The End.

I think it's time to conclude this blog. I had kept it open for months, believing that Stephan and I would eventually end up in France, living our happily ever after as a married couple. I had been thankful that France had brought us together, that I had been fortunate enough to find that perfect someone to grow old with, the way people in movies do.
But as always, life throws curveballs.
For some reason, the wedding is cancelled. I'm not sure I understand why, and I'll likely never truly know the reason for it. I just received an email about a month ago reading, "I've been waiting for a good time to discuss this, but is there ever a good time for such news?" And just like that, it was over. The consulate was called and the fiancé visa was cancelled. I attempted to return the rings (no success), to cancel the bridesmaid dresses (half success), and to heal (success? the verdict is still out on that one).
And now, I'm struggling to find a new future. I moved into an apartment in the city about a week after the world ended. I've applied to Indiana Wesleyan in hopes of acquiring a teaching license for secondary English. In the meantime, I'm applying everywhere for a full-time job that will keep me above water financially.
And now, after all that, it seemed that this blog needed to be finished. I've thought a lot about the anecdotes contained here, about the lessons I learned, and the fun I had. After all that reflection, I've come to conclude that this blog turned out to be a love story--maybe not so much with a person as I would have hoped, but with a country. I loved France, and in her own cold-hearted way, France loved me back, I think. I didn't get the future in France I had hoped for, but France remains an ideal to me. And she has not disappointed.
So, La Belle France, it's been a good ride, but I think it's time to come up with a new dream.
I have loved you very much.
Croyez, Madame, à l'expression des mes sentiments les meilleurs,
Katie

Low

Well, here it is, over 3 months later, and I haven't written a word...  I suppose "This American Life"isn't quite as exciting as that old France life I used to know.   I've been substitute teaching, which is more than occasionally a nightmare.  On the evenings and weekends, I'm working at a retirement home, playing the one song I know on my ukulele and feeling pretty thrilled with myself when the residents praise me for my musical skill.
But as it is right now, I'm feeling those "mean reds" that Holly Golightly used to talk about.  Stephan flew over from France on March 25, and we spent these past two and a half weeks together.  They were pretty perfect.  We spent a week in the States and then a week visiting my brother and sister-in-law who currently live in the Dominican Republic.  We surfed, ate ridiculously enormous portions of food, lounged around in the sun, and tried our hands at Spanish and haggling.  It was a fun life. 
And now, Stephan's left, and I'm in bed at 10 on a school night. 
Stephan will be back in August, and if the government processes our application for our fiancé visa in the normal amount of time, we'll be getting married very soon after.  And then...?  The questions are still unanswered.  We still might end up in France.  But we still might be back here.  Time will tell,  I guess.
But right now, I'm wishing I could have frozen time...
My mind is right here...

Stoplights

So, I'm home now.  Back in Indianapolis, Indiana.  And in some way, I'm feeling like France never happened.
It's a strange thing, this returning.  I feel like I've slept through two years of American life.  All of the sudden, there are new shows like glee that I never knew were popular.  Starbucks doesn't sell the drink I want anymore, although bless Starbucks, they'll still make you about anything if you describe it well enough.  I left "not an aunt", and returned an aunt twice over (which happens to be the best part of coming back).

But also, another strange aspect of this returning, is that, this time returing to America, I have to remind myself that I DID live in France, because of course, this time there's an engagement ring on my finger, and Stephan and I are getting married, and this whole exciting future is stretching in front of us.  Will we live in France?  Will Stephan take that engineering position and move us to Morocco?  Or will we stick to the States?
Once when I was about ready to graduate college, I was driving down Pennsylvania, and all the stop lights were green, and I thought, "This is my future."  I could have chosen so many different roads.
For the past two years, though, there have been red lights.  I don't mean that in a bad way.  But I was stopped in one place.  My France life was all I wanted and I wouldn't have left (of course, signing contracts does play a role in that sense of stability), but now, I've just applied to be a substitute elementary school teaching position--not really my life dream--and so, the green lights are back on. 
Stephan and I are getting married, and we get to decide together where we go from here.  We could toss a coin on a world map.  We could, within reason, move anywhere.  Isn't that an exciting thought?
So, now, let the deciding begin....

New Kicks

So, a while ago, I showed a picture of a dress one of the Moroccan ladies in class brought back from her summer at home.  Now, I just wanted to take a brief moment to show you the new shoes that another student brought back from Morocco.
They are nice and bling-bling, huh?

I would say that no one else would ever wear the same shoes as me, but then again, this student brought a matching pair of shoes for my colleague too, so no such luck.

