Dominique, my downstairs housemate (who is British), really loves Reese's Cups. And me...well, I do too. However, Reese's aren't really a French thing. You can get them in some American-type stores in Paris, but you have to pay 2 euros for 3 of them, so it's really not at all reasonable. So, we just wait, and occasionally, someone travels to the US and brings back Reese's for us.
When I came to France, I brought exactly 3 Reese's Cups with me. They'd been a gift from the OM USA reps who came with us to Mosbach, Germany. About the same time, an OM France worker went home to the US and returned to France with two cases of Reese's Cups. She gave one to Dominique and one to my friend, Stephan. I didn't know any of this, however, so when I got to France, I told Dominique that I had 3 Reese's Cups and that we could share them. Stephan didn't realize Dominique had already gotten Reese's, so when we were at church my first Sunday here, Stephan gave Dominique one pack of 2 Reese's. So, with that addition, Dominique ended up with about 12 Reese's--something ridiculous like that--and was waiting for me to share mine with her.
I was talking to Stephan later, who asked me if Dominique had shared her Reese's with me. I said, "No, but you only gave her two." He said, "No, I gave her two MORE. I'd already give her 2 packs of 2 earlier that weekend." Well, after I found out how many Reese's Dominique had, I decided that I was going to keep my 3.
After I'd eaten 2 of them, Dominique came up to me, and she said, "You told me you were going to share your Reese's with me."
We'd just been talking about David's sin with Bathsheba in our literacy classes with the women in Paris. So, I said to Dominique, "Let me tell you a story." She looked confused, but I continued, "Once there was a very rich man who had a whole lot of cattle. He had a million sheep, and didn't need anything. Near him, there lived a very poor man who only had one sheep. The poor man's family loved that little sheep--he ate at their table. But one day, someone passed through to visit the rich man, and the rich man wanted to have lamb for dinner, so he took the one and only sheep of the poor man, and he slaughtered it."
Dominique looked at me with these huge eyes, and said, "Who told you?!"
But today--weeks after the "rich man/poor man" story happened--I came home and saw this big box sitting outside my door. I picked it up and saw it was addressed to me and not to my roommate (*sigh of relief*). I opened it up, and guess what? I am now the proud new owner of 6 heart shaped, special Valentine's edition Reese's Cups.
Now the question is--will the poor man share with the rich man? Right now, the Reese's are hidden at the bottom of my closet, so I can't tell you the answer yet.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Day I Almost Met a Famous Person
As I mentioned in the last post, we've been having problems with the door at La Corneuve. For a while, it had been broken, because someone had locked a Sri Lanken church inside (we'd initally thought someone had broken in--as I wrote in the last post--, but turns out, it was really the church trying to break out). Then, when I went to La Corneuve last week, we were able to have classes, but a very drunken man (literally, a bottle of beer in each hand) was putting a new, electronic door on the building while we were there. Not surprisingly, the door doesn't work well. In fact, it no longer opens. The door is electic, so it needs electricity to work, and all the electricity has been turned off, and therefore, the door doesn't open. This sounds like a logic problem, no? (Ahh, if this were happening on TV, this comedy of errors would make me laugh. Since it's happening to me, I think I'll just have to find it funny later...). Anyway, all this to say, we went to La Corneuve today, but were unable to have our classes.
Since the classes were cancelled, I decided to get some errands done. I've got several completely banal things on my To Do List--grocery shopping, books and papers I'm supposed to read in order to be more informed on the women I'm working with, emails to write, etc. But I also had one thing I needed to do that I didn't particularly want to do. I have to have my birth certificate translated by an official translator in order to apply for my carte de sejour that will enable me to live in France more than 3 months. I was given the name of a woman--Mme Sylvaine Collet--who lives a ways away in Paris. I was told that she would translate my birth certificate, officially stamp it for me, and I could collect it again in 3 days. I really am not good with meeting people for the first time. I'm pretty awkward with small talk in English, but I'm completely incapable of making small talk in French. My roommate, Margret, is one of those really likeable people who can talk about anything all the time. If I'm silent for more than a minute, she says, "Are you okay?" I told her today, "I don't really like saying something if I have nothing to say." This is incomprehensible to her. Anyway, because of this super power of hers, I bribed Margret to come along with me to see Sylvaine. (Margret's a Starbucks junkie, so I told her that if she went with me to see Sylvaine, we'd get Starbucks afterwards).
