Wherever You Go, Go With All Your Heart

Thoughts On Future Educators

2011-09-24T02:52:00.000+09:00

I am an education major. Secondary Education with an emphasis in history to be exact. I am not sure if I ever come out and excitedly proclaimed this to the world, "Hey world, I'm a future teacher!"

Why?

Because I spend more time being belittled or belittling my major. My friends are all science majors and so naturally anything less than Biology 101 is seen as an 'easy' class. And I have to be honest, my Elementary Education classmates take a Senior seminar that requires them to make diagrams with shoe boxes as a 3 credit hours class. I mean I can understand what my science friends mean when they compare my Ed F 355 Adolescent Growth and Development textbook with their Organic Chemistry textbook.

That being said, I am happy to oblige my friends and throw in a few cheap shots about my major as well. It is not hard to do, when practically all of my classes are filled with several breeds of people, none of which are those I would necessarily want as my first choice for a teacher.

The Sorority Chica: On Tuesdays, all girls in Panhellenic at Clemson are 'required' to wear there a stitched letter shirt with the letters of their perspective sorority. I say required because I am in a sorority, and I have very rarely worn a stitched letter shirt on Tuesday. I would say that a lot of sorority girls forget to wear their letter shorts on Tuesday, but this generalization is quickly thrown out the window when stepping into any given education class. 80% of the females in my major wear sorority letter shirts, and live up to the 'typical sorority girl' stereotype, "So, like, yesterday at my school, like, the teacher gave them a test, and then like, told them to, like, take it." I want to say that now all sorority girls are like this. I, for one, am more interested in my major than my sorority.

The Coach: When I first switched into my current major, several people asked me what sport I intended to coach. I had no idea what they were talking about and instead talked about my own pursuits to run marathons. I now understand the question. About 60% of the guys in Secondary Education (history) discuss Clemson sport stats and excitedly talk about their future profession of coaching. Oh yeah, and history too.

The Future Lawyer: Several other students are planning on using the major to jump into law school. I never understood why someone would go through all the trouble of student teaching for a teaching certification when they had no intention of pursuing classroom involvement. But I soon learned that Education is simply easier than Political Science or History.

The Undeclared Professional: Other students sort of 'fell' into education because they did not know what else to do. Most of these students came to college with hopes of a guaranteed job after 4 years of study. There are only a few pre-professional fields of study at Clemson that give you a job title in your early majors. That's not to say that an education major is guaranteed a job, quite the opposite in fact. But with this major one is at least guaranteed a place on Craigslist or Monster to begin looking. With a Bachelors in Political Science, what is one supposed to do in regards to jobs after college?

The World Changers: Then you have your idiotic idealists who look at changing the world through educating the people. I'm not going to lie, this is where I fall in. When I first became a Secondary-Education (History) major, I came up with the genius reason for wanting to be a teacher. Therefore, when my Dad, my friends, and other people who knew me said things like, "You are so much better than Education" "Trilingual, and all you want to do is be a high school teacher, I don't understand" or "You're making a bad decision, you'll never get a job, it's a joke of a major."

To this, I had prefabricated a wonderful intricate and seemingly ingenious response: "I would rather be happy in life, than miserable. I would rather love my job than hate it. I want to teach kids the past so that they do not make the wrong decisions. Without knowledge of the past, we are deemed to repeat it." Yadda Yadda. So sappy and sentimental. But I believed it- well, I still believe it.

I am in the classroom now, and my views have evolved. I still think I can change the world as a teacher, but I no longer think that I can do that through teaching kids about history and expecting them to eat it up and and live by it to the extent that I did. You see, I went to a high school with almost 100% college retention rate, a perfectly upper-SES class, and a nearly homogeneous suburban New Jersey High School. I will be student teaching in a 'high needs' High School. My class is made up of freshman students with varying levels of intellect. Income disparity is prevalent, and minorities are not minorities in the school. I have only been observing now for a month but I can already tell that my views about education are changing. I am less idealistic, and more realistic. I find it more challenging to spend days in the classroom with my students and then return to Clemson to hear my friends talk about how stupid my major is.

Travel Channel New SHow Pitch

2011-07-13T22:33:00.000+09:00

Okay, this summer has gone on long enough. I'm ready to be back at Clemson. Being bored at college at least is better than being bored at home.

On the bright side, I have watched several television series, reread all the Harry Potter and Hunger Games books, and decided to try and at least work on the 1001 Movies You Have To See list. Oh and I've also started to watch the Travel Channel, which seems like something I should have started to do years ago.

So far, I have learned a few things. Admire Adam in Man vs. Food, don't try to say if he can do it, so can I. If Andrew Zimmerman ever needs to be replaced (probably from food poisoning or his body shutting down from all the weird stuff he manages to try) give me a call. I'm down for that kind of stuff. I've eaten cow balls before, that's got to count for something. Anthony Bourdan and I would be good friends I think, since we both have that same try everything but be sarcastic about it attitude. And let's be honest, Bet is cool, but the stuff he conquers is not that daring.

With so much time on my hands as of recent, I have begun daydreaming about my only travel channel show and what crazy idea I would have has the shows premises. And it came to me instantly... Host Family! A 20 year-old fairly well-traveled kid (me..) would travel around the world and spend one week in a family in various different countries. The family would get to decide what to do and how to really immerse the student (me) which could include, crazy things, bizarre foods, and sarcastic muses about life in said-different country. I think it would be brilliant. Episodes could even be split too. Like comparing life in New Jersey with Georgia is vastly different. The same is probably true for comparing lifestyles in Sydney and the Outback, in the suburbs of Paris and the French wine country, and in Hokkaido and Kochi.

Travel Channel, give me a call if you are interested! I even know some French, Japanese, German, Argentinian, and Australian families that would be interested in hosting...

The Really Bad Flatmate of the World

2011-07-09T07:36:00.000+09:00

Dylan Moran on America

How Traveling Changed My Politics... and made me more confused

2011-07-09T02:38:00.001+09:00

Before I began traveling long term, I was a hard core Republican. I came from a family of political conservatives, which included everything from Attila the Hun fascists to march with Martin Luther King independents. I was in 6th grade, when I peered out the window of my Middle school classroom and watched smoke rise over the distant city of New York. I learned the meaning of terrorism and hatred and American pride and what it means to be a Republican at 11 years old, when most kids my age just wanted to French Kiss on the playground. I poured out Grey Goose vodka and refused rides in German cars in 2003, on the edge of the Iraq 'conflict.' In 2004, I was a guest at the George W. Bush inauguration, my hero (until his last term when he began spending like slimy welfare-lovin' liberal.) Everything seemed to change after that.

Now, the Political Compass is calling me Left/Social Libertarian, and I can no longer watch Fox News. And every time my Mom starts talking about politics, I can not help but getting up and leaving the room.

First, I should probably start by saying I wasn’t the “stereotypical” Republican, many Republicans are, in fact, not “stereotypical”, to be fair. But the problem is that I had the tendency to have beliefs that my parents had drilled in my head. Although my Dad has changed drastically, especially in regards to to Social aspects, my mother is still radically conservative. My beliefs mainly boiled down to “Less Federal Government is Better,” which I still believe to some extent, but am slowly beginning to change my views on even this topic.

I fully understood that the money my parents were forced to pay to the government was used to build beautiful state-of-art school in Newark, NJ. This occurred while my own Public School, one of the best in the state, was falling apart, or had asbestos hanging from the ceiling. This to me was wrong. But I truly did not understand how it worked, in retrospect.

However, I have always been socially liberal. I can remember clearly in 2008, when my best friend, who's mother runs Planned Parenthood in New York City, and I went into New York City to participate in the Gay Pride parade. Neither one of is Gay, but we wanted to show that we supported them. I asked my friend if I was the only Republican in the crowd and she told me that without a doubt I was the only one with any conservative thoughts whatsoever. Probably not true. My Dad sort of ignored me when i told him what I had done in the city, but my mother was anything but pleased.

I believe in gay rights, gay marriage, and am pro-choice. But I also believe that it should not even be an issue. Gays are people like us, and if I can get married, I don't even understand why there would be an issue for them to be married. Thus, when this issue comes up, I tend to just not say anything and sit around in disgust. (Imagine my surprise with what goes on living and going to school in SOuth Carolina Bible country.)

I also used to be pro-gun rights. Why? Parental influence. My Mom raised me to love Carleton Heston. That was th extent of my knowledge on owning a gun. If you wanted to have a gun, as long as you didn’t use it to commit crimes, you should be allowed to. I thought the government had no business interfering in the private lives of its citizens. After all, in one of the amendement thingies we always talk about in school it says something about owning a gun. Thanks Mom!

I disagreed with government-sponsored social programs to support the poor, mainly because I thought they just threw money at the issue without looking at the root problems. I know also knew personally of people who went ahead and had another baby, not out of parental devotion, but because of an additional check each month. While I wanted to end welfare and medicaid type programs, I also thought every American had a personal responsibility to look after the less fortunate. This sort of helped me sort out my views that Americans ought not to be taxed for welfare, but should be able to support charity on their own. It should be my choice about where my money is spent.

I had plenty of liberal friends, but I stood firm in my beliefs, I was not to be swayed. So what happened? How did seeing the world, living with host families, indulging in another culture, change all these views?

"Americans are just Canadians with guns." In Japan, I was asked tirelessly if i had a personal gun. The story of Yoshihiro Hattori was relayed to me more times than I could have possibly counted. Somewhere along the lines, I realized the strict gun control and social programs of Japan were the reason for the safe streets (overlooking the Japanese Yakuza after all.....)

I was sick in France one time. It turned out to be Bronchitis, which, left untreated, could have hospitalized me and definitely ruined my ski trip in Chamonix with my Dad. At the time, I moaned and complain to L R that I hated the French medical system. The first trip to the doctor left me with over three different drugs including back, foot, and head medicine when I swear all I had was the sniffles. But my Brocitus treatment left me with a whole new aspect on universal health care. Depending upon where you seek treatment in France you may be paying for coverage through your government healthcare or you may be treated in a private healthcare situation. The beds in France are distributed between public hospitals, non-profit hospitals and for-profit companies - and health care jobs are regarded very highly in social status. Why was I ever against this universal health care system? Taxes. The taxes that are levied in order to pay for the providing of care to the public are quite high. As much as 12.8 of gross earnings are taken from an employee before they can even be paid. While it used to be 6.8% of earned income, the rate has now been dropped down to 0.75% of earned income. The heaviest taxes are on the rich, and not just the rich who have income. Rich people with assets are still taxed at a high enough rate to bring in more money to the national healthcare system

I used to believe that the government should not be involved in the markets. Since youth, I was taught free market would correct problems, so deregulation of industries was needed. However, as I got older and time went by, I realized that leaving problems to be solved by the free market assumes that consumers force corporations to comply to certain ethical standards or that the stockholders and board members make choices based not solely on profits, but on moral values as well.

Unfortunately, the bottom line seems to win out most of the time. The majority of consumers want the best products and services for the cheapest prices, so of course jobs need to leave the US to find a cheaper workforce elsewhere. Stockholders want high profits. It’s not enough to make A profit every year, a company needs to make larger and larger profits. In order to achieve lower prices and higher profits, corners need to be cut somewhere. This has proven, to me, over time to not usually be in favor of the American public.

Taxes are higher in Europe, but I neer heard anyone suffering under too high taxes. In fact, people seemed to go on strike when more conservative programs were pushed, which wuld lead to lower taxes. Plus, taxes are really that much higher when you factor in the cost of health insurance in the US and the cost of college tuition there (college tuition is paid for by taxes here, students only pay fees). [My host parents in Europe one time did the Math... we pay more in the USA.]

There is more to say on this. But I keep changing my mind on lots of different political ideas and stances. I think the best thing to say is that I have thrown off the brainwashing from my youth. I am independent and able to think for myself. And the fact of the matter is that my travels have given me a new mindset, a new way to look at the world.

Why Was I Born Here?

2011-07-03T23:30:00.000+09:00

This is not some editorial blog post about reincarnation. (Although I have strong beliefs toward reincarnation, my college life in the rural south of Clemson University, and taught me one thing above all else. Don't talk about religion, that does not correspond with the majority. Sad but true...) This is a post about what it means to realize that while one's passport proudly proclaims a birth rite of an American citizens, I have my own personal doubts and apprehensions. I believe I was born in the wrong country. A honest mistake but a mistake nonetheless.

On my United Kingdom excursion, I was able to read this wonderful book Geography of Bliss: One Grumps Search for the Happiest Places in the World, by Eric Weiner. When he began the book, he identifies a character, or certain kind of person, very much like myself. In America, we seem to be expected to be happy 100% of the time, and those of us that are not happy 100% of the time are outliers, unhappy people who live unhappy lives. This is certainly not the case at all, even though I am one of those outliers that is not 100% happy all the times. I'll admit, I'm not a naturally happy person. But I'm not a naturally miserable person either. In fact, I am happy most of the time, I just don't feel the need to show it or remind the world around me how happy I am. Things that make me happy are small and minuscule coffee mugs, old books, emails from France, and so forth.People are quick to identify me as a Pessimist, but I do not see myself as a pessimist. Jokingly, I used to tell people that I am pessimistic optimist, or someone that is realistically happy, rather than just phony happy all the time. I think it's the best way to describe it.

Another type of person, Weiner refers to is the Hedonic Refugee. Simply put, the Hedonic Refugee is a person who was born in the wrong country. They are people who’ve found a better cultural fit in a country other than their birth-place, “not political refugees, escaping a repressive regime, nor economic refugees, crossing a border in search of a better-paying job. They are hedonic refugees, moving to a new land, a new culture, because they are happier there. Usually, hedonic refugees have an epiphany, a moment of great clarity when they realize, beyond a doubt, that they were born in the wrong country.”

For me, that epiphany came when I was 16. I’d just returned from spending my year abroad in Kochi, Japan. I was young and naive at the time, when I truly began to believe that I was meant to live in Japan, meant to be Japanese. But as time gone on, I have begun to realize that Japan is not the place I am meant to be for the rest of my life, but I am sure without a doubt that the United States is not the place either. With Japan, as much as I would love to close out my American life, and begin life in Japan, I am not Japanese. People who have never been to Japan will not understand what that means. In American it does not matter if you are not America to be accepted, in Japan it certainly does matter.

I have been all around the world: Japan, Australia, France, UK, Germany, and many others and I still have not found the pace I was meant to be born. I thought for a minute that I was meant to be British several years ago while on a school excursion to London. But this past trip with my Grandma has confirmed one thing: London is not Great Britain. London is my favorite place in the entire world, and while I know I could spend a considerable amount of the rest of my life there, I am not entirely sure that Britain is my country of should-be birth.

“What to do with this information?” He asks after detailing the phenomenon of ‘cultural fit’. “Should we administer cultural-compatibility tests to high school students, the way we used to test for career compatibility? I can imagine the phone call from the school guidance counselor. “Hi, Mrs. Williams, we’ve tested little Johnnie and determined that he would fit in perfectly in Albania. He’d really be much happier there. A flight leaves at 7:00 p.m. Should I go ahead and make that booking for you?

Of course not. Just because the culture fits doesn’t mean we should wear it, and, besides, every society needs its cultural misfits. It is these people – those who are partially though not completely alienated from their own culture – who produce great art and science. Einstein, a German Jew, was a cultural misfit. We all benefit from Einstein’s work…”

He has a point. I imagine that if I ever did manage to find a country filled with people identical in personality to me, I probably would not want to live there. There was an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry realizes he is making a grave error in marrying a girl just like himself. "All of a sudden it hit me, I realized what the problem is; I can't be with someone like me..I hate myself!! If anything I need to get the exact opposite of me....It's too much. .It's too Much I can't take it ...I can't take it!!!"

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that you could devote your entire life to traveling the world to find that soul-mate of cities or that country you were destined to spend happily ever after with and maybe you’ll luck out and find it. I'm doing that with every trip I take and every experience I go through. I hope one day I can be like some of the great Americans in Paris, or wherever I might finally call home.

But for now, I think I'll embrace my time in New Jersey and then head back to school in South Carolina. I'm gonna save myself the trouble of complaining about not fitting in and work hard at learning to love the little things about America. The fact of the matter is that I see America as tourists see it. I'm better accustomed and less surprised at it's little quirks and wonders. But it is still a different experience for me. I'm American by birth, but Hedonic Refugee by fate.

Just a Few Random Totalitarian Thoughts Inspired by Europe

2011-06-30T02:21:00.001+09:00

These recent trips to Europe have made me think a lot about my favorite subject; history. Europe offers endless experiences to indulge in history. It is after all the cradle of modernity, and has the most magnificent history from the Greeks to the Romans, the medieval fiefdoms, and the British Empire. I love any and all forms of history. I love a trip to the ancient city of Bath of the Roman Empire, just as much as I enjoy a good tour around the battlefields of Verdun. However, I enjoy contemporary history above all, which in regards to European history means 19th century onwards.

Since my DGPS trip, I have gone a weird research obsession with Nazi Germany. More specifically Adolph Hitler. I realize this is not something to admit proudly, and I do so only because my studies have all but taken over my life. I find myself immersed in Mein Kampf to truly understand Hitler’s reasons and thoughts, hungry for more information on the Goebbels family, and the inner most life of Eva Braun among other things.

I have across many books and many ideas and generalizations in my research about Adolph Hitler. One such book, which I picked up while studying the bible before my Hitler mania, talked about how even Hitler went to heaven. Is in heaven currently. And after all that reading, I do think that Hitler believed what he was doing was good, as seriously sad, sadistic, and messed up as that may sound. Also, I believe that seriously "misguided" souls like his serve as a reminder of what we are capable of. Though on a another level it has inspired true compassion we all have for humanity and the like.

I read Hitler’s writings and I understand what he says. I see his points and acknowledge the black and white words on the pages. But the generalizations are so biased and not backed up by ay such facts. How he got all of the Germans to follow his into the world’s worst war ever fought is completely behind my ability of understanding.

I watch the news and see Cuba, North Korea, and Saudi Arabia among others.

There are still many non-democracies but will the world see the rise of villainous tyrants again? What I mean are the authoritarian types, probably, our lovely Vladimer Putin for example, but what about near-gods who completely control the destiny of millions or even billions?

Will there be totalitarian giants in the 21st century? The immediate answer that comes to my mind is no. But I wonder if it is because the world is generally more stable than ever before? After all, WWI made the Russian revolution and Hitler possible. And dissolution of western and Japanese imperialism following WWII made Mao and third world revolutions possible. Will there be a great ideology or great struggle that could unite vast numbers of people desperate for change or a more hopeful future in a period of horrific turmoil--one that usually catapults individuals into the heights of power?

My True Love

2011-06-29T00:26:00.000+09:00

“You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” -Samuel Johnson

I am in love.

Head over heels, drop-dead smitten, had me at "Cheerio," unconditionally and irrevocably in love. I like to say that I left a little piece of my heart in all the places I have traveled to. And while this is the case for most countries, one place holds the key to my whole heart. The city of London.