End of an Era - the bank edition

Just a few steps closer to the end:  I closed down my bank account today. 
After two years of grief from my bank, I was thrilled (and somewhat shocked) at how easy it was to close my account.  So, bless the bank.  Oh, and by the way, on my way out, my account counselor gave me a stuffed Alvin the Chipmunk for a souvenir.  He said I could give it to a younger sibling, but seeing as Jon's 23 now, I gave it to someone at the office who has actual children.  Still, it's the thought that counts, right?
So task number 45: Close down bank accout?  Check.

Snow and Being Katherine

So...I move home in 9 days, and this Paris experience of mine will come to an end.  Incroyable.  But I won't go into all the bittersweet feelings concerning this upcoming change. 
Instead, I'll say that for the moment, life continues as normal, although there is something a bit foreign on the ground...

We had a huge snow in the Paris area today.  From my experience, this kind of snowfall is unexpected for this early in the winter, and while Stephan groans about it and says, "I'm African.  I'm not made for this weather!", my spirits remain high.  I think snow is beautiful.  And most people around here have kept fairly positive about it (when they're not driving, that is).  As I was sloshing home in my soaked-through shoes, my neighbor was shoveling out his car, and he laughed when he saw me slipping past and said, "C'est Noel!"  And I do think that snow is pretty great during the Christmas season.
Today, I was passing through Les Halles and saw this church.  No matter how cold and wet the weather, snow does add a lovely touch to already beautiful scenery.

It's been a while since I shared an anecdote, so before signing off, just wanted to relate something that happened yesterday.
I was preparing to give my class when a very small, round French woman came into the building, and without preamble, said, "I've come to help out."
She turned out to be something of an odd duck.
She asked my name, and I told her, "Katie."
She replied, "I'll call you Kathy, then, because I don't like the name Katie."
Later on, she asked me if it bothered me that I had a diminuative form of a "real" name.  I told her no.  She said I should consider legally changing my name to Katherine, being as so many queens have carried the name Katherine.  I tried to act as though I were considering the suggestion...
Later, I made some Moroccan mint tea, and I had handed a glass out to each of the ladies, and I offered her a glass too.  She took it and drank the whole glass down.  When I offered her seconds, she said, "It's really far too sugary.
"Well, that's how they like it," I told her.
"Alright then.  Let me have another cup just to be sure," she said.  Sure enough, she drank the last glass down, telling me again how sugary it was.
She'll be coming to class again tomorrow if the snow doesn't keep her at home.  I hope to come out alive and with more stories...

The Creativities of Jour Fériés

Today is a jour férié, also known as a bank holiday.  My calendar tells me we're celebrating Armistice Day 1918.  On November 11, 1918, the Allies and Germany signed an armistice in Compiègne, France, thereby ending World War I.  So, today, all these years later, everything closes down in memory.
The bad weather has me rained inside, preparing lessons and stories for the coming week (I've also been working on my November Novel a bit!  Actually, no exclamation point belongs at the end of that sentence, because I'm sorry to say, this is my most abysmal novel yet.)  But what I hadn't thought about was the fact that I haven't been grocery shopping in a week, and so, have practically no food.  Here's a view of my refrigerator for any doubters out there.  There's some homemade ranch dressing I attempted, two pieces of badly made apple pie, two pear halves, an old container of lardons and some crême fraîche.  I'm not sure even Jamie Oliver could make anything out of these elements. 

Being Armistice Day, all the grocery stores are closed.  Fortunately, I found a frozen pizza shoved in the freezer, but more than anything, I badly wanted hot cocoa.  So, while I didn't have any packets of cocoa left, I decided to go through my cupboard and try to make cocoa on my own.  ON MY OWN.  That's a big thing for me.
So, off I went to try and make a miracle happen...

With a little cocoa, some sugar, some milk...

...and one failed attempt at whipped cream to put on top...

I finally made myself a fantastic mug of hot cocoa.  Maybe the best I've ever had even.  And, while working on this, I noticed there was a carmalized almond hot cocoa recipe on the back of my cocoa box.  Once the stores open again, I think I'll get really ambitious and see if I can make that!

But word to the wise, it's best not to drink too much cocoa and cream and milk.
Yesterday in class, I was teaching when one of my students pointed out toward the street and said, "Look that pregnant lady is coming."
The woman beside her replied, "That isn't a pregnant lady; that's just a fat lady."
So, better be careful from here on, now that I know that they notice those sorts of things.