We didn't have specific directions to Sylvaine's apartment--we just knew what metro line we needed to take and what street she lived on. So, we took the metro until our stop, came up the stairs, and started looking around. It was such a beautiful neighborhood. I really do love our house, but Margret and I live in the suburbs of Paris, where things are a little less manicured. However, where this woman lives in Paris, everything is so typically "Welcome to France", with the cute little creperies and boulangeries and people on the sidewalk playing accordians for money.
We finally found Sylvaine's apartment building. We walked in, and the interior was just so ornate. Everything was marble, there were real flowers on every mantle, two of the walls were lined with these floor to ceiling mirrors. We looked at the mailboxes, and noted that the majority of the people living in the building had the same last name: Collet. I rang up to Sylvaine's apartment, and in this really professional voice she said, "Hello? Who is it?" So, I explained who I was and that I'd come to have a document translated. She buzzed us in, and we took the smallest elevator ever up to her apartment (and just as a side note: there were only two apartments per floor.) She'd left her door open, and when we got off the elevator, she shouted, "Come in." So, we walked in, and this tiny dog was sitting by the door, eyeing us. The book shelves were full of books, but more notably, pictures of the dog who was still on the door step. There were also several black and white pictures of some old man.
Sylvaine was sitting in what I'd call the parlor, with a stack of papers on this tiny table in front of her. She had crazy curly black hair and little glasses that were sliding off the end of her nose. Of course, being French, she was wearing all black. I handed her my birth certificiate and she looked over it, and assured me that the translation would be very easy. She and Margret chatted a little about the weather and how beautiful Paris is and how spring will come soon. The whole time, I kept staring at Sylvaine thinking, "I bet she's famous." Of course, there was the obvious question: why would a famous person translate random documents for random people and sit with her dog at a desk in the parlor wearing black? Still, I felt that she acted elitist and frosty enough to be famous.
We left, and I said to Margret, "Do you think she's famous."
Margret shrugged.
I said, "I bet this didn't used to be an apartment building. I bet it used to be one huge house and all these Collets lived together."
"Doubtful," Margret said.
But I insisted that there was something "too good to be true" about this all.
As we were leaving, I decided to look for proof of famousness. I looked at the floor, the ceiling, and lastly, I looked at the walls on the outside of the house. Guess what I saw?
A plaque hung by the door, and it said "Henri Collet, writer, musician, and critic, lived in this house."
So, moral of the story: Sylvaine was not necessarily famous, but I wasn't completely off-base with my guess. She's got a famous heritage. That's something cool, isn't it?
And just to prove (to whom? I don't know....myself?) that the plaque and the man listed on the plaque were real, I got home, and googled Henri Collet. Sure enough, he was real, and most likely, he was the old man in the black and white pictures.
So, just to say it one more time--today, I was at the home of Henri Collet, someone who might possibly have been mildly famous.
The end.
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Collet
Since the classes were cancelled, I decided to get some errands done. I've got several completely banal things on my To Do List--grocery shopping, books and papers I'm supposed to read in order to be more informed on the women I'm working with, emails to write, etc. But I also had one thing I needed to do that I didn't particularly want to do. I have to have my birth certificate translated by an official translator in order to apply for my carte de sejour that will enable me to live in France more than 3 months. I was given the name of a woman--Mme Sylvaine Collet--who lives a ways away in Paris. I was told that she would translate my birth certificate, officially stamp it for me, and I could collect it again in 3 days. I really am not good with meeting people for the first time. I'm pretty awkward with small talk in English, but I'm completely incapable of making small talk in French. My roommate, Margret, is one of those really likeable people who can talk about anything all the time. If I'm silent for more than a minute, she says, "Are you okay?" I told her today, "I don't really like saying something if I have nothing to say." This is incomprehensible to her. Anyway, because of this super power of hers, I bribed Margret to come along with me to see Sylvaine. (Margret's a Starbucks junkie, so I told her that if she went with me to see Sylvaine, we'd get Starbucks afterwards).
