I Caved And Wrote About The Election

So tomorrow is the big day. The day we’ve all been flipping out, shaking our heads, dropping our jaws, crying ourselves to sleep, and cursing up and down about for the last however many months. I’ve lost track of the timespan of this election mostly because the American electoral processes are excruciatingly drawn out and because after Bernie lost the nomination, I kind of checked out.

Yes, I am now “with her” but with some reluctance and even greater sadness that Bernie Sanders will never get to be our president. It makes me sad to think how much we would have accomplished. He is the most inspiring man of our time in my opinion and while I am overjoyed with how many people were inspired and called to action by his campaign, I think I will go the rest of my life wondering what could have been.

I take some solace in knowing that Hillary Clinton’s campaign has been pushed considerably left, despite her intent to run on a bipartisan platform following eight years of a depressingly divided Congress. I’m not sure when bipartisanship went out the window but it might have been around the time when Clinton’s biggest contenders became a hip AF socialist Jew and hero of Millennial America followed by a psychopath Oompa Loompa neo-Nazi whose own party knows that its political suicide to work with him. So, Clinton had no choice but to shift left. First, in order to catch up with fair-share Bernie (and, well, modern times) and second, to distance herself as far as possible from build-a-wall Trump. Bipartisanship? See ya.

So yes, we ended up with a much more liberal Clinton campaign than even she probably expected. And who knows, maybe there is even enough liberal momentum to push her to the brink of crazy ass socialism before time’s up. Wouldn’t that be Bernie-Sanders-batshit crazy?!

But this is all assuming one big thing: that Hillary will win. Honestly, to everyone in France who has asked me about the U.S. presidential election, I have said the same thing: “There is no way Donald Trump will win.” This is partially to save some face–you really think America would elect someone like that?! Reverse psychology is kind of the only option when you’re a humiliated American in a foreign country with one of the more condescending attitudes. But I also respond this way because up until this point, I have chosen to see Trump and him winning as one big impossible hoax. I’ve done a great job of convincing myself. I’m not sure about others.

For the first time last night, I was struck by the notion that Trump could actually win. I was talking to my dad on FaceTime and he said something that I hardly ever hear him say unless the Red Sox are down by one run with a runner on second in the bottom of the ninth: I’m getting really nervous. You see, since I’ve tried my best to tune out all election news, I hadn’t realized that Trump has been gaining in the polls and assumed that he was continuing to self destruct while Hillary floated on up to the top. But in hearing my dad say that, I was bulldozed by the reality that there could be enough people out there–Trump voters, third-party voters, Bernie write-in voters, and nonvoters–to make nightmare of a human our president. Holy. Shit.

But we can’t afford to think like that right now. All we can do is focus on getting everyone to vote. I wish so badly that I could be there to help, particularly at UNH helping board buses to the polls, rallying campus, and harassing people in the hallways-have you voted today?! like I did for the 2012 election. Only then, people were not compelled fear of what might happen if they didn’t vote. Hopefully this fear among other things will carry Clinton to victory. Until then, no sleep for America and weary Americans abroad.

So for the last time before the wretched election comes to an end…Santé, mes amis. Keep calm and don’t have a heart attack. At least not until after you vote.

Recommence

A lot to process. Frankly, too much for a blog post. But I thought that since my vacation was such a whirlwind of different trains, cities, friends, and conversations (with maybe a little bit of wine mixed in here and there, making that much more of a blur), that I’d talk about something that I do have a a good grip on after these past two weeks: how thankful I am to have reconnected with my best friend, Emily. A spectacular friendship has been reborn here in France. I’m sorry to all the innocent people who have dealt with our antics along the way. We appreciate you and know that you’re part of the story. But it’s really all about us in the end 😉

As I’ve mentioned, I was unsure of how Emily and I would travel together. We’ve spent a lot of time apart in the last four years and in very different environments. She, a crunchy, liberal arts school in the Midwest, and I, a big, party, public school in the Northeast. But I would bet that this time apart is actually the reason we are so compatible as friends today.

