leave home, even when you know it's just a temporary one. Aside from my new-found attachment to a country I originally hated, I think a lot of my apprehension stems from a fear of being uncomfortable in my own country.

I am terrified of having culture shock about my own culture. And I know it's going to happen. Seeing Ian's GIANT tube of toothpaste at Christmastime was funny, but bursting into tears at the supermarket because the labels are in English is not going to be. Alright, alright, so maybe I won't be crying at the Co-op because the produce section says "grapefruit" instead of "pamplemousse", but you get the idea. Being uncomfortable in a situation where I should feel totally at ease just makes it all the more awkward. Moving to France was supposed to feel different. I was supposed to have culture shock. But returning to a country that I know, that's a different story.

Although, the past few weeks in France (actually, the whole time, really), I've begun to wonder how well I really do know my country. When explaining "America" to foreigners, I find myself at a loss. I suffix every comment I make with, "But I don't know if that's America. That's just Bellingham/Washington State" (and obviously, I am on to something with this. See Heather's comment to my post on recycling for details. We are in a little bubble in our Pacific Northwestern corner).

But the thing is, I'm sure it's the same everywhere in America. There's got to be a Dixieland Belle out there, explaining Southern hospitality or a Georgia tradition for a hot summer's night to a foreigner, qualifying her entire explanation of what America is like by saying, "But that's just Georgia". Ask a New Yorker what American food is like, they'll give you a completely different answer than an Alaskan or a Texan. Even barbecue is different in Tennessee than it is in Arkansas.

Not to wax too poetic (or patriotic…) but I guess that’s what America is. Fifty pieces full of different people, with different cultures and different lifestyles. America is just so big (that’s what she said). And it’s not enough to merely explain to my English friends about American guilt over slavery and Manifest Destiny, or to explain the root of American positivity and self-belief (I am special and unique). I guess defining America really lies in the fact that we find it difficult to define. Even Americans have a difficult time wrapping their heads around what their own culture is. We’re all strangers in an only partially strange land at home, so I shouldn’t feel so weird about being uncomfortable or not being able to explain my own culture. But that’s not going to make it any less shocking when I’m not given delicious bread with every single meal, or when I spend $10 on a bottle of wine that tastes like ink. I’ll miss you, France.

The Perks of Being a Foreigner

Living in a foreign country for eight months has kind of turned me into a shit-talker. Not necessarily on purpose, and not necessarily a mean or vicious one. But I do talk openly about the people that are surrounding me--whether it's to compliment their style or to complain that they're not walking fast enough.

No one here speaks English.

And even the people who do don't speak it well enough to understand when we are speaking together--we speak far too fast, and use far too much slang for that. Even the English teachers that I worked with at school would have difficulties understanding me if I didn't slow up my speech (I asked a question once and to clarify I asked it again a few minutes later. I got totally different answers each time). The students--who have been learning English for almost 7 years, are still currently in English classes, and who listen to American music constantly--can pick out swear words and the occasional 'he' or 'breakfast'. The English assistants and I have just gradually become used to the fact that we can talk about people right in front of them, and they'll never know.

I guess I shouldn't say never. There is the odd American expatriate, the English tourist, or the Frenchie who's lived in Bristol for 10 years. Case(s) in point: The young English girl whose jeans I was complimenting while standing in line at the train station. It wasn't awkward until we started to notice that she was reacting, and then someone suggested that she perhaps wasn't French. "I'm actually English" she says. Good thing I was being nice. Another time, we were riding the bus, discussing some piece of assistant-related drama, when a Frenchman decided to pipe in and give his opinion. Who does that? Even if you do understand...

The result of 8 months of not having to talk behind people's backs (and instead being able to talk right in front of them) is that I am even less of a public person than I was before. I've spent the last 8 months having inappropriate conversations in public (most Americans would consider ovulation a no-no for a lunchtime convo), and not biting my tongue when something pops up to talk about. If I occasionally made an inappropriate comment before when I was in America, just wait 'til I get back.