We didn't have specific directions to Sylvaine's apartment--we just knew what metro line we needed to take and what street she lived on. So, we took the metro until our stop, came up the stairs, and started looking around. It was such a beautiful neighborhood. I really do love our house, but Margret and I live in the suburbs of Paris, where things are a little less manicured. However, where this woman lives in Paris, everything is so typically "Welcome to France", with the cute little creperies and boulangeries and people on the sidewalk playing accordians for money.
We finally found Sylvaine's apartment building. We walked in, and the interior was just so ornate. Everything was marble, there were real flowers on every mantle, two of the walls were lined with these floor to ceiling mirrors. We looked at the mailboxes, and noted that the majority of the people living in the building had the same last name: Collet. I rang up to Sylvaine's apartment, and in this really professional voice she said, "Hello? Who is it?" So, I explained who I was and that I'd come to have a document translated. She buzzed us in, and we took the smallest elevator ever up to her apartment (and just as a side note: there were only two apartments per floor.) She'd left her door open, and when we got off the elevator, she shouted, "Come in." So, we walked in, and this tiny dog was sitting by the door, eyeing us. The book shelves were full of books, but more notably, pictures of the dog who was still on the door step. There were also several black and white pictures of some old man.
Sylvaine was sitting in what I'd call the parlor, with a stack of papers on this tiny table in front of her. She had crazy curly black hair and little glasses that were sliding off the end of her nose. Of course, being French, she was wearing all black. I handed her my birth certificiate and she looked over it, and assured me that the translation would be very easy. She and Margret chatted a little about the weather and how beautiful Paris is and how spring will come soon. The whole time, I kept staring at Sylvaine thinking, "I bet she's famous." Of course, there was the obvious question: why would a famous person translate random documents for random people and sit with her dog at a desk in the parlor wearing black? Still, I felt that she acted elitist and frosty enough to be famous.
We left, and I said to Margret, "Do you think she's famous."
Margret shrugged.
I said, "I bet this didn't used to be an apartment building. I bet it used to be one huge house and all these Collets lived together."
"Doubtful," Margret said.
But I insisted that there was something "too good to be true" about this all.
As we were leaving, I decided to look for proof of famousness. I looked at the floor, the ceiling, and lastly, I looked at the walls on the outside of the house. Guess what I saw?
A plaque hung by the door, and it said "Henri Collet, writer, musician, and critic, lived in this house."
So, moral of the story: Sylvaine was not necessarily famous, but I wasn't completely off-base with my guess. She's got a famous heritage. That's something cool, isn't it?
And just to prove (to whom? I don't know....myself?) that the plaque and the man listed on the plaque were real, I got home, and googled Henri Collet. Sure enough, he was real, and most likely, he was the old man in the black and white pictures.
So, just to say it one more time--today, I was at the home of Henri Collet, someone who might possibly have been mildly famous.
The end.
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Collet
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
As Good as it Gets
Bon soir from France!
I arrived here in Pontault-Combault Saturday, and thus far, I'm lovin' it. It's all a little different than I expected: there's not any heat, because the heater is broken and we're having an entirely new heating system installed. This morning, I heard this awful noise, and I thought my roommate, Margret, was having some bad gas, but then, the sound kept coming and coming, and I realized it was more than her (or rather, in case she reads this, I should say that it wasn't her at all...). There were men down in the basement, drilling a hole in the wall underneath Margaret and my bedroom. And besides that, the water's off, so I'm busy deciding whether to use Coca Cola or contact solution to brush my teeth. I'm happy, though. All these factors come together and make me feel like I'm in the middle of an adventure.
