Friday, January 28, 2005

January 28, 2005

Once again, putting off a trip to Nimes. I will get there eventually—I hope. But it was snowing today. And now that I’ve finally got my room warm and cozy (two radiators and lots of blankets on my bed) I just see no reason to go out into the snow to see some Roman ruins. I have tea, bread, and butter. And some chocolate. All in my room. Why would I emerge? (Unless to get more bread or chocolate).

I was planning on leaving this morning. In fact, I had packed up my bag last night and set my alarm clock. This morning the alarm didn’t sound, and when I woke up it was snowing. Yeck.

So, if I’m not going to Nimes today I should at least go to the IUFM and get some work done. Only I have to walk to the IUFM and it is cold and snowing.

Yes, I realize that, given the amount of snow that was dumped on everyone back home, I have absolutely no right to complain about something that is technically only a dusting. But this is my weblog and I’ll bitch if I want to. Anyway, it is the wind that makes it all so miserable here. The temperature itself combined with a little bit of snow is not so bad, but when you add the wind…

Cold!

That’s what it is.


January 27, 2005

So Dagmar and I are going to Strasburg February 14. I found a deal with the train tickets—only 20 Euros each way—and I booked us into the youth hostel. Dagmar should be really, really easy to travel with. I have a pretty strong feeling that she likes to go her own way and do her own thing, so we should be fine together.

I am also trying to get to the Carnival of Venice next weekend. I found (again, a deal) bus tickets there and back and one night in a hotel for 125 Euros. I am trying to talk at least one other person into going with me, as I need to book at least two tickets. Of course, everyone else has to hold committies to discuss the whole thing. I am trying to explain that time is a bit of an essence here, the trip leaving the 4th of February, but everyone is lollygagging. They’re lollygagging to the left, then they’re lollygagging to the right—they’re a bunch of lollygaggers! Hmm, I need to remember to teach that word to my students.

It is cold and windy here. It is below zero without counting the windchill factor. The wind is from the north at between 90 and 100 kph. I was planning on going to Nimes this weekend, but I keep putting off my trip because it is so cold. Also, the female conductors in Toulouse have started a spontaneous strike because a female conductor was raped—while she was at work. Honestly, I don’t blame them for striking. But anyway, the strike has disrupted train services. There are a lot of trains not running, and some stations are completely shut down.

I still haven’t received Mom’s package yet. She sent it about two weeks ago, but last week being the “official” week of strikes, I’m sure it is more than a little late. (The post office workers went on strike one day, and the next day was the trainworkers strike. The day after that it was the teacher strike, and after that the doctor strike.)

The love lives of at least two of the assistants here are all topsy-turvy. The Chilian (Jose) has broken it off with the Italian (Alyssia). He was a right asshole anyway (in my humble opinion) but she seems to be pretty upset about it. And Jo has a French admirer. He asked her out on a date. Problem is, Jo has a boyfriend and she is quite content with him (I’ve met Tom, her boyfriend, and has my seal of approval). So now Jo is trying to figure out what to do about this guy. Should she try to set him up with another friend? Should she just say no? Should she say no but then invite him out with a group of friends so she can set him up with someone? (The last was my suggestion. And no, it was not so I could be set up with him. He is too young and too skinny. I think Jo should set him up with Suzanne, the English assistant from Northern Ireland.) And Dagmar and I are single, unsought, old crones. Ah well. I’ve decided that French guys are creepy anyway.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

January 24, 2005

See, this is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I was crying out for work three months (actually, four months) ago. This whole get up, go to the IUFM, work all day, go home, do some more work, go to sleep. I do not like this. This is quite tiring—especially after four months of inactivity. Other people can do long days like this—I can, but I prefer not to. I prefer to do my work early and have time off at the end of it all. But some organizations just don’t have their shit together. Do you know, the director of the IUFM doesn’t know 1. Which students are focusing in languages and 2. Which students are focusing in which languages. WTF, I ask you all? One might think that this language focus thing is completely new. It’s not.

Ah, but I have reached a point of acceptance. It is not complete acceptance; there is still annoyance mixed with the acceptance (evidently, given the previous paragraph). But most of the time now I just shrug my shoulders, do the little French blowing out quickly with lips pursed thing that I’ve picked up, and do what I can to cover my ass. Really, my main goal now is to get out of the IUFM without getting anyone too pissed at me or wrecking any future job opportunities in France.

So, anyway, different topic, I think I may have a problem. I never steal anything, per say, but I do have a tendency to nick a thing here and there. Or, as I explained to the other assistants tonight, I relocate things. For example, I needed a desk. Well, I live in a bloody school, for crying out loud. So I “relocated” an unused desk from a classroom to my room. When I leave the school, I will put it back. What else… oh yeah. Someone left a mostly used roll of masking tape in the stairway. I waited for a few days, and when no one retrieved it, I nicked it. Then, tonight, I went to a Franco-Allemand (French and German) presentation that took place in the school where I live. After the presentation there were food and drinks. The drinks were served in actual glass glasses. Since we, the assistants, never have enough glasses in our kitchen (which is in the school), I “relocated” five of the glasses. I’m sure the other assistants must consider it typically American behavior. I’m not sure if it is or not. I don’t think so. I think it is more “poor student” behavior. Remember, our Universities cost loads more than the European ones. Anyway, yeah, I guess I’m going to hell. For sure, this time.

(Did you know that, in French, the words for the cities of Berlin and Bethlehem sound exactly the same? I was telling Natalia that I wanted to go and visit my friend in Berlin and she got all excited. I didn’t see that it was a big deal until she [ever the good Catholic girl] explained to me that Bethlehem was the birthplace of Christ. Boy, was I surprised to hear that Christ was born in Berlin. I mean, I’ve never read the Bible, but I always thought that I had the basics down.)

January 23, 2005

1:41pm

Well, the Bal Folk last night was an absolute riot. I took a couple of short videos with my camera. There were a lot of people there—and not just all really old ones. The musicians were a lot better this time, too. I think we must have been there over three hours—I didn’t get to bed last night until after 2am. I was absolutely dripping sweat when we left.

But, the whole evening. At about 5pm I went down to the kitchen to get a bite to eat (I wasn’t sure if I would get a chance to eat later on). Dagmar was there, so we had a nice conversation about philosophy and movies (in French, of course. Wow, I am discussing philosophy in French! How awesome is that?)

Then, at 6pm, I ran over to the bakery and met Jo, Christine’s daughter, and her boyfriend. They drove Jo and me to Christine’s house (Christine is a secretary at Camille Verne. She and Jo trade English conversation for French conversation. She is the one who invited us to the Bal Folk.) Anyway, we got there, Christine’s daughter and her boyfriend disappeared, and Christine’s husband, Jean-something, tried to teach Jo and me some dance steps. We then had crepes—both savory and sweet—and drank two bottles of cidre (cidre is a Bretagne thing—it goes with the crepes). Oh, and I forgot to mention—Christine’s daughter’s friend, Michael, came over too. He looked a lot like Mathieu from Star Academy.

So, then we all went to the dance. Yea! It was fun, it really was. I can’t wait to get back to MD and show people the videos. But even they don’t capture the full extent of what it was like.

Anyway, last Wednesday I had a conversation class at the IUFM and I was talking about how the Brits and I loved Star Academy so much because we considered it to be “so French.” The girls I was talking to were kind of offended and said that they thought it came from America. I was like, no way, we have nothing like that in the states. And the girls were like, well, it is not French—they have the same thing in Spain, so it must be Spanish. I was completely amused by the whole exchange.

Oh, and my mouth has continued to get me in trouble. You would think that I if I go to a foreign country where I don’t speak the language really well, I could avoid getting myself into trouble. Not a chance. Anyway, the Friday before last, I was in an English class with the first year English teacher at the IUFM (Joanne). Somehow to conversation turned to born-again Christians (how we managed that, I have no clue). Anyway, none of the students knew what a born-again Christian was, so Joanne asked me for a definition. I was like, “a nutcase.” Of course, the instant I said that, my Brain told me that, based on certain contextual clues, Joanne was a BAC. And my little brain was absolutely right. In my defense, I felt really, really bad about what I said for a complete week. Then I started to see the humor in it. Anyway, the French view of a BAC is really great. They wanted to know how many times a person can be born-again. Very practical question, I think. I mean, if each time you are born-again you get to wipe the slate clean, why not do it every two or three years?