Monday Night Indian Food

Monday was business as usual, so I taught my classes over in Asnières, and after, headed to Anvers to give a lesson to my unmotivated Sri Lankan student.  I arrived at her apartment at 5 in the evening (for the class scheduled at that time), but she wasn't there.  I called, and she assured me that she was only ten minutes away.  So, I waited...and waited...and waited.
After 45 minutes, I finally, walked out of the apartment, ready to go home, when I saw my student sprinting down the street, calling, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
So, we ended up having our lesson, and not unsurprisingly, she seemed very distracted.  I kept pushing her to conjugate her verbs, but her heart just really wasn't in it, and at about 6:15, she announced that the lesson should end because we should go out to eat at her restaurant.  She had to be in to work at 7, and why shouldn't I come along for dinner?
I agreed, and we took the bus over to the restaurant.

She immediately went to work behind the bar and brewed me some caramel tea.  Meanwhile, the waiter, a 26-year-old electrical engineering student who has only recently arrived from India, also came out and offered to start me out with some "sweets."  Which turned out to be a plate of deep-friend zucchini and spicy sauce.

People in France tend to be really late eaters, so though I arrived at 7, it was only me in the restaurant.  It wasn't too disappointing, because my student and the waiter had plenty of fun goofing around, making jokes, and teaching me the Tamoul alphabet that had been taped to one of the walls.  (Sadly, I didn't retain much, but they assured me that the pronounciation was okay.)

The restaurant used to be a French restaurant, if I remember correctly, but they're doing their best to Indian-ify it.  When my student arrived last night, she brought with her some "pictures." They were large pieces of fabric with scenes depicting the life of Vishnu, the Hindu god, on them.  I asked why he was blue, and the waiter said, "Well, because he drank poison!"

When, after nearly an hour, still no one had arrived, they started taking all sorts of pictures for me.  Here's one picture my student took of me looking like a school marm.  In my defense, it was cold, so I wrapped my scarf around me.  Still, I look nice and awkward sitting at my table all alone.

But eventually, the main meal came.  My student ordered Tandoori chicken and nan fromage for me.  The meal was really delicious and cooked by someone called Abdullah, a faceless chef, being he never made it out of the kitchen.  I was very impressed with the food, and my student and the waiter both sat around and watched me eat, saying "What do you think?" after each bite.  They told me that the nan should be eaten with the hands, which seems contrary to everything I've learned in France, but as they say: when in India, do as the Indians.
We were really enjoying ourselves, but a little after 8, the woman who owns the restaurant arrived.  Then, all hands were on deck, so to speak.  No more joking.  Just polishing the silverware, putting salt shakers on the tables, rearranging the sugar bowls.
I got up to leave when I heard the owner began arguing with the waiter.  I walked up to pay (but my student refused to let me, saying I could "next time").  I have to say I was slightly relieved after the 3 course meal they had set in front of me.  So, I thanked her, and was almost out the door before the ower caught me and said, "Sorry to make things uncomfortable for you.  His mother is very ill.  We need to send him to India, but we must see how."
I told her I wasn't upset, that I understood, and that I would certainly be back.
But I really did have to run in order to catch my train at 8:40, so I said my goodbyes and hopped on the metro that took me to the train station.
And finally, an hour and a half later, I made it home and slept with a stomach more full than I think it's ever been.

En Suisse

This past weekend, I headed off to Geneva, Switzerland with two of my bridesmaids-to-be to see the Salon Genevois du Mariage.  The Salon du Mariage was held in the beautifully lit Bâtiment des Forces Motrices that swims in the middle of the Rhône River.  We were able to see a défilé, a new word I've learned that, in this case, applies to a fashion show, but actually just refers to a standardized way of walking (since a military can also have a défilé.  Interesting, no?)  We also looked through tons of wedding photographs, wedding invitations, honeymoon destinations, and were given tiny, silver wrapped chocolates in a reward for our efforts.  Great fun.
But, as a spoiler, let me say to anyone thinking of going to Geneva: you probably don't have any business being in Geneva unless you are a) King of a very large country or b) incredibly rich.  I have never been to a place that was so expensive.
After the Salon du Mariage, the three of us decided to find a restaurant and have dinner.  Dominique, my old housemate  who has since moved back to London, really wanted to find raclette, something we eat on special occasions in France.  When we have raclette, we usually eat about 6 potatoes that we smother in raclette cheese and various bits of sliced meats.  Delicious.
We finally found a few restaurants serving raclette, so we stopped in at one that offered the meal at what we thought was the cheapest price.  I felt a little hesitant when I saw that the meal had been translated as "melted cheese."  Still, it was a special occasion, so we decided to order the raclette anyway.
Here's what happened:

The above picture is my $30 raclette.  So what do we have?  A plate of melted cheese, two small onions, three potato halves, and a pickle.  This is definitely the most expensive meal I've ever eaten.
But these are the moments that make memories, so we all laughed at our incredibly bad fortune and ate up anyway. 