In the most objective way possible, I admire Emily as a woman. She largely abstains from social media and instead channels her connective energy into intimate and substantive conversation with those around her. She doesn’t seek out superficial gestures of validation and has learned to own her womanhood (something we talked about in depth on the train ride home the other day). Unlike myself, who developed somewhat of a dependency on male companionship from an early age, Emily is strikingly independent. This can be both her strength and weakness, as she doesn’t always ask for help. But she loves harder than anyone I know. Maybe these are two complimentary features.

Like myself, Emily is a talker. We both live for a good conversation, both between and outside ourselves. For the past two weeks we’ve discussed politics and social activism, our post-grad future abysses, and the notions of passion and self-confidence. We discussed feminism and womanhood and what that means in the context of the United States versus various cities in France. We reminisced on how our friendship budded in the costume closet at high school theatre rehearsals and the many people who have colored our lives since then. And, of course, we discussed more trivial matters like boys. Oh and boys. Did I mention boys? I am definitely more boy crazy but I think I’m rubbing off on her…

We have also been able to test just how versatile we are in different social contexts by switching between French and English–foreign language definitely adds an entirely new dimension to socialization. It is incredibly rewarding but also mentally exhausting. I’m confident that we’ve both made huge strides in our language skills within the last month, but not without the expense of wanting to sleep for the next 48 hours.

Emily left a fews hours ago and I already miss her madly. Between our outrageous romp around Paris with the boys (big thanks to Donald, Max, and Noah, three out of four of the world renowned Core Four, for an unforgettable trip-missed KiKi Mus and Lattle P), our hermit days recuperating in Hyères, hiking the breathtaking Calanques in Marseille with Jen and Niccola (two other teaching assistants), a nostalgic day in Aix-en-Provence, two days of mind-blowing food and quirky vibes in Lyon, connecting and reconnecting with friends new and old, I could not have asked for a better two week vacation.

I recommence my “job” as a “teacher” on Thursday which also happens to be my birthday. I will likely have a two-years-until-my-quarter-life-crisis moment so who knows, maybe I’ll have inspiration for a melodramatic, sappy blog post about time and how oh so quickly it passes.  Until then, keep warm over there and keep enjoying the beautiful New England Fall. And feel free to shoot me a message anytime! I always love hearing from a friend.

Santé, mes amis.

Qualified

I’ve been in France for two weeks and there is no amount of writing that will make up for all my lost thoughts. In some ways it feels like I’ve been here a lifetime but I’m still very much a deer in highlights in most regards, especially with the French school system.  I am trying to think of the kids like I think of a snake…they are more afraid of you than you are of them. Maybe not afraid but intimidated. Yes, even six year olds are intimidating when they expect you to be a competent and well articulated adult and sometimes all you can muster as a response is oui or non. 

Today was my first day in the classroom. Really, the kids were adorable and I quickly got over my self-consciousness about my language skills (which are coming along, slowly but surely). In fact they seem to be increasingly fascinated by me the more “American” I behave so pretending like I don’t know French is totally an option. Score.

After crossing that bridge, I was soon faced with another intimidating factor. The teacher I observed today asked me what I had planned for lessons. I practically laughed in her face. Lesson plans?! Lady, do you know that for my degree I wrote papers on anthropological feminist theory and contemporary national identity and ancient artefacts for god’s sake?! I am not. at. all. qualified to teach. Not even my native language. I feel like I’m in college again, about to give a half-assed presentation on a Friday morning after a night at Libby’s. Oof. It seems some of these teachers did not know what they were getting. Whatever I choose, they all seem very excited to relinquish 45 minutes of class time to me so I’ve got that going for me.

I’ll get into much more detail in my blog section about the TAPIF program itself but long story short, this program is full of sink or swim situations. Sink being showing your cards and letting everyone know that 1) you do not speak fluent French and 2) that you are not, in fact, une institutrice. Swim being pretending like you know exactly what you’re doing. Thankfully four years at UNH made me a grade-A bull-shitter.

So far, I am in constant flux between moments of pure elation for being back in France and moments of complete disorientation. Alexa and I were discussing the other day how we can’t help but question every little (or in this case, big) move you make after graduating college and setting out on uncharted territory. I’ve gotten on a few self-deprecating benders: What the hell am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be getting a real job? Shouldn’t I be doing something I’m qualified for? Wait…am I qualified for anything? Should I be in grad school?! It’s a slippery slope.