So, yeah, I’m probably going to hell when I die. At least I will be in good company.

January 22, 2005

I have the world’s smallest head. What gives? Everyone else in my family has a gargantuan head. And, because of my midget head, I have tiny eyes and a small mouth. The only thing on my head that might be normal sized (on any other head) is my nose. And don’t even get me started on the subject of my nose. Every time I look at my nose, I think of that line in Miss Saigon, where the mean female character takes her half-American child to her Pimp and he says, “Let me see his Western nose.” Just imagine if that kid had been me. The pimp would look at me and say, “Well, looks promising. She has freckles, green eyes, blond hair, pale skin, but… holy shit! Look at that honker! I don’t know what garbage heap you found this child on top of, but you better put her back! And bury her under something this time.”

But I really don’t mind my nose. I mean, it is not the prettiest one in the world, but I have no desire to change it. Plastic surgery—ick. I’ll just get laser surgery for my eyes and that will be it. Oh, and lose about thirty pounds. But whatever.

So it is raining today. I was going to go up to Vienne to see the Roman ampitheatre, but I don’t want to go in the rain. Anyway, today is my day to clean the kitchen.

Good news! I heave reached an eight year old reading level in French. This is a big deal for me. I am able to read Petit Nicholas and understand it. I only have to look up about two words for every six or seven pages. I am really proud of myself. In fact, I have almost finished my first “real length” book in French. I am going to have to go to the bookstore and get another one!

1:27pm

Well, managed to get the Argentinian (Natalia) pissed at me again. I accidently drank a glass of her orange juice. A simple mistake, really, when you think about it. All the bottles of Orange juice look the same.

“Justine. Qui a achete c’est jus d’orange?” (Justine. Who bought this orange juice?)

“Uh, Jo et moi.” (Jo and I.)

“Non.” And she turned the bottle of OJ so I could see the big, black N written on the side. Bloody hell. So I’m on the shit list. Again. But this time Jo thinks she’s on the list too, because Natalia informed her that she wanted to start going out with her, Llian, and Suzanne to bars. Last night the Brit group was thinking about going to a bar and they neglected to invite Natalia. Oh well. At least I’m in good company.

So tonight Jo and I are going country dancing again. Jo thinks it’s a geek fest. I love it. I find it entertaining. Imagine a room full of old French people, a crappy band, and some announcer trying to teach everyone a new dance. Now, keep in mind that the French are shit at giving directions. Imagine the announcer explaining the dance once (and I was convinced last time that he was just making it up as he went along—he never actually repeated anything), the band starting slowly and speeding up, and short, old French ladies wandering in and out of everyone’s dance space, completely lost. I mean, this is pee-your-pants-laughing entertainment.

I went to a birthday party a couple of nights ago and I was trying to get people to tell me cultural things they found weird/annoying about France. They weren’t into making a list, though, so here is my list, created tout seul:

1. Shops closing at lunch time. For two (at least) hours. Including grocery stores.
2. Rude bakery women.
3. That weird shade of magenta red that women between the ages of 45 and 60 dye their hair. Mom said they did the same in Germany too. Twenty years ago. This is not a color that appears in nature, let alone on anyone’s head.
4. Frog legs in a Chinese buffet. Then again, one of my Chinese students last year told me that the Chinese will eat anything. He then told me a story (quite seriously) about a family dog that had died when he was young. He said that the whole family was upset and that he had cried. And then they ate the dog.


I will add to this list later. Maybe. I just feel that I should be adding more cultural information to my ‘blog. Oh well. I have to write a cover letter. I hate writing cover letters. Yeck.

January 19, 2005

Still have my cold. I think it is getting better. At least, that is what I am telling myself. I’ve had it now for almost a week. You know, maybe if I killed off some of the dust bunnies in my room I might actually start to get better. The problem with that is that I feel too crappy to actually do any cleaning. My laundry is piling up. Then again, it does that when I am not sick so I guess that is not such a big deal. I try to handwash everything that I can because the washing machines only make things stinkier.

Nothing really interesting is going on. I wanted to spend some time this week traveling, but, well, I’m sick. Oh, actually, there was a railroad strike today. Tomorrow the teachers go on strike. Oh, And I almost have my Carte de Sejour. I just need to go back to the Prefecture (ugh) and give them my medical certificate. I am going to go tomorrow. I think. If I can drag my carcass out of bed before noon. Which, for the record, I have been doing. Usually.

Boy, MS Word really hates the way I write. Especially when I type something in French—it really goes crazy. Green and Red underlines everywhere. Very Christmas-y.

I am almost finished with Rand. ‘Course, I don’t know how well I will be able to discuss the last third of the novel, as I’ve been sick while reading it. But the book is so long. It goes quickly, but I think she could have made it a lot shorter. I’m at the point where I just want it over. I keep flipping to the end to see how many pages I have left. As I said, Rand’s writing does go quickly, but I think she could have chopped out about a third of the novel, easy. Then again, I say that about a lot of authors I read. I am really a fan of short and concise. Don’t even get me started on Eliot (George). If I were to ever write the story of my life it would probably be about five pages long. Not because my life is boring, but I am not a detail person.

Story of my Life:

I was born in St Louis, Missouri in 1978.

My family moved to Germany when I was one year old and we lived there for seven years. When we moved back to the United States I missed Halloween for the first time in eight years. I was never the same.

We moved to Maryland. Our very first year there was when the cicadas made their once-every-seventeen-years appearance. I thought it was the end of the world.

I learned to play the flute and the oboe. I almost didn’t graduate from high school because I never went to gym class.

I joined the US Army when I was seventeen. I went to Basic Training and proved myself completely useless to the military in and combat situation. I was very proud of myself for this. After Basic Training I went to music school in Norfolk, Virginia for six months. At that point, Norfolk people were supposedly the fattest in the United States. I lost weight because the food in the cafeteria was so bad.

After I finished with the United States Armed Forces School of Music (USAFSOM) I went to Arizona. It sucked. I gained lost of weight. I would have killed everyone in my unit but I was a lousy shot.

I managed to get myself kicked out of the Army on a medical discharge and I went back to Maryland. I got a job doing data entry. The music they played in the office drove me mad. I quit.

At the start of the next semester I started taking classes at the community college. I thought I wanted to study Computer Science. I was wrong. I got a scholarship then flunked out.

I switched to English and went to UMBC. I almost made straight As. I lost my 4.0 GPA the semester I decided it would be a good idea to take 24 credit hours, work two jobs, intern, and play in several music groups. I was sick for a month at the end of the semester.

I gained lots and lots of weight before I graduated from UMBC, so all my graduation pictures are embarrassing. I looked like Friar Tuck with a silly hat.

I decided to work as an English as a Second Language teacher so I got a certificate. Then I lived off my Dad for another year. After that I moved to France.

--The End--

Okay, well that was a little bit longer than it should have been. But this is before editing. I bet I can get rid of about a third of it.

Monday, January 24, 2005

January 19, 2005

Still have my cold. I think it is getting better. At least, that is what I am telling myself. I’ve had it now for almost a week. You know, maybe if I killed off some of the dust bunnies in my room I might actually start to get better. The problem with that is that I feel too crappy to actually do any cleaning. My laundry is piling up. Then again, it does that when I am not sick so I guess that is not such a big deal. I try to handwash everything that I can because the washing machines only make things stinkier.

Nothing really interesting is going on. I wanted to spend some time this week traveling, but, well, I’m sick. Oh, actually, there was a railroad strike today. Tomorrow the teachers go on strike. Oh, And I almost have my Carte de Sejour. I just need to go back to the Prefecture (ugh) and give them my medical certificate. I am going to go tomorrow. I think. If I can drag my carcass out of bed before noon. Which, for the record, I have been doing. Usually.

Boy, MS Word really hates the way I write. Especially when I type something in French—it really goes crazy. Green and Red underlines everywhere. Very Christmas-y.