Typically, we have classes at two different locations--one in a place called La Corneuve and one in another place, Aisnieres. This week, someone broke into the church where we have our classes at La Corneuve, so this week, no classes there. I was at Aisnieres yesterday, however, and everything's going well there, so I'll be teaching my first class this Thursday. I'm starting a little sooner than I expected, but the material is also a little more basic than I anticipated, so I think it'll turn out all right. But there are rumors that there'll be a strike on Thursday, and it looks like it could be schools, transportation, and nearly everyone on strike, so if that's the case, I won't be teaching classes Thursday afterall.
But how's my French going?
Not so well. I'm speaking like a three year old--pointing at things and saying, "I want!" It's frustrating. My vocabulary needs some help. So, I went out today and got a book for teenagers, thinking that I'll start there, and try learning something...even if I'm learning things like "June has a crush on Jake" or "That's super cool".
But anyway, here's my newest method of communicating in French: I repeat the same word over and over again. You might think that sounds really awkward, and I can't possibly be doing what you're imagining, but most likely, you have it exactly right in your head. Someone will ask me how I'm doing and I'll say in response, "I'm doing well....well, well, well, well, well." Or the other day, someone asked if I liked cakes, and I replied, "Yes, I love cakes a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot!" Part of me thinks that sounding like an imbecile is a million times more polite than staying completely silent. But I'm not altogether sure...
Speaking of language difficulties, I went to have dinner with a couple working here on Saturday night. They asked me over along with a woman from their church and also along with a guest speaker who'd be speaking that Sunday at church. The woman, Sophie, asked me (I thought) if I planned to attend the church in Pontault-Combault, and I said, "I think so." She gave me a very confused look and said, "You don't know?" and I said, "No, I'm not sure." She looked around at everyone else who also looked confused. And she whispered, "She doesn't know?" About then, I started wondering what she'd really asked me, so I asked her to repeat the question. Very slowly, she said, "Are you attending the church in Pontault-Combault?" I quickly added that I'd only arrived that afternoon, and that's why I wasn't sure, but after that blunder, she didn't say much anymore. It's a little frustrating to be the person at the table who kills the conversation.
For example, here's my life at present:
Sam: Here's dinner! This is a lovely dish that I learned to make in China.
Bob: Wow, that's great, Sam. It smells great. What do you think, Katie?
Katie: Me happy!
Sam: Uh....okay. Well, Bob, I'm so excited about church tomorrow. What's the sermon going to be about?
Bob: The Tower of Babel. (Looking at me) It's probably a very important story for our time.
Sam: True. Katie, how's your dinner?
Katie: Me like it a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot!
(Dead silence...)
But like I said, this is still very much exciting for me, and I'm confident that I'll either learn French soon...or I'll give up on the French and pray for an instantaneous ability to use sign language to make my silence more acceptable.
I arrived here in Pontault-Combault Saturday, and thus far, I'm lovin' it. It's all a little different than I expected: there's not any heat, because the heater is broken and we're having an entirely new heating system installed. This morning, I heard this awful noise, and I thought my roommate, Margret, was having some bad gas, but then, the sound kept coming and coming, and I realized it was more than her (or rather, in case she reads this, I should say that it wasn't her at all...). There were men down in the basement, drilling a hole in the wall underneath Margaret and my bedroom. And besides that, the water's off, so I'm busy deciding whether to use Coca Cola or contact solution to brush my teeth. I'm happy, though. All these factors come together and make me feel like I'm in the middle of an adventure.
Typically, we have classes at two different locations--one in a place called La Corneuve and one in another place, Aisnieres. This week, someone broke into the church where we have our classes at La Corneuve, so this week, no classes there. I was at Aisnieres yesterday, however, and everything's going well there, so I'll be teaching my first class this Thursday. I'm starting a little sooner than I expected, but the material is also a little more basic than I anticipated, so I think it'll turn out all right. But there are rumors that there'll be a strike on Thursday, and it looks like it could be schools, transportation, and nearly everyone on strike, so if that's the case, I won't be teaching classes Thursday afterall.
But how's my French going?
Not so well. I'm speaking like a three year old--pointing at things and saying, "I want!" It's frustrating. My vocabulary needs some help. So, I went out today and got a book for teenagers, thinking that I'll start there, and try learning something...even if I'm learning things like "June has a crush on Jake" or "That's super cool".