I tell everyone that I have seen the likes of Sydney, Australia, which has been ranked the best city in the world for 8 years in a row. Been romanced on the charming canals of Venice, Italy, a favorite among most people. Seen wonders and ancient beauty in mysterious Kyoto, Japan. Indulged in the grapes of Burgundy and seen the lights of Paris, France. Indulged in delicious beer and chocolate in Belgium and Germany (can not decide which has better beer and chocolate.) I have now seen the Emerald Isle and all of it’s green spector and chased bagpipes and literary genius in Scotland. I have been to a lot of places around the world by this ripe old age of 20 years old. I realize how fortunate I am and yet, in all of these spectacular place, I truly have one love. London.

I cannot explain this phenomenon. From what I gather, even most Londoners are not too fond of their city. I suppose it is the same for my neighbors at home, who have either a love or hatred for New York City. I love New York, but not to the extent that I love London. There are no words to describe how strongly I love the city. Except that every time I hear someone say London, my heart flutters as a school girl with a little crush.

My love for London is returned to me in a wonderful feeling of being at home. It's an incredible feeling, that warm and tingly sensation of being home. It's a familiarity. It's the ability to know everything about something and still love it (or at least tolerate it.) You can go right into the closet and pull out a jar of strawberry jam and it would not be a problem. It's a comfortable bed and a feeling of safety. It's putting one's feet up in the sofa, a cup of tea with just the right amount of sugar and a crumpet to be washed down. It's comfortable and easy conversation over a big plate of comfort food and a pint of beer. It's home. And for some reason, I feel that way every time I am in London.

In New York, I always feel that the city is mine. It's familiar but it's a different kind of familiar. It's that good friend you have had for a very long time and you probably will have to the end of time. Yet you rarely see New York because they are always doing other things and moving quicker than you can keep up. It's the long conversations that only scratch the surface of the whole character. And after time, you realize you'll never truly know New York because it's too fast-paced and constantly changing for you. But that does not change what a good old pal they are, and how they will always be there for you. Paris is another old friend, but is also that snooty little spoiled kid you grew up with. Always more beautiful, smarter, cultured than you, and sure to tell you at every opportunity. Yet your still good friends with Paris because it amuses you and still has that magic it always has. But Paris is a small doses kind of friend. You still really enjoy spending time with them, but not too excessively. You can not take being with them for too long without feeling insulted by your lack of culture. And then there is London.

I love everything about London as well. I love the terribly gray weather because it brings out the brightest colors in umbrellas and rain boots. I love the bright red mail boxes that bear E R II, for the lovely queen. I love the smell of curry wafting through the streets, mingling only with the fried smell of fried fish. I love how terribly bland British food is, and how delightful and exotic ethnic food is here in this great city. I am obsessed with the Tube stations, “Mind the Gap,” and all the wonderfully elegant names for each station. Picadilly Circus, Leister Square, High Street Kensington, Notting Hill, Paddington. The theater district actually allows you to take food in and eat during the show. Pret a Manger on every street corner. Taxi cabs with more elegance than most cars. The preparation for the Olympics and the scaffolding on almost every building

I love feeling this blend of history and modernity in one city that simply works. New York is modern. Paris is old. London is a combination of the two. A combination that just works. The Tower of London in all of it's majestic ancient beauty has the gherkin building looming in the background and it just works wonderfully. Whereas a view of the Parisian city line with the Eiffel Tower is besmirched by that awful Montparnasse building, which is a complete and utter definition of an eye sore. New York does not have anything old. But London does not just have to be compared to other cities. A stroll down Notting Hill or Kensington brings out a suburb feeling. Hyde, St. James, and Green parks transport you effectively back into a green world.

I'm gushing now as I sit here and talk about London. I am remembering my time spent there and going back to a wonderful moment, that feeling of falling in love for the first time.

Just a Few Random Totalitarian Thoughts Inspired by Europe

2011-06-28T02:27:00.002+09:00

Mortality

2011-06-28T00:25:00.000+09:00

This is my second trip to Europe this summer. And while I have been to London, my most favorite city in the entire world, once before, it is my first trip to the United Kingdom Isles. But as most would realize, I have been to France and Germany this summer already. A summer spent filled with European excursions is bound to have some profound effect on the way I think. As for me, I have just become more European than before, but more on that later.

In Europe there are a lot of graves. A lot of people over the years have met their end to disease, famine, war, age, and so forth. Death seems to linger everywhere one goes in Europe, and the UK is no exception to that generality. Just because England does not share the same killing fields of Verdun and Normandy as France, or death camps of Germany an most of Eastern Europe, does not mean a lot of men and women did not fall in UK.

I am afraid of death, or more specifically, dying young and not accomplishing all my dreams. I am not entirely sure of a heaven, although I truly hope there is one. (On a different but not wholly unrelated topic, I recently watched a really interesting Stanley Kubrick movie that has given more insight into this frame of mind. Paths of Glory is a wonderful portrayal of the horrors of World War I and the atrocities committed by everyone in the conflict. In one scene, the evening before a suicide mission, one soldier tells to his comrade his theory about death and the way we humans view it. He thinks that we are not afraid of death, because if we were afraid of dying we would not be able to get up everyday. The fact of the matter is that everyone dies and each day inches closer and closer to our impending doom. We are afraid, however, of dying painfully. I agree with this theory, but I am more afraid of dying without living out everything I hope to do and dying with regrets.(

But to me, heaven can be found on Earth: on the tops of mountains, in the cafes in the cities for people-watching, in a large Frappucino on a hot day, in a long run through the woods, and curled up in my bed watching a good movie. On Sunday's, while my friends and peers at Clemson head to their weekly church session, I can usually be found on the top of mountain or n a long run through the woods. It i my solace and my reason to live. Dying means losing these brief fleeting moments of happiness. I am aware of my mortality and scared because of it.

That being said, being around death in a place so old got me to thinking. Mortality. One's awareness of life and death. The plain fact of just dying, and then being nothing is completely mind blowing to me. The thought of not knowing what is out there in the Universe, or able to find out the mysteries of even the earths past seems cruel to me.

In a way it is cruel. Dogs and cats, for example, who do not think (at east in the deeper ways we do,) also do not suffer worrying about the future or about death. A dog or cat might live, say, only 15 years, and yet they are much happier than we are and they don't obsess about death. How would you feel if you knew from the time you were young that you would probably live only 15 years? Of course, animals are unaware of their 'deadline' and I wonder who has the upper hand in this equation.

This got me to thinking about some of the graves we passed along the way. 4 year-old boys that fell victim to the plague, countless other children that did not get graves because of poverty. The thing that I wonder is if this boy should really be pitied. Was he even aware of his own mortality? It’s doubtful. He died with no expectations and hardly anything solid to hold on to. He probably had little to hold onto and look forward to anyway. Sure his parents had stuff for him to look forward to, but I doubt very much if he had anything himself.

It's a morbid thing to think about, I realize. There is no right or wrong about death, only that it is.

Back to Europe, even if the Brits don't want to be European

2011-06-14T23:22:00.000+09:00

“Europeans, like some Americans, drive on the right side of the road, except in England, where they drive on both sides of the road; Italy, where they drive on the sidewalk; and France, where if necessary they will follow you right into the hotel lobby.”

That being said... 2 days to England, Ireland, and Wales! Stay tuned for some more wonderful blogging from Yours Truly...

Learning How To Think European

2011-06-10T06:48:00.000+09:00

I like to think myself as fairly well traveled. I realize I have mentioned on every blog entry that I have lived in France and Japan before and that I am using these past experience as a starting point to understanding some of the things I encounter along the road of life. I apologize for this, but I truly believe that it has given me the ability to see past the surface culture of France. Past the baguettes, the charming houses, and the slightly rude everyday Frenchmen. I have been able to indulge further in the culture, and I have learned how to think. At least, in regards to how the French and the Europeans think.
When I arrived in Strasbourg, and later on when I stayed with my host family from my Rotary youth exchange in 2008, I could not help but find myself wondering if France, and by extension the rest of Europe, ever really changes. The country seems to be frozen in time. The same buildings built hundreds of years ago are still being used, and not part of small epic new mini-mall. The Boulanger sits on the street with the same bread and jam to sell. There are still tons of strikes, even if they have evolved into anti-EU tax strikes rather than anti-French government strikes. The French people still have the same mindset about Americans: they only respect you if you at least make some sort of effort. Had this country changed at all since 2008? Surely, there must be something different?

One thing I did realize was how much I have changed as a person since I last lived in this country. And I truly believe that my DGPS trip is part of that change. Perhaps because I was surrounded by like-minded curious American Honors students, eager to learn and embrace a new culture, or maybe because I am a little older and think of more sophisticated things. I used to think of France as a country of delicious bread, cheese, and wine, endless strikes for meaningless purposes, and a mindset of being the center of the culture. I used to think of it as a single country in Europe. I now see it as part of the European Union, even if the French do not necessarily see it in this light. "Oh yeah, the French hate being European, " says L R correctly.

An entity in the European Union is not an easy thing to wrap one’s head around. It is not the same status as my home state New Jersey in Washington DC. It does not have a representation in a two-body Congress. In school, students learn French history, before they learn European history. The president of the United States symbolizes far more than the President of the European Union, while the president of France is far superior to the governor of New Jersey. Even though a Senator from Alaska still has to agree on the same bill for legislation in Florida, representation from Finland for legislation in Portugal is different. At least the Alaskan and the Floridian both call themselves American and speak the same language. The same cannot be said the Fin and the Portuguese. So knowing this, it is hard to put the status of a EU state into one’s mindset. One has to completely learn how to think, and not try to put a square peg in a round whole with regards to learning how the European Union works compared to our American federalist system.

I remember back in 2008 arguing with host parents about the European Union. My host mother was born and raised in Germany, but married a Frenchman and is now currently a French citizen. She had the same mindset at our tour guide, Christine, with her sheepish admittance to being a German citizen. (Although when it came down to it, she was German before she was French. And it was insult to think otherwise.) “I’m European before I am anything else,” she would say with force. We used to argue the importance of the European Union for Europe and for the rest of the world. I would always argue about the additional red tape and bureaucracy, and question why Europe was so keen on big governmental institutions. My host parents would retort that I was being foolish and hypocritical, with Washington having the same problems as Brussels and Strasbourg with regards to bureaucracy. But red tape and big government aside, I now see the European Union as a necessity. Perhaps not to the extent that it hopes to be, but an institution as such needs to exist.

Our trip to Verdun settled my back and forth thinking about the European Union. I have wrote extensively about how deeply touched I was by Verdun. Having seen the ruins of Normandy, and juxtaposing it with the ruins of Verdun, I have another completely different outlook on the French and the Europeans. It not only changed my mindset about the necessity of war, but also about the importance of a governing European body. It has also helped me to understand why the Europeans have not always supported the American endeavors in Iraq and/or other military expeditions. One look at the ravaged countryside of Verdun, which is still a haven for unexploded artillery, will help anyone understand this.

In conclusion, the trip has given me more than just 12 amazing friends, an unforgettable experience in a beautiful place in this world, and a history lesson that I will never forget. It has given me a new appreciation for all that Europe is, how it functions, it’s goals and dreams, and it’s haunting legacy that continues to plague its trek into the future.

I realize something else too. I'm European. I'm American. I'm lost. Eternally lost.

Just a few photos from the Trip

2011-06-06T00:00:00.000+09:00

The chateau we stayed in and of course, me!

The entire DGPS group at the European Parliament.

Christine and Me overlooking Baden-Baden, Germany!

What Makes Our Fate

2011-06-02T19:20:00.000+09:00

Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate. Without them, what would shape our lives? Perhaps if we never veered off course, we wouldn't fall in love, or have babies, or be who we are. After all, seasons change. So do cities. People come into your life and people go. But it's comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart. And if you're very lucky, a plane ride away. -Carrie Bradshaw

I am a huge fan of quotes. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been reading quotes and applying them to my life in some way shape or form. My favorites of course are everything spoken by Audrey Hepburn and travel quotes. But I also love the quotes form shows like How I Met Your Mother and Sex and the City, such as the quote listed above. This quote specifically speaks directly to me.

Mistakes have always made my fate. Never once have I done what was expected of me, or stayed on the path I should have. I'm not saying that one out of the way to make some huge faux pas, just to receive the hypothetical benefits of what might come. But I have come to accept that maybe that mistake my parents made by putting me in Kindergarten at age 4 was not a mistake at all. Or that emotional melt down I had in March 2008 about not being ready to go to college, which led to my France exchange, was not a mistake either. Without these things what would have shaped my life? I would not be sitting on my lap top in Fixin, France writing this blog entry. That I can say for sure. Everything else is a mystery.

If I never veered off course, I can't say for sure I would be the person I am right here right now. I never would have met the Masaki's, The R's, or won the scholarship for my DGPS trip back to France. I don't even know if my Wanderlust would even be as prevalent as it is right now.

But things change, seasons and cities. Dijon is constructing a tram way out into the vineyards, while Kochi is raising money for Fukushima victims. People come in and out of your life, Andrew, Alex, Althea, and Brom to name a few. But it's really comforting to know that these wonderful people are always in my heart, and just a Facebook chat or phone call away. And if I'm really lucky, just a quick plane ride, train ride, and bus ride out into the vineyards away.

Age Before Beauty. No Age is Beauty.

2011-06-01T18:50:00.000+09:00

So I have been writing on this blog since 2005, just under 6 years. Granted, I have not been very consistent. I took considerable time off to live my life between travels. And even though lots have things have happened in between trips, I just never felt compelled to truly write it down.

As time goes on, so does life. We get older, that's part of progression. We also experience certain events in life that change us. Some things can be marked by a specific day and time and incident. For example, on August 17, 2009, I moved into my Stadium Suites dorm to begin my college experience. On January 6, 2011, I ran my first ever Marathon in Walt Disney World. But not all great events can be marked by a date an time. For example, I left France 2 years ago, and while I do not think I have changed all that much, I have grown up a little but more. I am a little older and a little wiser, and a lot less naive. I can not give you a specific moment when I reached the point I'm at now, but it did happen along the way in a series of events.

Just before France, I emailed the R's about my return to France and to see if I could stay with them for a few days. The answer was of course, and several emails ensued in regards to updates to the lives of the R's. Cha cha's progression with her studies, Ant's new girlfriend, JF still working like crazy, Coco still being Coco, and L R still being L R. But what really bothered me was that L R also told me she was not able to run anymore due in part to a torn tendon in her Achilles. (In the email, it sounded like she would never run again. But in France I have learned she is just taking about 5 months off from the sport to recover.) It really bothered me to think that L R, who I believe I had grown so close to because of our mutual love for running, could no longer run. I talked to my Dad about it, and he just said these things happen with age.

I love my Dad to death, but I absolutely hate when he talks about getting old, which unfortunately is all the time. I'm not entirely sure I have the right to sit down and talk about this since my body has not progressed to the stage that he is in. And I know if and when he reads this, he will probably get annoyed. But I am really tired of hearing about how age destroys the body and forces you to give up a lot of good things. The way my Dad spoke this past vacation in Vermont sounded as if he was truly going to give up skiing for good. I accept the fact that I am a marathon runner, and that I am in far better shape than he is, but I am tired of hearing age blamed for every little thing. I also used to think it was just my Dad who had this crisis with a "frail" aging body. But I have learned the very opposite.

As I mentioned before, L R and I share the mutual love for running. So her injury kind of hit hard for me as well. Of course anyone can become injured from a sport such as running, especially when running in the Combs of Fixin, which is hard core trail running. The interesting thing is rather than blame a bad step or fall or something, L R told me that after age 50, things change. You can not do as much any more, because age holds you back. Essentially, she believed that the injury came about because of her age. This was not the first or only incident of L R blaming age for something. Several times she mentioned her age as a barrier to some things, until finally I told her to stop it. Age is Beauty. She has lived too wonderful of a life to feel disappointed by a number.

Before I left France the last time, Fred told me that I would have to come back in 10 years so that we could go in the Combs and run again. I ended up coming back after 2 years, and we were able to go up into the Combs and run again. But this time instead of telling me to come back in 10 years, she told me I would probably have to come back after 2 months. At minimum, every two years. I'll come back every two years or so because I love my host family ad I love the country of France, but not because I think everyone is going to drop dead from age as they all seem to think.

I am not naive enough to truly want to be old. I love my life right now. I'm 20 years-old, a hard-core long distance runner, an avid traveler, and a curiosity that probably never will be satiated before I bite the big one. I have also listened to many of my sorority sisters and older friends say that after the 21st birthday, there really is nothing to look forward to with regards to birthdays. But I don't see getting old as taboo. Sure, I know I will probably freak out when I find a gray hair in my head, but I sort of find silver streaks pretty cool. A sign of wisdom and a sign that you have lived a good life. And I know a lot of older people find crow's feet to be completely atrocious. But I like they are signs that you have lived a life full of laughter. Furthermore, I truly believe that you are as young as you feel. Maybe your knees creak and your tendon gets pulled easier, but if you can laugh and find joy in the simple things, a number should not define who you are.

Then again, I accept than I am only 20. Maybe I should come back to this post in 30 years. That's a terrifying thought.

Running in the Combs

2011-05-30T18:46:00.000+09:00

You know when something becomes so natural and so much a part of your life, that you do not find it different or special anymore? For me, it's something that has become so routine that it's just part of life and not really something interesting to write about. For me, that was my daily Saturday morning running in the Combs of Fixin, with Leonie, Fred, Fred's husband, and a few of the other citizens of Fixin. It was always enjoyable and I loved that Saturday morning ritual almost as much as I enjoyed running on my own in the Combs. I just never really felt like I needed to write about it. It's like taking a shower, it comes as second nature and does not necessarily merit a blog post.

Of course, this past Saturday, I woke up bright and early with Leonie and together we headed up to Fred's house. Fred did not know I was coming to France, so when she saw me for the first time, she was so excited. Fred is Leonie's best friend in Fixin. All three of their children (Fred's three, and Leonie's three) have been about the same age, so they have taken part in many PTA {equivalent} meetings throughout the years. I am pretty sure Fred is the sole reason that L R is a runner, as a matter of fact. Of course, Leonie pulled her Achilles Tendon, and was out of commission from running. But unlike most people, this did not stop her from exercising all the same. She has taken up VTT (cross-country biking) in the meantime. But more on L R later.

The first thing Fred said to me after the obligatory Bissou was that she hoped my French was still in tact because she and I had a lot of discussing to do. Granted my speaking French is horrid, but I can understand French better than ever before. As we ran along the same trail we had run on 2 years ago, a stroll down memory lane came not from merely the path but also the great memories we spoke about. Fred is one of the most kind and optomistic French women I have ever met. She told me she was happy that my year was so wonderful, and that I had kept in touch so well with my French family (I think this was an indirect way of saying I was a good exchange student, but the other boy, Andrew did not keep in touch with his host family.) Of course, she admitted it was a shame that I did not get on well with the high school students, but all in all my host family, the traveling, and the love I developed for the country of France is far more important than that.