I am almost finished with Rand. ‘Course, I don’t know how well I will be able to discuss the last third of the novel, as I’ve been sick while reading it. But the book is so long. It goes quickly, but I think she could have made it a lot shorter. I’m at the point where I just want it over. I keep flipping to the end to see how many pages I have left. As I said, Rand’s writing does go quickly, but I think she could have chopped out about a third of the novel, easy. Then again, I say that about a lot of authors I read. I am really a fan of short and concise. Don’t even get me started on Eliot (George). If I were to ever write the story of my life it would probably be about five pages long. Not because my life is boring, but I am not a detail person.

Story of my Life:

I was born in St Louis, Missouri in 1978.

My family moved to Germany when I was one year old and we lived there for seven years. When we moved back to the United States I missed Halloween for the first time in eight years. I was never the same.

We moved to Maryland. Our very first year there was when the cicadas made their once-every-seventeen-years appearance. I thought it was the end of the world.

I learned to play the flute and the oboe. I almost didn’t graduate from high school because I never went to gym class.

I joined the US Army when I was seventeen. I went to Basic Training and proved myself completely useless to the military in and combat situation. I was very proud of myself for this. After Basic Training I went to music school in Norfolk, Virginia for six months. At that point, Norfolk people were supposedly the fattest in the United States. I lost weight because the food in the cafeteria was so bad.

After I finished with the United States Armed Forces School of Music (USAFSOM) I went to Arizona. It sucked. I would have killed everyone in my unit but I was a lousy shot.

I managed to get myself kicked out of the Army on a medical discharge and I went back to Maryland. I got a job doing data entry. The music they played in the office drove me mad. I quit.

At the start of the next semester I started taking classes at the community college. I thought I wanted to study Computer Science. I was wrong. I got a scholarship then flunked out.

I switched to English and went to UMBC. I almost made straight As. I lost my 4.0 GPA the semester I decided it would be a good idea to take 24 credit hours, work two jobs, intern, and play in several music groups. I was sick for a month at the end of the semester.

I gained lots and lots of weight before I graduated from UMBC, so all my graduation pictures are embarrassing. I looked like Friar Tuck with a silly hat.

I decided to work as an English as a Second Language teacher so I got a certificate. Then I lived off my Dad for another year. After that I moved to France.

--The End--

Okay, well that was a little bit longer than it should have been. But this is before editing. I bet I can get rid of about a third of it.

Friday, January 21, 2005

A Competition

Hullo everyone. I am giving a class on Monday, January 31 on SUVs in America. The only thing is, I need some pictures of people next to the things to show how big they really are. Therefore I am running a contest. Submit as many photos of people and SUVs as you want, and I will choose a winner. The deadline is Thursday, January 27. The winner gets eternal gratitude and something cool (and cheap) from France.

Thanks, ya'all

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

January 18, 2005

Well, things are starting to look up. I actually have three classes this week. Not only that but I am giving private English lessons to a Russian Au Pair. I am also swapping English lessons for German lessons with Dagmar. It is amazing how often I’ve learned and forgotten German. For some reason none of it really sticks in my head. Anyway, Dagmar speaks English quite well, but her main goal is to be able to read in English. So, knowing that she had studied philosophy and religion in University I whip out Winthrop’s “A Modell of Christian Charity.” (This is where you, the reader, are supposed to groan and say to yourself, “what the hell was she thinking, launching right into that in the first lesson?”) It is very difficult to read. Can I say that again? It is very difficult to read. Even harder to understand. But, if you do manage to understand some of it, it is very interesting. Maybe I will introduce it as a category on my Forum. Yes, that literature forum to which no one posts. Anyway, I believe that so much of current American political thought can be traced back to this sermon. Winthrop lays the groundwork for the American idea of social responsibility. So Dagmar and I struggled through three paragraphs of it and then we had a nice conversation about it. I think after we finish that I am going to start us on Beowulf. In Old English.

Monday, January 17, 2005

January 17, 2005

11:29am

I was telling everyone last night that 30% of Americans are obese and Jo was like “is that it? I thought there were more?” I was like “what do you mean ‘is that is’? That is a hell of a high number. This is obese we are talking about, not overweight. It is 64% of Americans who are overweight.” So then we got into a discussion (in French, because it was everyone) about the differences between overweight and obese.
Anyway, that is the topic of my class today. I am talking about overweight/obese Americans. I can talk about this because technically I am not overweight. I may resemble Jabba the Hut’s sister, but my BMI is perfectly acceptable. But I am currently trying to talk myself out of going down to the bakery and getting a pain au chocolat. Mmmm, so good, are these pain au chocolats. Of course, I justify it by reminding myself that I am only in France a brief period and that I ought to enjoy the food while I am here because I will not be able to get it back in the states.

January 16, 2005

12:12pm
Ugh. Trying to convince my body that it is not really dying.

4:55pm
Well, the jig is up, the word is out, they finally found me…

I went sale shopping today with Natalia, Helene, Jo, and a Russian Au Pair named Ania. Before we left, I was sitting with Helene and Jo telling them about how Natalia still thinks I understand next to no French and how she always makes a point of speaking to me really slowly and loudly and how she present me to people as “the Assistant who only speaks a little French” (Actually, that is how I am known to all the other English-speaking assistants too.) Anyway, I mentioned to Jo that Natalia would be really surprised to hear me speak in French to Helene or Dagmar or Sophie or anyone.

Anyways, we all went out to Center Ville to go into shops and Ania and I dragged behind a little and talked about what we did over Christmas vacation. Natalia turned to Jo and asked her if we were speaking in French or English. Jo listened to the conversation a little, then announced that we were speaking in French. Natalia was totally surprised. So now she is going to think I’ve been stonewalling her (which I have, but it was quite literally with her assistance because you can’t stonewall someone who doesn’t already think you are an idiot.) Anyway, people tell me I should be annoyed that some people speak to me like I’m an idiot or that I am known as “the Assistant who doesn’t speak French” but honestly, I don’t care. I’d rather have people think I speak and understand less French than I really do. I get to hear some interesting things that way. (I’m also lazy. See, if I’m with another English assistant who thinks I don’t speak any French, I can get them to do things for me that they normally wouldn’t do). But I guess the main reason is that it amuses me. It is like people see me as a child and let their guard down around me.

January 15, 2005

Ugh. I now have caught a cold—some nasal stuff and runny nose. But the other stuff seems to have cleared up. I am taking antibiotics. The trip to the Doctor was fine. I went by myself—all the other assistants were nervous for me—but I did just fine. I understood pretty much everything the Doc told me. She thinks that I probably picked up a bug in Morocco.

It is Saturday and I wanted to travel around some, but I decided to take a day of rest for this whole cold thing. Honestly, though, after all that other stuff, this cold is nothing at all. And yes, mother, I’m drinking mint tea.

Anyway, I’m still thinking about what I want to do next year. It is now too late to apply for Graduate school. Fuck. I think I am going to go ahead and just get a Masters. I think UMCP might be a good place to do that. It is a step up from UMBC but it shouldn’t be too hard to get into. After all, they did accept me when I applied in high school for undergraduate. That doesn’t say too much to recommend them, though, does it? I may give them a call and explain to them that I am 1) out of the country and 2) deathly ill. This may be folly on my part, but I honestly don’t see how they couldn’t want me. Just look at everything I’ve done. My scholastic record is decent and my life experiences varied. Really the only thing that I don’t have going for me is my sense of fashion. But how to convey all that to them? Translation: How the hell do I write a statement of purpose without sounding like a complete idiot? I’m afraid my writing style is too informal. Ugh, and I would have to re-write a paper or two to give to them. Maybe I do need another year. But if I take another year, what do I do with that year? Do I try to spend another year in France? Do I go to a different country to teach? Do I come back to the US and get a menial job in someplace like a bookstore and then take night classes in Latin, French, and German? What to do, what to do? And I’m not getting any younger. I am 26 now and I still am nowhere near a career. Bloody fucking hell, I hate having to think about all this. I think I will go and read some now, maybe take a nap. Please post some comments on this—I generally don’t take advice, but I do like to hear it. And who knows, it may actually influence my decision.