The next day, we headed off site-seeing.  We saw the horlage fleurie, the large clock whose face is made entirely of seasonal flowers.  We saw Vieille Ville, or Old Town.  We also saw the famous jet of water shooting out of the Rhône.  We went to a park and saw the Reformation Wall where you find memorials to John Calvin and Martin Luther.  And when we were sufficiently soaked, we ducked into a coffee shop to warm up (and paid 7 Swiss Francs for a drink...oh my.)
Later on that day, just before it was time to head to the train station to get our flights to London (for Dominique) and Paris (for Madeleine and me), we saw a man get mugged.
We were walking past a tourist shop, and these two young guys starting trying to feed us all sorts of lines--drague-ing.  So, after giving them our withering stares, we walked off.  But soon, one of the two guys started running ahead of us, heading straight for a smaller Indian man who was busy photographing the Rhône.  Before we realized what was happening, the younger man stole the Indian man's wallet and disappeared under the bridge.  The three of us rushed over to the man who had just been robbed.  We helped him get directions to the police station, but really, all of us knew it was too late.  The thief hadn't gotten the man's credit cards, but he'd stolen all his cash, which is almost impossible to recover. 
In light of my recent history, the situation really upset me.
As we left Geneva, we concluded that, in Geneva, you will get robbed one way or another.  Either you will pay $30 for a plate of melted cheese or you will get mugged.  It's a simle, unavoidable fact of life.
But that sounds so negative, and shining a bad light on Geneva, of course, isn't fair.  While I wouldn't go to Geneva for a weekend of shopping or restaurant discovery, Geneva is a stunning city.  With all of its bridges and quays, with its mountains in the backgrounds, with its clear, crisp air and beautiful fall leaves, Geneva was a truly lovely place.
So, maybe what I said at the beginning about needing to be wealthy in Geneva isn't entirely true.  If you're planning to eat in Geneva's restaurants or shop in Geneva's shops, yes, you must be wealthy.  But even if your pockets are not spilling over with cash, Geneva's still worth the flight over.  It offers so many gorgeous parks, friendly people, the quaint sound of church bells, and breathtaking views.
And for all those who love chess, you'll be happy to find all the "people-sized" chess boards sitting around in Reformation Park...

So, with that,I'd better be off.  Geneva was a great diversion, but it's still November, which means it's still National Novel Writing Month, which means, my novel needs some serious attention...

So, à bientôt!

A Picture Tour of Heurtevent

This past weekend (as previously mentioned), I attended a work retreat weekend in Normandy.  We were in a tiny hamlet called Heurtevent, in a small retreat center called Béthanie.  It took about 3 and a half hours to drive from Pontault to Heurtevent.
I was absolutely amazed at the scenery--hills and vallies and everything the greenest green you've ever seen. 

In the time I've been here in France, I think Normandy has been by far my favorite weekend destination.  Two summers ago, Stephan and I took the train to Deauville and spent the day shivering on the beach.  This past spring, I drove out to Etretat with a few friends to see that famous door cut into the cliff.  And just before autumn cooled the air, Stephan and I spent a Saturday exploring the port city of Honfleur.
I love Normandy, but had never really been in a home in Normandy.  I've always taken the train to Normandy in the morning, then taken the train back at night, dividing my time between the beaches and tiny ice cream shops that dot the roads.  I've always been the tourist...which is nice in its own way.
But this weekend, at Béthanie, we had a chance to stay in this gorgeous little home with the Longs, an English couple living in Heurtevent, bringing up chickens, cows, and a ten-month-old named Pixie.
I've added a few pictures of their home:

It was a restful weekend with a few obligatory (but not altogether bad) get-to-know-you games and plenty of walks through the hills. 
I loved all the broken down sheds that crumbled in the fields but had been left in their broken state for years and years.  The Longs said that the farmers around them are very particular about noise and traffic and caring for the pastures.  But apparently, the tumbling barns are just part of the scenery.
So after a very lovely weekend, we drove home on Halloween Sunday.  I fell asleep after about fifteen minutes in the car.  It was something of a disappointment to wake up in the Paris area again. 
But here I am, back in Pontault.  It isn't so bad to be back.  I'm here with my vanilla and gingerbread candles...and the month of November stretching before me. 
National Novel Writing Month: here I come.
And Normandy, goodbye.  It was nice to have met you.  I probably will not be back before I move back to the States in December.

St. Germain-en-Laye

The exciting week of exploring continues...
Yesterday, I decided to take the RER A out to one of its (many) termini.  I ended up in St. Germain-en-Laye, not far at all from Paris really.