There were several things that Fred and I spoke about that really intrigued me. When she asked me how long it had been since I left France, I told her two years. She replied that it passed quickly, and really not much had happened in the mean time. I had to agree that things had not changed that much since the last time I was here. However, two years passing quickly? Hm. I thought about it, and came to the troubling realization that she was perfectly right. Two years since I had lived in France had passed in the blink of an eye. I can not believe that I am halfway through college already. I can not believe over 700 days have come and gone since the last time I was here. I have no regrets, and I feel I have truly lived up my college experience, but it slightly terrifies me when I consider time and my place within the constant swinging pendulum.

Running in the Combs is always a great relaxing thing for me. Even if L R and Fred managed to get on the subject of age, a topic I hate hearing about, more than I would have liked. One thing that made me angry was how Fred and L R kept talking about age holding them back from running and biking. Yet, even though I've run 3 half-marathons and 1 marathon, they continued to kick my butt running and biking. What might be a good excuse for me then? Ha.

The Things I Learned in France

2011-05-29T17:30:00.000+09:00

In retrospect, France may have truly been the best year of my life. At least in terms of how much I grew up. I used to talk about how I could never compare my years abroad in Japan and France, especially when people would ask which one I enjoyed more. And I still hold true to that even after all these years of 20/20 Hindsight. But the thing is Japan was a cakewalk compared to France. Surviving my year in France was hard. But I did it, and I truly believe I became an adult and a better person because of my year in France. I say this, of course, because my first night back in Burgundy, L R said, "You've become very European." Furthermore, hanging out with Chacha and her friends yesterday led me to believe that I truly have become more European. But there are several things that I learned in France that I only now realize I have learned.

1.] The only way out is through. My winter in France was somewhat dreadful. Of course, I say the same thing about my winter in Japan as well. I think I have Seasonal Affect problems, so I feel like any country with a gray cloud and a drop in temperature will make me somewhat miserable. But my French was so bad and I was not fitting in with the people in my school and class, and I spent many days waiting for that light at the end of the tunnel. It certainly did come along, and I feel like a stronger person because of that experience. In fact this year at Clemson, I had a very difficult and challenging year. In one semester, I alienated my sorority experience, lost my best friend and Freshman roommate, and had a major life crisis. I do not know if I could have gotten through the semester without my experience in France

2.] Who cares what other people think? Sure, I'm not entirely an expert on the subject. But France gave me the opportunity to sort through people that I truly care about and respect their judgements, as well as people who do not deserve that respect. I spent a lot of time worrying about my French and others perceived me while in France, but it was because most of the time it was people I truly cared about. If I cared about what everyone though, the old Rotarians, the random stupid school kids, and so forth, than I would have hated my life beyond the ability to live it.

3.] Live a little bit. I wish I had learned this sooner. I am not entirely sure I learned this in France, but just afterwards when I used my experience to make college more fun. I wish I had drank more beer, smoked more cigarettes, and been more of a typical French teenager (well maybe not smoked.) Go with the flow, rather than try to fight it and miss out on what the common people do. I spent more time clinging to my roots, telling myself to drink less and do only what is 'right.' But sometimes what is 'right' is not always the most fun and even holds you back from missing the culture. I wish I had gone out with Cha Cha more and sat in the Brasseries with a beer or two, rather than sitting at home or avoiding going out with her all together. I realized this was my problem when I returned back to the United States, and I changed myself for the better.

4.] Eat. It is one of those stereotypes about France that is completely and hundred percent accurate. The French adore eating, but at a different level than Americans. We eat quickly and just for nourishment. Sometimes I think Americans eat because it is a painful experience that people are embarrassed of and that's why we do it and not think much of it. I know for certain that this is my reasoning. Coming to France, I will not admit to you that I had an eating disorder, but I will admit that I had some serious misinterpretations of eating. I avoided it, until L R put down her foot and forced me to act French and enjoy the food. Somewhere along the way I relearned how to eat. I have gained quite a few pounds since my first day in France that first time, but I now have an appreciation and an appetite for food.

5.] There is no such thing as normal. I had convinced myself that I was completely unconventional and that I was no where near the definition of normality. But now I am not so sure. I think everyone thinks they are special in some sort of way, and everyone is special in some way shape or form. Mind you special might not always have a good connotation. I think being normal is a bad thing on some level, because it means your identity is just like everyone else's. The more I wrote on this blog how unconventional my life is, the more I began to realize that it's not unconventional at all. It's just a little different than the kids who stayed in High School and matriculated straight to college.

6.] The more things change, the more they stay the same. Okay, so I did not exactly learn this on the year of my exchange. This is more of a right here right now realization. but it is true. Things have changed very little since the last time I was here. I have a lot to say on the subject, but I think I will just leave it at this for now.

Still Trying To Figure Out What To Do

2011-05-28T05:07:00.002+09:00

Being back on the road traveling around the world again and I have begun to realize something a little bit troubling about myself. The fact of the matter is that I have a tendency to completely change my life for something what I deem very important in my life.

What I mean is that two days before I left France for the first time, I cried a little and told L R that all I wanted to be was normal. I wanted to be like her daughter Cha Cha, a fun-loving, smoking, drinking, average kid that thought more of having fun and less about what is going on in the world around her. I wanted to wear nice clothes and have lots of friends and drink alcohol and go to parties and not worry about what is going on Sudan, Japan, and politics in Europe.

My return to the United States brought me to Clemson University, where I immediately joined a sorority, made lots of friends, began drinking, and become normalized for lack of a better term. I changed my major from International Trade to Secondary Education. I figured since I as never going to leave the country, so why bother being in that kind of major. And something that used to terrify me... the idea of living in a white-picket fenced house with three kids and a golden retriever, become more realistic. I started dating boys that wanted that kind of thing, and never really imagined what it would be like to study abroad. I had so much fun Freshman year that I cancelled my plans to study abroad Sophomore year. All my money went into my sorority, buying adorable clothes, eating out, alcohol, and other fun things that made me what I considered a normal kid. I guess subconsciously I knew what I was doing. I was becoming an all-American girl. Normal. Which is what I truly wanted. Or at least it's what I thought I wanted.

Sophomore year changed all that. I moved on to my sorority hall, which I enjoyed, but I realized that it was not for me. I could not be a sorority girl 24/7. I could not lose my identity to sport letters at every occasion. Now, don't get me wrong. I do love my sorority and I would never change the great times I have had as a Theta, but it's not really who I am. When I moved off the hall, I, unfortunately, alienated several of my friends. I had to start over, which although this crushed me, ended up being the best thing for me. I refound myself in that previous semester. I become the same confused kid who's wings won;t allow her to stay on the ground for very long. I figured out that I was still me, the same girl that is still trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life while chasing Samurai and wearing French barets.

I am not entirely sure what the future holds for me. But I can not stay in South Carolina for the rest of my life. I realize now that I am too liberal, too curious, too unwilling to accept a marriage proposal or a job offer that I am not entirely sure will be right for me. I look in the mirror and realize the most important thing is to be happy, and not worry about what is expected or what is "normal." I'm currently on a great trip in Europe, and already planning another trip as soon as possible. I'm thinking Africa for Christmas.

Back in Burgundy Part 2

2011-05-27T19:09:00.000+09:00

I finally did manage to get on that bus. Of course, I had to argue with the bus driver over whether or not I was going to pay for an additional bus fare for my bag that was immensely huge. I won, shockingly and only paid for one fare. Maybe I am becoming French.

The bus ride out to the Cote d'Or was surreal. Although on one level I felt like I had never left. Sure, I was a little older and maybe a little wiser, but time had almost seemed to stop in Burgundy. I am not sure how to explain other than the fact that the same little quirks that were there two years ago, still remained. Of course, a part of me thinks a lot of this stuff will never change. At least the important stuff.

The bus route was a little different than usual, but as we approached Marsannay-La-Cote, I began to bubble over in excitement. Couchey looked as if time had stopped. And through the vineyards we went on Fixin.

At Fixin Noisot, the bus screeched to a halt. I thanked the drover, and he mumbled something under his breath about my enormous suitcase. As I waited for the bus to pull away, I looked around at the Fixin just outside the R's door. I felt overwhelmed as I trekked to the door, and though I knew no one would be home for another hour, it still felt like I was just coming home after an afternoon down town in Dijon. I dropped off my suitcase in the courtyard and then went for a little tour of Fixin. When I returned I sat in the back yard and waited for someone to come home.

At long last, I heard the sound of L R and her loud cheery 'Cou Cou' enter the court yard. I jumped up so quickly, that got temporarily dizzy. "Leonie?" I said. "Ahh Julie!" she said.

It truly was if I had never left. We did the damn bissou kiss, which I surprisingly did not mind at all, and then she gave me a big hug. I was really overjoyed, but I kept stumbling in French. It was a shame because I soke a lot of French with Christine and I had hoped that I would be able to just magnificently return to my French language skills. But that was not the case.

Of course I could go on and on about the immediate things we did: shopping for pet food, seeing JF for the first time in a while, and hearing about Ant's new girlfriend, but I think the best part of the day was seeing Coco. Coco is 8 years younger than me, but while I was here, she was pretty much my closest friend. I learned the most French from her and she never failed to make me laugh. L R had the great idea to try and surprise Coco, but Coco saw my enormous bag and knew instantly that I was in Fixin. When she came into the kitchen and I ran at her, I briefly saw that she had a grown almost a foot since the last time I saw her, and she was sporting make-up. She was not the little kid I remembered but as soon as she said, "Julie!" I knew that things were good, and she had not changed too too much.

Back in Burgundy

2011-05-26T16:57:00.018+09:00

I have always loved Burgundy, France. It is hard not to love a place that smells of pure life, is beyond picturesque, and produces some of the world's best wines. But to me Burgund means even more. I spent an entire year of my life here, and while it may not have been cupcakes and rainbows, it was a wonderful year. That being said, as my train from Montbeliard to Dijon slowly came to a halt in the station, I was overjoyed.

That morning Miles and I had taken the same train from Strasbourg to Montbeliard and finally to Dijon. Miles had just finished a semester abroad in Russia, where he met some students that live in Dijon. He was on his way to meet them, which was perfect because I really hate traveling on the French trains by myself. Miles and I spent several hours alternating between stories of France and Japan and stories of Russia. The normally long train ride passed quickly and I really had to give him credit for listening to me go on and on about how excited I was to see the R's.

But as that train slowed down on approach to Burgundy, I started tearing up a little bit. I think everyone can understand what it feels like to head back home. Whether it be after a long semester at college or a weekend trip down the coast. Although I never really felt like France and I were two peas in a pod, and that my lifestyle tended to clash with the lifestyle of France, I now realize that I have overcome that. I left a little piece of my heart behind in France, and being back in Burgundy helped me to find it again.

Of course that is not to say that life in France is any easier. I learned within 2 minutes of arrival in Burgundy. I got out of the train and headed to the old bus stop where I would take the same bus line back to Burgundy. When I noticed that Dijon was under massive construction, due in part to a new tram being built, I became nervous that the bus lines had perhaps changed. I walked up to the nearest French women with my bus schedule in hand and asked her in my very best French if the bus still stopped at this station. She told me probably not and then said that if I was planning on making th ebus, I would have to sprint to the next stop about a kilometer down the road. So that's what I did.

Long story short, I missed to bus to Fixin. It turned out to be one of those surreal moments everyone dreads, when your sprinting lightening speed down the street wheeling along a bag with a dead weight of a Sumo wrestler screaming in Franglish, "Attendez-vous! Je besoin ce bus!" The bus pulls away when you are finally at the bus stop. As I waited an additional hour for the next bus, I started a conversation with a women next to me, who informed me that the bus did in fact leave from the previous station that I had waited at. Instead of feeling like France was out to get me, like I did in the old days, I just stared out and smiled.

I was home and nothing had changed.

Sense of Humor

2011-05-25T16:56:00.000+09:00

I like to think I am a funny person. Whether I am or not is the real question, however. I have my on days and off days, and I think this is universal for everyone. What is not universal for everyone is humor. I used to believe that one could ta the word conversational to a language ability if one could joke in that paricular language. For example, living in Japan for one year and I was able to do a fabulous impression of Shinzo Abe, the Japanese president of the time, and knew each an every one of the funny national joke. I am now starting to think that this is less about conversationality in a language and mor about deep immersion in a culture.

In a recent study on humor around the world, it was found that Americans and Canadians, research shows that they had a preference for jokes involving a superior intellectual mocking an ignorant individual. I just want to say that I am a proud recepient of the Clemson Dixon Global Policy Scholars program, surrounded by Clemson's brightest students. It is unspoken but true: everyone loves jokes about dumb people. The UK, Australia, and New Zealand liked jokes involving word plays, usually using mischevious sexual connotations. If Monty Python does not completely sum up the Brits in a nutshell, than I have no idea what really does. European countries such as Belgium and Denmark enjoyed jokes with phantasmagoric qualities. Another strong trend in Europe are jokes about death and serious subjects associated with stress. Germany stands out uniquely as the only country that didn't show a specific preference for a certain type of joke, enjoying various jokes from different styles.

I say all this because humor has gotten me through all of my various travels. I have that wonderful ability to make a complete asshole of myself, and then turn around and crack up. Laughing at yourself is one of the best qualities to have. Especially when you live abroad as a stranger in a strange land. But I also have a tendency, as anyone of my friends and family can attest to, to poke fun at everything. I'm pretty open-minded but I absolutely love to joke around and make fun of people, which is sometimes an unfortunate quality. But sometimes it bonds people together. The fact of the matter is that when you don't now a person well, and you jokingly make fun of something about them, say for example their nationality, I think it shows that you are interested enough to know about their culture. Example time: Christine David, our awesome German guide on the excursion was subjected to a ton of my East German jokes as well as just plain German jokes in general. And you know what? She is my new best friend. I am going to visit her in Berlin next year for certain. Of all the exchange students my family has hosted throughout the years, humor has been a great tool. The Argentinians, German, French, Japanese, and Brazilians may not have come to the house with the ability to take a joke, but they certainly left with it.

Of course not all humor is a good thing. I happen to be one of the most sarcastic people, never missing an opportunity to belittle something. I have a strange sense of humor sometimes, but sarcasm tends to make me laugh the funniest. Sarcasm is very American I am told, and it not existant is most other languages. I went without sarcasm for a whole year in Japan, and although I was pretty sarcastic in France, I think a lot of it came across to people as asinine.

Having a sense of Humor while abroad is a very important thing, but I think it is also important to remember that what and how you joke about something is a completely different trans-cultural thing.

Unfathomable

2011-05-24T13:41:00.000+09:00

I have been fortunate enough to see Normandy and the D-Day memorials of eastern France. Yet sometimes I think the most important European conflict to consider and understand in that time may truly be World War I. After all, World War I essentially prolonged a stale mate before World War II, and made tensions grow to the oint of becoming evil. That being said, Verdun is one of the most haunted place that I've ever been to. Even on a warm, beautiful summer day like we had on Saturday, I felt a chill walking through the abandoned villages, old forts, memorials and cemeteries that we visited. Although lush green grass grew over the ruins of the fortresses, and daisies and purple wildflowers carpeted the ground, the eerie reality of Verdun is that beneath the surface there are thousands of old bullet casings, bombs that never exploded, and the bodies of soldiers buried in the soil.

When learning about WWI, I hear so many figures that are so shockingly huge that I can't fathom the immensity of their impact. How could 600,000 soldiers have died in one battle? What does it really mean that France lost millions, an entire generation, in the war? How could a town completely disappear? All of its buildings and inhabitants were utterly destroyed. While I feel that it is impossible to know the devastation and hell that was WWI, I know that I have a much better understanding of the weight behind each statistic.

I think that war statistics can often come across as very cold, almost to the point of being meaningless. When rattling off death tolls and battle dates, our guide excitedly declared 130,000 Frenchmen died for France in the battle of Verdun. What bothers me is that each and every man had a name and family and place in this world. There are so many bodies that are identified and it's hard to grasp the impersonalization a number does when truly considering statistics. Because how then can you preserve the truth that each soldier comprising that huge death toll was a person just like you?

To Lighten The Mood of Verdun

2011-05-23T17:04:00.000+09:00

I could probably write blog post after blog post about our brief excursion to Verdun, because it was sch a moving experience. Unfortunately, most of our group was affected not by the sheer horror of Verdun but by the tour guide we had. David, A brit expatriate in Luxembourg, seems like a knowledgeable and decent tour guide from the very beginning. On his first talk he was frank about what he had thus learned. He told us the truth about the EU in Strasbourg, which I appreciated because the people in Strasbourg never said anything like that. But as time went on, he began to deepen his obnoxiousness, and by the time the rest of the group, professors included, were fed up with him, I had joined the group against him. I could not tell you everything that he did to offend my fellow DGPSers and myself, but I thought a brief description as in order.

To begin, he never gave the group any overview of the two-day tour, the battlefield of Verdun, or WWI. This to me was the worst problem, because even though I know World War I very well, I wanted to know what it was we would actually be seeing in regards to the war. This did not bother me too much because the rest of the group did not seem to have a problem with his lack of explanation. However, the problem came when I would ask him a question, and he would insult my intelligence because I did phrased the question the wrong way. On one occasion, as we were touring a field with huge craters from mining trench warfare, I asked if anything else happened here besides the mining incident. He looked at me and said, "What a stupid question! Come back to me when you have knowledge." Another time, Jenny asked the guide while walking from a WWII memorial site if both WWI and WWII were fought at the site of this memorial, and he literally scoffed at me. Scoffed.

The fact of the matter is that David showed no real interest in being with the group or giving a tour. The man acted throughout the entire two days as if we, the paying consumers of his services, were a colossal nuisance to him, and he made several snide remarks about how difficult we were to put up with. While thee are many examples I can give you of this happening, I think the funniest is when he literally abandoned our group on a battlefield forest. Mind you, this comes just after he told us that there was serious live artillery in the forest and that people die each year walking on mines and collecting live ammunition. He then just left us there to find a way out on our own.

Interestingly enough, he lost what little respect he had left from the group when he fabricated several important pieces of information on the tour. He has issues with just randomly pulling numbers out of his head to assign to casualties, but he also had a problem with making up a complete lie in the face of not knowing an answer. God forbid.

And how could I forget the evening in Verdun? When we were touring the tiny city, he overheard Miles and Cameron say they wanted some good Italian food at this cute little Italian restaurant we had passed. He went on a rampage about uncultured we Americans were and that you don't come to France to eat Italian, especially at this place in Verdun because it was known for it's disgusting food and outrageous prices. To top this whole thing off, after we could not find a different restaurant to eat in, guess what the guide tried to get us to eat? At that little Italian restaurant. This was the final straw for our professors, who absolutely refused to eat at a place the guide just said was awful.