Later. 7:41pm

Honestly, whatever. I still haven’t met most of my students at the IUFM--the ones who are supposed to be meeting with me for ten hours. I only have six and a half weeks left to meet with them. I wonder what the hell they are (not) thinking. I send them an e-mail every week, I’ve worked out potential times they can meet with me—I honestly don’t know that I can make it any easier. Maybe I can write my e-mails in French, but as they are all focusing in English, I don’t see that would not be able to understand my communications. I really am trying to make every accommodation I can, short of going to their homes and forcing them to speak with me in English. I do not like teaching like this. This is a joke—a farce of what I really wanted to be doing. At least I have the compensation of being in France. I can go out and do stuff. That is, if I am not deathly ill, which I’ve been for way too long now. I was planning on going to Chambery this weekend—nope. Didn’t happen. I pretty much spent the day in bed, trying to kill some of this cold/illness/flu/stomach thing off. I think it’s a lack of vitamin sun. Or vitamin organization. That is what I am lacking. Vitamin organization.

Speaking of vitamin O, I have received some comments concerning the mess of dates on my ‘blog and the fact that people are not able to comment on everything. So here is the breakdown:

I write all these things in my room, completely unfettered by any line to the outside world. No internet, no telephone, no ability to send up smoke signals. I save them all on the same word file, writing them chronologically. Then, when the document reaches several pages in length, I hobble over to the IUFM, plug my laptop in to the ‘net, and stick them all on one ‘blog entry. ‘Blog entries are normally backward chronological. Because I post the word file at the same time, I have one ‘blog entry that is forward chronological. Because it is all one post (technically) people can only post comments at the absolute end of the entry, not at the end of each date. But, the next ‘blog entry is after the end of the previous ‘blog entry. I know, I know, totally confusing. I am going to start posting these entries separately. That should clear up some of the confusion. But my ‘blog has nothing on the IUFM as far as disorganization is concerned.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Finally went to the Doctor...

Well, I finally went to the doctor yesterday. I was nervous about having to go and explain everything in French and then get instructions in French, but it went well. I understood pretty much everything that the doctor told me. She was quite nice. She thinks that I maybe picked up some intestinal bug in Morocco. Souviners.

Anyway, it seems that several people in France are sick now. I still feel a little crappy. It is embarrissing because I've fallen behind on my work. Yes, yes, I know. How in the hell can a person fall behind with work when he/she only has about two hours of work a week. Pretty lame, huh?

Anyway, I have to get some stuff done so I will write a bit later.

DJ

Friday, January 07, 2005

Literature Forum

I think I've just created a forum. Can someone go there are post something? If it works, it would be great to be able to discuss literature and whatnot.

DJ

http://literaturediscu.7.forumer.com/viewforum.php?f=1


The inside of the Souks--the markets. Notice the slats of wood overhead. Posted by Hello


Me (!) and a spice store in Marrakech, Morocco. Yes, those cones of color behind me are spices. Posted by Hello


The Mederna. Notice the mountains in the background. Posted by Hello


Sophie and Hamid. Sophie is only wearing a scarf over her head because the sun was really bright. Posted by Hello


Palm trees. Morocco. Posted by Hello


Jardin Majoralle. Posted by Hello


House at the Jardin Majoralle. Marrakech, Morocco. Posted by Hello


Inside of the Marrakech Museum. It was an old palace. This picture does not do it justice. Posted by Hello


Mosque, Marrakech, Morocco. This was the main mosque in Morocco but there were several. Being an infidel, I was not allowed to go in any. Posted by Hello


Place Jemaa El-Fna at night. I have a video of the call to Prayer, but I can't put it on my blog. Sorry 'bout that--it is really, really neat. Posted by Hello


Complicated name. Basically, the old Latrines for a Mosque. Posted by Hello


Medersa Ben Youssef, Marrakech, Morocco. A religous school for (male) students of the Koran.  Posted by Hello


Snow in Valence--my first day back from Morocco! This is a picture from my window. The snow was completely gone by the next day. Posted by Hello

Finally--the Internet is back!

Well, after a week of no internet... I have returned. Here are some pictures from Morocco. None of them really turned out the way I wanted--you really get no sense of what it was really like there from these pictures. Oh well. I will just have to go back.

I also have a really, really long travel log after the pictures. I broke it up into three sections so it would be easier to post comments.

Finally--No more books! I will be lucky if I get through what I've got now by the end of March. But thank you all for sending me so much stuff. I love it all.

December 6-December 27

December 6, 2004

I swear, I’m going to leap out of my window. I just need to figure out a way to get it open all the way. Right now I could only chop off body parts and toss them out the window and that’s just not very effective. And that is what this is all about—effectiveness. Right now I am in the Salle de Profs at the IUFM, redoing the bloody schedule with Ariane and Natalia. Not my idea of a good time. In fact, I’m so miserable and frustrated I am considering jumping out of my window and I really don’t like heights.

I just hate this. I would consider cutting short my visit to France to not have to deal with this bullshit (totally necessary) anymore. Well, I’d rather do that then leap out my window. Or cut off body parts and toss them onto unsuspecting students. Heh. That could actually be kind of amusing. Almost makes me smile thinking about it.

Agh! This place is turning my mind! That is not the type of thought that should bring a smile. At least I still recognize a bizarre thought when I have one.

I hate disorganization with a passion. I hate having to redo things that I’ve already done because the people who are supposed to be in charge of me have no clue what they are doing. I hate useless work. This reminds me of what I hated so much about the military—no information, no organization, nothing! Rien! Pas de Tout!


December 7, 2004

I swear, never live with people from third world countries—especially if you are an American. Gee, I’m really sorry your country sucks, but don’t take it out on me. Ugh, I know this all makes me sound like some big asshole, but I’m just sick and tired of the whole thing.

I think the Argentinean must not have refrigerators where she comes from. I’m assuming that everyone reading this understands that, once in a while, the fridge will defrost and drain some water. It does not mean that the fridge is broken—in fact, quite the opposite. So, I ask you gentle readers, how is it my fault that the fridge has drained some water? You think I exaggerate? Hah! Today, the Argentinean went up to Jo and said (in French) “I am very angry with Justine.” So it is now my fault that the fridge has defrosted. I ask you all, WHAT THE FUCK? This has gotten totally out of hand. I am ready to throttle her. I suppose I might as well mention that I am also, single handedly, responsible for famine and pestilence, war, teenage pregnancy, and rainy days. It is almost too incredible for me to get upset about. I’m incredulous about the whole thing. Here’s the kicker: I’m the one who cleaned up the water when the fridge defrosted before!

I shouldn’t type about it—it is just making me all upset again. Relax. Calm. Breathe. Kill. Murder. Homicide. Annihilate. Ahh, much better.


December 8, 2004

Today I am going to up to Lyon with Llian, Jo, Suzanne, and Jessica for the Festival of Lights. Every year, the folks up at Lyon give thanks to the mighty whatever for sparing them from major pestilence—goes back to black death. Then again, since I’m here, there may be another outbreak. But enough of that; I’m in a good mood today—and I intend to stay in one.

Here’s one of the major reasons I am in a good mood: looks like I am going to Morocco for Christmas. The Dark Continent. I’m so excited about it. I’ve become friends with one of the IUFM students and her husband lives in Marrakech. She invited me to come and spend Christmas with them. So I will be in a place where the sun shines for more than two hours a week.

Not only that, but I went to the hypermarket yesterday and found little packets of cream for my tea. So now I have English Breakfast tea with two lumps of sugar and cream. That is enough to start anyone’s day right. Add a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie—and how could I possibly be upset about anything?

I bought the new Jimmy Cliff cd yesterday. He has mellowed a lot. I’m not impressed. The music from The Harder They Come was raw and undeveloped, but it was jammin’. The stuff on this cd is so polished it has lost all personality. I was really excited about it because it has Annie Lennox and Sting, but…

Well, gotta continue getting ready for Lyon. I forgot when I’m supposed to meet Jo. It was either 10h40 or 11h40. Whoops.


December 15, 2004

How bummed am I? The Badz Maru socks that my sister gave me for Christmas several years ago are completely worn through. I loved those socks—every time I put them on I thought of my sis. (Not sure what that says about our relationship but hey, weird family, remember?) They’ve been falling apart for years now but I kept sewing them back together. Now they are so far gone there is nothing I can do. I’m going to cut off one of the Badz Marus to keep.