But then I see all these wide-eyed kids beaming at me and I notice that my French is beginning to improve with each passing day, and at the end of the day I get to climb a mountain that gives me the most beautiful view in the world. And I’m like, yeah ok, I’m definitely in the right place.

Santé, mes amis.

FOMO

Today is the best day of the year at UNH. It is the 150th Homecoming at my alma mater, the University of New Hampshire and I am having extreme FOMO (fear of missing out). Homecoming is the holy grail of UNH celebrations. “Remember at Homecoming when…” is a common phrase screamed by Wildcats young and old for long after the festivities come to an end.

On this day last year, Elora Moeller was banging on my door and jumping into my bed at 8 in the morning to wake me up, mimosas waiting on the table. Pancakes and bacon would soon be sizzling in the pan thanks to Charlotte and we would wait another hour before rousing Colin because we know he’s an angry beast before 9 am.

Although I am incredibly grateful for this new adventure I’ve embarked on, I miss these days. A lot. I knew I would, which is why it was so difficult leaving our apartment and UNH and my AB family. But missing the “good old days” takes on a new meaning given that I’m in the midst of basically starting a life from scratch. There is little to no overlap between my life in Durham and my life new life here in France. Which is great in so many ways-clean slate, endless opportunity, a chance to dig into myself a bit more than I have in the past. But I’m realizing that although I am an incredibly social person, I struggle a bit with the part where you have to actually make the friends to be social with.

Thinking back I realize that I’ve always had trouble with transitions to new social settings. Summer camps, new work environments, sports teams, my first year at college. Woof. I think I’m reluctant in forming friendships for the same reason I am about romantic relationships–what if we aren’t compatible?! What if the hype wears off?! What if this doesn’t work out?! What if we’re stuck together both feeling too badly to break things off?! See why I’m single?

I know that is completely unreasonable-that you have to put yourself out there and take risks when meeting new people. I also know that I can be a versatile friend. It’s not that I conform. I just have such wide ranging interests which helps me to get along with people in different ways. Take my senior year roommates. I don’t think anyone would take any of these three at face value and throw them in an apartment with me. But we each formed unique friendships based on our commonalities. Colin and I were a cappella nerds. Charlotte and I liked to clean and pretentiously debate sociological theory. And Elora and I liked blowing off homework to drink G&T’s.

Going ahead I must remember that although people here might be coming from entirely different places, speaking strange languages, and used to a variety of lifestyles, there is always common ground. Which takes effort to find–the defining word of my first few weeks here. Yep, it certainly would be much easier to make no effort at all. To be a hermit and pass it off as self exploration. But like any good Into The Wild junkie knows, happiness is only real when shared.

So, though I am facing this intimidating friend-making process, I take all the people who have colored my life thus far as evidence that I am good at making friends. So santé to new friends and cheers to my Wildcats. Though I’ve traded my PBR for a bottle of rosé, I ask that you all pour one out for your homie in France and wish me luck in my quest to find new weirdos.

À bientôt mes amis.

 

 

 

Blog’s Back

Hello old friends! I’m back to blogging. It’s been awhile so naturally I’ve deleted the first sentence about a hundred times. There’s just no good way to transition back into a blog that hasn’t been touched for over a year. Just like there’s no way to transition back in the French language after a year without making an idiot of yourself.

I feel like I’ve lived a whole month in the six short days I’ve been back in France. Emily and I arrived in Paris last Thursday and went our separate ways yesterday but not before soaking up every second in the city of love.

I have to admit I was unsure of how we would travel together but, well, we’re best friends for a reason I guess. I don’t know how it happens after long spans of time apart in very different environments but Emily and I always seem to click back into our old ways. In a way the separation was built into our friendship from the get-go. She’s been gallivanting for as long as I can remember being friends with her. I’ve since hopped on that train. I’m so glad we were able to go through the initial culture shock together. Instead of panicking on our own, we were able to laugh at ourselves together. One thing you don’t want to do when arriving in a new place is take yourself too seriously.

