Crois-moi

Growing up is tricky. Deflating. It involves learning and then admitting things about yourself… ‘grown-up’ qualities (and flaws) that were impulses in youth but which have matured into habits and traits.

I like to have a handle on whatever situation I’m in. I like having an answer to things – or, more precisely, I dislike being caught without an answer. This is one of those things that has solidified in me and maybe even become part of my character, whatever that is.

These are the kinds of things whose origins you can trace. I was the smart kid in middle school, the Academic Teamer in high school, and my friends in France come to me for linguistic clarification or cooking questions. My dad is Mr. Radio Shack (you’ve got a question, we’ve got an answer), and I am, after all, his daughter.

The weird thing is noticing that this habit of knowing the answer to things has become bigger than me. It is now an urge which I battle, a complicator of social situations and as much a casse-pied as an asset. A couple of weeks ago Stewart and Sue were conversing and were unsure of something. I chimed in with the answer and they snickered the “we knew you’d do that” laugh. You who are reading this are probably not surprised, but I was.

The reason I dwell on this is that it’s symptomatic of a trend. I feel like I’m being constantly reminded that I’m not a kid any more, that this body and this mind are in the process of setting up like the plates in a little kid’s cranium. I don’t want them to become part of my architecture. Adults I know seem ruled by their ‘personalities,’ and now I’m seeing that personalities are just the habits that stick and which people come to expect of you… and I want to be free and unpredictable!

Pat headed West yesterday in a car with his friends Charlie and Sam, both of whom deemed it ’solid’ to skip school this semester in order to go live and work at a ski resort. The season overwith, they bought a car and made there way here to scoop Pat up and embark on a journey to they-don’t-know-where for they-don’t-know-how-long. First of all, I’m jealous of their freedom and their friendship. Plus, Pat’s abrupt departure means there’s a cold silent space in the apartment whose hollowness is a reminder that the year that we knitted has already begun to unravel.

Nothing lasts forever, though, and last year felt this way, too. But how much longer am I going to be a transient, putting new roots down for ten months at a time? I’m afraid of getting too good at the up and leaving.

I had my first paper panic yesterday. I guess this is it : the next month and a half will be pressure and feeling guilty, knowing I’m not gonna get the thing done. This is how I work. I hate it, I should probably try to change it, but I don’t really see how. UGH.

Also, I woke up at 2 AM last night to a herd invading the apartment with I’m-too-drunk-to-control-my-volume voices. Lately more than ever, Pat’s friends have been traveling in a pack and making lots of noise in our building. I feel sort of uncomfortable whenever I see our neighbors. I hate being the one who has to tell people who are having fun to shut up or get out. Those aren’t the words I used, but it came down to the same thing. Maybe if I had managed to get these papers further along a couple of months ago, I’d feel more relaxed. I hate this panic.

The other cool thing about the past twenty-four hours is that when I woke up this morning and went to take my shower, our ceiling was leaking. NEAT. Time to call the land lord.

In the morning the buildings on the other side of the street soften the sun and reflect it into my windows. Before getting out of bed I listen to the building waking up. Liz’s laughter bubbles down from upstairs, dishes ring in someone’s sink, the water pipes groan, my chandelier vibrates with the footsteps in the room above mine. Finally I extricate myself from my pillowy bed and glide around the apartment – I shower, crack open the kitchen window, put water on to boil – joining the mutter and clink of the rest of my building.

This morning was one of those golden ones. Liz popped down to borrow some fruit and ended up inviting me up for porridge and a chat. She’s smart and cheery, full of good advice and funny stories. I file away her little britishisms as I hear new ones – today I learned “this place is a tip” (a mess). After porridge I tiptoed back home, opened all the windows, and straightened my room. I’ve been thinking a lot about what Toulouse has become for me, all the wonderful people it houses and the little spots that are so full of meaning to me now. Homesickness has subsided to an occasional craving for Mexican food and missing the people who are across the ocean… it doesn’t occur to me to blame any cases of the ‘blah’s on the fact that I’m not home any more.

So I guess I’ve managed to assimilate, feel comfy and all, just in time to prepare myself to leave. That makes sense, though. Life is keeping me on my toes.

Apparently Tyler, a Dickinson comrade, has also managed to grasp a little of French mentality. There’s currently discussion about whether to change the time slot of a French class next year, but no consensus has been reached. Here are Tyler’s two cents :
“i have a suggestion for all of you. As we all know, the french have a problem with democratic resolutions so instead i offer you a new resolution which should get everyone what they want… go out into the quads and morgan field and manifest fall semester. i believe the french department will recognize this form of anarchy much better and eventually bend and snap at your every beck and will. block the walk ways and the Quarry… wave banners and signs… “non à Papé” … i think you all could easily hold the french department between your hands… all i’m saying is think about it.”

My dad is excellent. This is part of the reason why :

“500 watt red Christmas tulips and short sleeve shirt weather is here. A
great day for cruising town in the old Chevy. (Actually, I needed a new
battery for the lawnmower.) I am stopped at a light, all windows down,
and Klezmer Conservatory is blasting “Oy, Abram”, better known for
“Gedenkstu, gedenkstu bay dem toyer.”

A Bel Air K9 police car pulls up at my right, with its back windows open
and a big German shepherd in the back seat, staring at me, very stern and
stiff. Right after the first “gedenkstu,”, the dog starts barking like
crazy, and doesn’t quit until the light changes. Maybe he thinks I’m
playing middle eastern terrorist music, or maybe he just doesn’t dig it.

While reporting this incident, I realized I didn’t know how to spell
“gedenkstu.” I wasn’t sure if it was one or two words, etc., so it’s
time to google “oy, abram.” Mostly it found links to CD sellers, but no
lyrics. (Here is a link to another band’s take on the song:
http://www.umich.edu/news/MT/NewsE/09_04/music.html – click the mp3
link). I did find alternate spellings, such as “Oy Avram” and “Oy Avrom”
which did get the lyrics (see attached). And it appears that “gedenkstu
bay dem toyer” means “do you remember, at the gate?” (German: “gedenkst
sie bei dem Tor”). So there is a bit of trivia picked up because of a
barking dog.”

That email makes me happy on so many levels. I miss my pa, that I do.

The Week of Lauren came to an end yesterday. We did lots of urban wandering while she was here – looping and re-looping around the streets of Centre Ville, exploring the numerous giant churches in town, picking through vintage stores… we took a night-time bike ride out to Saint Cyprien and trekked around the park at Compans Caffarelli, where turtles stack up on each other’s shells with their necks stretched out towards the sun and giant monster fish gulp down dogwood petals from the surface of their pond.

I am having trouble deciding how to describe Thursday night. Flo, Julie and I intended to take it easy and go home early. Somehow we found ourselves at the Gate just before closing time, taking crazy group Polaroids and bargaining with ourselves : “Just one more song, oui, one more and then we go.” I collapsed into bed dizzy and without an alarm clock, having lost my cell phone over the course of the evening, but somehow I managed to wake up at 7:57 the next morning and was at class by 8:20.

And today is Easter but I don’t have a family to celebrate with so I took my time at the market this morning, loaded up on treats (arugula, a fat roasted beet, avocadoes, sun-dried tomatoes, grainy pain d’aubrac) and coasted home on my bike to concoct the most spectacular salad I could manage. While France is home, cozy with family and the smell of roasting lamb, I shall infuse my Easter afternoon with Klezmer music and sunshine.

Class is over for the year. In eight days I should hear whether or not I’ll be off to the Middle East this summer to learn Arabic. I have 70 pages’ worth of papers between me and summer… here goes nothing.