It’s been so long since I’ve gotten to spend any time with my sis. I remember, several years ago—I think it may even have been when she gave me the socks—when we sang “Merry Fucking Christmas”—you know, the totally tasteless song from South Park.

Ah well. I still have plenty of socks, though, so that is not a problem.


December 18, 2004

Well, I am off to Morocco today. I still have to do laundry, pack, and clean the kitchen. I hate having to do laundry here—I have to drag my dirty clothes about 2 km away to the laundry mat. Then I have to pay outrageous amounts of money to get my clothes only marginally clean. At least cleaning the kitchen should be a snap—everyone except the Russian has left.

I bought a guidebook for Morocco. It is in French; I figured that would make me look less like an American. I can’t wait to see the buildings—the pictures are amazing. I hope I get to see a lot. Sophie is about 5 months pregnant and her husband, Hamid, has to work (these are the folks I’m staying with) so I don’t think they will be able to drag me around to see the sights. Normally that would be fine with me—I’d just go alone—but in this case I feel a little uncomfortable heading out on my own. At least until I get a feel for the place and see what it is like for women.


December 22, 2004

Greetings from Morocco! I have been here now for four days. I haven’t seen too much because I’ve only gone out on my own once. I still feel a little uncomfortable venturing out on my own. I don’t speak Arabic, my French is still really bad, and, lets face it, I stick out like a sore thumb here. I haven’t had any problems—well, other than yesterday at place Jamaa al Fnaa, which I will get to later—but I do get a lot of attention, which I don’t like. I prefer to be invisible. I do feel a little bad, though, because Sophie is pregnant and Hamid works, and I feel like I am making them feel like they need to keep me entertained. It just takes me a few days to start to feel comfortable in a place. I’m the same in any new place.

Anyway, it is really, really different here. In some little ways it reminds me of places I have been before—Florida, Arizona, and Grenada. But most of it is so different from anything I know. Oh wow—I just looked over at the table and saw that Hamid has put some ketchup on it. Do you know how long it has been since I’ve had ketchup? Wow! How exciting! I feel kinda bad because I am being lazy and not offering to help. But (for my mom here) I think I’ve been over all a pretty good houseguest. I have insisted on doing the dishes most of the time and I occasionally nag Sophie to sit and take a rest and let me do whatever. I wish I could cook. I really ought to learn. Oh well.

The thing that I find most interesting about Morocco is the people. I love to see how they are dressed. It runs the gamut—I see women completely veiled with only their eyes visible and I also see women wearing business suits. I see women in the long robes and headscarves wearing high-healed shoes. Sometimes I see three generations of women walking together, each dressed differently. It is really something that I would have to get pictures of—I could never express it in words. The men are similar—what they wear is often dictated by their age. The young men dress casually, in a western manner.

Mmmm, just finished eating. I am now sitting back with my laptop and Sophie and Hamid are watching TV. I feel very comfortable and relaxed. I think that this is my favorite part of the trip—just being able to feel comfortable around the people I am currently staying with. In France I’m constantly harassed by the presence of you-know-who. Here I just feel like, yeah, whatever. I’m comfortable, I’m happy. I just hope that Sophie and Hamid are not annoyed or tired of me yet. It is funny because they are always remarking about how a week is so short, how it is not enough time to stay in one place. Me, I think the opposite. I think that a week is a really long time, especially when you are staying with someone at his or her house.

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat…

Anyway, back to the men. The older ones wear robes similar to the ones that the female wear. They have pointed hoods sewn into them. Sometimes you see an older man wearing the hood over his head. With apologies for being a gauche American, I have to say that, when they wear it like that, they look a lot like Obi Wan Kenobi in Star Wars. But that is not the extent of my cultural insensitivity. You see, the women are kinda short. Okay, really short. With their robes on, they resemble the Star Wars Jawas. That thought came to me while I was walking through the Souks and it made me smile. I, of course, instantly felt awful. But it was funny.

There was a travel writing class at UMBC when I was a student there. They didn’t practice any travel writing; instead, they read memoirs and journals and the like and discussed the style and political and social import and whatnot. I didn’t take the class—I didn’t find it interesting at the time—but now I find myself curious. I would like to know how better to record my experiences on the road. I know that class would not have taught me exactly how to write about my travels, but it would at least have given me a starting point—a base from which to work with. As it is, I find myself wondering what to record and how to record it. I am not one for noting details anyway. What I write is more about quick humor and overview than about in-depth description and profound insight.

It is interesting because it seems that, the way that people think of Morocco, it is a place that gets inside a person. One always hears about Americans and Europeans who visited Morocco and knew that it was where they belonged. It has a powerful siren call. I can hear it, but I don’t feel it the way that others do. I like the country, I find it interesting, but that is it. But I can also see, very clearly, how it exerts such a power over others. It is odd to be an observer in such a manner. Sometimes I go somewhere that others really love, and I’m like ewwww. But here, I can understand why one would wish to stay here. But, as I said, it is not for me.

December 29-January 3

December 29, 2004

Back in France now. I think I’ve caught some kind of stomach bug—I feel pretty icky. All I had to eat yesterday was a loaf of bread and some butter so I made myself get out today and go to Flunch for some meat and veggies. Flunch is great—you buy a tiny little piece of meat and think you’ve gotten ripped off. But then you get to go and eat as many veggies as you want. I had fish, mashed potatoes, rice, and brussel sprouts. It is all pretty close to a “typical American meal”. I always go to Flunch when I feel down or sick.

I’m not happy about being sick right now. I still have several days of vacation and I was going to leave tomorrow to visit some other places in France. Now I really don’t even feel like getting out of bed. Yeck. I have laundry that I need to do… and I need to prep for the class next Monday. I really don’t expect many people to show up—it is the first day back from vacation.

Eating Ginger Chews now to see it they will settle my stomach. I wonder if it is something that I picked up in Morocco—I did eat a meal in a street tent near the end of my stay.

I really should give more details about Morocco. I was thinking about taking a train to Casablanca and Rabat but I would have had to go by myself and I felt a little too uncomfortable for that. I stayed the entire time in Marrakech. I went out on my own a few times, and even though I stayed in the tourist areas, I did feel a little uncomfortable. I mean, a young, blond woman all alone—I stood out like a sore thumb. I never had any real major problems, but I definitely encountered some smaller issues… mostly fighting off would-be guides, henna ladies, shopkeepers, and the odd man who wanted to kiss me. I had, in general, a very interesting reaction when I told people that I was from the US. I expected people to become cold after that or launch into a discussion about the US government’s relationship with Israel but none of that happened. Instead, people would break out into a big smile and treat me as if we were two people in on a big secret. Then they would name either states, cities, or actors to prove that they were experts in American culture. In the airport, when I passed through security to board the plane, the guard glanced at the outside of my passport briefly, broke out into a big grin, and said something completely incomprehensible. I finally figured out that he was saying “Arnold Schwartzenegger, Governor.” I smiled back at him, and said, “Yeah, Schwartzenegger is governor of California” and he let me pass.

So, I visited three palaces, one Museum, a Medersa (religious school), and several gardens. Oh, and the souks. I took pictures of several Mosques, but the doors were closed to infidels like me. I figure, though, that considering what the palaces and Medersa looked like inside, the Mosques must have been splendid.

December 30, 2004

I’m sick. I feel like I’m dying.


December 31, 2004

Happy New Year. I’m still sick. Of course, every occurrence here is an opportunity to increase my French vocabulary and I now know the words for flu, pain, fever, vomit (verb and noun), diarrhea, chicken noodle soup, and dehydrated. I also know how to say, “take one pill every four hours. Do no exceed six per day.” All highly useful, let me assure you.

The Bitch of it all is that I am here alone. All of the other assistants are gone and the school is shut up tight. Even the creepy night watchman is not here. Yesterday I was sure that the world would come back to a stinky pile of dead Deirdre. I was wondering just how long it would be before they discovered me. I think it would be next Friday (January 7) at the earliest.

I wonder if I cough under the Argentinian’s door if she will get the flu.


