Life and Such

I take my Yellow Label Tea with a tiny bit of sugar and a splash of milk that doesn’t taste like that which I buy from the super market at home. When I do my homework, I sprawl out over my bed that smells like a brand of laundry detergent I cannot place. When I open my refrigerator, I find apricot jam, which I was not aware was mass produced. When I try to open my window, I have to open the shudders, and when I look out of it, I see leaves, and a gate, and a market beyond. When I write, I write in French. When I speak, I speak in French. When I read, I read in French. What is English, anyway? What is blueberry tea? What is Bounce? What is strawberry jelly. What is automatic? What is home?

So this is my life here. It really isn’t anything too special. I go from one day to the next. I take wine after my meals. I eat cheese on my bread. I wear scarves when it’s warm. I wear cardigans when it’s cold. I dance with my French friends, and know all the words to their favorite songs. I walk two miles to school everyday, but then again, so did my grandparents (or at least, that’s what they always say). I carry an umbrella in my purse. I have not driven in over a month. I have not read a word in English for a month. I can’t understand French nutrition facts. Peanut butter does not exist. I eat yogurt more than the average person. I learned that you can put strawberry and peach and raspberry syrup in beer, and it is socially acceptable. Also socially acceptable, apparently, are dogs in public. I see more dogs than people sometimes. I also smell more dogs than people, most of the time.

I live in the ghetto, but not really. The Snack Kebab that once smelled so good now only smells of urine and general human stench. I will never go through a tunnel alone again. I walk by a parking lot of prostitutes every weekend night. I have seen a prostitute. I have seen the man who just took a prostitute. I am looked at, and yelled at, and stopped on the street. I am a woman, and I am a target. When I open my mouth, I am immediately a foreigner, and I am a target. The university I attend is on strike. I walk through a blockade to get to class. My internet rarely works, and when it does, it is fickle. When I walk at night, I am scared. When I see buses, I think they are going to run over me. I recognize the homeless men who sit outside of a favorite cafe of mine. I am deathly afraid of French motorists. I watch my step to avoid feces - canine and human. I am in class up to six hours a day. My brother’s birthday is tomorrow. I will not see him. Nor will I see spring in Athens. Nor will I see the graduation of some of my best friends. Nor will I cheer on my former teammates as they run. Nor will I be able to comfort my best friends when they need a shoulder, or an ear, or a lap.

But I live in France, really. When I walk through Avignon, I smell chocolate, and I smell bread, and I smell spices. There is an H&M only a ten minute’s walk from my house. I can buy good wine, and I am beginning to learn which brands and regions I like best. I walk four miles a day, which makes me feel better about our giant nightly meals. I can take a train cheaply to all the places I’ve read about. There are lavender fields twenty minutes away from my house. My house is over two hundred years old. I speak better French every day. I have tea with my breakfast. I went to an 800 year old city last week. I got free chocolates from Joël Durand, one of which tasted like gingerbread. The sky is blue most days. I am alive. A French person did not know I was not French. I get less pity-English these days. I know my way around. My curtains are a deep orange, and in the mornings when the sun comes up, my room is cast in gold.

I miss piano, and I miss my friends. I miss hamburgers and canned ravioli, and I miss my family. I miss Athens, and I miss Kidron, and I miss Dalton, and I miss Ohio, and I miss the United States. I miss my home.

But I hear violin most mornings thanks to my host sister Marie. I’m making new friends here. I have visited Montpelier, and Baux de Provence, and St. Rémy de Provence, and the Mediterranean Sea. I am going to Nîmes next week, and after that, London, and maybe Morocco, and maybe Prague, and Brussels, and Aix en Provence, and Arles, and Marseilles. I am starting to have my own family here. France could become a home.

So this is my life here. I go from one day to the next.