Crois-moi

This weekend might have been titled, “The Dickinson Family Goes to Provence,” or perhaps, “Bird Poop Weekend.” We tooled around Arles, making jokes in front of a café Van Gogh painted, spreading tapenade on bread behind a Roman theater, traipsing down boulevards where the town’s ramparts used to be. Instead of being enchanted, though, in Arles we were reminded how lucky we are to be in Toulouse, where tourism has yet to penetrate and falsify the atmosphere of the city.

It was nonetheless a good trip. Many a social lesson was learned. It’s funny, though ; last year’s last outing had a unifying effect on the group, whereas this one revealed people’s impatience with each other.

I alluded earlier to one of the noteworthy aspects of the weekend : the impressive quantity of bird poop involved. Caitlin was bombarded twice under the same tree, Sarah was hit on our soapless excursion to Salon de Provence, and I was struck in my own hotel room by a bird who flew in. It hid under the bed ; then, frightened, it swooped across the room, relieving itself on my leg.

The final Dickinson excursion is over. The mile markers are running out for me here… I used to put off confronting The End with my father’s visit, then Katie’s, then the trip to Arles. All of those things are behind me now. Where will I go from here? I am feeling more and more confident about next year at Dickinson, but what will come after that?

Matt Landry, the only other student to spend two years in Toulouse, told me before I came to be open to whatever experiences might come my way. Indeed, in two years I’ve learned and gone through a lot. My time in Toulouse is limited, but I hope that the relationships I’ve found here aren’t.

Katie and Lizzie are here! It’s great how easily we fall back into our friendship. Last night we reminisced about all of the silly things that happened freshman year. Stewart kept calling me goofy. So what if I’m goofy? Those are good memories.

I saw Volver with Stewart, Liz, and Milo. Six months ago I didn’t know any of them, and now they’re three of the most important people in my life. We got coffee, ran into people we knew, etc. Toulouse isn’t that big a town, after all.

On the way home from the movies we saw people splashing topless in the fountain at place Salengro. The loud voices tipped us off before we could distinguish their faces : it was Pat, Tyler, Britney, and Vivian, floundering in the two-tiered font at midnight. Apparently they had been on the way to find some beers when the fountain, irresistible Siren, called to them. Britney cut her foot on some glass so the beer mission was abandoned to go bandage her appendage.

Hopefully I will accomplish something today. Happy Tuesday.

Today is Cute Grammatical Errors day for non-native speakers of English. In line at the grocery store today :
- Do we have a bottle opener?
- I look, but not find.
- You look?
- Yes, I look, but not know where to look. But I look.
- What we eating for dinner? Chicken? Or else I freeze the chicken breasts at home.

Sue also spotted another t-shirt with English vulgarities on it. She, Stewart and I went to see “Klimt,” which was interesting, if not really a good film.

Devendra was excellent, as was Vetiver. They twanged and warbled. We swayed and clapped. It was good. After the concert, Stewart and I took to our bicycles. We pedaled across bridges, traced swirly figures in the convention center parking lot, bumped up and down curbs. At one traffic circle we did loops, leaning into the curve, over and over. Two other bicycles arrived and joined us for a few laps, then wished us a good evening and peeled off into the night.

The mémoire is advancing in fits and spurts. They’re little fits and spurts, but it’ll do. I’m not sure how I’ll finish in time, but I have faith that it will happen.

Good things are happening.

Tired. Dad left this morning in a whirl of car rental hassle from which we emerged victorious and energized. Then the energy left me. Now I am pooped.

It was a good week. I can’t believe how quickly time just eats itself up and spits me out on the tail end of people’s visits, spent, dazed, and filled with dread of this stupid paper which I am still not writing.

All of the time on the road with my dad was good. My ineptitude with the stick shift was first funny, then frustrating, then funny again to us both. Somehow everyone else seemed to know better than to get behind me at stop lights. I stalled everywhere : in traffic circles, on magnificent scrubby plateaux, in underground parking lots. We enjoyed navigating the seemingly casually organized French roadway system. Forget your cardinal directions when driving in France ; all of the old roads were built any which way, connecting village to village in a windy web of tree-lined routes. To get to any given village on these routes, you need to know all of the stepping stone villages on your way. It’s easy to miss a turn and find yourself mired in a maze of unknown town names, circling a roundabout, circling, circling, like a roulette ball waiting to see if it’ll fall somewhere lucky.