It was one of those rare, beautiful autumn days in the Paris area.  Usually, October brings rain...rain...and for a change, more rain.  But lately, actually, we've had some fantastic sunny, yet chilly, weather.
So, after arriving in St. Germain, I crossed the street from the RER station, and ended up in the grounds of the chateau there.  St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse was a sleepy sort of town.  There weren't many people milling around.  But St. Germaine-en-Laye was crowded with people.  I especially noticed a pretty big high school, college age assortment of people.  (I noticed the university in Nanterre isn't far away.  Wondering if that's the reason for all the kissing, smoking, laughing, snacking kids sitting on the benches and in the gazebos at St. Germain?).  Anyway,  from what I understand, the chateau is quite famous for being the birthplace of Louis XIV, and also, for the being King James' residence during his time of exile from Britian.

The chateau was a really beautiful structure (as it well should be...most members of royalty don't tend to waste their time building mediocre residences...), but I found the grounds to be much more interesting.  There was a terrace that looked back into Paris.  From the terrace, I could see the business district in La Défense, which I found really cool.

I'd read that, during the French Revolution, when the revolutionaries were removing the names of royals from all the cities names, St. Germain-en-Laye was temporarily called Montagne de Bon Air.  As I stood there on the terrace, looking out onto Paris, I understood why they'd chosen the name.

Another interesting tidbit that I learned about St. Germain-en-Laye:  St. Germain-en-Laye was the headquarters of the German army from 1940-1944 during the occupation.  Because of this, there are occasional bunkers to be seen throughout the city.  Here's one I found just beside the chateau:

So, all in all, a fun and educational little day trip.  I enjoyed the chateau, the church, the bunkers, the parks, and the people (see below).

So, where to now?
This weekend is a work retreat in Calvados, Normandy.  From what Google is saying, Calvados isn't far from the D-Day beaches.
So, I'm excited for the history of the area.  I'm not too thrilled, however, about the prospect of the team building games that the high ups have assured us we'll enjoy during the weekend.
Still, I'm looking forward to the crepes and cider of Normandy, because I feel fairly convinced that nothing, not even jeux de connaissance can tarnish Normandy.
Although (and as a disclaimer, these are not my particular feelings toward my co-workers...), I just read this quote in Chris Baty's book, No Plot, No Problem.
Jobs are places where people who have no business ever meeting spend more time together than most married couples, making work an ideal hotbed for plot-generating alliances, rivalries, and schemes.
Often very true...
And speaking of Chris Baty and his National Novel Writing Month, we're only three days away from the start of Nanowrimo.  So, if there's a sudden absence, know that my laptop is busy pumping out 1,667 words of novel every night.
A la prochaine!

St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse

Today, is the first day of Les Vacances de Toussaint.  So, with no classes for a week, I headed out into the countryside town of St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse.  Stephan and I had first happened upon the city in his Balado "Free Things to do in the Paris Area" book a year ago.  With its beautiful scenery and various walking tours, it sounded like the perfect place to spend an afternoon.  I had written the city down on a list of things to see, but hadn't ever taken any real steps to see it.
Okay, pause.  Let's have a summary of what I've just said: We discovered the city a year ago.  We hadn't ever gone.  Moral of the Story: Tragic, tragic, tragic.
The "hadn't evers" or "haven't yets" are starting to be the story of my life in France.  I tend to get so excited about taking weekend trips to Holland or Ireland that I take the Région Parisienne forgranted.
So, I finally came to the conclusion (today) that I have less than two months left in France, I'm not sure what the future holds (will Stephan and I stay in France for a while after we get married?  If we move to the States, will be back to visit France?), so it's time to start being really aggressive with my To Do List.
And what did I do?  In spite of the eternal strike going on, I found a train heading toward St. Rémy, and began my afternoon adventure.

The train ride from Gare du Nord (in Paris) to St. Rémy lasted nearly an hour, but it was relaxing and fun to watch out the window as the scenery changed from "You are in the heart of Paris" to "Ahhhhh....the countryside."
Once in St. Rémy, I walked from the train station around the small town, snapping pictures of trees and buildings and stores that looked interesting.  The locals stared at me as if I'd lost my mind.  (I'm wondering if they don't get many tourists out their way?)

After walking through St. Rémy a bit, I asked a woman at a bus stop where she suggested visiting.  She said that the chateau Madeleine in Chevreuse was nice, so I followed her advice, and took the bus over to Chevreuse. 
Once in Chevreuse, I found another woman hanging around the city center and asked for directions to the chateau.
She stared at me, baffled, and said, "Why would you want to find the chateau?"
"To see it?" I replied, wondering what other reponse she would have expected.
"Well, just walk up," she said.  "And when you're tired, you just keep walking up."  She looked with a strange smile on her face and said, "Compris?"
I really began to wonder at that point if the chateau was worth seeing.  Asking why I'd want to find the chateau seemed to indicate a certain level of "not-worth-it-ness". 
But I'd traveled an hour from Paris to see St. Rémy, and so, I determined, I would see everything I could.
I climbed the million steps to the top, and once I reached a clearing in the trees (panting like I'd never had a day of exercise in my life) the first thing I noticed was the view.  From the hilltops, I could see over the whole village of Chevreuse.  The crisp fall weather was perfect, and the sky was just clear enough to see for miles and miles.