I guarantee that within the first day I will say--in English, about English-speaking people--something along the lines of, "I wish this stupid woman would walk a little faster or get out of my effing way" or "Who writes checks at the grocery store anymore, anyway?". Get ready, Ian.

The Lady in Red

Perpignan breeds crazies. It actually does. The amount of insane people in this city is completely disproportionate to any other city I have ever been in--all of us have remarked upon it, but none of us really know why. Emma had a theory that only two more weeks would turn us all crazy (we're at the point of naming pigeons and muttering 'que pasa' under our breath mid-convo already). Luckily, she's peaced out already, and I've only got a week and a half left--Alice and Karen, on the other hand, are gonna be full-blown Perps crazies by the end of the month.

Anyway, I'm pulling another out of the archives (news this week is far too depressing to blog about: Emma's gone back to Blighty, leaving only three of the Core Four here...), one that highlights the crazies that are already established in Perps, and the crazies that we are gradually turning into throughout our year as assistants in Perpignan.

A couple of weeks ago, Kili, Emma, Alice, and I were sitting outside at our local haunt, Louis--a cafe/sandwich/pastry shop where the staff hate us even though we're essentially the only clientele keeping them in business--when a woman walked inside. We could not. stop. staring. She was about sixty years old, wearing this huge, fake, red flower in her hair, and what essentially was a red top. It was a halter, probably ployester, about tunic-length, and had ruffles on the lower portion. But this woman was wearing it as a dress, although it didn't even reach quite past the bottom of her butt. Just grazed the bottom bit, but just. Heels, red top, red flower in her hair.

I think I've mentioned before how windy Perpignan is. I mean, we had a hurricane. But even on the days where the wind isn't gale force, we still always have breezy weather. This day at Louis was no exception. As she walked in the door to Louis, a breeze blew up her "dress", revealing exactly no pairs of underwear under there. Not even a little bit. Just butt. We, and all of the other modest Frenchies surrounding us, were scandalized.

You have to understand that style and dress in France is far different than in the States. I consider myself to be a fairly modest dresser for the most part back home. Here, I am the odd woman out for showing a bit of my collar bones or wearing a skirt without nylons or tights. It's very unusual to see a French person--or anyone in France, for that matter (most foreigners, myself included, are shamed into dressing modestly for the benefit of the French population. Either that or they're just sick of the stares and animal noises)--wearing as little clothing as this woman was. It's kind of a big deal. It was also the most exciting thing to happen in our sleepy little town in a long, long while.

Immediately, all of us moved to the opposite side of the table to stare at the woman while she was inside Louis ordering. Watching other French people watch her was part of the hilarity--the stares that she induced, man.

This is where it starts to get crazy. Perhaps it's because we were bored with nothing to do. It could have been the sun. It could be, perhaps, that our shoes were too tight. But I think that the most likely reason of all (10 points for whoever gets the reference) is that Perpignan is turning us, too, completely insane. When the Lady in Red came out of Louis, we all pretended not to stare at her as she was walking away. She seemed to be totally enjoying the attention--flipping her hair back and forth and smirking as she saw people's head turn. As she rounded the corner and passed out of sight, we all began excitedly speaking about her and her weird shirt-dress, and--I'm not sure who said it, but it's best that it's not remembered. Best not to pin the blame on anyone, really...

We decided to follow her.

We quickly gathered our bags, and trotted off in the direction she was headed, and scanned the crowd for a woman in a red shirt--she was rather easy to spot due to the craning necks that she left in her wake. We caught up to her around the Castillet, and continued down the main street, and then up the large avenue leading out of town. We followed her almost to the Sunday market--in all, I think we were tailing her, watching the carnage she left behind in the form of dropped French jaws, for about 30 minutes. And yes--here's the embarassing bit--we were taking pictures.