For me, the highlight of the trip was stumbling upon a stunning international food market along the Sienne on our way to the Eiffel Tower (I know the clichés are nauseating). Emily introduced me to Senegalese food (amazing) and we sampled cuisine from Bulgaria, Persia. Both of us were high on life that afternoon (the stupidly strong drink from the handsome Greek guy didn’t hurt). Thanks, Portland, for making us the best kind of foodies.

Now  I’m now in the middle of a completely new and foreign city (Hyères) where I must very abruptly speak in a foreign language and be a full functioning adult. I can’t even adult in English so TBD how this will work out. To my credit, I have accomplished a lot within the last two days. My new roommate, Alexa (check out her blog too!), and I nailed down an apartment, I set up an appointment at the bank, went grocery shopping, and got a French cell phone which was also shockingly easy. I kept asking the sales rep if she was sure this would work. She was v confused by my skepticism.

So here we go, everyone. I’m doing this. Stick around if you want to see it turns out. Place your bets now.

Santé, mes amis.

 

 

 

 

Ça va?

Hello, friends. It’s been awhile since I’ve written, I know. Although I’m not actually sure how many followers I have so maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ll explain anyway. I was talking to an old friend about my blog the other day, explaining how I make a point not to write when I can’t get hold of my feelings. I write only when I am in a level-headed, clear-thinking place, taking time to figure out the subject and how I want to shape each entry. I avoid myself as a writer when it comes to messy feelings or ambivalence for fear that I might come across melodramatic or worse, ungrateful. He suggested that maybe I have it all backwards. As an audience, the hard stuff and my personal way of dealing with it is what interests him most. And while my writing might be more rational and well-refined, I sacrifice what’s really important in writing when I avoid these sort of subjects.

As I’ve said before, feelings don’t stop simply because I’m across the world, practically living in a French film. What I’ve been going through for the past few months is always just beneath the surface and lately has been bubbling up. And so, I’ve been reluctant to write. I want this blog to be personal, but not a diary. I want to share my life here, but not feel like I’m taking advantage of readers by talking about something unrelated to France. And most of all, I want people to understand my immense appreciation for this new world that I’ve already fallen in love with–adventurous friends, good wine, dreamy baristas, melt-in-your-mouth baguettes, amazing views of the Provence at dusk, and so much more. But I realized that my sadness, fear, and fury are just as much a part me as anything else and sometimes, I just have to open the floodgates.

Not to mention that some of these sad stories are somewhat comedic in retrospect. The other night I arrived home after a long, and emotional few hours. I left town earlier than expected, feeling sick to my stomach. I think I was overdosing on feelings. The entire way home–a 30 minute walk, by the way–I went back and forth between sniffles, and wiping snot from my nose every time I passed someone walking in the other direction. By the time I got home, I knew I had to pull my shit together. I knew Martine would be on the couch in the living room just past the front door. I scooted by her with a quick greeting, made a bee line for my room and silently celebrated my inconspicuous return. Twenty minutes later, she came to by bedroom door to discuss dinner plans. Again, I pulled it together and rolled with the punches, answering every question perfectly (or as perfectly as I could in broken French). I thought I was in the clear when she asked the one question that can break down anyone who’s holding something in: “Ça va?” Is everything okay? WHAM. It hit me like a load of bricks. I was done. I lost it. I explained the best I could through the waterfall rushing down my face, choked breathing, and my complete inability to find the words–in English, never mind in French. But there is something about motherly love that transcends all language and cultural barriers. I could feel it immediately in her touch and tone of voice that she understood. And just like that, I didn’t feel so alone.

Of course you’re wondering why I was crying. And, well, I don’t think I’m ready to go there. My main point is that life abroad is not all rainbows and butterflies, although there are no shortages of these moments. Part of why I am an Anthropology major and an actress is because I’ve always been amazed by the human ability to feel both profoundly happy and profoundly sad–sometimes simultaneously. It’s my opinion that neither of these extremes should be feared or avoided and in fact, I’m better off plunging deep into whatever sadness I might be carrying so that I may feel the full extent of my happiness when it comes along. In fact, just days after this end-of-the-world meltdown, I had one of these moments where I felt inexplicably happy just to feel the warmth of the sun on the top of my head. 

Santé, mes amis.