I wandered around Chevreuse some more, looking at a few of the bridges they're famous for--les petits ponts--and afterward, when the temperatures started dropping, when I had already wrapped myself in my scarf, hat, and gloves, when I had no more layers to add, I got on the train back to Paris.  And in Paris, I met up with my unmotivated Sri Lankan student (who's delightfully the same as always...) and after a tutoring session with her, I was on yet another train, on my way back to Pontault Combault.


Today was a perfect day.  Today reminded me of how much I love France.  France has been occasionally hard on me (I'm thinking specifically of my disagreeable bank and my mugging), but I've decided to forgive her, because there is, after all, really nowhere else like France. It sounds a little contrived to say it that way, but I just get sentimental as the end of my French adventure approaches.
So, here we go again: I love France. 
And with that, let me wish you a Bonne Nuit!

Thanksgiving #1

 Why is she writing about Thanksgiving?, you might wonder.  It is, after all, only the 24th of October, and Thanksgiving doesn't arrive until November 25th...which means, I'm over a month early.  Or am I?
To properly explain what this post means to me, let's rewind a year and start at the very beginning (a very good place to start...)
Last year, Thankgiving arrived in the United States, and I sat alone here in France, absolutely Thanksgiving-less.  I was pretty devastated.  I'd looked online to see if I could find any American restaurants that served Thanksgiving dinner (I couldn't).  I had exactly one American friend in Paris who was still interested in celebrating the holiday (the others had given up on Thanksgiving after their first two years in France), and the two of us talked about throwing a Thanksgiving dinner.  But the idea of a two-person Thanksgiving seemed pretty bleak, so we dropped the idea.
Thanksgiving arrived in France.  I woke up, and I went to work as usual.  The ladies in my literacy class didn't even stay to have tea, because Thanksgiving fell during their Fête de Moutons, so they were off to the house to prepare for the evening festivities.  Thankfully, the woman I work with had cooked a pumpkin pie or else the day would have passed in complete obscurity.
I ate a piece of pie there after class, took another piece home in a Tupperware container, and spent the evening eating Turkey flavored ramen and pumpkin pie.  Worst Thanksgiving ever.
So, in the year that's passed, I've talked to everyone I know about how sad I had been to have missed Thanksgiving last year, and how I really hope things will change for me this year.
Talking out loud helps, you see, because this year, I'm having three Thanksgivings.
Thanksgiving #1 occurred today with my Canadian friends at Noisy le Grand (you can see now why we're celebrating in October and not November.)

 After church today, we all stayed and ate a traditional North American Thanksgiving together.  Of course, everyone (French people, African people, German people) all brought food, so I'm not sure how "traditional" the food actually was, but that's how it goes...  What did the French people sign up to bring for our traditional meal?
Salmon quiche.  Cheese.  Wine.
"A meal without cheese," one of them said today, "is like a day without sunshine."
But thankfully, despite the differing opinions on what should be included in the meal, we pulled ourselves together, and had a table filled with turkey, corn, salad, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes.  Pretty basic, but just what my homesick heart wanted.

 The week before, when I'd signed up to come to dinner, I was asked to bring sweet potato casserole, "American style".  I've never made sweet potato casserole, but valiantly decided to give it my best shot.  I have an American friend who knows her way around the kitchen, and I reasoned that she could help me.  And she did help.  She sent her mother's recipe into my email inbox and said to give her a call if I needed help.
I'd more envisioned her making the sweet potatoes for me, mais fin bref... Life goes on.

 So, I got out the recipe, wrote down what I needed, and began the big shop.  6 sweet potatoes?  I soon realized that canned sweet potatoes don't exist here, so I was going to have to find the actual potato.  After a lot of searching (and insisting that I wanted orange sweet potatoes and not white ones), I found a fat, long potato-looking thing.
The other ingredients were just as much of a question mark.  Brown sugar?  Nope.  I decided to try Cassonade, telling myself, "It won't make that much of a difference."
Pecans?  After asking several vendors for pécans, and all of them understand piquante, I got a little tired of being led to the pepper aisle, and decided that walnuts couldn't taste all that different from pecans.  Again, "It won't make that much of a difference."