While following the Lady in Red, I think the group of us were just thinking about the stares she was getting, wondering where she was going, what she was doing (I believe I kept repeating, "I just want to know her story, you know?"), et cetera. Afterwards, I think we realized how completely insane what we had just done was. We followed a woman, for about a half an hour, and took pictures of her. We're not private investigators. We're not police fighting the drug war in Baltimore (holla). We are stalkers. Pure and simple. We stalked that woman.

I am going insane.
I should add that later that night, Kili and I met up with Emma and Alice at Emma's house. One of the first things that Alice said to us was, whilst hyperventilating, "Oh my god you guys I have the most exciting news! GUESS who I saw?" Both Kili and I responded with "The Lady in Red?!?!" On the bus ride to Emma's that evening, the Lady in Red was cycling in front of the bus, still in her red top from the day. It was fate.

Reduce, Reuse, R-E-C-Y-C-L-E? Not in France, anyway.

I have been living in France for almost eight months. And I haven't once recycled during my entire time here. Every time I walk to the dumpster to throw away all of my trash--not to separate it out like I do at home--a part of me dies inside. Literally. It's like each wine bottle (there've been a considerable few), each water bottle and milk jug, each cardboard box and handful of used scrap paper has been gradually chipping away at my little Pacific Northwest Bellingham self.

I live in a school. If I am remembering correctly, schools in the US are basically where recycling started. I learned to recycle in elementary school--there were recycling clubs, we sang songs. It was really kind of dorky, but it got the job done. My entire generation is recycling-obsessed. I understand that while not all of France is as recycling-obsessed as those in the Pacific Northwest, I assumed that while living in a school, it would not be impossible to recycle.

The closest recycle bins are community-based, and a ten-minute walk away. I'm sorry, but with as much lugging around (humping, anyone?) as I have to do on a day-to-day basis here--groceries, laundry, etc. etc.--I am not carrying my garbage through my neighborhood to some recycling center in between two HLMs.

For all of France's criticism of the United State's wasteful behavior (when asked what students know about America, a fair few will say that Americans are well-known for taking extremely long showers), France itself and the French people have astounded me this year with their lack of consideration for the environment.

It extends further than just plain not recycling (although an entire country FULL of schools throwing away every scrap of paper is enough to give Mother Nature a heart attack)--I was noticing on my walk back from the grocery store (loaded down with reusable bags upon reusable bags--one way that France is a step ahead of everywhere except Bellingham) how of all the cars that passed by on the way, only a handful had more than one passenger in them. I don't actually think anyone here has heard of carpooling. When I lived with the English teacher's family for those first two weeks of my stay here, I was horrified at how often they used their cars. The family of five has two cars, which I suppose is not too uncommon in America, either. But the mother and the father work at the same school, and have roughly the same working hours. In the morning, the mother drives to the boulangerie to pick up croissants and bread for their morning meal, then drives home. Then, the father and the mother each take at least one child in separate cars and drive them to school. The two parents take separate cars to work at the same school. At lunchtime, Celine and Jacques drive in separate cars back to Cabestany where they live (about a ten minute drive from College Albert Camus), pick up their children at different schools, and drive them home to eat lunch together. After a two hour lunch break, they each take a separate car and drive the kids back to school, then drive back into Perpignan to finish their workday. After work ends at five o'clock, Jacques and Celine take their separate cars back to Cabestany to pick up their children (at the children's three separate schools), then reconvene at home. Any other driving for the evening is generally done with one car only.

I have never seen one family drive so much in one day in all of my life in America.

For being the most wasteful country in the world, we in America actually seem to be several steps ahead of France, at least. Perhaps we haven't quite gotten the 'reduce' down to par just yet (but maybe if we only used as much water as the French did we'd also smell as bad as they do...) but I'll be singing "r-e-c-y-c-l-e, find out what it means to me" (thanks, Bill Nye the Science Guy) on my way to the recycle bins in my apartment complex come May 20th.