January 1, 2005

Hullo and Happy New Year. I’m feeling much better today. I did a little bit of laundry and picking up this afternoon. I just got off the phone with Shari and Rob—I’m in a good mood now. They are moving to their new place in February—I’m going to miss helping out with yet another move (not the reason I’m happy, actually. The missing out on helping with moving is a running gag.)

Well, as it is the first day of a new year I have to start giving some thought to what I am going to do after March. Just yesterday I realized that I should probably go ahead and get at least a Master’s degree. I need to (yet again) have my paper degree catch up with my… not intelligence and not knowledge, but maybe potential is the right word. I know that this statement may seem very conceited, especially as I have not expressed myself very well. And it is not to belittle the process of obtaining a Masters. It is just that, for a brief moment yesterday I forgot that I didn’t have a Master’s yet. When I remembered again, I felt odd. Like I was slightly off balance—potential on one side and lack of paper on the other. Then again, it could have been the cold medication.

But, blah. How boring for you all to read when I still have stories about Morocco!


January 2, 2005

The sky over Valence can’t quite figure out what it wants to do. It spit out about three drops of rain then tried to turn blue. It’s like rips in gray silk where the blue shows through—completely unnatural looking. One could be tempted to go up there with gray thread and mend the patches.

I think I overdid it a bit yesterday—feeling a little rugged today. Not as bad as I was a couple of days ago, but still not up to snuff. I think I am going to confine myself to my bad today—a few naps should help me along my way. Then again, I’ve slept so much the past few days that my body is not too keen in the idea of more sleep.

Wound up talking to the radiator last night. It was making odd grumbling noises and I was sympathizing with it, telling it that it had probably caught my bug and was now having stomach troubles. Poor thing. It really must be feeling under the weather—when I got up this afternoon it was only slightly warm. I suppose it doesn’t help that I’ve draped my laundry—socks and underwear—over it to dry.

I decided to go to Flunch last night. I figured I could take a bus down, get some food into my system, and take a bus back. It is normally within walking distance, but I was feeling a little weak. I knew that it was the first of the year, but I figured a low-end restaurant like Flunch would be open. It is generally one of the few things open on Sunday—it seemed a safe bet.

My first sign of potential problems should have been that the busses weren’t running—not even on the Sunday schedule. I wound up walking, slowly and unsteadily, down to the center of town. When I got there, the windows of Flunch were dark. Europeans generally have a different idea of adequate lighting, but this was pitch black. Damn.

I decided to stroll (or in my case, stumble with frequent stops) through town to see if anything was open. I figured that, if worse came to worse, I could always hit Micky-Ds (I’ve decided that the sole purpose of McDonalds in France is to keep Americans alive by maintaining normal business hours). I didn’t really want to do it—I figured it would set the stomach back several days in the healing process—but a Big Mac with fries was preferable to a French pizza with Emmenthal cheese (which turns my stomach even when I’m not sick).

It was so Twilight zone last night. Keep in mind that this was 7pm on a Saturday night in the pedestrian center of town. Everything was shut up and dark. Okay, that is to be expected. It is, after all, France. Even the cafes and sandwich shops were shut. There were several abandoned Christmas trees lying around. I occasionally saw a group of young males lurking in the shadows, huddled together and speaking in low voices. At one point I saw an unattended toddler throwing M&Ms off a fourth story balcony. I felt like I was in a science fiction movie—one of the post-nuclear-holocaust ones where everything has just been left and most of the people are dead.

I finally did find a restaurant and ate a salad, salmon, and some pasta. I’m always surprised to find salmon on the menu—I never really thought of the French Alps as being Salmon territory. Then I remind myself that I am only about two hours from the Mediterranean (slow train) and four hours from the Atlantic (fast train).

Later.

Just spent a couple of minutes going through some old school papers that I have on my laptop. I wanted to read the one about Deconstructionism and Sherlock Holmes. I found that, but I also looked at some other papers from my Lit Crit class. Interesting. I remember how completely lost I felt in that class. But going back and reading my response papers, I think I understood a lot more than I gave myself credit for. And a lot of the ideas, even the ones I don’t agree with, have stuck inside my head.

Anyway, this is all in preparation for reading _The Fountainhead_. When I spoke to Shari last night she said that she was halfway through it so now I have to catch up. I think I am going to try to find a way to set up either a discussion board or another ‘blog with the intention of discussing books. I know that, with _The Fountainhead_, I would certainly love to have Dad make some comments on philosophy. I know nothing about philo—and care even less. I will be approaching _Fountainhead_ from a more literary standpoint. I would also like to get some input from Mom about laissez-faire capitalism since I’ve totally forgotten the ten minutes we spent on it in High School. (Laissez from the French verb Laisser, meaning roughly “leave it” or “let go of it” or “set it down” conjugated in either second person formal or second person plural. Faire the infinitive French verb meaning “to do” or “to make”. And that’s without looking it up, thankyouverymuch.) Ahh, if only I could get Aunt Margaret on the Internet. What intelligent input she would have for me… sigh. By the way, has anyone heard from her? I would have expected a card or letter from her by now.

Well, enough procrastinating. Time to take one of those naps.


January 3, 2005

Well, back to… school. Actually, I do have a class today. I am going to be discussing the American School System. I plan on sitting there are looking tired and sick so the students will feel sorry for me and not notice the lack of preparation. Then again, this being France, I’m sure what I’ve done is already more than the norm.

I feel crappy again. I knew this was going to happen—it was why I was trying to make myself take it easy yesterday. I’m thinking I should probably get myself to a doctor.

Later.

Life is just not good. I am at the IUFM right now. “Pas d’Acces Internet ce matin.” English translation: No Internet—your guess is as good as ours when it will be up again. (Okay, literal translation is: No Internet this morning. But this is, after all, France.) I was looking forward to posting pictures of Morocco on my ‘blog, but now I have two and a half hours to kill before my class. There is a couch down in the teacher’s room; I may go take a nap. It would certainly be quieter than it is in my room.

Human bodies are funny things. I am really, really tired, but my body seizes up and starts to ache if I even think about lying down in my bed. Give it a good, hard table, though, or a lumpy couch in a room of French smokers and it is ready to sleep. I miss all the napping places that can be found on a college campus. UMBC had some choice sites depending on what type of nap you wanted. My favorite was the warm, dry, huddled, and protected nap in the library. I would take two of the high-backed armchairs, push them together, kick off my shoes, then curl up on the seats. It was like being in a tiny cocoon. It was perfect for cold and rainy days—or sick days. (There was also the drooling nap in a low-back library arm-chair; the “I’m-really-working” nap, which was head first into a book on a table; the slightly awake nap in the Fine Arts building, stretched out on one of the very, very old benches; and any number of other naps that I just didn’t have the time to discover. And before you go thinking about how very lazy I must have been through college, let me remind you that I took almost twice a normal course load and was very close to a 4.0 GPA. So I earned my naps.)

January 4-January 6

January 4, 2005

Well, really long ‘blog entry here… hope the Internet is working today. It is 12:15 am Tuesday morning. I just finished shaving my legs. I’m listening to Pulp right now—I had forgotten just how uniformly good this cd is. The last time I listened to this cd was back in Canada, shaving my legs. (I suppose this cd will forever be associated with me shaving my legs.) Interesting because in Canada I used the same method to shave my legs—a large, plastic bucket; water from the tap mixed with boiling water for heat; a washrag; a razor; and shaving cream.

One of the things I stressed about before I came over here was the need to bring enough razor cartridges. I bought about ten, convinced that I would have to write home by Christmas for more (why not buy something in France, you ask? Well, we all know that the French don’t shave. Actually, I don’t know that for sure but I find it convenient right now to perpetuate the cultural stereotype of the hairy French woman.) Anyway, one of the things I didn’t take into consideration before I went on my razor cartridge shopping spree was the fact that I, in fact, do not actually shave that often. Remember the first Harry Potter and the plant they get stuck in at the end? That was me after a few, um, months of not shaving. The long and short of it (pun intended) is that I have changed the razor cartridge once since I’ve been here and it was more because it got too dusty to use while it was on top of my closet.

See, you all come to this ‘blog to read about exotic countries and far off places and instead you get way too much information about my shaving habits. This is why I will never be a great novelist. I’m more interested in laughter than in truth.