And even still, once I was home with my new apron tied around me and my sleeves rolled up, the trouble hung around.  The recipe began with the vague, "Place peeled and cooked and mashed sweet potatoes in a pan."  I looked at the 6 lumps of potato I had on the counter and found myself at a loss.  How did one cook a sweet potato?
Thankfully, google saved the day once again, and I got those potatoes peeled (although, I still wasn't sure what all that talk about removing them from their jackets was about...), cooked, and mashed. 
Somehow, I made sweet potatoes with a walnut (not pecan) carmelized glaze.  Not too bad, if I say so myself.
Although, the French weren't quite sure what to do with my creation.
"It is a cake?" one asked, pointing at the glaze.
"No," I replied.  "Sweet potatoes."
"But it's sweet..."
I nodded.
"On essaie alors?" 
And they all gave a good effort, and whether or not they were all convertis to the American sweet potato ways or not, they cleared out the pan and I left with a smile.  It wasn't quite Thanksgiving in Indiana.  But Thankgiving in Noisy le Grand wasn't anything to complain about either.

Of Late

So, after more than a week of absence, here I am. 

It seems that France has determined to give me the most rounded of experiences.  I’ve had some really fantastic experiences (getting engaged to a wonderful person I met here !), but this last week, something pretty awful happened.

I was walking in Noisy le Grand in the Pavé Neuf, and was suddenly pushed over from behind.  After a few kicks to the head, the attackers took my bag and fled. 

I was an absolute wreck, screaming and sobbing (to my credit, however, I did scream out in French.  You never know what you’ll do under pressure, and I actually feel pretty pleased that, even under pressure, I could still think in French.)  Thankfully, there were plenty of witnesses on the street who called the police and the firemen, so after an initial looking over, I was sent off to the emergency room and then later, to the police station where I filed a complaint against the attackers.

But even though this agression, as they call it, was absolutely horrible, now that I’m a bit further removed, there were actually quite a lot of funny moments.

As I said, after I went to the emergency room, I went over to the Commissariat to file my complaint.  When I walked in, hair everywhere, mascara streaking my face, the man at the desk said, « Let me guess :  You were attacked by two men from behind.  They kicked you and stole your purse. »  I confirmed this, thinking he must have heard about it.  Well, no, he hadn’t heard about my particular incident, but said that it happened fairly frequently over there in the department 93.

Anyway, I began the complaint with this particular man at the front desk, but then, after a few minutes, a really beautiful girl walked into the station.  She was tall, thin, and had these really high heels, long gorgeous hair, and a Louis Vuitton bag.  Would you know ?  The policeman told me to wait a minute and then went outside for a smoke with the girl who, I later found out, had to stop in weekly due to her probation.

After he left, a very dour, man-faced woman came down and asked it I’d been helped.  Confused, I looked out the door where the man still stood talking with the pretty girl.

 « I’m not sure, » I told her.

She followed my gaze, and then told me I’d better follow her upstairs. 

I followed her into this really bleak room with hardly any light and extremely old computers.  We sat in front of one that had a sticker on the outside that read I do evil things.  The woman then said that I should tell her exactly what happened, and she would type out my statement.  So, I began to talk--fairly slowly, I thought.  She kept holding her finger up and asking me to stop, as she typed what I’d said.  She typed, that is, with one index finger.  Then, after every sentence, she stopped and reread everything she’d just written.

Eventually, she began asking questions which I answered as best as I could.

« Did you see the attackers. »

I said I hadn’t seen their faces, but saw their backs as they ran away, so I gave the vague description that I could give :  I described their race and age range.

« Victim…cannot…describe…attackers. » She read aloud as she typed.

« Well, » I said, « that isn’t completely true.  Like I said they were probably  ____ years old and of ________________origin. »

She sort of rolled her eyes and went on with other questions.

« Did you see where they went after they took your bag ? »

« They ran into the alley between the Marantha Church and the hôtel by the woods. »

« Victim…is…unable…to…say…where…attackers…fled. »

Any time I brought up the fact that she’d typed something I hadn’t said, she attributed it to correcting my French.  The situation got so frustrating, I just let it go.  I quit correcting.  I quit arguing.  I just stared at her with glazed-over eyes.   At that point, I’d spent almost five hours in the emergency room and police station, and all I wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and get warm again.

And, I’m happy to say, that’s the way it eventually turned out, because nothing, no matter how horrible, lasts forever.  I eventually made it out of the police station, and I spent the evening watching Le Petit Nicolas with my fiancé, remembering why I fell in love with France in the first place.

And in other good news, some friends of mine went back to the place where I was attacked and found my bag, my train pass, my driver’s license, my Bible, my umbrella and a few other odds and ends in the woods over there.  I’m really grateful for the things I did get back, and on Sunday, when I had the elementary age kids in Sunday school, they were all extraordinarily well behaved and oohhed and ahhed over the chocolate cake I’d made.  I don’t expect the behavior to last, but I’m enjoying it while it does.