Being that he was British, he never missed an opportunity to poke fun at the French. I love a good French joke, don't get me wrong. But I think he crossed the line several times as well. He also said a few nasty things about Germans to Christine, and I thought that was unjustified as well. I didn't care when he blatantly called us uncultured and stupid Americans, but he needed to be a little less hypocritical.

The LONGEST Day

2011-05-20T19:26:00.011+09:00

Today started off as usual, but the day turned out to be one of the most interesting days I have lived in my life so far.

Ok, let me start at the beginning. We had a slightly later start today – 9am, instead of 8:30. Unfortunately, I woke up at 7 and could not really sleep in. But I decided to not let the morning go to waste and instead for a nice long run in the forest behind the chateau. Running along the former Maginot Line is quite a moving experience when you understand the history of the region.

Our only scheduled activity today was to visit the Alsatian Chamber of Commerce. I really dreaded this because finance and business bore me. The lecturer had a great PowerPoint, but his command of the English language was lacking in some instances. It is so weird that he knew many complicated words, but still had trouble with the simplest words – such as wet. He meant waterproof. I went to him after the lecture and complimented him on his English. I wish I could speak German half as well as he spoke English.

It is interesting how much the Alsatian economy mirrors that of Clemson, SC. The two economies are heavily focused on textile, automotives, and medicine. Many foreign companies invest in Strasbourg, and over 50% of the population is employed by these foreign companies.

After the meeting, we wandered through the streets and stumbled upon this neat craft shop. I got tsome patches for my crazy patchwork back pack, and some anchor earrings for my obnoxious preppiness back at Clemson.

After lunch, Dorothy finally got to buy one of those giant upside town muffin bakery treats, and we walked back to Strasbourg. Also, outside of the bakery, there was a woman asking for money, so we gave her some. I have not seen many beggars here, but there was another one in Heidelberg yesterday. There is a noticeable difference between the American ones and ones here – the ones here are slightly cleaner. Interesting.

The walk back was lovely and enjoyable. We saw the Arte center (a television channel developed to help reunite France and Germany) Also, on the way back, we saw a few banners outside of an institute protesting various issues such as anti-terrorism measures (so they were anti anti-terrorism). There was also a banner promoting Christianity. This was very interesting, since people are generally not religious around here. The banner said that court of human rights will not be here forever and this life will not be forever, so we should look to God.

Once we got to the chateau, Dorothy, Sally , John, Allen, and I rented bikes and headed to Kehl. We also took some lovely pictures with the chateau as background. Oh yeahhhh, Christmas card pictures! The ride to Kehl was…it is hard to describe it…intense and exhilarating? There is a regular, safe route, but we got semi-lost following the Google Map directions. Sally and all of her lovliness flagged down this passing biker and asked her for help. Thank goodness she spoke English! (Although I think I'm highly conversational in France, Sally loves to chat with people. She epitomizes all the friendliness that America has to offer.) The biker was also on the way to Kehl, so we just followed her. She was a Parsian opera soloist who is interning in Strasbourg and is going back in a month to audition for an opera company!

Whew, the path we took was so intense that it deserves its own paragraph. The route took us through highways and bumpy rocky areas that had no bike lanes (most roads in Europe has two bike lanes). Attempting to crossing the streets and having big trucks pass alongside you were the worst. But, we made it! We stopped on the friendship bridge connecting France and Germany. The bridge in Greenville, SC is actually based off of this bridge. It was really beautiful but I especially enjoy the story of the bridge, which I think I mentioned in an earlier post about Germany and France. Yet again, France took clear advantage of Germany.

Fate would have it that we end up right in front of a H&M store. With almost no money, shopping is atorture for me! Aterwards, we rode to the Supermarket. I just want to point that I have not mentioned eating at all today. This is because I tried to save money and only had a Diet Coke and some bread for breakfast. Needless to say I was completely delusional in the supermarket and could hardly choose what to eat let alone sit down and actually eat it. I was not alone in my delusional state, however. At the supermarket, Sally went crazy buying more crackers and chocolate as well as a bottle of great Bourgogne Wine, which I helped her pick out.

As we were all delirious from the physical excretion and lack of food, we were a spectacle in the store. Here, they have cigarette dispensers. We did not know what it was/how it worked, so I just pressed random buttons. Boxes came out and I pushed it back under the flap in hopes that no one would notice. I just could not stop laughing, as Sally acted like a Bull in a China closet bumping into random people and objects. We were a complete shit show for lack of a nicer way to put these things.

John and Allen rode back early to be back in time for Allen’s 9:15 train ride. Slightly sad that he had to leave, but his parents are meeting him in Prague tomorrow. Very nice. We followed en suite just after a little nourishment at the Supermarket. We were less insane afterward at the very least.

The ride back was not as bad as the ride to Kehl. However, we were racing to beat the storm at one point – scary dark clouds looming over us. It was rather exhilarating. I sort of wanted it to storm. I think that riding through a storm would be intensely awesome.

this is where the day gets kind of interesting. When we got back to the chateau, it was already 8:30, so we rushed to get ready, since we were supposed to meet some French teenagers at the Gallia tram station at 9pm. Unfortunately, we started out super late, and it got even later. Dorothy, Julie, and I got lost in some random suburbs. Caitlin and Kate were supposed to meet us at the Square, but hopefully, they did not wait for us so long. I felt so horrible we kept the foreign students waiting. We finally arrived at a Mexican restaurant in the middle of nowhere and asked someone. Once again, thank goodness for kind people. The lady directed us to the tram station.

When we finally made it down town, several interesting things happened. First, and to the grave dismay of Sally, a Middle Eastern-looking man at a random restaurant said, “ hi three prostitutes, how much for the night?” – in French, of course as we were passing by to walk to the tram station. Sally was fuming like I had never seen before after Dorothy and I translated.) First of all, I wore this nice black dress with a white cardigan over it, Dorothy wore a tube top with black pants and a cardigan, and I wore white pants and a shirt over a tank top. We were definitely not showing enough skin to earn the great honor of being called a prostitute. Second of all, even if we were dressed promiscuously, one has a right to dress as he or she wishes without being called a whore and made an offer. It did not bother me because it's just how they are sometimes in France, but the great bother came from Sally. I felt bad for her because I could not get across to her to just let it ride and not worry too much about it.

After all these long trials and challenges, we finally got to the Gallia tram station at 10:20pm. Understandably, the French kids we were supposed to meet were not there. The only thing we could do was get gelato. Which would make a funny story the next moorning when telling the fellow DGPSers, "We went all the way to Strasbourg, got called whores, got hopelessly lost...all for Gelato!"

We walked to the Square afterwards to make sure that the others were not waiting for us there. On the way, this another French man said, "two French girls and one Chinese girl. Three prostitutes. How much for the night?” I thought it was a little funny and I could not help but laugh. But Sally pestered me to translate, and thank god I waited for a few minutes to tell her what he said. I suspect if I had told her what he said right on spot, she would have Chuck Norris Roundhouse kick to his crotch area.

At this point, after two freaking sex offers and with my feet in immense pain, I asked Julie to say the French words for three and prosititue. Unfortunately for the French, Sally was completely fed up with the country and culture at this point. I felt sad about this because evn though I love to make fun of the French, I also think it's a wondeful culture. ally forced me to translate every little thing we heard on the street, and she continually gave the Death Glare to everyone of the male species. It was funny to watch, but as I was to learn her attitude was to come in handy. France was about to remind me of just that.

The walk back to the chateau from the tram station was lovely in the scenery, but uber painful. Dorothy and I took care of Sally, who was angry at the world and in pan because of her ridiculous heels. It helped a little, but there were still small rocks and pieces of glass we had to watch out for. Once, I accidentally tripped over a piece of concrete. Painful, but the two girls really helped me along. When we were almost back to the chateau, we had another disgusting event happen.

As we rounded around a alley corner with a house, Sally saw this dark shadow of a man. I was walking pretty close to it, so she grabbed my wrist and pulled me to her. I turned and saw the man smiling creepily at us. This repulsive man had his penis out and was masturbating. Sally told me later that she had seen him skulking around behind us for a while but thought he was just on his way home. I felt so sick to my stomach that I started to cry. Dorothy was quick to get me to calm down though. She reminded me that giving a reaction was exactly what that pervert wanted from us. We hurriedly walked back to the chateau, I teared up the whole way while Sally looked ready to fight someone. Dorothy did a great job calming the pair of down, however, and we focused solely on getting back inside.

Today was definitely the most interesting day we have had so far. Although it was a free day (minus the Chamber of Commerce visit), we were all constantly on the go. I feel like we all want to enjoy the area as much as we can.

While lost, we definitely encountered some wonderful people from around the area, but there were also negative incidents such as the two men with prostitution offers and that super repulsive man. The best that can said about today is that is strengthened the bond I have will my fellow DGPSers, but it also rocked my whole perception of France. I defended France to Sally when she angrily called it's people a bunch of rude perverts. But I then seemed subjected to exactly her argument. It's hard for me to grapple with right now.

Gettin' Kicked Around

2011-05-20T08:58:00.002+09:00

Germany is a beautiful country. I don't really know anyway else to put it. The people have a wonderful sense of humor, a booming economy, and a work ethic that is almost unbeatable. I know a lot of Germans and am fortunate enough to say I have been all over western Germany, even living in Bielefeld for a few weeks in 2008. I have to admit I really can say nothing but nice things about the Germans.

One thing I do have to point out is that I do not for the life of me understand some of the things Germany tolerates and puts up, with regards to France and the European Union. I get that their membership in the initial EEC was important, and that their massive powerful population ad economy drives the European Union. But I do not understand how and why they continue to tolerate being bossed around by the European Union on other levels. For example, they joined the monetary union and complied with the adoption of the Euro, even though it really hurt to get rid of the Deutsch Mark economically speaking.

Interestingly, a few things should be noted. When Germany joined the EU (or the EEC as it was known at the time) newspaper editors and TV commentators hardly ever talked about the costs and benefits of Germany's EU membership. German people were not asked whether they wanted to give up their currency or admit former communist countries into the EU. It was assumed that what was good for Europe was good for Germany. Secondly, the history of Germany seems to linger above the heads of all Germans. It seems as though this guilt leads them to feel that they ought to do what Europe wants, rather than what they want themselves.

Why aren't Germans heartily tired of being the EU’s paymaster when almost 5 million people are out of work? Well, that may not be completely true. After all, Chancellor Angela Merkel was firm when she declared that Greece ought to be punished and not bailed out of bankruptcy. But frankly, this was the first time a German leader seemed to speak up and disagree with a European policy. There are a few explanations for why Merkel spoke up. First, Germany is now run by a group of leaders with no living memory of the horrors of the second world war. For the generation of Kohl, Europe was a matter of war and peace; for Merkel and most of her contemporaries, it is a question of costs and benefits. Second, Germany used to be a frontline state in the cold war. Membership in the EU and NATO was a matter of survival. Now it is not exactly the case. I guess this new change will be played out in the coming years with Germany and the EU.

On a smaller scheme, we learned the story of the Friendship Bridge between Kehl, Germany and Strasbourg, France. The project was agreed upon, and then scrapped by a French mayor who did not like the design. He instead called for a new design, and hand selected a Parisian architect to create the bridge. The point of the story is that the Germans ended up having to pay an additional 5x the amount of the original bridge. Did they complain? Maybe a little. Did they comply? Of course they did.

Melting the Heart of the non-Frenchie

2011-05-19T06:22:00.000+09:00

Since arriving back in the Motherland, I have been a little cold-hearted with regards to the food of La Belle France. The fact of the matter is that the last time I was able to come to France, I gained 15 kG, which is over 22 pounds. Call me crazy, but that's a horrifying number that I do not wish to deal with when I return aux Etats-Unis. Hence the reason I have been frightened to divulge back into the joie de vivre of French food and alcohol. I realize this has slightly taken way from the experience. In fact, to date, I have missed out on a Turkish Kebab, 2 Crepes, 3 Ice Creams, and several types of delicious chocolate and caramel. (The more I read this, the more I want to pat myself on the back for my self-control... pretty impressive.)

Yesterday afternoon while on free-time on Strasbourg, I walked around with Emily and Kato and we basically just enjoyed the great weather and frenchitude of Strasbourg. The larger contingency of our group went and ate Indian food, which I found appalling. But c'est la vie.

Restraining myself from enjoying the delicious Galette and Crepes that Emily and Kato decided to eat, I headed over to the local sketchy Eastern European supermarket, to find myself a delicious Diet Coke. Shocked that I only had to pay 50 cents in Euros for a 2 Liter gigundo Coca_Cola Light, it was only then that I read the ingredients. They were written in some sort of Slavic language, as we laughed imaging my Coke was a Communist. Oh nerds...

The problem is that while I drank away at my Communist Cola, Emily and Kato sat across me deliciously savoring the French's finest food. I could not even halt the growling of my stomach and the temptation to nab a bite of the Nutella Crepe. But I had one of those surreal moments when just when I began to reach over and grab a forkful of ooey gooey chocolate, this obese tourist couple waddled by, panting like Dogs. I took it as a sign.

After lunch, on our way back to the Cathedral for the tour of the Crypts, Kato stopped and asked if could get one of those weird little cookie and creme type things she had seen in the windows of all the dessert shops. I was not sure I understood what she was talking about until we were in the classical bakery in France, pourng over the glass case of Macarons. All will power was lost right then an there.

The three of us returned to the rest of the group in front of the great Cathedral. Emily, Kato, and I totted our fabulous Macaroons as we came upon the group. "Julie your eating!" exclaimed Sally. Oh yes- I was eating food from the land of the best food in the world. My heart was melting a little with each and every delicious bite. Oh yes- I was home in France.

When in France, Do As The French

2011-05-19T06:05:00.000+09:00

Our tour guide leader on this trip is a wonderful 24 year-old East Berliner with a knack for languages. What I like most about Christine is that her English is clearly stronger than her French, and my English is clearly stronger than my French, but she insists we speak French. And I am happy to oblige. After all, the French have long dreamed of French being the linga franca of people of the world. I feel that it is my part to at least give the French some small satisfaction. Small.

Christine is quite awesome. A part of me things she deeply respects the French, while another part of me thinks she may actually be a little bit racist. She is German, and clearly a hard worker. She never misses he opportunity to poke fun at the French laziness. The strikes. he belief that everything is better in France. And apparently the fact that France can pout and whine and get anything they want regarding the European Union. The point is that she is hilarious and never ceases to make me laugh.

One of the things one of my classmates asked her is how to identify a non-European in the crowd. For example, walking down the streets of old Strasbourg, how is it possible that she can spot an American a million miles a way. She looked at me, grinned, then pointed to my bright pink Vineyard Vines skirt and said, "Bright colors. Americans wear colors. Europeans wear things just in case someone drops dead and they have to go to a funeral."

The problem is that no matte rhow cultured I am, or even claim to be for the purpose of the editorial, I can not escape the fact that I am American. My wardrobe consists of absolutely nothing black or gray. I am a happy-go-lucky person, and the colors I wear are my way of showing it.

I am not European. I am not French. Christine does not care. She is, after all, a tour guide that always totes around group of gaggling American tourists laughing at the top of their lungs and looking like they just stepped out of a paint can. And as I walked around La Petite France in the warm weather, surrounded by folks in Black clearly identifying me as a typical idiotic American tourist, I realized something. I am doing as the french do in France. Not giving a shit.

The French may walk around as if they have the high fashion, the good life, and a mouth that has no muscles in order to give it a hint of a smile. The fact is you still step in the same dog poop left behind by a lazy Frenchmen that doesn't curb the dog as someone who is wearing the latest high leather boots as someone who wears run down disgusting old Converse shoes. And first and foremost, even before the tres chic atmosphere, comes the French attitude of not giving a shit about anything.

I may dress like an American. I may look like an American. But when it comes down to waling the streets of France, I am 100% French. I don't give two shots about what people are thinking of me as I carry on in my neon shirt, Canvas sailor bag, and brights red cardigan. In a different way, I am doing as the French in france.

So About the Power...

2011-05-18T06:46:00.000+09:00

It's been two years since I have been in la Belle France. And not two days into it, I have realized one very crucial fact. La Belle France never changes. I should have seen this coming. After all, the signs were all there. The buildings from the 17th century, the education system from the 19th century, among other things. But onething is for sure, France is France and it is all that it can be.

Another thing that never changes? Me. I may have been playing sidelines in the great game of traveling for a little while, but that does not change the fact that I am still a total klutz. I have more more mishaps and create more mayhem than most normal American 20 year-olds. Then again, I'm not exactly a normal 20 year-old. But the point is that I arrived not 48 hours in this splendidly beautiful country and have already attacked and annhilated the power of an 18th Century chatau, pissed off enough French people to have a reputation, and found other ways to remain true to the old traveler bug spirit.

Yesterday morning when we arrived in this lovely country, and pulled into the chatau we would be staying out, my first thought besides where I would find a bed to sleep in, was where would I find a shower to freshen up in. I hate the way planes and traveling could turn a completely clean and rational person into a psychotic insomniac that reeks of bad plane food and compressed airplane cabin. The shower was as epic as I figured it would be. Even more so, because this castle even had American-style water pressure. (on a side note: I'm not one of those typical arrogant American folks that complains when there is no ice in the coke, no heat in a wine cave, or no good water-pressure. But I am one of those people that loves having a good shower when the smell of airplane is thoroughly attachedto one's skin.)

After the showerand a quick stroll around the park with Dorothy, I realized it was time to strighten my hair. This is where it gets bad. I understand these electrical voltage issues. I realize that you can notjust shove a plug in the wall when the sockets don't line up. I further realize that Adapters are beautiful things. I did not realize that adaptors only work when the right vltage thing is linked up to them in correspondence to the adaptation in the electronic and wall socket. I only began to relaize this when I shoved my plug/adapter in the wall, heard a loud pop, and watched my straightener explode and the lights in the room go off. Uh oh.

Well you've done it Julie. Congratulations.

It was all made into a better scene when suddenly 10 minutes after it happened, a frantic knock came to the door. The person who knocked peered into the door and began speaking in German.

"Francais?" I asked.

Nothing.

Than suddenly in English, "So you can't use shower. Zis is becuz we lose power in castle."

Not sure how losing power would correspond to losing shower privilieges, I asked, "Um, excuse me, but why? It's not a big deal, because I already took a shower, but still, why?"

She looked at me for a moment and said, "Some idiot blew up the power. Shower not work for power thing."

I pretended to look shocked and horrified, "When will it be back?"

"Not long. Happens very often with Americans."

So now I figured out not only why the rest of the world hates us, but also got to experience another fine classical JujuB mishap.