Okay, back to France. I got Mom’s package today. I was really, really excited about it—I had just run out of DVDs to watch and I figured it would be chock full of new movies. I opened it up and discovered that my crazy mother had sent me a carrot cake with cream cheese icing. That certainly raised my spirits (what verb would one use for that sentence? I think raised is right—all the others sound worse). There were also some Christmas presents for me to open. I put some Christmas music on my laptop, had some cake, and opened my presents. No DVDs, but everything else was cool enough that I have forgiven my Mom. Anyway, I don’t need any distractions while I try to get through Rand. (I keep moaning about Rand—poor Shari is going to think she has done something wrong by buying that book. Not the case, Shari. It has been on my list of “things-I-ought-to-read”. Right after _Middlemarch_. Even though I may complain about it, I am glad that you bought it and sent it to me while I was in a foreign country so I will be forced to read it—or learn French.

Back to the package. I also got three books, which I assume at the ones that Margaret (Sprog) recommended to Mom for me. I’ve read a few pages and they are hilarious so far. So, thanks to Sprog. How exciting for me to have a teenager in my entourage. (Or being in her entourage. I’m not sure that fifteen-year-old girls join non-famous wacky adult entourages. And I don’t see Sprog as an entourage type anyway—which I give as a compliment but I know from experience that sometimes my compliments are not exactly… complimentary.) Anyway, teenagers are a mystery to me. Even when I was a teenager, I was looking around thinking, “Holy hell, what did I do in my past life to deserve high school? Am I really the same age as these people? Can’t I just skip this part of my life?” The good thing about Sprog is that she is quick-witted (big compliment), amusing (compliment), and I can stand to be around her without rolling my eyes, feeling that my life has been sucked out of me, or wanting to push her out of a window. This is a major compliment to both her and her parents.

The vocabulary lists in the backs of the books are a riot—especially as Jo and I have already discussed the meaning of several of the words. The Brits do have some spectacular slang.

I will write about Morocco. Eventually. I haven’t forgotten.


Later.

Holy shit. I just realized that I’ve crossed the borders of France and Morocco with a syringe. In my carry-on luggage. Wow. I don’t know if I should be glad that no one stopped me or if I should never take an airplane again. At least if we were attacked I could have fought back. With my syringe and plastic knife.

Okay, I know everyone wants to know why I had a syringe in my carry-on. And how I managed to forget that I had a syringe in my carry-on luggage.

I like Henna. I like temporary tattoos. But I hated the henna ladies camped out in Place Jemaa El Fna—literally camped out. So Sophie and I decided to do our own henna tattoos. The best way to apply henna is to use a syringe—you know, the one with the hollow metal tube at the end. So Sophie and I bought some red henna, two syringes, and, armed with a couple of photos of henna jobs, gave each other henna tattoos.

The henna tattoos turned out fine and I didn’t draw anything obscene. Then, I offered to Sophie (since she is pregnant and is starting to have trouble getting around) to take some of her stuff back to Valence with me so she wouldn’t have to lug three weeks of stuff with her. I finally talked her into letting me, and she packed up an additional bag for me to check. Because we had decided to split the left-over henna and because I figured I would be checking her bag anyway, I tossed the henna and syringe in at the last minute.

Fast forward to Marrakech airport. My check-in weight limit is 20 kgs. My suitcase (filled with all sorts of goodies for my family and friends) is 20.8 kgs. I tried to toss in the other bag that Sophie had given me, hoping the lady was not paying attention. She, in a manner that let me know just exactly what she thought of English speakers, informed me that I was over my limit and that I would either have to pay 80 Dirham for each kg over or take my bag with me on the plane. I already had another bag I was going to take on the plane with me so I asked the lady if I could really bring two bags plus my purse onto the plane. She conveniently decided that she was unable to understand my French (this is a technique that French speakers use with English speakers. You can be having a conversation in French and they understand every word you say. Then, when you say something that they either don’t want to hear or something they don’t want to have to deal with, they pretend that they can’t understand you. Granted, I am a first-rate mangler (I rest my case) of the language, but I do know how to express basic things. For example, here’s one that even my French friends don’t understand. Every time I order a pain chocolat (un pain au chocolat) I get two (deux pain au chocolat). It happens in different stores. I’ve practiced with my French friends and they can understand me just fine—and they are not the type to blow sunshine up my ass. Anyway.) So I went through security and carried my bags on the plane with me.

The Internet at the IUFM is still down. I may never see another e-mail again. At least not until I reach the USA.

Later.

Speaking of not reaching the USA… that box of Christmas presents. I think I sent it by boat. Because I am cheap (and because I don’t understand French really well), I think I may well have sent the Christmas presents by boat. Not only that, but I sent them all to my Mom (which was especially awful because I didn’t get her anything.) So first the presents have to reach Mom. Then she has to send them all out. It could be awhile. I just hope Mom hasn’t moved before the box reaches her.

I am over halfway through and I am ready to come home. Not that I am miserable or unhappy or anything. I’ve reached a stable point. I think of the French as cute little pygmies but I don’t hate them. I just miss my family and my friends. I had a dream about Disney World last night. I keep thinking how great it will be when I get to go over to Shari and Rob’s new place and have them cook me a meal while I take a bath in their new Jacuzzi-type tub. And then blather on and on over dinner. Or maybe have Beth and Tucker there too so I have a bigger audience for my French tales.

By the way, who is throwing my coming-home party?

I hope the IUFM Internet is working tomorrow. I really want to go ahead and post this. It is getting really too long now.

By the way, Mom also sent me Nutcracker Sweet tea and Ziploc bags. You see, I had been rinsing my two or three Ziploc bags that I had brought with me. There are no Ziploc bags here. I was complaining about it to Jo (the Brit) and she said that they don’t have any Ziploc bags in England either. They use plastic bags with twisty ties. How primitive! Anyway, I am really, really happy about the Ziploc bags. She even sent me two different sizes. I have the coolest Mom in the world. And the coolest Canadian mom. And the coolest friends.


January 5, 2005

I have a stinky cheese problem. It is on my windowsill. I am afraid to open my window.

Later.

I need another tube of Burt’s Bees Lipbalm.

Later.

Still no bloody f-ing Internet here. See, I was right about the length of time it would take to get Internet access back. I cannot live like this very long. Having no Internet is like having no electricity. My internal constitution reads “life, liberty, and Internet access.” You may be reading this after I get back to the states. If I get back to the states. I need to Internet to look for airplane tickets. In fact, I was going to check on prices today—just to see how much I should be putting aside per month to buy my ticket back. (See how responsible I am?)

Right now I am sitting in a little corner I found at the IUFM. It is on the third floor. There are three red chairs grouped around a window. It is almost cozy. Well, except for the long (and I’m convinced now, haunted) and empty hallway. There are classrooms here but never any classes. In fact, I never see any classes in session. I’m not convinced that there are any classes here. I just see a bunch of students in the Salle a Manger (eating room) around lunch and then they disappear. All of the classrooms I’ve seen are empty. All the time. I think this place is—

Woa! There’s smoke coming from the chimney. I just looked out the window. Where is there a fireplace? In the Janitor’s closet? (Which I’ve seen, by the way. It’s painted red.) I swear this place is haunted. I know this hallway is. It is right above the Salle Informatique (computer room). Whenever I am on the computer I always hear “thud, thud, thud” over my head, like someone is running with scissors. But there is never anyone up here. By the way, the doorframes up here are painted Pepto-Dismal Pink.

Okay, on to Morocco before I forget it completely. As I said before, the most interesting part of Morocco (for me) was the people. I sometimes just sat in Place Jemaa El-Fna, drank some Moroccan tea, and watched the people walk past. Moroccan tea is green tea with lots of mint and sugar. I loved it. (Sophie didn’t). It was funny because Hamid was always asking me if I wanted tea and I was like, “Yeah, sure” and we would gulp this stuff down while Sophie would sit back and watch. Hamid didn’t speak English well and I don’t speak French well so it was interesting to spend time with him. When people don’t speak each other’s language it is like they have to regress a little to a more simple, childlike state. Thus something like drinking tea becomes more like two kids sharing toys. It doesn’t always work that way, of course. Some people become more formal and reserved if there is a language barrier. But I prefer the simple, happy smile and ready laugh method of communication.