One thing I like about French roads is their signage. It’s not unusual to be driving through a town and see a sign pointing off to one side saying, “All Directions.” That’s comforting. A flick of the steering wheel, and you’ll be headed – anywhere. Everywhere. The ambiguity makes me daydream.

Another favorite is the giant exclamation point, which seems to indicate danger, but isn’t always defined. It’s better when things are unclear, left open to interpretation. The French are into that – gray area.

Achile broke his leg yesterday when he hit the ground after jumping from the window. Flo’s friend took him to the vet, but it’s gonna cost 500€ to operate, so I don’t know what we’re going to do. It sucks. When I went to pick him up and put him in his little travel cage to go to the vet, he didn’t even try to bite me. The little guy must really be suffering.

Tonight Stewart and I are going to see Devendra Banhart and Vetiver. Sometime between now and then I need to become awake. Also, I wonder if it will be Americatown at the concert… and if I will run into anyone I know. On verra bien!

The PA is here… and oh, what an adventure it has been! He came in to Toulouse on the same flight as Stewart’s parents, strangely enough. Together we have wandered the city afoot and aFiat. I learned how to drive the zoomy little two-door manual we rented. Stick shift is fun : jolting from gear to gear, stalling at lights in the middle of a city… I’ve got the hang of it now, though.

And Shana is back from Africa with her friend Laura, who rules, too. On their first couple of days here they seemed like they were still elsewhere, getting used to things again, I guess. Yesterday they came with me and Dad to Carcassonne, where we ambled around the ramparts, Dad and I arguing over what the history of the town could have been, neither of us thinking to look at a guide book and settle the matter. According to Shana, the reconstruction of the town in the 19th century was planned by a guy who just built what he thought a medieval castle should look like, disregarding fidelity to the original design. The result is a gorgeous but sometimes odd amalgam. Its yellowish walls are studded with bricks and little gray stones. Chunks of crenellated rampart jut skyward without any apparent function. The fortress, once a key strategic military stronghold, is now a tourist playland. It has 140 residents and thousands of daily passers through, lickers of ice cream cones and takers of photographs.

The other thing I should mention is our cocktail party on Saturday. True to form, 8 rue Baronie threw a ridiculous party (there I take undue credit – when you pack two apartments full of people the party throws itself). The upstairs neighbors had a party, too, so that meant party on two floors, party in the stairwell, party on the balcony… if you judge the quality of a party on how sticky the floor is the next morning, you could call this one a success. Around 4, Shana, Laura and I blockaded ourselves in my room (bad party form) to try to sleep, but apparently the thing carried on until 7. When I got up at 10, Sue was asleep on the dining room table. Bottles were everywhere. Extra pieces of the bathroom ceiling had come down. Otherwise, no damage! All night people kept thanking me for the party, saying, “It’s so great of you to do this… I’d never want my apartment to get this trashed!”

This will be a short one, as I need to get WRITING (I’m always writing).

The crazy bag lady wandered by yesterday. It had been a while since I’d seen her. I tried to make a film of her with my camera, but she ducked into the teddy bear store across the street. She was shouting, “In France, they steal children, they rape children – what barbarity!” And when she caught people laughing at her, “You’re all going to hell, sooner than you think!” All she does is scream vitriol, but everyone within earshot smiles at each other, actually making eye contact, in a fleeting moment of shared hilarity.

Also, today is appartently People Talking to Themselves Day, as well as Lazy Eye Day (fun fact : the word ‘louche’ in French means cross-eyed, sketchy, and… ladle!). At LiDL, while locking my bike to the entrance gate, a very smelly man with a thick Toulousain accent told me that it’s illegal to park your car on a door, and that he didn’t want to have to tell me twice, and that Sarkozy would have something to say if I didn’t listen. I think he was flirting with me, but it was hard to tell whether the thing he was doing with his face was smiling or ventilating his empty tooth sockets.

Back to business, though. This is a couple of weeks old, but I wanted to show you :

My first confituring (a limited-edition strawberry marmelade run) was a resounding success. I might even call it “Awesome Jam.” Keep an eye out for Kat-made concoctions this summer, too… I’m just gonna keep on jammin’.

FYI (for those to whom it matters) : Shana gets here today, the Pa on Friday. Busybusy. You could call my schedule jam-packed.