First Day Back in the Motherland

2011-05-16T21:12:00.000+09:00

After what feels like an endless day, I can officially say we have made it to Straßburg!
This morning, while my fellow DGPS students boarded a plane from Charlotte, I boarded a Lufthansa Jumbo Jet in New York JFK. After a long flight, where I sat around watching movies in French (to practice my language skills for the next week,) we finally arrived! After waiting a few hours for the rest of the Charlotte to arrive in Frankfurt, everyone was united and ready to make the long trek from Frankfurt to Straßburg.
We were greeted by Christine, our tour leader, and a colorful German bus driver that had an English vocabulary consisting of "Hello" and "big." On the bus, we made our way to Straßburg, stopping only to take a 30 minute break for the bus driver.

I could tell that my experience was going to be slightly different than my classmates on this trip. Having lived in France as a gap year between High School and College, I have a decent background in the French language. Still, the nice part of traveling is that there are always surprises waiting for you. I found it odd while crossing into France because hardly a sign noted the change of countries. Understandably the European Union has changed relations between France and Germany, but I did not realize that they had become so meshed that the borders are not very well marked.

Our new home for the week was, of course, a fairy tale. The 18th century chateau with a Rapunzel-like turret, surrounded by a spacious green forested area was something out of a Disney Princess movie! After a nice afternoon of free time, we were able to explore the grounds before our walking tour of the park. We had a wonderful guide, who explained the mysterious of several contemporary art pieces in the garden. We also viewed a piece of the Maginot Line, and learned about it's history as a failure.

After an inside Powerpoint lesson on the Maginot Line, we broke off into dinner time. We received our first glass of champagne (well.. not really. Champagne is only allowed to be called Champagne if it comes from Champagne. Or else it's called Cremant) as a welcome to the mighty castle and to Europe. It was followed a delicious French meal at a local cafe.

All I can think about now is that I have not slept for the better part of 36 hours and I am dead tired!

Spare Some Change?

2011-05-16T00:28:00.000+09:00

Everyone wants to change the world, but no one wants to change.

I'm 20 years old and the past 5 years of my life have been on the turbulent side. I've lived in Japan for one year, France for one year, New Jersey for one year, and Clemson, and South Carolina for two years. That's not to mention the fact that I have been to over 15 countries in the mean time and all over Japan and France (to the point that I know these individual countries better than my own country.) Unconventional life for an unconventional kid.

One of the things I've noticed about everyone I've encountered is how one changes, or doesn't change for that matter. Verona, New Jersey, for instance, my home town, has not changed one ounce. The people are still slightly obnoxious, close-knit, very involved with themselves and the town happenings, and slightly hypocritical. I say this in the nicest way possible. Since, after all, it's a great town to grow up in. Everyone knows your name and business, which is good for me since I'm generally a well-respected kid. Not that anyone seems to understand why I would want to leave the almighty Verona High school to go away to some bizarre East Asian earthquake-prone country, or even go to college in a faraway place where you can't come home every weekend for home-cooked meal and Mommy's love. (I realize this sounds super sarcastic, in the traditional JujuB sense... but I'm being completely serious.)

My question is: Is it better to be malleable and change and 'do as the Romans' or stay true to one's roots and never change?

I've changed so much in the past 5 years that I sometimes don't even know who I am. The Queen of the Couch and the potato chip wrapped in Bacon is now a Vegetarian Granola marathon runner. I went from Deadhead to Parrothead to Goth to punk to Roll out of Bed fashion to Sorority prepster, and now I'm back on the market for not having a clue. Conservative to Liberal to Libertarian. Liberal arts shoe-in to big football public university CLEMSON! The list goes on and on and it will continue to go on and on. I'm malleable and adaptable, and I change all the time. Sure, I still have some pretty deep beliefs that never will change, but I'm a big fan of doing in Fixin what the French do, in Kochi what the Japanese do, in Bielefeld what the Germans do, in Armidale what the Australians do, in Clemson what the Southerners do. And so on.

But that's just me. And I don't think it's wrong to have set beliefs that don't change. Sometimes I wish I was a little more solid and less malleable. Maybe I wouldn't be so confused all the time. Maybe I would be able to make up my mind once in a while rather than let others do it for me. I don't consider myself apathetic, just more or less willing to roll with the tide.

The reason I've been thinking about this so much is that I'm finally going back to France, and finally going to see the R's. I'm not entirely sure the whole plan yet, but I'm hoping on staying with them for a few days in Fixin. I've kept in pretty decent contact with them, so I've been able to infer that things haven't changed all that much since I've left. But I'm anxious to see what has changed. Subtle differences sometimes have the most impact. Of course, it it's anything like Verona, than Fixin and the R's have changed about as much as an inch a year. The change that correlates to the newest PTA president.

So back to the initial question: Is it better to be malleable and change and 'do as the Romans' or stay true to one's roots and never change?

Leaving On a Jet Plane

2011-05-15T21:30:00.002+09:00

There are a million reasons why I am insanely excited to head back to Europe. The most obvious would be to go back to where I left a little piece of myself... on the small vineyard town of Fixin in Burgundy, France. But it's also about new adventure as well. I have not really outlined the details of my trip, so I think I will do my best to do that now.

As I mentioned before, I am a Dixon Global Policy Scholar, which is a program through the Clemson Calhoun Honors College. For more information on DGPS, click here. Basically a summary of the program is a a tracked course to help the students prepare for applying for some of the big scholarships, such as Fulbright, Rhodes, and Marshall. I was selected as one of twelve students to travel to Strasbourg to study "France and Germany at the heart of Europe."

Some of the highlights of the trip are visits to the European Parliament, trekking through the battlefield of Verdun, Hiedelberg, Stuttgart, and many more. Of course, I am most excited about the learning opportunity, and well, the food. I really miss European food. I did gain the better part of 15 lbs. in Europe that last time.

Graduation Goggles

2011-05-14T23:58:00.000+09:00

Everywhere I go I leave a piece of myself behind. I'm not sure why or even how I go about doing this sometimes. I just know that months after I have left a place, a part of my yearns beyond belief to go back. Kochi. Fixin. Townsville. Bielefeld. Verona. Clemson. Nagoya. Bormes-les-Mimosa.

They say hindsight is 20/20 and I never really knew what that meant until I took a step back and realized what I was doing. I had an amazing year in France, but it was very difficult and there was no doubt about that. Yet as I sit around eagerly packing a bag, I seem to only think of the good things that happend while I was in France. My amazing host family, the R's. The 15 pounds I gained in delicious chocolate, fabulous desserts, endless bread and nutella.... the list goes on and on. It is only when I skim through this blog that I remember the bouts of cold weather, the endless gray days, and constant feeling that the country of France hated me and wanted me to suffer.

This whole thing got me thinking about conventions and stuff we do here in the United States of America. It made me realize that Hindsight 20/20 is a good thing to have. Probably one of the only things that gets us through. Another way to put Hindsight 20/20 is called, "Graduation Goggles." It's that feeling of meaningful yearning after the fact of everything being said and done. When your standing on the edge of graduation from High School, you look back and remember the wonderful memories: befriending the older kids, who seemed so determined to go out of their way to help you get through and navigate High School; the playful teasing you received from the 'popular' kids that made you into a stronger person; the delightful school lunches made from Frannie the kind old school lunch lady; kickball tournaments in Gym Class that seemed epic and exciting; Prom (enough said...); the first day of classes Freshman year when you had that slightly queasy rumbling in your stomach as you began your next great journey. This is what you see when you peer back through graduation goggles, rather than what really happened: the older kids going out of their way to ruin your life and direct you to the cafeteria when you really just want to go to the auditorium, the terrible horrifying teasing from the 'popular' kids that led to you faking sick far more than you were actually sick, Frannie the old lunch lady that used to scream at you for being fat every time you bought more than two cookies, kickball tournaments that ended with the school psychologists coming to talk kids out of suicide threats, Prom (enough said...) and the first day of classes Freshman year when you were so nervous you hyperventilated and didn't even make it to third period.

I'm doing my best to pull off the Graduation Googles as I embark on a journey back to France. The fact is, France is too unpredictable not to be cautious. With my luck, I'll end up stuck in a Paris train station all night because I was too busy pretending France was the world's most exciting country. Oh yeah- I've done that before.

I'm Back

2011-05-14T09:33:00.000+09:00

Oh... Hey Blog!

SO I never did get that new blog I claimed I would. But I did keep my old blog. I knew with my insatiable wanderlust, I would need it again for some great excursion that would need to be thoroughly documented. After a cleaning, I figure it's time to bring Franpan back to life.

It's been about 2 years since I wrote on this blog and change had occured. Nothing momentous of course. I just got married and had a baby. Just kidding. That's a pretty horrifying thought. I still can hardly take care of myself let alone a boyfriend, let alone a husband, let alone a baby. You see? Nothing has changed that much.

I still go to Clemson University, best school in the nation. Don't even bother trying to argue this one. I'll just pull out the stubborn French "i'm right and your wrong" card. I no longer study Language and International Trade. I'm going to be a teacher instead. History. High School. Though I'm not entirely sure what the future holds at this point. As long as I continue to wake up in the morning, go for a run, bake cookies, and bring home A's and B's I'm a happy person.

I'm a proud sister of Kappa Alpha Theta, so briefly I gave up my weirdo travel-bug granola-esque drop out of life to become a nomad in order to become a sorority girl. That was fun, but it wasn't me. Luckily, I have found a pretty good middle ground. That's another story all together.

I still run. Running is such a big part of me, that I'm beginning to forget the person I was before the running started. While this hasn't changed, my mileage certainly has. I'm a marathon runner now. 26.2 miles. 3 half-marathons down as well.

So why else would I come on here? Okay, sure I've been reminiscing a bit and reading about my mishaps in France and Japan. But in reality, there is only reason I would come on here and begin writing again.

I'm going abroad. Again.

Through the Clemson Calhoun Honors College, I was accepted as a Dixon Global Policy Scholar. That is a Maymester if France and Germany, followed by several classes on public policy and intellectual ideas. I am extremely excited about the opportunity. 10 days is Strasbourg, France with 12 of the coolest, smartest, and most interesting people. I'm excited.

Missing Abroad

2010-10-10T23:21:00.003+09:00

Most normal college kids go through some sort of bout of homesickness when they go off the school. Usually it can be fixed with a nice long phone call with parents, a package filled with homemade cookies, clothes that smell like Mom's detergent, the knowledge that someone else misses you, or some pictures of loved ones. But, being that I have never in my life, been what you would consider normal, this does not apply to me. When I was 15 years-old, I spent a year in Japan, and never once fell to the clutches of Homesickness. At 17 years-of-age, I lived in France and traveled around Europe for a year. I was by myself as an exchange student, while my family and friends stayed home. Never once over the courses of these years, did I ever get homesick, as far-fetched as that may sound. I was having way to much fun!

The same goes for the past 1 year and 2 months I have spent in South Carolina, as a university student at Clemson University. I do not miss home at all. Why should I, when I love it so much!? However, I did miss some things. I think it has to do with that fact that come December, I am definitely going to be home with my sister, bagels with cream cheese, strange Tri-state accents, and New York City, but I can not be too sure when I will return to France and Japan. In order to combat those occasional pangs of longing, I run out and indulge in fine Sushi, with fancy Japanese names, and of course delicious Nutella smothered over slices of South Carolinian French-bread. Life does not get much better when you truly can have it all!

New Jersey

2010-07-10T22:50:00.000+09:00

My name is Julie Garner, born and raised in New Jersey.

I know, right? New Jersey! That's disgusting! That's like admitting to being raised in a greasy pizza box under the Brooklyn Bridge.

I guess I am used to this prejudice about my deep roots. After all, traveling and living around the world these past couple of years has exposed me to some pretty ugly anti-Americanism. After all, the "arrogant fat American" comment just got old, and I soon began to embrace my stereotype. But being back home in the United States of America has made things no less complicated, just inherently different. You see I have come to terms with the fact that no matter where in life I go, and I know I will go far, I will always be a Jersey girl. There I said it, I'm ready for the fake tan and high maintenance comments to begin.

A part of me is truly pained to say where I am from, since everyone of my Clemson friends, has grimaced at the thought that they are associating with a true blue Jersey girl. It is as if whenever I get introduces as Julie from Jersey, someone always inevitable pumps a fist into the air, snickers out loud, or says something stupid like, "New Joisey." Not to mention that this past year has put New Jersey on the map- and certainly not in a good way.

I was born and raised in a state with 4 seasons. Skiing in the winter, allergies in the spring, down the shore for summer festivities, and fall foliage in November. I have known what DTS for MDW means since I was in diapers. I feasted on Taylor Ham, tasty bagels quite possibly than those in Manhattan, delectable baked goods form the famous Italian bakeries in every town, and Jersey tomatoes that just can not be beaten. I grew up in an area, whereby with a free day and a sense of adventure, I could choose between climbing the Statue of Liberty, crabbing on a pier in Long Beach Island, hiking and searching for the Jersey Devil in the pine barrens, Revolutionary War study in Trenton, or just driving along the Turnpike and taking any random exit and exploring the suburbs and bustling towns of this great state. And, of course, if the weather is not so good, than there is always a shopping mall to hit up. After all, it is an 'unofficial' New Jersey law that every town must be within 20 miles of the a large shopping center.

To me, I love New Jersey, not because of the stereotypes, the fist-pumpers on the beach, the 'armpit of the US of A, a turnpike that takes up the length and width of the state, medical waste and repulsive disgusting beaches and towns, an atmosphere of constant rush and rudeness. What I love about New Jersey is the love that one has for the state and place that anyone has for their birth place. New Jersey has taught me that what does not kill me will only make me stronger, sometimes all you need is a little dts for things to make sense, and of course, why learn to pump gas when someone else can do it for you?

All By Myself

2010-07-08T22:55:00.000+09:00

Throughout my life, I have spent the better part of my daily day to day musings and happenings by myself. I run by myself, I curl up in a good book alone, I watch movies in my room with no the company of no one. My High School career was categorized by sessions of alone time, which I wittingly labeled, "Me Time." I embraced those few hours between my three jobs, studying for the AP tests, and preparing for a life in France for one year. It was in those hours where I would set off for a long relaxing run or go biking. Being Alone was beautiful and I looked forward to the moments of just being me.

But something changed within me while I studied abroad in France. Suddenly this much-adored 'Me Time' became a curse and a hurdle that I could not overcome. I did not make friends easily in France and being in the middle of nowhere- the beautiful lush endless green miles of fine Burgundy vineyard- came at a steep price. There is only so many times you can run and get lost in the woods, bike and enjoy the company of the just grapes, and be silent in a room with just one's thoughts. There is a very line between between being alone in a positive light and negative light, and I had quickly crossed the line into the negative light. Although I conquered much of the alone time with long trips and travel to see people I probably never would have gotten around to seeing without endless time on my hand, I suddenly developed a taste aversion to being by myself. The loner I had long developed into in personality abandoned me one afternoon, and has never since returned.

When I started college, being alone scared me enough to put myself out there on the market. I learned from my mistakes in High School and in France. My roommate Grace was my first project, and after some time, I can successfully say that she became my best friend. I also joined a social sorority, which surprised everyone who had ever crossed my path in the past years of my life. I decided early on that at parties I had better learn to mingle than to stand in the corner observing. When Grace felt obligated to return home to her parents for the weekend, leaving me in our big empty dorm room, I would try to make her feel guilty.

"This is reckless abandonment!" I would declare. By then Grace had learned to ignore me, although at first, she grimaced and said, "it's only for the weekend..."

A lot has changed in me since I developed my aversion towards loneliness. I think this aversion has spawned by hatred towards Summer 2010 and the inevitable spans of being by myself. Even though I have two jobs, I have returned to a town where I a square peg in a round hole. My friends are spread out all over the United States of America- and I am sitting by myself entertaining my thoughts and trying not to be to glum about this lonely feeling I have.

Things You Learn Selling Stuff on eBay

2010-07-05T23:07:00.000+09:00

A common illness most college students are stricken with, besides Scabies, Herpes, and Alcoholism, is the Empty Wallet Syndrome. I for one am always suffering from the problems of the syndrome, which include the symptoms, of having absolutely nothing within one's wallet. (That's when debit cards tend to come in handy...) Although I have two paying jobs, I also have a new fascination with J. Crew shorts that has diminished my savings significantly.

As a remedy for the syndrome, I recently opened an eBay account and decided to relinquish a considerable amount of my inventory. I have now sold several skirts that probably would not get around one thigh (when the heck was I that skinny?), and some technology that can be considered Stone Age material in today's age of Ipod's that do everything but pole dance and swim Breaststroke.

Interestingly enough, my sales on eBay have taught me more things than I would ever have expected. Firstly, I am beginning to think that no blue-blooded American truly has an eBay account, or at least uses it for buying things. I have sent items to Amit Sengupta, Giuseppe Angelini Cannolio, Hidalgo Velasquez, and Si-Yoo "James" Chung. I have only agreed to send packages to the United States but so far, I have sent packages to Hawaii, California, Mississippi, and Wyoming. I make it a habit to look up the towns on a map to improve my geography with each and every shipment I make. Some towns are too small for state maps, and I have had to resort to Google Earth.

Besides for my interaction with the auction United Nations, I have come to believe that one man's garbage is another man's treasure. Half of the stuff currently being sold on my eBay account is junk just taking up precious space in my room. Junk, that, after quite a few successful sales, has earned me over $350 on the eBay auction system. On the flip side, my nasty habit of J. Crew shorts purchases is also junk to the people I purchase it from. No complaints from here or there.

But I have also begun to believe that human nature plays a mighty big role in sales purchases. I sold my beloved old Canon Digital Rebel on eBay for a significantly high price. The description stayed true to the condition of the camera, heavily-used but still in great shape. The man who purchased it made sure to "warn" me to put full insurance on the item, which I have of course did. Thank goodness for that, seeing as I just found out that this character filed a claim from the shipping company. I guess I don't know the extent of the details, but the claim is that camera shuts off each time a picture is taken. I took several good shots with it that morning, so I am quite skeptical. Regardless, I will stay out of this one for sure.

Mishaps in the South aren't really mishaps at all

2009-10-10T23:15:00.000+09:00

If anyone has ever read my blog thoroughly, than you would know that I have this amazing tendency to get into fascinating situations of getting lost in the middle of nowhere and attempting to find my way back into society. It happened in France, Japan, New Jersey, Australia, Belgium, Germany, and probably more places. The South is no different.

If life is defined by the amount of dumb situations we manage to find ourselves in, then my 18 years-of life already merits at least a dictionary. Besides having spent the night in a train station in Paris after missing the last train home, walking 8 miles from a movie theater to my house on a frigid February evening with 103 fever, or signing up to run a 5K with a broken toe, my life at Clemson would not be officially complete until I could add something humiliating and hilarious all at the same time into the mix.

With ROTC, cadets are required to submit a medical report and receive an eye examination, to get into the program. Since I have long parted with my pediatritian, the ROTC staff was kind enough to find me a doctor and optometrist to complete the medical portion and finaly be eligible to contract as an Army officer (If I decide that is what I want with my future.) The Optometrist was located on College Avenue, a whooping 15 minute walk from my dorm. While the regular doctor was located in Seneca, which I wrongly assumed was just a bus ride away. How wrong I truly was...