Okay, back to Morocco (again). Place Jemaa El-Fna. I keep mentioning it, but I should describe it. Crazy. It was sort of the center of things. It was limited to pedestrians. And bicycles. And motorcycles. And donkey drawn carts. And horse drawn carriages (for the tourists). And the occasional vehicle. The Place was open and surrounded on all sides by shops, restaurants, and mosques. There were people with monkeys, people with cobras, and people with odd clothes wandering around, trying to get money from tourists (me). There were Henna ladies and Fortune Tellers literally camped out. There were small stands selling things like tea, soup, cake (very dry with lots of flour), pastries, etc. I had some cinnamon tea that was very strong and very good. There were two rows of orange carts, olive carts, spice carts, and snail carts (who would have thought that eating snails would have been such a big thing in Morocco. In fact, you could buy roasted snails on just about every corner in the city. People would buy a bowl and stand by the cart and chow down.) There were also people selling kitsch (usually inflatable Santas). It was crazy. Then, every late afternoon, people would start hauling tents and benches into the Place Jemaa El-Fna. They would set up several tents and start cooking different things under each tent. You could find soup, fish, kabob, pig's heads (as in an actual, whole pig’s head), couscous, tanjines, etc. (Contrary to popular belief, couscous refers to the whole plate, not just the grainy Seminole stuff).

My next-to-last night in Morocco we all went out and had some food under one of the tents. As we were sitting there eating I heard the dulcet tones of American English. These two guys sat down next to us. I leaned over to Sophie and said (in French) “They’re from California.” She said, “How can you tell?” At this point one of the guys stood up to go look at the food. His curly blond hair was swept across his head and he was wearing brown pants with purple velour triangles sewn into the bottom to make bell bottoms. ‘Nuff said.

When he got back I asked them what part of the states they came from. California. They had been studying Spanish in Spain and had come to Morocco with the intention of driving around and seeing the smaller towns (obviously influenced by repeated viewings of _Motorcycle Diaries_). And no, they did not speak either French or Arabic. Ah, I said in my superior east-coast tone and I turned back to Hamid and Sophie. And that was my only encounter with other Americans the entire time I was in Morocco.

Off to the side of Place Jemaa El-Fna were The Souks. The Souks were miles and miles of narrow labyrinthine streets, twisting and turning and branching and joining under wooden slats that formed a makeshift roof. And along these pedestrian (and bicycle and motorcycle and donkey drawn cart and occasional car) streets were shops. You could buy fabric, Caftans, custom made Caftans, teapots and tea trays and teacups, dresses, spices, pottery (plates, bowls, cups), shoes, carpets, jewelry, leather goods, scarves, spices, pastries, olives, nuts, skincare products, and just about anything else. It was amazing. The only problem was none of the prices were fixed. If you were European you got one price. If you were Moroccan with Europeans you got another price. And if you were a Moroccan tout seul you got a third price. When I decided it was time to buy souvenirs and gifts, I told Hamid what I wanted and he went in and got it for me.

In the Souks (and thus impossible to find) were the Museum of Marrakech and the Medersa Ben Youssef (14th century). The Museum was housed in a former Palace and contained artifacts and modern Moroccan art. The inside of the palace was amazing—it was my first experience with Moroccan architecture and design and I loved it. There was so much color and detail. The floor was covered in tiles: green, red, blue, black, white, and yellow. The walls had tiles and carvings—all very geometric. The ceilings are amazing—generally made out of wood that had been carved. It was all one of those scenes that even a picture cannot do justice to. One really has to be there to see it all.

It is the same with the Medersa. A Medersa is a school for students of the Koran. This one no longer a school so it was thus open to infidels like me. The second floor was all students rooms. There were more students rooms on the first floor. The building was constructed in a square around a courtyard. At one end of the courtyard was the Salle a Prier (Prayer Room). Again, a breathtaking room. And I will leave it at that and hope the Internet goes up again soon so I can put photos on my ‘blog. But even the photos do not capture it so you will all just have to use your imagination. Or go to Morocco.

Later.

Pervy night watchman is back. He’s still sporting the Santa hat. He is convinced that I am the German assistant so now every time he sees me he says “Halt” and gives me a Hitler salute. I’m not exaggerating on this one. Jo and I are convinced that he is a child molester. (Or as I just typed at first, a chili molester. Which is much funnier.) The first time I saw him I was walking back to my building at about 11pm. He stopped me to make sure I wasn’t a student (normal), then, after I told him that I was the English assistant and that I didn’t understand much French, he followed me up the stairs to my hallway talking about how he liked little girls (in French). Weird.

Anyway, the gangs all back. I popped down to the kitchen tonight to see Jo and found that she was already in bed and Natalia (the Argentinian. Or, as my Grandmother calls her, the butter girl), Alyssia (Italian), and Helene (Russian) were there. Dagmar (Austrian) was in her room with her mom. Helene had told everyone that I had been having stomach troubles, so I, following the advice of three different people, had rice, spinach, and lemon. Mixed together. If my stomach was only annoyed before it is pissed now. I will have to sooth it with some carrots. In the form of a cake.

But butter girl was all smiles and laughs. I was friendly but wary. I will have to stay on my guard around her. Jo! Where were you? How could you go to sleep and leave me there alone? Do you know how long it has been since I’ve spoken in English? With an English speaking person? Ah well.

Anyway, I finished the three Georgia books that Mom sent me. Very Funny. I think I ought to put times on my entries here (like she does) so people know something a little more than “later.” Right now it is 22h20. That is 10:20pm in English. Anyway, I wish we had this book when I was growing up. All we had was Are you there God, it’s me Margaret. Which is a really, really good book but even by my time it was a little outdated. I guess that books which treat teenage girl angst age very quickly. Oh, and Georgia is the perfect example of why I do not want children. She is a very funny character, but can you imagine having to parent her? I would dump her on the side of a road. In France. Oh, but the bits in French are funny. I can just imagine the character saying them with a very, very bad English accent. It is similar to what Jo and I do here. Sometimes we use French verbs but conjugate them as English ones. Thus we wind up manging, parling, and utilizing quelquechose. (In our own form of Anglophone protest, we also pronounce all the letters.)

Reason number 457 why the French language is weird:
I miss my family. Simple, right? But how do you say it in French? Ma famille me manquent. That is not, as any type of common sense would lead one to believe, my family misses me. It gets weirder. What if you want to say “I miss my room.” It would be ma chambre me manque. If I hear a sentence like that, I assume that the speaker has just personified his or her room and given it human emotions. This is a weird, weird language. And the French are weird, weird people. Pygmies. With no boobs. I have more boob on one side of me than you can find in a three generation French family. And this is post-op. The good news is that implants do not seem to have floated across the ocean to France. The bad news is that trying on French clothes is like shopping in the girls department.

I now refer to myself as “on the continent.” I use that expression to explain certain bizarre phenomenon. Gwen Stefani’s latest song, for example. I say, “she’s obviously been spending too much time on the continent.” (I am so gonna get flamed for that one. I think.)

Up to page 15. Lalala. Hope the Internet is up soon. For everyones’ sakes.
By the way, Butter girl has put on some weight. It is all in her hips. Even before she started complaining about it tonight I saw it. And I am not the world’s most observant person. I, on the other hand, have lost some weight. Not much, but enough that you can see it in my face. And this is after launching myself face down into a carrot cake. Ha ha, stomach flu!

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Country of Ludites

International Travel Machine


The Internet is not working in most of Valence now. It started on Monday, when the Internet was not working in the IUFM. Like a nasty bug, this lack of Internet access has spread to encompass most of the city now. Jo and I visited several Internet cafes before we finally found one that had Internet access.

As soon as the Internet is back up at the IUFM I will post pictures of Morocco and my latest Travel log, which is now fifteen pages long. Single spaced.

My illness seems to have passed on and taken a couple of pounds with it. The Argentinean, however, looks like her stomach exploded over Christmas and it all settled in her ass. Maybe there is a god. With a wicked sense of humor who hates people who falsely accuse other of stealing butter. Oh, my Grandmother has now named the Argentinean "the butter girl". It is an appropriate epitaph--in more ways than one.