But anyway, here's my newest method of communicating in French: I repeat the same word over and over again. You might think that sounds really awkward, and I can't possibly be doing what you're imagining, but most likely, you have it exactly right in your head. Someone will ask me how I'm doing and I'll say in response, "I'm doing well....well, well, well, well, well." Or the other day, someone asked if I liked cakes, and I replied, "Yes, I love cakes a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot!" Part of me thinks that sounding like an imbecile is a million times more polite than staying completely silent. But I'm not altogether sure...
Speaking of language difficulties, I went to have dinner with a couple working here on Saturday night. They asked me over along with a woman from their church and also along with a guest speaker who'd be speaking that Sunday at church. The woman, Sophie, asked me (I thought) if I planned to attend the church in Pontault-Combault, and I said, "I think so." She gave me a very confused look and said, "You don't know?" and I said, "No, I'm not sure." She looked around at everyone else who also looked confused. And she whispered, "She doesn't know?" About then, I started wondering what she'd really asked me, so I asked her to repeat the question. Very slowly, she said, "Are you attending the church in Pontault-Combault?" I quickly added that I'd only arrived that afternoon, and that's why I wasn't sure, but after that blunder, she didn't say much anymore. It's a little frustrating to be the person at the table who kills the conversation.
For example, here's my life at present:
Sam: Here's dinner! This is a lovely dish that I learned to make in China.
Bob: Wow, that's great, Sam. It smells great. What do you think, Katie?
Katie: Me happy!
Sam: Uh....okay. Well, Bob, I'm so excited about church tomorrow. What's the sermon going to be about?
Bob: The Tower of Babel. (Looking at me) It's probably a very important story for our time.
Sam: True. Katie, how's your dinner?
Katie: Me like it a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot!
(Dead silence...)
But like I said, this is still very much exciting for me, and I'm confident that I'll either learn French soon...or I'll give up on the French and pray for an instantaneous ability to use sign language to make my silence more acceptable.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Heidelberg
Sunday, we had a day of rest and went into Heidelberg for the evening.
In the background of this picture, you can see the castle in Heidelberg. This is going to sound ignorant, but I didn't take the tour of Heidelberg, so I can't really tell you any historical facts about the place.
So, I didn't stop at the castle, but the good news is....
I stopped at this cafe near the castle in Heidelberg. We went in and had coffee and....rested.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Training
Here are just a few pictures of Mosbach, Germany where I'll be for the next few weeks.
This little house is Mosbach's smallest house. Apparently, it's quite a tourist destination. For our first adventure here, we were sent out on a scavenger hunt, and had a list of things we needed to find: a Viking fleet, the smallest house, dates of an upcoming music festival, etc.
My friend, Emily, tells me that we women especially like small things (like this small house), because it reminds us of the babies we'll have in the future, and babies, when they come out, are small. I think she wishes she'd studied psychology in school. Instead, she'll be living on a boat for the next 2 years, teaching fourth graders.
Below is the youth hostel where I'm living at the moment until I get to France. It's a
cute place, and it's a nice walk between here and the conference center. All my friends live right across the hall, so we have fun.
My friend, Emily, tells me that we women especially like small things (like this small house), because it reminds us of the babies we'll have in the future, and babies, when they come out, are small. I think she wishes she'd studied psychology in school. Instead, she'll be living on a boat for the next 2 years, teaching fourth graders.
Below is the youth hostel where I'm living at the moment until I get to France. It's a
cute place, and it's a nice walk between here and the conference center. All my friends live right across the hall, so we have fun.Anyway, so far this week, we've been in training sessions. How do I live on a team? How do I live in a cross-cultural environment? How do I share with others? Who am I? and Who is God? and such things like that. So far, I've not recovered from jet lag, so I seem to fall asleep at any given moment. It's frustrating, because I'll think I'm listening really well, and then, all the sudden, strange things start happening...like midgets start dancing around or the ceiling caves in, and then, I realize that I've fallen asleep. I think I've even begun sleeping with my eyes open. Great talent. Besides that, nothing really new. Just meetings, meetings, meetings. It's fun, but I'm excited for a day off on Sunday. So, I'll update you then...when things get exciting.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Mosbach
So, I finally made it to Germany, and I wasn't ever lost for any substantial amount of time. But now, I'm here and safe and extremely tired.