Summer Changes

Summer brings changes. I suppose it isn't really that everyone actually changes all that much during the summer. It's more that everyone runs off to their different vacation destinations or summer camps or quoi ce ça soit during the summer, then we don't see one another for several months, and once fall comes, we all are very aware of the differences in one another.

In high school, everyone came back to school with bleached hair, white teeth, brown skin. I spent plenty of time spraying lemon juice in my hair, covering my teeth in Crest Whitening strips, and lotioning my legs, arms and face with selfless tanner in preparation for those back to school days.

Now, with the women in my class, the changes are entirely different.

After not having seen the women for almost three months, I feel shocked at how much their lives have changed.

Here's an example:

This week, one of my women, Fatima flew into class and just started shouting, “Fatima morte!”, “Fatima morte!”, “Fatima morte!” over and over again.

My heart dropped to my shins, because I thought that she was saying that her friend (incidentally, also called Fatima) had died. I finally got her to slow down and tell me what happened. Eventually, she found the words she was looking for and told me that Fatima's husband, not Fatima, had died.

This was still a huge shock to me. I've been over to Fatima's several times, and each time, her husband had greeted me at the door, inquired after my family, and wished me health for the future. He had always seemed in much better health than his frail wife.

Fatima explained that her friend's husband hadn't even been ill, but that during Ramadan, everyone finished their nightly feast, and then, they all had lain down on the floor together. Fatima's husband had lain next to the grand fauteuil, she said.

“The big armchair?” I asked.

She nodded. “Grand, grand, grand armchair.”

“The couch?”

“Yes, that's it...the couch.”

She went on to explain that Fatima had tapped him on the shoulder and tried to wake him when it was time to head off to work, but that he wouldn't move. She'd started screaming his name, and all the kids poured into the room, tried to revive their father, and realized that he was dead. They called the urgences but it was too late. He had died during the night.

I was absolutely stunned by this news, and Tuesday after class, I headed over to Fatima's apartment with the other women I work with. We brought along a bag of gifts. My colleague had gone to a Moroccan shop and asked what we would be expected to give a grieving Moroccan widow after the death of her husband.

“Sugar,” the man at the shop said. “Everyone will be stopping by to pay their respects, and she'll be expected to make tea or coffee for everyone who comes. So, in Morocco,” he said, “we bring sugar when someone dies.”

So, we brought along sugar, nuts, and dates (which the shop keeper assured us weren't too festive).

We walked to Fatima's apartment and her son answered the door. When we came in, she was just standing there in the middle of the living room, dressed from head to toe in white, holding a silver tray with nothing on it. Huge, wet tears were sliding silently down her face. I wondered how long she'd been standing there like that.

We all walked over to her and took turns giving her the bise. Instead of the two kisses on each cheek that she gives normally, she gave us a million kisses on just one single cheek and held us so tightly to her that it was painful.

Seeing her like this got me choked up, and I couldn't help crying too.

We all sat down on the couches and exchanged formalities—we asked after her children, after their grades in school and if they'd been blessed with children. She choked through her responses. We gave her the sugar which she took to the kitchen. And as we'd been told she'd do, she emerged from the kitchen minutes later with coffee and trays of nuts and dates.

We spent two hours with her. She told us about her trip to Morocco, how she left her husband's body there, how he was buried in the ground not far from his hometown. She told us that everyone she knew had come over the Saturday she arrived back in France and that they'd all slept over until Sunday. Her older daughters and sisters were taking turns staying with her. She assured us that she wasn't too alone.

But when we left, her sister walked us out to the front gate, and I watched Fatima walk back to her room, open the door, and slip inside. She looked so lonely then.

She won't be back to class for four months, she said before we headed our separate ways. She'll stay in the house.

I was disappointed to hear this, because I leave in three months. I won't have her in class anymore.

Hmmm.

I've decided once again that I don't like change.

I read somewhere that the only people who like change are wet babies wearing diapers. I suspect that's true.

Sporting some Moroccan Fashion

By the way, I just wanted to briefly note that this school year began in one very typical way : back to school clothes.  Here I am wearing a dress that one of the ladies in class brought me back from Morocco.
What's the verdict?
Too Christmas angel?

And since I'm uploading photos, here's one more for you.  I saw this poster still up in the RER.  Thankfully, they're still advertisting the Christmas Village in Reims that took place November 20 through December 27, 2009.
Yes, that's 2009.
Just in case anyone wanted to agonize over having missed the festivities...



And with that, I wish you all a good night.