I prepared myself as well as I could. I researched all the CAT bus routes, prepared myself for the inevitable chaneg from the Seneca Express to the Seneca Business Loop, created little scribble maps about roads I would need to turn down to get to Wells Highway, mapped out what stores I would be passing and at what time. The plan was to arrive at the Seneca Railroad Park and then 5 minutes later take the Business Loop. After 14 minutes, it would stop at the Lowes, Bi-Lo and I would exit and walk right until reaching Wells High way. Then after a short 500 or so meters, I would arrive. I would be there 45 minutes early, but it was the only bus ride and it is much better to be early than to late.

Of course, I did manage to forget one simple minute detail that everyone failed to mention. The doctor's office had picked itsefl up and moved farther down the raod about 5 or 6 miles from a city area to the middle of the woods. And thus, long story short, I did not arrive at the doctor's office early, or at all for that matter. When 2:30 came around, I was exhausted, hot and sweaty from the sudden burst in humidity, disgusted by how rundown and dirty Seneca was, lost out of my mind, and miserable with the prospect of missing the appointment and getting in trouble with my ROTC sargents. In defeat, I scanned through the documents and found the number of Upstate Medical Associates.

Frantically, I typed their number into my dying cell phone, and through the tears of defeat listened as I heard, "Hello! Upstate Medical Associates? What can I do for you today?" Well you could magically transport me to your office with your mind powers, but I hope I am not asking too much.

"Hi," I sniffled, "I'm JujuB, and I'm scheduled for the 2:30, that was...um..." I wiped my tears and looked at my watch, "well it was 5 minutes ago. And I'm- I'm sorry but I'm truly lost in this place and maybe you could give me directions or um... cancell my appointment."

"Well, goodness, where are ya?"

"I'm I'm um.... walking along a big road. I took the Cat Bus to Lowes... but that was over an hour ago. I followed Google Maps, but I'm hopelessly lost. I think I'm near the Applewood Shopping Center, I think."

"Lord, bless your heart, yo're walkin'?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Lordy, Ima goin' send the doctor to come pick ya up. You just stay rite thare, and shill be rite thare to get ya. Don't ya' worry bout' a thang."

And sure enough, 10 minutes later, an elderly doctor pulled up her pickup truck right in front of the spot I was standing at, wiping my tears, and said, "Hey, youn' lady. Are you JujuB?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Well hop on in! I'm your doctor, sorry for the mishap, we'll get things settled right now. Ya aren't from 'round are ya?"

"No, ma'am. What was your first clue?"

And so I got a ride with my doctor back to the clinic, where I was placed in the front of the waiting line. During the examination, the doctor offered to give me a ride, but another one of my friends (another southern, in fact) was already waiting outside the clinic to bring me back to Clemson. In the car on the ride home, I ranted about the long walk and the fact of being late and lost. But I also told her all about how shocked I was of the kindness of the doctor for actually having come to pick me up. I just did not think that sort of thing existed anymore. Kindness, that is.

"Honey!" she said with all shreds of seriousness she could, "You're in the South now! I dunno 'bout you godless cold northerners but we Southerners take of each other."

I could not have said it better myself.

We like to spell at C-L-E-M-S-O-N

2009-09-30T23:03:00.000+09:00

For those of you poor souls who have never been fortunate enough to attend and be a part of a Clemson football game (or those of you Gamecocks, who choose the Dark Side,) you ought to know that we Clemson folks have a special talent. We may not have the strongest football team, the #1 national ranking of public universities, the country's most beautiful campus, the school with the best food, the dorms resembling the most like palaces, but we are freaking amazing spellers. I may be so bold as to say that Clemson is THE best school in the entire country for spelling. In fact, I think after I am going to contact US News College Ranking about adding a new category about the school with the best spelling record. That will put Clemson at #1 for sure.

You see, you can not be on the Clemson campus, surrounded by Clemson folks, at Death Valley during a game, or at a drunken party without hearing the spellers in action. The Student Body is made of cold misfit Northerners (like myself) and warm Palmetto-sporting South Carolinians, Chinese Exchange Student and regular ones, Fraternity Boys and Gothic ones, cheerleaders and book worms, 4.0 and academic probation people, and so it's just one of those things that we all have in common. We can all spell, and we are damn good at it.

Whenever our Clemson Tigers need some support, you can always hear a classic, "C-L-E-M-S-O-N!" with the lovely fist pumping into the air and andrenaline ripping through people's hearts. The trick with this particular cheer is to know that the last letter also merits a hand circle in mid-air. It has taken me all of two games to realize that this circle is in a leftward motion. Some drunk guy that reaked of Vodka called me a flipping idiot for having that incorrect. I do not think I will ever mistake it again so long as I live.

Another crucial spell is the quick and easy motivator. That being said, after a field goal, or in between downs, or plays, a nice quick and simple, "C-L-E-M-S-O-N T-I-G-E-R-S!!!" Say this with speed and enthusiasm and with the loudest possible voice your body can muster, and then you'll probably have it.

Usually in the third or fourth quarter, the cheerleaders lead the entire stadium in a rousing rendition of good old-fashioned spelling. The Stadium is broken up into 6 portions, each calling out a letter in our lovely name. Where I stand on the Hill, I have thus called L and O. But I can not imaine being the opponent team when the entire Stadium of 80,300 people are screaming at the tops of their lungs the name of home team. I get chills thinking about it, and I am the one doing it.

The fact of the matter is short and simple, we like to spell Clemson. That's who we are, and who we always be. In the spirirt of my University, I say C-L-E-M-S-O-N!

True Rivalry

2009-09-21T23:08:00.001+09:00

Okay to start, I grew up in the suburbs of New York City. More specifically, a small town called Verona, New Jersey, with about 13,000 residents. I graduated in 2008, and spent 3 years attending Verona High School. Now to all of you locals of Clemson, or anyone whose neck is slightly red, sporting a confederate flag on your truck, or waiting anxiously for Nascar, I might say you ought to be offended. Verona Home School, a town just 20 miles outside the limits of New York City, is home to the Verona Hillbillies.

And like most sports team, we had a rival, the Cedar Grove Panthers, who we dominated (or were destroyed by) each and every Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. And of course, you had some people, like me, who could really care less about, "caging the panthers," or defending oneself against a rival dressed in Carhartt overalls with straw in their teeth, and pretendng to be retarded. But you had others, who talked real big about trashing up each other's school, which town was stronger, encroaching fights between residents. It was all rather foolish to me.

Then I came to Clemson.

Maybe because I have been here for a little more than a month, and was not born and bred to be a Clemson Tiger, but honestly, the rivalry thing to me is nothing more than a few silly phrases hurled back between Clemson and Columbia. Or was, nothing more than trash talk, and the occasional chicken joke. Then I went to Columbia, South Carolina for the very first time.

One of my hall neighbor, who I will refer to as IQ, is part of the 'Divided House' thing, whereby her boyfriend goes to the UNiversity of South Carolina (USC, which is not to be confused with the REAL USC in Southern California.) She is one of those crazy Clemson fans that pretty much came out of the womb with stripes, and apparently nearly murdered her boyfriend when he announced his intentions of becoming a Gamecock. Even though the poor guy is not really that big of a fan of the Gamecocks, I do not think he can even bring up their games in front of her. I thought she was a little psycho at first, but the more I live here at Clemson, and encounter other fans, the more I realize she is pretty lame compared to some of the fans.

I am that girl from the North or everyone gets annoyed at with when I make fun of this silly rivalry. "Seriously, guys, it's football! Who cares? We have more things to worry!" Evil glares are thrown my way, followed by the occasional, "your not from around here," or, "just you wait till you begin to understand this rivalry." And of course, you have your real compelling argument, "Gamecocks SUCK!" I am not convinced, it's a game! Grow up people!

For his birthday, IQ decided to invite his friends, and some of her's to a Mexican restaurant in Columbia. She invited me along, originally out of pity, as the the girl with nothing else to do. It was a great opportunity for me, as well, because I love South Carolina with all of my heart, but have only seen the small town of Clemson. This, my friend, is not saying much in terms of knowing about your somewhat adopted state. Plus it was another opportunity to get the lay of the land. I finally figured out that Irmo and Greenwood were names of towns and not bugs, and Ninety-Six was not just a football play.

When we finally arrived in Columbia, I was pretty disappointed. Zaxby and IQ had spoke about how dirty, unsanitary, dangerous, and disgusting Columbia was. Apparently, homeless people could be found on every street corner, and crime and poverty is just lurking on every avenue. All I have to say is that I should have expected this from two girls that think the Clemson campus is dangerous, and carry Mace with them every where they go. Ya'll should not even think about coming to New York, is all I got to say about that.

But what did shock me was that, when we exited the car, just outside of the residence hall of IQ's boyfriend, something mind-blowing happened. Sure, we may have been asking for it, with the fact that each one of was in an orange tee-shirt, but even still! As the three of us walked along the sidewalk to the hall, a truck pulled up slowly behind us. Honking, the rolled down the windows and screamed,

"Wrong School, ass----" I'm pretty that if I could hear the rest of what they said, I would have been utterly baffled.

Seriously, people, are you telling me that I am not allowed in Columbia, because I go to Clemson? When we got into the safety, or lack there of, the USC residence Hall, we replayed our story for IQ's boyfriend and his roommates. They burst into laughter and told us it was our own fault.

I like to say I have seen it all, but then something like this comes along and completely shatters my faith in the human race. My fault? It's my fault that ya'll have nothing better to do with yourselves? And then, it came to me. Like a calling from the heavens, this statement materialized in my mind, and before I could begin to understand the repercussions I entered face first into the rivalry.

"My fault? MY FAULT? Guess what? Your campus sucks! You all are the friggen' chickens, just because your mascot sucks, does not mean that's my problem. And guess what? EVeryone knows Clemson is better? Our campus is gorgeous, your's is like the projects. Our academics are better, and do not even try to argue that. Gamecocks suck."

I am now officially a Gamecock hater.

Feeling Culturious?

2009-09-12T22:58:00.000+09:00

Part of the New Student at Clemson at program is a mandatory course called Clemson Connect. I wish to emphasize the word mandatory because no one I know would really want to do this if they had the choice. The first assignment was to read a book and attend a session by the author, who we all respected until she admitted that it was not she who choose the end result of her characters. Apparently the fictional characters decide their own fates and 'speak' to her. In addition, during the first few days of life at Clemson, one is required to attend a convocation, a small group session called One Clemson, attend a Library Workshop, and finally write a report about one Culturious experience at Clemson. It's horrid. If I'm being honest.

Culturious is defined as something involving curiosity for another culture, religion, lifestyle, or anything different than the lifestyle you are accustomed to. The examples they gave us were meeting some of the foreign exchange students, attending church with a friend from a different religion, trying a different sport unfamiliar to you, asking questions and getting answers from a roommate or fellow student with different lifestyles. Personally, I thought it rather odd that a school as un-diverse as Clemson would assign a project as such, but oh well?

I am a little weird myself, having spent a year in Japan and a year in France, so I tried to think of something at Clemson that was culturious. I thought it would be cheating if I wrote about helping the Japanese exchange students get to class with my language class, attending the French language table, trying foreign food (certainly not for the first time,) among other things. I wrote about something that was truly a new experience for me.

I wrote a report n what it was like to live with a Southerner.

The Project was distributed on August 25th, and I submitted it on September 2nd. Meanwhile, I decided to go around and hear about the other topics that my fellow Clemson students were choosing. These are a conglomeration of some of the excellent topics.

*Trying Sushi; Apparently trying sushi is culturious. I just thought that it was trendy when Americans ate Sushi, but apparently some of my fellow Clemson students had never eaten raw fish. The predicament: Disgusting! Steak and Potatoes are a million times better. Humans are not meant to eat raw fish.

*Attending Catholic Church; The difference between Catholic Church and Baptist/Methodist/Non-denominational are the following: Catholics don't want to be at church and aren't sure why they even go, but they feel they must raise their children in the Catholic faith; Catholics have cheap wine; they respect and worship their pope, but aren't sure why; peace be with you means to shake someone the hand of someone you know, but no one else; the priest tells you a verse of the bible, but doesn't teach it. (My roommate wrote about this topic, just fyi.)

*Southern Cuisine; Fried Okra. Grits. Fried Chicken. Biscuits and gravy. Sweet Tea. 'Nuff said. I might get a coronary just writing about the stuff.

*Meeting the Chinese Exchange Students; Not all Chinese people live in the Great Wall, sleep with panda's, and eat rice at every meal! Mind you there are only 2 undergraduate Chinese students (that I know of.) That being said, I don't know if this is a large enough sample to rule out that most Chinese people don't live on the Great Wall!

*Conversation with an African-American: "I talked to this very friendly black guy! He told me that if I wanted to make friends with black people at Clemson, I should refrain from asking them what sport they play." Yeah that's a very good idea.

*Going to a Waffle House for the First Time: Response from a born and raised South Carolininian when finding out his Michigan roommate was writing about eating at a Waffle House: "What the hell? What kind of place is the North of this fine country. It's Godless ice desert with no Waffle Houses!"

The Third Exchange

2009-08-31T23:28:00.005+09:00

For those of you who might know me, you could probably skip this post and move onto something a little more interesting. As for everyone else, this might explain some of the erractic, irrational, strange, funny, and flabberghasting situations I manage to get myself into. And lord knows there are a lot of those.

I absolutely detested high school and my small town with every fiber of my ever being. I will not get into it, but I had planned my escape since practically the very first day of Kindergarten. That change kept at the ripe old age of 15, when I spent an entire year in Kochi, Japan. I returned home to American to graduate, but rather than heading off to college like all of my peers, I decided I was not exactly ready to go off to college. I went to France for a year instead, and traveling all around Europe with a few dollars, a reckless behavior, and an awesome host family.

In all, I have done some really stupid things in my life, but they have made me who I am, a stronger and more wise person. And when I returned from France, I decided that I would give it everything I had to fully reintegrate and be an American again. After all, I was headed to American-pride stronghold South Carolina, and I would do my best to fit in. It could not be that hard, could it?

Oh, yeah, it could be that hard.

Sure, I was born and raised and instilled with a Northern mentality, having grown up a whooping 20 minutes away from New York City, but America is America, is it not? It's all relative, same history, same language, same prejudice, same culture, same way of looking at the world around us, right?

Wrong.

I spent a year of my life chasing samurai and eating raw (possibly still living) Sushi, a year surrendering to laziness in France, eating baguettes and Creme Brulees. Surely a year in my own country, could not possibly be that different?

Haha.

And thus, not only will this blog be about the trials and tribulations of a college kid at Clemson, but also the trials, tribulations, and trials of a Northern world ambassador in a place called, The South. It is possibly my third exchange to a different country. Very possibly the most mind-boggling of all.

First Day of Class

2009-08-19T23:44:00.002+09:00

Nerves kept me awake all night. Staying awake all night made the bags under my eyes resemle the Big Brown Bag at Bloomingdale. Morning coffee. Not enough caffiene. Apple suppressed the hunger. Hair looked like I was hit by lightening and I did not want to wake up Elizabeth with a request to use her straightener. Oh boy.

On my way to class, carrying a bookbag that happens to be the same weight that I am, I discovered that it rained last night. I suspect that it poured. I slipped in mudd, dirtied up my knees, spilled coffee on my KHAKI skirt, and had no time to go back.

Everything that can go wrong, probably will.

On the bright side, Japanese teacher was very impressed with my Japanese. Until she found out I lived in Japan. Then she was embarrassed.

French time.

Serial Goodbyer

2009-08-11T22:08:00.000+09:00

You think at this point in my life, having gone away for two years, leaving behind a thing called my life, and saying goodbye to the people I know, I would be used to it by now. And I guess for the most part I am.

It is not quite so hard for me to say goodbye anymore.

Because, for the most part, these things are temporary. When I said goodbye to my parents before I set off to Japan for a year, I was so very upset. I did not think I could survive a year without my parents telling me what to do, peers telling me who I had to be, and my environment making me feel comfortable. But I did, and I began too realize just how very strong I am. So strong, in fact, that when it was time for France, I barely lifted a hand to wave at my parents while I skipped through the gate. It was not out of spite, it was because goodbye is only a temporary thing, so why even say it at all sometimes?

It is a little different leaving the host country though. In that sense, even though you may know that you will be back, usually you do not know when. And everything that you have come to love will be different. You will not be a kid anymore, living in a host families house, struggling with language, friends, and life. Next time, you won't have that love at first sight, honey moon period, or gradual growing bliss of the host country. It becomes just normal, everyday life, and that never fascinates people. Even after a long absence, the things I miss most about Japan and France are not the first wonder and amazement with the place, it's the family and the way of life, which really became my own.

I am off to College tomorrow, the next big adventure in my life. Meanwhile, I am here in Verona, New Jersey, letting go yet and again and saying goodbye. There are some people I should say goodbye to that I have not even seen since my Senior year. There are some people who may pat me on the back and wish me luck, tell me to stop by when I come home for vacation, or hug me and tell me how much they miss me. I feel numb when this happens. I do not even know how to react. I do not feel anything usually. Have I hardened myself so much against goodbyes, that I am indifferent to them? Or I have just accepted the fact that goodbye truly is not forever? Circumstances withheld, that is.

I think I am just a serial goodbyer, about to commit another goodbye.

Back Here

2009-08-03T00:48:00.000+09:00

Sometimes I think that this whole thing has been just one big dream. That I am just beginning to open my slumbering eyes to the creeping daylight pouring through my window. The bright movements and voices of the dream are alive and in full-force playing through my mind. But soon, once my mind becomes fully aware of the day, they'll fade like they always do. And the characters and setting of the dream will be forgotten or thrown in a waste bin in the back of my head.

But it was not a dream. It was reality. Reality normally gets a bad reputation, but this type of reality does not merit a bad reputation.

It merits the truth. That simple saying of c'est la vie can sum it up beautifully and be understood in two languages. Reality can be cruel, gentle, scary, boring, hopeful, understanding, unfair, harsh, bitter, magnificent, among others. This past year in France contains a few of those adjectives listed above. It was never easy, and there were times when I lost all faith in my capability. I guess that is another reason why the past year of my life was not what one could consider a dream, or for that matter even a nightmare. It was just life.

Being back in America is different than when i was back in America after a year in Japan. Back then, it was rather difficult, and painstakingly nightmarish. I had not been ready to leave Japan, and probably needed one more month to tie up all the loose ends of that year abroad. Being home in America was like being in a place that no matter how much you tried, your family tried, you just did not feel right being in. But this time it feels right to be home. For as sad as I was leaving France, I knew it was the right time. There came a point in my year in France, after all the traveling, when I began to just exist, and not really live. I needed to live again.

So why now? Why now do I come online and write about being back?

Because I have let go. I have let go of that quiet part of me that hoped my year in France would be the best year of my life, and I would never want to leave. That yearning part of me that wanted to be part of a family as crazy as the R's. The taste bud that reminded me just how French I was at every bite of cheese, sip of wine, and breaking of bread.