I boarded the plane from Indianapolis to Boston, and I sat next to this guy from Canada. He was about 28 years old, and when we took off, he kept mumbling, "Blissfully unaware," and I thought, "He's a little strange..." Anyway, so we started talking, and I learned that he works as a technical writer at Lilly and was headed to Boston on business. I started telling him how I hated to fly, and I said, "Every time I get on a plane, I look around and think 'These are the people I'll die with...'" and he said, "Oh yeah, I think the same thing." He said that when they read off the flight number in the airport when the plane is boarding, he thinks, "Soon that number will be all over the news." After a while, the stewardess was headed down the aisle, handing out pretzels, and the guy beside me leaned over and said, "This is the part of the movie where they zoom in on the stewardess' face. Everything is normal. She's blissfully unaware." I laughed and said, "And then, the camera focuses on a bolt on the plane wing and how it's only beginning to loosen itself?" It was so strange meeting someone quite as morbid as me. But he was nice, and he gave me a John Grisham book he'd read during the flight, so I could have something to read when I got to France. Nice gesture. I did fine during this flight, probably because I had someone to distract me, but the other two were a little harder. I got to Boston, and it occured to me how I wasn't going home for a long time. About the time I boarded my flight for Dublin, Ireland, there was another flight boarding for Indianapolis, and I kept thinking, "This is it. I can't go home." I thought about trying to run to the Indianapolis plane and just fly right back home, because people board flights last minute all the time in the movies, but I knew I'd regret trying that, so I didn't. I can't really remember much of any other flights...during the other two, I sat alone, which was actually very nice considering the extra leg room. I listened to that Mayday Parade song that starts with "Katie, don't cry..." over and over again. I don't think it helped me to stop crying, because I sat there for a few hours with my blanket pulled over my head sobbing my eyes out.
But I'm in Germany now and things are morphing into some new kind of normal. I'm living in a youth hostel that's a 25 minute walk away from the OM Germany headquarters in Mosbach. I have three roommates--one from Holland, one from Switzerland and one from Germany. They speak German to each other all the time, and I've considered asking if any of them know any French so I could be inclued in the conversations, but I never have. Maybe later. They seem like they're nice, though.
We have conferences pretty much one after the other all day every day for the next 10 days. And speaking of that, I'd better go. Our first meeting of the day is "Why are we here," and that starts in about 15 minutes, so I'll get going.
I miss you all at home.
I boarded the plane from Indianapolis to Boston, and I sat next to this guy from Canada. He was about 28 years old, and when we took off, he kept mumbling, "Blissfully unaware," and I thought, "He's a little strange..." Anyway, so we started talking, and I learned that he works as a technical writer at Lilly and was headed to Boston on business. I started telling him how I hated to fly, and I said, "Every time I get on a plane, I look around and think 'These are the people I'll die with...'" and he said, "Oh yeah, I think the same thing." He said that when they read off the flight number in the airport when the plane is boarding, he thinks, "Soon that number will be all over the news." After a while, the stewardess was headed down the aisle, handing out pretzels, and the guy beside me leaned over and said, "This is the part of the movie where they zoom in on the stewardess' face. Everything is normal. She's blissfully unaware." I laughed and said, "And then, the camera focuses on a bolt on the plane wing and how it's only beginning to loosen itself?" It was so strange meeting someone quite as morbid as me. But he was nice, and he gave me a John Grisham book he'd read during the flight, so I could have something to read when I got to France. Nice gesture. I did fine during this flight, probably because I had someone to distract me, but the other two were a little harder. I got to Boston, and it occured to me how I wasn't going home for a long time. About the time I boarded my flight for Dublin, Ireland, there was another flight boarding for Indianapolis, and I kept thinking, "This is it. I can't go home." I thought about trying to run to the Indianapolis plane and just fly right back home, because people board flights last minute all the time in the movies, but I knew I'd regret trying that, so I didn't. I can't really remember much of any other flights...during the other two, I sat alone, which was actually very nice considering the extra leg room. I listened to that Mayday Parade song that starts with "Katie, don't cry..." over and over again. I don't think it helped me to stop crying, because I sat there for a few hours with my blanket pulled over my head sobbing my eyes out.
