But wait!

Write after I wrote that last post, I stepped outside, I walked down la grande rue, got wished a bonne soirée by the woman who sold me flowers, yellow and wrapped tightly in cellophane. The Comédie was packed as always, full of excitement, full of people who want to do more exciting things than watch television in their living room each night. And my heart jumped up into my mouth and said, Don't leave. My plane ticket home may be a one shot deal, nonrefundable for May 19, but maybe, just maybe, I'll find a way back in Europe, permanently or otherwise.

Have you ever peeled the skin right off a boiled tomato? I just did, in preparation of the birthday festivities for Michéle, my host mom. It came right off with a quick slice of a knife.

Sentimentality towards [a definition of] home

When I was growing up in Oyster Bay, I considered home the place you loved just enough to say goodbye. I considered sunny front porches, small high schools, Memorial Day parades and pajamas-inside-out snow day rituals fine, for a small life, for a life where high school was easy and everything felt right already. Leaving was never a question (even though it was more leaving, with a lowercase l, because you always come back to find out you're not a part of this place anymore but you haven't missed much), an college gave me an open road and some grand image of what I could become: like so many other freshmen awkwardly forming friendships and throwing around their ideas of the future that fall, I envisioned important careers, incredible eye-opening people, and the endless late-night spontaneous happy moments that would dot the next four years of my life. And even though I did choose a college with even tinier, almost less expansive demographics than my sleepy hometown, I found those important people, unearthed those magical quiet moments you find in a library or a newspaper office or a walk in the dead of winter and strung them like pearls. Geneseo was the first place where I had rooms to decorate all by myself, a schedule and social circle and a calendar of events tailored to my liking, and through sophomore and junior year I realized home wasn't a place to escape from, it wasn't a place separate from real life - it was here under my feet, waiting patiently for me to notice.

And has it followed me to France, I wonder? After a whirlwind February break (Paris, Amsterdam, London, and a 48-hour intestinal bug all in a week) it felt really, really nice to throw myself down on a chair in Montpellier's airport to wait for the bus to the tram station and be someplace both familliar and still exciting. I won't be tearing up my return plane ticket and asking my parents to ship my things to my 34000 address (The french consulate, my family, my wallet, etc. probably wouldn't support this decision anyway - but that crepe-maker in Paris who suggested I live with him would be totally pumped) but there is no way I will ever, ever forget this place.

What a strange life this is

Minutes ago, I was downstairs in the apartment at the kitchen table, eating some quiche Lorraine that Michèle had left Sakura and I for dinner. I was half-reading, half-digesting, and half-listening to Sakura and her friend speak in rapid Japanese on the couch nearby and it just occurred to me how nice and strange the moment was, to have just returned home from a week travelling to other countries, to be tired and eating good food in a French apartment listening to my Japanese flatmate speak. It just felt like little points on some map of my life came together, like it was something I would think about when I have long gray hair to put up in clips and lots of time to stare out windows and think about my life.

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I feel like in between trying to translate everything in my thoughts and words from English to french and back again, I'm forgetting what I'm actually trying to say. I feel like I can't remember the right way certain tenses of English verbs go, and I stare at words I've written, wondering if it makes sense. Twenty years of one language and I feel like a beginner again.
And french can come and go just as easily. If I wake up and check my e-mail and the myriad of English-language, time-sucking Web sites at my disposal, I can hardly walk outside and respond to a simple question in French, or ask my host mom how she's doing.

But in any case, there's no longer time to think about things like this (see? I feel like my sentences are awkwardly over-formal or something) because the sun is shining, and I've got two hours before my translation class to lay outside.

Oh, and I went to the Dali museum in Figueres on Sunday, it was really cool. Dali designed certain works for the museum especially and the whole place is just a surreal haven of his ridiculousness. Seriously, one of the coolest artists ever. And the famous picture of the melted clocks, "The Persistance of Memory," was there on loan from the MoMA, another one of my favorite museums. I'll put up pictures soon!

Chai Tea and Talkin' French

Yesterday I went to Book in Bar, an English-language bookstore in Montpellier where they have English-French conversation exchange nights every two weeks. I was a little nervous to go, and incredibly tired from a three-hour politics class in the morning and celebrating two friends' birthdays the night before, but I'm so glad I did!

The bookstore is adorable, a worn chair of a building: it's hidden on an older, pedestrian-only street and the inside smells like tea and used books. There are a few tables scattered about; books in titles of every category spill out of shelves, begging to be leafed through. The French-English conversation was loose and casual - mostly adults and a few American students I knew from class, switching (mostly) seamlessly between the two languages. I chatted with a French 27-year-old woman named Natalie for a while, she was nice! I was just excited to actually be talking with a French person outside of my apartment; all my legitimate conversations up until now had been with my host mom and my American friends (who I try to speak French with - somtimes! But it's difficult to always do that). When the store closed and the group separated, everyone was smiling, content, happily wishing everyone else une bonne soiree.

On top of chatting with really lovely people for two hours, I drank chai tea served in a really adorable teapot. Needless to say, I'll be coming back.

Smelled like spring again

1. I saw these firemen (pompiers) on strike today at the Place de la Comedie, which is Montpellier's main pedestrian square. France has strikes a lot, so I guess these guys were feeling relaxed about it: I guess they figured their truck (grève means strike) spoke for itself, so they took a couple of cafe tables & chairs to just soak up the day.

2. I felt put-together-ish today, so I took a picture to commemmorate. Also, it was sunny for the first time in four days, thank god, which meant I could ditch my yellow coat (not going to lie, it was starting to get to a permanently-damp, wet-dog-smelling status) and stroll the streets exactly as pictured. I didn't have class today, so I went to the train station to book some travel for my break in two weeks, and then to take advantage of the very last of the soldes (think Black Friday stretched out for a month) to build up my chic French wardrobe. So yeah, not really the most intellectually stimulating day, but I did read some of The Adventures of TinTin to take in a little french. The only thing that has stuck so far is the phrase "Mille sabords!" which I think is an old-fashioned, nicer way of saying "Merde!"

3. This is a photo from the Mare Nostrum aquarium of Montpellier. I went this Saturday with two friends and it was really good! There were penguins, and jellyfish, and fish, and coral, and I just love aquariums, and how dark and calm they feel.

Rain, rain...

...go away, please. It's supposed to rain for a few days in Montpellier, and it's seriously bringing me down. I've been awake for a few hours already because I thought I had a history class on the holocaust at 10h15...not so. It was cancelled, so I sat in bed and lingered, and thought.

I want to be really good at French by the time I leave, and I think I can do this. At the same time, though, I don't want my English to change (if that makes sense?)...I like writing, I like the way I write, and what if adjusting to French syntax and style for the semester ruins my (writing) life forever? I need to keep writing. Like I did this summer, where words were just spilling out, where thoughts and phrases and plot outlines felt effortless. I've spent a fair amount of time in my bedroom this weekend, and maybe I shouldn't be doing that. I need to be surrounding myself with friends, not vestiges of online interaction. All it does is make me think of Geneseo, of the friends and parties I have had there...and what if it's all different when I get back?

I knew I had to study abroad. For so long, I felt like there was something bigger out there for me. But what if this is...too big? Too different? What if I didn't need to change that much, after all?