That's not who I am.

I'm Julie Garner, American by birth, French by necessity, and Japanese by dream. Now I am off to start the next great adeventure. Which happenes to be something just as different as a year in a foreign Asian country, trying to wave and accidentally sending someone to their death. Or as mind-boggling as a European nation, constantly on strike, barely ever working, and yet still managing to be a booming economy. For this born and bred Northern Yankee, I am off to the fiery dixieland of the American south, land of secession, fried chicken steak, and Southern Rock.

Clemson University, here I come!

Last of the Last's

2009-07-08T22:26:00.000+09:00

In this final hours of life in France as an exchange student, or better yet, in these final hours of life as a Rotary Youth Exchange student in general, there are so many 'last's.'
The last time I drink my favorite Capriccio Nespresso coffee.
The last time I run in the Combs with Leonie.
The last time I sneak some Nutella from the jar.
The last time I drink some delicious Gevrey-Chambertin premiere Crus wine in Gevrey-Chambertin.
The last time I laugh at my pain-in-the-ass host sister fight with her mom over nothing important.
The last time I write a blog about France while still in France.
The list goes on and on because with each passing moment, something ends. Something in my life ends suddenly, and very possibly for good.

The think is that, what most people have a hard time understanding is that it is a lot harder than most people give me credit for. I think some people look at my life and think, 'lucky brat has lived in Japan and pranced around Europe for a year.' Nobody seems to understand that every where I go I meet someone new, do something wonderful, or even fall into a comfortable routine or pattern. And then when it is time to leave as such, I have to just drop it all and go home. Sure this year has not been easy with every passing minute, but honestly, for how upset I am right now, it is hard to say that I am not going to miss France.

Today is my last day in France. My last day as a Rotary Yoth Exchange Student. My last day living with the R's, who have become more than just a host family to me. My last day in Fixin, France, a place I have spent a year calling home. My last day with Chacha, Ant, Coco, and Clem. My last run in the Fixin woods with L. My last evening to fall asleep on the Mezzanine above Coline's bed. My last time to indulge in Nutella, Nespresso, Cote d'Or chocolate, and authentic Bourgogne wine. My last day to turn on the radio or TV and hear just French. My last day with the damn Bisous (thank god!) Everything is a last, and it is really painful and tearing me up inside.

I have said this before, but it is true. It is not as easy as I thouhgt livin the life that I do. I know I am luckier than most people in the entire world, but most people have never had to leave behind everything they loved, their entire life, and family once let alone twice.

Final Letter To The R's

2009-07-07T17:34:00.000+09:00

Over the course of my two-year tenure as a Rotary Youth Exchange student, I have had 4 host families in Japan and one in France. I am not into comparing, since I have spent the entire past year being compared to fluent and lovely Andrew. But as of right now, I am closest with my final host family, the French family, that I refer to as the R's. Just before I I made my way back home to America, I wrote them a letter.

Dear Everybody,

I do not know where to begin. Maybe a simple thank you would work, but I d not think that is sufficient. After all, thank you is just a simple three words. And three words do not come close to summing up an entire year in another country.

It all started that month of August 2008, when I arrived at your home on a hot and humid afternoon. I was so nervous because I knew almost nothin about you. I had spoken to L only once on the telephone and learned the following: Chacha, 18, was headed to India for a year with Rotary, Antoine, 14, and Coline, 10, the monster of Fixin. But the eveing, my first night in France, unble to speak a word of Frnehc, I felt relieved. I already knew how much I was goin to like you guys.

It is starnge to think about that first evening. It has thus been ten long months. And I am still here at the Robert's. I am still happy, of course, and for the most part, I think you all are too.

Memories.......

I know I am not very good at showing emotions, so I hope that you all realise just how much you have meant to me over this year. The saddest part about saying goodbye to you is not knowing if I will ever see you all again. My sincere hope is that we all continue to stay in contact over the years. But I know that I we all lose contanct, I am never goin to forget you all and all youhave done for me.

I hope that you all continue to stay in good health and happy with all that life gives you. Good luck for the future and know that you are always welcome wherever I am in the world.

Love Always,

Julie Garner

Rotary and Me

2009-07-06T21:34:00.001+09:00

When someone says the dreaded dilemma, "I have good news and bad news, which first?" you know you are in annoying situation. Usually the good news is not that good, but something random that the other person has thought up to lessen the bad news. Like, "Good news is that the weather is nice, bad news is your Grandma fell down the stairs and broke her hip." So theoretically, you have to actually pretend to care that the good news is actually something good, while really the bad news sort of tears you up. It is one of those things we Americans have become pretty good at, that is, hiding our emotions in order to not let others catch our weaknesses.

Anyway, I want to start with the good news, or at least the good stuff. I can not even begin to say how thankful I am for all that the Rotary International has done for me, a middle-class, surburban, American teenager that has lived in Japan and France for a year each because of the Rotary's kindness and hospitality. The program accepted me, arranged schooling, host families, and other opportunities for me. If it was not for Rotary I can not tell you the person I would be today, after all, I never choose Japan or France. They were both given to me from Rotary. I would never have met the R's, had a big sister, Naoko, been fluent in Japanese, become a wine enthusiast, learned Tea Ceremony and the Koto, among a multitude of other things.

The Japanese Rotary was the most kind and wonderful oranization that I could ever imagined existed. They paid for all of my activities, including travel throughout the whole country, Koto lessons, private school, and even host families. For all that they have done for me, I suppose I came to France realizing nothing could be like Rotary Japan. But I have come to hope that nothing like Rotary France exists.

And now for the bad news, which is not exactly news, but more or less the blunt truth. The Rotary is France, while supplying with a host family that I very much adore, has done nothing else at all. I do not even know where to begin with my feelings towards this Rotary. Perhaps it is the fact that I have had to fight each and every month for my Rotary allowance, and have already been told I will not receive any money for June. Or maybe that no one ever calls to ask me if things are going okay with my host family, life in France, or anything in general. Sure their lack of 'care' has enabled me to jump on a train and explore Europe with no restrictions, but it is still ridiculous. It is unfair for my host family, who could very well have serious problemes with hosting me, to have no one to talk to. In addition, they have to pay for my lunch at school, which every Rotary in France for, except mine who said, 'she gets a monthly allowance, let her pay.' This would be fine, but my meanly allowance would not cover lunch everyday at the school. But no matter, I rarely ate at the school anyway.

In addition, my counselor refuses to do anything. Who picked me up from the airport when I arrived? Alex's counselor. Who drive us to the train station at 4 in the morning for Toulouse? Alex's counselor. He also refused to attend to required district conference, so I had to find me own ride. In addition, while Alex and Andrew have had lavish weekends skiing in the Val d'Isere or on the beach at Cannes, I have done not a single thing with my Rotary club. I met my counselor only one, in November in my birthday, whereby he required my presence at a meeting, did not speak to me a night, had someone else bring out a cake while everyone was leaving, and then drove me home.

But the worst part? The Rotary came to the hosue last night to discuss my departure and my year. This is normally done in a a big meeting with the club, but I was in Belgium at that time. Interestingly enouh when Rotary called and said I was required to be at this meeting, Leonie pretty much told them to stick it where the sun does not shine. She was going to require me to come home just for a couple of clowns who had ignored me the majority of the year. I did not know about this till last night when I was yelled at for not coming to the meeting.

At last night's discussion, they questioned me about my year. I gave a an answer and then they proceeded to make conclusions based on things they knew very little about.

"Did you like school?"
"Not particularily. I did not make very many friends."
"Oh so she integrated badly into French culture and school life, what a shame."

It continued like that.

"How do you feel about livin with the same family all year?"
"It worked out great for me, but of course there were some difficulties. Never the less, I loved them a lot."
"Difficulties? Hmmm.... well I knew we should have pulled her from Fixin and this family after Charlotte came home early. She messed up the dynamics of the family. Julie, you need to understand that they like you a lot, but I am sure they will be pleased to see you go home."

The entire meeting was bloody ridiculous. I would have been seriously offended and disappointer, perhaps even shedding tears but I have sort of given up on caring what Rotary France does in concerns with me.

Numbness to the Current Situation

2009-07-05T21:08:00.001+09:00

I keep telling myself that the best thing I can do for myself is sit down and write a good blog entry for the future, and more importantly for the present. I'll thank myself in 5 years when I come on here and laugh about my hectic last few days in France, and feel better now getting everything off my chest. But I can not do it. Besides the fact that I have no idea what to say, I do not know what I really feel or think. There is also nothing amazing or even worth happening here to talk about it.

It's is my second to last fell day in la belle France. The Robert's are schemeing something drastic because instead of speaking in French, they have all reverted in German. If they speak slowly, I might be able to understanbd but they have no intention of letting me know what they are planning. They slipped only once last Saturday when Leonie whispered her plans to Coline, and then began talking out loud about her fear of heights and how getting a hot air balloon would not be a good idea at all. But apparently with the recent thunderstorms erratically striking Burgundy, Hot Air Ballooning is out of the question. Since then, they have been much more careful, which is driving me mad. If there is anything I hate it is surprises. Well, I actually really like surprises, but I act like a complete moron when I am surprised. Example: For my birthday, I received tickets for a weekend in Paris. I did not believe my host parents until after 2 glasses of champagne, and by then I was too out of it to really think what had just happened.

I hate surprises.

But I also hate my seemingly bitter but lack of grasp upon myself and the current situation. This year I have really begun to understand how little I know about myself, and how I do things often that surprise even me. Maybe that is one reason why I really can not account for my attitude. I feel so detached from the world, but it is my own fault. I think a part of me realizes that even though I might be rather pleased to get going home, things will and can never be the same. First, I will never be able to come back to Fixin the way I am now, which I suppose is a good thing because I am not so sure many people like me very much. Second, leaving France is truly the end of an era.

Two era's actually.

The first is my roller coaster in France, my odd love-hate relationship with the country and everything that comes with it. But the second era is a bit bigger, more complex, and kind of chilling for me. I spent my Junior in Japan, my Senior year afraid to grow up, and a Gap Year in France finally accepting that fact that it is time. It is time for me to accept that I am not a little kid anymore, and to move past that stage in my life. France was my final level, and the moment I leave, I feel as though I leave behind my last memory of childhood.

Right now all I can think about is everything that has happened. And also trying to bury it in a giant hole in my heart and not think about it these last few days. Trying to numb it, and doing a somewhat good job at it.

Going Back

2009-07-04T19:34:00.000+09:00

“It's weird...you know the end of something great is coming, but you want to hold on, just for one more second...just so it can hurt a little more.” -Anonymous

I wonder if they read my mind.

Finish Line In Sight

2009-07-03T06:23:00.000+09:00

Another Sunday in France. My final Sunday in France, in fact, bt that does not excuse the fact that it is Sunday in France, which means as usual there was absolutely nothing to do. Nothing is ever open, no one ever works, and the only thing that ever gets accomplished is eatin and drinking. Sunday's are the day when the French sit at the table for hours without end gorging on everything from salad to cheese, always complimented with a fine bottle of wine. I hate Sunday's in France, I always have and suspect I always will.

Yet, unlike every other Sunday I have spent here in France, I was prepared for the boredom. I had purchased a book, okay, in English, against my own principles, but nevertheless it was a dose of medicine against Sunday in France, the disease. Due to the recent release of the film based on the Millenium series by Swedish author Stieg Larsson, along with it's enormous success, I decided to read the book before I sat down and watched the film. Even though I had bought the book to read on Thursday when my plane from Paris to America is in motion, I opened the cover and scanned a few lines and have been hooked ever since.

Thank god for the book because if I had to spend another Sunday cooped up doing nothing, I would definitely go mad. What is more, that as of recent, I have been a total basketcase, a wreck of emotions, a roller coaster of mood swings. I fear for those around that have to put up with my outburst of tears, followed of a slew of bubbly laugh fits. I am going home in a few days and I have to deal with that fact. But I am not going a very good job at it.

I may have dealt with this before, having come home from a year in Japan, but it has done little to prepare me for this. I was not ready to leave Japan, and I did not prepare myself in the slightest. I suppose that is why my basketcase stage came when I was back in America. But this time around, I al fully aware of the approaching departure date. The day runs through my mind with each passing moment, along with a million other things.

A part of my thinks that once my United Boeing 747 takes off from the runway in Paris, the roots I have planted in France, will come with me. A piece of me things that my erratic and loving host family will quickly forget about me as more than just a random American that lived in their house for almost 11 months. They are really my only tie to France, besides my love for Fixin and Burgundy in general, and my love-hate relationship with France. All the other friends I have made this year are Canadian, American, or Belgian. This theory of losing touch is somewhat backed by host mother, whom I love like a best friend, but is far too busy with her own troubles to worry about keeping in touch. I have shed quite a few tears in the past few days hearing about how she had not really kept in close touch with her host family from America, among other things. It has not been a very good experience in this respect.

But as much as I throw the things I regret or that have plagued me this year, on a scale, I can not bring myself to regret this year in France. Sure my minimal French, lack of friends, non-existant social life, empty schedule book, hardships with some cultural aspects, and constant boredom, will always remain a pittance when thinkin about this year. Yet my extensive travelings and good, well at least steady, realtionship with my host family, outweighs the bad stuff.

So I wonder if this can really be called a finish line. Is it really something I am racing to finish? Do I really want it all the end- that is- my relationship with the R's, my ties to France, my hatred for Sunday's, my minimal French language skills, among quite a lot of other things? I need to stop thinking about all this, back to my book.

Voulais-vous...?

2009-07-02T19:12:00.000+09:00

My second host father hated my passion of running. I could not give you an exact reason for it, I just do not think he liked me very much, which is fair enough. But those who know me know that I sort of slip into a cima without running. I sit on the computer and do nothin, whine, hide, hate my life, and whatever else. I need to run, it's my thing. Of course, my host father turned out to be an over-protective businessman that knew very little, but at the time, he never let me run. "Kochi is too dangerous for a young American girl," he would say.

His wife, however, could not bare to see my face fall everytime he would stand at the door, facing me, and wagging his finger. She could tell that I spent hours cooped in my room because I could not do anything else. She hatched a plan to let me run early in the morning, before her husband could awaken and stop me.

So almost three times a week, I would wake at 4 in the morning for a run that was often-much needed. The problem was that it was always pitch-black and I was alone. My solution was simple; and IPOD. That way I could run along the Kagamachi river in peace, alone, but still surronded by the voices of various Japanese artists. Since downloading was also forbidden in the household, I had to rely on the collection of my host mom, a menage of JPOP and Japanese folk music. Not really my cup of tea, but I dealt with it.

She was also a fan of the musical Mulin Rouge, a film which I found to be cute but nothing special. Still, with nothing else to listen to, and in desperate need of some English, I downloaded the music on my IPOD and listened to it as I ran along in the early morning hours. One morning in particular, I got the song Lady Marmalade stuck into my head. I must have even started singing it aloud, at least the French perverted part that is, because I passed a bakery with a hardworking man out front.

"Furansugo dekimasu ka?" he asked me. When I turned around to answer him that I could not speak a word of French to save my life, had no intention of learning, and felt ill at the sound of French, he caught a glimpse of my face. "Gaijin! Furansujin!" he exclaimed madly, trying to figure out why a foreighner, whom he assumed was French would be running in Kochi at 4:30 in the morning. Before I could correct him, he scurried off into the bakery.

Two things occured that made me feel annoyed. I had been mistaken for a French person, which was the ultimate crime against my American blood. Second, he had mistaken me for a French speaker.

After a full year in France, living amongst the French and speaking the language, I have yet to be mistaken for a French person in France. A piece of me is happy about that, but another part is sad about it. I really have not adapted all that well in France.

Back Home... in Fixin

2009-07-01T17:52:00.000+09:00

"Back home, I always thought I wanted so much more
Now I am not too sure." -Yellowcard

When I left on May 26th, 2009, for my whirlwind tour of Belgium and Normandy, I was not completely positive, I would return. Besides the fact that everytime my host parents would ask for some sort of ballpark answer as to when I would return, and I would give them nothing, there was also a dozen other things telling me to not go back. What I mean is that I was sure I would return to Fixin, but maybe on July 1st, the day before I leave for America. In my mind, I was convinced that if I came back to Fixin too early, I would spend the days wasting away in dreary existance, hating myself for not setting my return date to America earlier, wondering how long my host family would tolerate me there, and most of all growing more and more annoyed with Fixin.

But that is so far from how I feel now, that I feel shocked having once felt that way.

I suppose even in those final days of May, at the very start of my travels, that weird longing feeling for Bourgogne should have foreshadowed my roller coaster of emotions that has thus far been the month of June. I could not stop thinking about the R's, Fixin, and my beloved Bourgogne, and I must have talked about my exchange quite often with Zoe. Then with Paule and Ronnie, it was confirmed how much I talk about my French adventure, when Paule said, "You talk about the R's more than you talk about your own family!"

And when we made the 12 hour journey from Normandy to Sainte Maxime, in the South of France, the motor way took us through Bourgogne. I was warmly welcomed back in Bourgogne with a brief rain shower and a mount of thunder. I smiled to myself knowing that something’s would probably never change. But as we drove closer to Dijon and then farther away, I kept getting the pressing urge to call out, "Stop! Drop me off here, I want to go home!"

I think it was then that I realized that I needed to go back. Back? Yes back home. A wise man once said that, ““Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.” I do not think anyone will ever be able to understand me, not even myself. But I think my host parents have gotten a pretty good base during the course of this year. The more time goes on, the more I learn things about myself that I never knew. For example, I was sure I would want to spend the last month of my exchange traveling around France on a backpacking excursion. Yet, suddenly, I discovered that the only place I really wanted to be was with my host family in Fixin.
Yesterday, as the TRANSCO bus dropped me off in front of the Roberts, hauling my large sack on my back, I opened the gate for the first time in over three weeks. I saw the shadow of L and Coco on the back porch, so I snuck around the car and hide behind the bushes for a few moments pondering how I would say hello.

“HEY!”
That always works.

Along time ago, well three weeks egos, practically in tears, as L and I ran through the train station trying to catch my train, I thought she would maybe be annoyed with seeing me again. I had just asked her that morning if she thought I had wasted my year in France, not having a good base in French, and not having a grad experience with high school. I did not think I would upset her having asked that question, but after the experience, I realized I probably did upset her enough.

I figured she would be surprised to see me- maybe a little happy if only to stop the menial worry about me- but not overly joyed. Especially since I did not call and tell her I was coming home. But seeing her surprise- a warm truly happy surprise- and Coco’s content smile to see me, and I knew I was back.
I missed Fixin so much.