But I'm in Germany now and things are morphing into some new kind of normal. I'm living in a youth hostel that's a 25 minute walk away from the OM Germany headquarters in Mosbach. I have three roommates--one from Holland, one from Switzerland and one from Germany. They speak German to each other all the time, and I've considered asking if any of them know any French so I could be inclued in the conversations, but I never have. Maybe later. They seem like they're nice, though.
We have conferences pretty much one after the other all day every day for the next 10 days. And speaking of that, I'd better go. Our first meeting of the day is "Why are we here," and that starts in about 15 minutes, so I'll get going.
I miss you all at home.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Night of "Lasts"
Tonight is my last night in the United States until April (when I'll return for my brother's wedding).
I'm only just now stopping to think of that--of how long it'll be until I sleep in my bed again or how long it'll be until I run out of my house in my bare feet, checking to see if I forgot to get the mail. It's kind of sad. Let me rephrase that: it's very sad.
After I had coffee with one set of friends and dinner with another set (one of the friends in this latter group gave me a card her boyfriend had signed. He thought he'd written "Remember to shave your armpits" in French, but he accidentally wrote, "I love the smell of your armpits." Funny how these mistakes happen. Maybe this is a Freudian slip!), I found myself driving around the north side of Indianapolis, reliving the last 6 months of my life. It was strange doing this, pathetic even...
"Here's where I ran over the nail on my bike and was late for work" or "Here's the park where I found that pair of men's underwear" or "Here's the street pole where I found that man's wallet last summer" or even more significantly, "Here's the intersection where I decided to call the police after finding that man's wallet" and still more significantly "Here's the stretch of road I was driving when it occured to me that if the police found the wallet on me before I had the chance to call them, they'd probably assume I'd murdered the man and stolen his wallet."
Awww...sweet memories.
And now, I'm home from the Drive of Nostalgia. I'm attempting not to sleep much tonight, because I mildly hate flying and would really like to be able to sleep the entire flight, so there's laundry to do. There are two suitcases to pack, unpack, and repack. And of course, there's that slim possibility that I'll jump ship and sleep the rest of the night. We shall see...we shall see...
In the meantime, good night.
This was a short countdown, but we might as well finish strong:
1 day.
I'm only just now stopping to think of that--of how long it'll be until I sleep in my bed again or how long it'll be until I run out of my house in my bare feet, checking to see if I forgot to get the mail. It's kind of sad. Let me rephrase that: it's very sad.
After I had coffee with one set of friends and dinner with another set (one of the friends in this latter group gave me a card her boyfriend had signed. He thought he'd written "Remember to shave your armpits" in French, but he accidentally wrote, "I love the smell of your armpits." Funny how these mistakes happen. Maybe this is a Freudian slip!), I found myself driving around the north side of Indianapolis, reliving the last 6 months of my life. It was strange doing this, pathetic even...
"Here's where I ran over the nail on my bike and was late for work" or "Here's the park where I found that pair of men's underwear" or "Here's the street pole where I found that man's wallet last summer" or even more significantly, "Here's the intersection where I decided to call the police after finding that man's wallet" and still more significantly "Here's the stretch of road I was driving when it occured to me that if the police found the wallet on me before I had the chance to call them, they'd probably assume I'd murdered the man and stolen his wallet."
Awww...sweet memories.
And now, I'm home from the Drive of Nostalgia. I'm attempting not to sleep much tonight, because I mildly hate flying and would really like to be able to sleep the entire flight, so there's laundry to do. There are two suitcases to pack, unpack, and repack. And of course, there's that slim possibility that I'll jump ship and sleep the rest of the night. We shall see...we shall see...
In the meantime, good night.
This was a short countdown, but we might as well finish strong:
1 day.
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