It Gets To You

2009-06-30T15:49:00.000+09:00

Merely a day after I returned rom my whirlwind tour of Belgium and Normandy, a few hours after I realized how nice it is to be home in Fixin, I made the decision to see Dijon. Dijon is, as one may know, the closest big city to Fixin, just 25 minutes away by TRANSCO bus. It is a clean, safe, and friendly city, although I have to admit I have some problems with Dijon. I find it to be rather dull and tiresome ater an hour or two. How many time can you walk around the Vielle Ville, before you recognize every place, have shopped in all the stores, and worst of all have run into about 15 people from your school?

You start to wonder if Dijon is really made up of 300,000 people and not 200. The midget that sits in McDonalds passes you on the main road and says, "Hello! I love America!" The skater punks in Place Darcy still can not do anything more than a Pop Wheely on their boards. The Moroccan bum still sits outside Chez Paule's, but with a new sign, "My children are hungry, please help!" Yesterday it said, "I am all alone and I do not speak the language well, please help!"
But when I went to Dijon the day after returning to Fixin, I went to do a little shopping, not exactly soul searching. I went to get a hair cut, not a reality check. I did not go to say goodbye to Dijon, seeing as I will be back there quite often in the coming days, yet my goodbye to Dijon started anyway.

It's weird how you have relationship with places, since they are not people and they can not love you back or even hate you back. With Dijon, like my year in France, I have ridiculous highs and lows. There were days when I could not get enough of the city, and days when the thought of going to Dijon made me angry. There is absolutely nothing to do in Dijon, and so much to do at the same time. After 6 months, I remember when Alex told me her Dad had JUST figured out she lived in Dijon, "Oh... like the mustard!"

I remember the huge protests that swallowed Dijon after the closing of the only mustard company located in the city. Or the many times that I ventured into the grand ville for a beer at Flannery's, but only ater Andrew and I did our ritual. We had to go say hello to the Dijon Chouette, or Owl, pop into H and M or a quick look, glance through the FNAC for the latest Bob Dylan CD. I still have not done all the things I feel I have to do in Dijon, but I just do not feel compelled to tour the Palais o the Dukes or tour the Mueaum of Archaelogy. I would rather listen to the guitar players in Place Darcy, get a beer at Flannery's, or bore mysel doing the same things over and over again in Dijon.

So you think you know a place like the back of your hand, it is safe and boring, but still comfortable. That's me and Dijon for you.

Nice and Night Trains

2009-06-29T17:32:00.001+09:00

After the Aeronauts and I set off for the South of France, we arrived at the summer home of my Great Aunt Mika in Sainte-Maxime, Provence. As much as I would love to tell you about how excellent that experience was, the truth is, I felt that the time had come to return to Fixin, even if a part of me knew that is was silly. I was bound to be bored to death back home in Fixin, but I missed the R's and my messed up life in France.

On the morning of the 16th, as we hate a delicious breakfast with the whole clan, I spoke, "I think want to go to Nice today and then take the train home from there." Ronnie and Paule were visiblly annoyed, since I was supposed to stay another day and this new change of plans would entail a long car ride to the nearest train station. But they agreed to drop me off in Saint Rafael for Nice.

It was sad to say goodbye, since I had grown so very fond of my cousins over the past few weeks. They had so much for me and now I was returning, but Paule knew that I had to go back. She knew I missed L and everyone at home. She also knew that I needed to get back to Fixin for some closure to the year, which was not the best but needed to be finished.

They dropped me off at a station, where I took the local train to Cannes, my favorite city in the South. I got up because I wanted to formulate a plan. Throughout the year I have wanted to take a Night Train in France, I can not tell exactly why, except that I wanted to be able to say I took the Night Train in France. So at Cannes I purchased a ticket from Nice to Paris and from Paris to Dijon for the next day. Okay I paid extra, but also less because I would not have to rent a room in a hostel in Nice that night.

Finally arriving in Nice, I hopped on the tram for the Old City. After a quick milkshake at McDonalds, I climbed the old fort with a beautiful view of the sprawling city, a former Italian city that decided it preferred to be French. The place was full of tourists, and very few actual French people, but I really the ambiance of the city. It is a big French city with more Italian influence and recently Russian and English influence. The view of the old fort was incredible, even if I was soaked with sweat after the climb. I stayed a few moments and then redescended into the old village. After a long stroll along the Walk of the English, I decided to be daring. During my exploration of the old city, I bought Tomato Ice Cream. Tomato is my favorite food, but I am sad to say it does not make good ice cream.

I took a quick dip on the water, but it was not enough. I was overheatted and about to take an all-night train. It did not spell a good experience. Luckily I had some sleeping pills, which I eagerly took right before I returned to the Cannes station to take the train to Paris. I ate a quick dinner, before I boarded the night train. On the train, I was assigned to a car with all women, all of which were 40 years my senior and I would find had a problem of snoring. In a tiny compartment, 6 beds are piled one on top of the other for passengers. The train is also the slow and shakey kind that has you bobbin your head all night. Hours after the train had stopped, I still felt like I was moving. The pills kicked in pretty early, and I fell asleep barely an hour after the journey began. But they did last. I awoke at 3 in the morning, having had about 6 hours of sleep. I was not sure where we were, but I was able to watch the land pass by and the sun rise as we crept closer and closer to Paris.

When we arrived, I jumped off the train, kissed the ground, fought for power over my equilibrium, and then trekked from Paris St. lazare to Gare de Lyon. I had about 4 hours to kill, but with the greatest hunger I had ever felt in my life, I ate just over 4 pieces of chocolate criossants and almond bread, drank 5 coffees and 3 orange juices. I was pretty much shaking when I finally got on the TGV to Dijon.

The best that can be said: I at least accomplished that, and now I never have to take another night train again. Ever.

Paris or Normandy?

2009-06-28T17:11:00.000+09:00

I think I have discovered my very least favorite place in the entire grand country of la belle France. I did not think I could despise a place more than the Pigalle Metro station in Paris, where every time someone comes in a 5 foot radius, my life flashes before my eyes. No one speaks French or English, or makes any contact with you in that grimy classless Metro station. I made the decision in April, when I was changing trains in Pigalle Station, to never ever set foot in the place so long as I lived. And mind you, this is coming from the same kid who has no fears whatsoever.

But fear for my life has nothing to with my new least favorite place in France. Not once should I have to fear for my life there, unless maybe if looks can kill. And I certainly received a ton of death glares In the beachside resort of Deauville, Normandy. Paule and Ronnie’s ranch is just a short drive away from the famous French seaside resort of Deauville. It is famous because it is a short TGV train ride away from the city of lights, and thus a very popular spot among Parisians on a long weekend. As I, unfortunately, found out.

After a morning of stomach troubles, I decided to put the incredible weather to good use. First I did a long hike through the Norman combs, where I found myself mostly yearning for my own Fixin combs. Afterwards, Yves and I hopped on our bikes and decided to bike to the seaside. We figured it would be as quick as an easy car ride. But after an hour and half of biking, the sweet arrival was the only thing that kept me from falling off my bike. I had lost Yves along the road, and I later learned he made it to Trouville, the sister city of Deauville, while I made it to Deauville.

As soon as my bike entered the area surrounding Deauville, I could tell I had entered an entire new world. The beautiful day had invited all the vacationers out into the sun, and since it was later in the day, most had flocked into the villages after a morning at the beach. When I say vacationers, I may as well tell you that everyone was from Paris on a nice weekend excursion to the shore. Thinking nothing of it, I hopped off my bike to easily navigate the crowded sidewalks. I was pretty sweaty after the long bike ride in the sun, and I was rather parched. My objective was to search for a supermarket where I could buy my favorite drink for excersizing, 0 Calorie Red Fruit Mineral Water, which has become a tradition to purchase during a long bike ride.

As I navigated the sidewalk, I was vaguely aware of the people-watchers at the ritzy cafes lining up on the streets. I could see from the corner of my eye, their eyes scanning this obvious foreigner in maroon Adidas sport shorts, wearing an ugly tee-shirt with visible sweat stains. My hair was tossed and wind-blown, and my cheap 12 Euro glasses, scratched beyond repair, sat on my head. I looked like an athlete who just biked 15 to 20 kilometers, not one of these classy flamboyant Parisians. A few people even made snide comments about taking a bike in the crowded streets, but I just pretended not to understand what they said.

When I finally found a Supermarket, my throat felt like sand paper, and I hurried into to look for my drink. I found it and paid twice the price I pay for it in Dijon, but I did not care. I rushed outside the store, and yanked off the bottle cap. Standing just beside a café, themed by the magnificent color purple, with paying customers that were willing to pay 8 Euros for a cup of coffee, I thrust the bottle upwards and began loudly gulping away. It was only after I drank half a liter of the bottle that I became aware that every customer was staring at me in pure and utter disgust. A few of men snickered loudly, while their wives resembled someone utterly scandalized. They were all wondering how lowly Deauville has sung to let in a character like me, sweaty, frumpy, and rude.

After I finished the bottle, I had plans to go to the beach and dip my feet in the Atlantic Ocean. I pedaled along the sidewalks of Deauville, just beside the glorious newly-built mansions overlooking the ocean. When I arrived at the beach, I jumped off my bike, locked it into a safe, and then began running towards the water. At some point, I realized I was surrounded by an ocean of bikinis. I felt so uncomfortable by the livid stares that I returned to my bike without even touching the water. I did not even look back as I pedaled as fast and as hard as I could to get out of that Parisian paradise.

Never again will I go to Deauville in the summer season.

The Answer To The Pressing Question

2009-06-27T17:00:00.001+09:00

I have grown up a lot over the course of this year in La Belle France, in so any ways, that I sometimes stop in mid-sentence with astonishment. Did I really just say there? Do I really feel that way? When did I become this person I am today? A lot has changed about me, but there is just one thing I want to discuss today.

I cannot remember the first time someone asked me the inevitable question that I now accept everyone wants to know. It is natural; of course, you do not meet many people like me. That is an all-American girl of 18 years-old that has spent a year in land of the rising sun and a year amongst the frogs. I no longer need to say I have a pretty unconventional life, but sometimes people are still just utterly baffled. They often want to know how it was possible to graduate High School having spent the two year’s abroad, the major difference between my three perspective cultures, family life in Japan and France, school systems, and huge culture shock experiences. But most importantly they want to know which country I like better, France or Japan.

It has taken me over 8 months to finally accept this healthy curiosity. 8 months, in which, I would have to work really hard to suppress my anger every time someone posed the question. Something like a ticking time bomb would go off as I would compile my answer. But a million things would rocket through my head.

It’s none of your business!
How could you ask a question like that?
Do you really expect me to compare the two countries, France and Japan, in a series of sentences?
Why ask such a thing, because I am sure you do not care that much?

I truly believed that the French who asked the question would fall into anger if I said Japan, while my host families in Japan would be upset if I said that more of my heart belonged to France. Later, I believed that it was human nature to ask such a question. People want to hear bad stuff, rather than asking me if I have had two wonderful years, they ask which I like better.
I formulated a quick response, to which I said to everyone immediately. “They are just too different to compare.” End of answer. Goodbye. It never left anyone satisfied, including me. While others would nod gently and not press harder for an answer, I would nod my head and give a little smirk. But deep inside, I really wanted to tell everyone the truth.

Sometime in the past month, perhaps because many people have stopped asking me which country I like better, I have fallen into the understanding that it is natural for people to want to know. It is merely only curiosity that drives one to ask that kind of question. It often has nothing to do with being nosy or expecting to hear the worst. And so, I am finally ready to tell the truth.

There is something about France that is indescribably intoxicating. A country of choice, peaking mountains, miles of sandy coastlines, row after row of the sweetest grapes in the world, and cities of history just waiting to be uncovered. Even on the coldest and grayest days of a harsh winter, France is still beautiful. And the lifestyle, after you finally get used to the bisoux, the relative ease, the barrels of fine wine and delightful cheese, the historical importance spewing out of every crumbling building. France has given me an aesthetic side and most importantly has taught me how to take of myself and the importance of pleasure.

But oh my Japan will always be the place where I was a young blue-eyed brown-haired, freckle-faced kid constantly being stared at in awe. Most people find that Japan is a closed society, but I never had that problem. I was loved from the moment I arrived in Japan, having always been surrounded by friends and family, people who showed a caring nature and compassion. And for the first time in my very life I learned the importance of having friends and how to be liked and loved. I arrived in Japan a shy and timid girl who never quite fit in anywhere she tried to be, and left a girl who was bubbly in every sense of the word.

So there is my answer. I prefer France as the country of pleasure, beauty, and culture, while I dream of Japan for the people, and the sense of belonging. Perhaps this will satisfy everyone’s pressing question.

Fine Wining

2009-06-26T18:48:00.001+09:00

Eating with my cousin’s Ronnie and Paule almost always entails eating at an incredibly delicious restaurant with prices far too exorbitant for my taste. Never the less, I have not been disappointed yet, and instead I have begun to learn what it feels like to live the life of treating yourself well.

But one cannot forget practically the most important part of the whole meal. This is France, and I am staying with a family highly influenced by French culture. In fact, Paule tells me her father was a connoisseur of Burgundy wines, even though he was Flemish and not French in the slightest. You might have guessed it: the purchase of an excellent wine to supplement a delicious meal.

Paule and Ronnie both know that for the past few month’s I have lived in the middle of the action, or lack thereof it, depending on your point of view. They know I live just a few meters from all sides from sprawling French vineyards in the world’s greatest wine growing region (arguably.) They know I live in a town called Fixin, well known for its ‘tough’ wine’s, which only go well when supplementing a big juicy hunk of steak. They also know that I know the Cote de Nuits wine region like the back of my right hand. When a name of a small village is dropped in the region, I know it because more than likely I have tasted it, rode my bike through it, have acquaintances who live there, or something along those lines.

And so, of course, at each fine restaurant we eat at, a bottle or two or three is ordered to supplement our meal. With fish, we always drink white wine. When the rare sun pokes it’s head out from the clouds, and we eat a light meal of salad or some sort, always chilled rose wine is on the table. When Ronnie and Paule eat a steak, a good Burgundy red is always somewhere on our table. But none of us really likes the taste of Fixin wine, which Ronnie describes as, "closer to vinegar, than Burgundy quality."

What my cousins do not know, is that no matter how hard they try to impress me with their ordering of the best wines, I really do not know the difference. True, I know the different between cheap table wine and a 1990 Clos de Vougeot classique Grands Crus, but I have not reached the point of snobbery, like almost all of my fellow Fixin folks, who could tell the difference between a Fixin Hervelet and a Fixin Village, which are something like 5 meters from each other and apparently have vibrantly different tastes. I think it is because I have never had anything but the best wines, that my taste buds are not really attuned to the difference between a truly awful wine and a truly amazing one. I just know the amazing ones.

At Le Mere Poulard, the fabulous restaurant on le Mont St. Michel, Ronnie ordered a 2000 Clos Vougeot, which costed him about 300 euros, which is more than I have spent in the past 3 weeks of traveling on trains, food, and lodging. Of course it was utterly amazing, but even if it was god-awful, I do not know if I would know the difference.

Fine Dining

2009-06-25T07:23:00.000+09:00

Paule and Ronny Aeronauts, my cousins, friends, and hosts of this nice travel occasion around Belgium and Normandy, have a well-loved hobby, in which they invest much time and money in.
They like to eat. And I do not mean eating in the sense that you put food in front of them and they gobble it all up no matter what it is, McDonald’s or Caviar. The Aeronaut’s are instead gourmands in search of the very best restaurants that our world has to offer. From what I gather, they will not eat at a restaurant unless it has been Michelin rated, which is a famous system that recommends only the very best restaurants.

With Paule and Ronnie, I have dined at a classy terrace in Brugges, soaking up the rays while devouring a delightful plate of fresh caught Eel. In the Zeeland’s, Netherlands, we dined at a famous tower restaurant overlooking the dykes and harbor, with incredible historical purposes. The Duke of Bourbon married his wife there in the 16th century, but more importantly, Paule and Ronnie took my grandparents to dine there many years ago. The excellent combination of Tuna and Cod, followed by a plate of Italian custard and strawberries, was magnificent.
Here in France, we sat beside the ancient church of Bayeux, and treated ourselves to a delicious meal. Paule and Ronny ate a specialty lamb, which you can only get on the seaside of France and the Netherlands, because of a special wind that blows salty nutrient inshore for the animals to eat. I opted for an excellent Vegetarian menu, which was just as delicious and probably even better.

But nothing quite compares to this evening after a wonderful touring all around Normandy. We started by viewing the powerful American Cemetery, and moved onto the Saint-Mere Eglise. Then onto the world famous Mont St. Michel, looming off the coast of Normandy. There we luckily got into the most famous restaurant on the island, Le Mere Poulard.

In 1874, Annette Poulard established an inn just inside the gates of the Mont for impoverished and starving pilgrims after their harking trek across the dangerous bay. She would sit them down and serve them her specialty; a big old fluffy omelet. It was not long before she became known as mother, or Mere. The legacy of her cuisine continues today, with her original inn and original oven. Diners can watch as chefs whip up the omelets over an open fire with classy ingredients like Lobster or Lamb. However, Le Mere Poulard is no longer for impoverished pilgrims, and today one must be willing to spend over 50 Euros a plates. This is ridiculous by my impoverished exchange student standards, but just right for Paule and Ronnie.

So of course, after the Abby tour, the four of us were seated in Le Mere Poulard for a meal. As usual, I sprung for the cheapest menu, which ended up being 35 Euros, minus the wine. I received a first course of delicious Tomato Soup, followed by Mere Poulard’s famous omelet with zucchini and tomatoes, and finally a small plate of fresh fruit and sorbet.

What have I learned? The cost may be steep for this edible legacy, but the history and quality is priceless.
Oh and one more thing I have learned from my experience fine dining: if you expect to be allowed to eat there again in the future, do not ask for ketchup. The first time, I mentioned ketchup; Paule shot me down and acted horrified at the concept of putting ketchup on a perfectly buttered, sautéed, and perhaps even gold-plated piece of fish.

As for ketchup on an omelet at Le Mere Poulard? Ronnie could have killed me when I flagged down the waitress to ask if they had any ketchup. And the waitress gave me the most disgusted look I have ever merited in my entire life, as she spat a firm, “Mais, non!” I could tell she wanted to add something about the restaurant not being McDonald’s, and that I ought to go there for some ketchup. But she had some restraint, which I suspect had something to do with the fact that she likes Obama (everyone in Europe likes Obama) or she got a good tip from some American’s in the past.

I guess I will always have a little American in me.

A Dream Come True

2009-06-24T07:10:00.000+09:00

Amidst all the visits to war memorials, tombstones of the fallen soldiers, and war-ravaged villages of the past few days of my Normandy Journey, something incredible happened. One of my greatest desires, tucked gently in the pocket of my closed up heart, was realized as Paule, Ronnie, Yves, and I trekked across the land to the border of Normandy and Brittany. There floating miraculously in the far distance lay the most beautiful and breathtaking thing I have ever seen in my life, something even more beautiful than even my wildest dreams could concoct. Le Mont St. Michel.

When little girls dream of France, I think most of them see the Eiffel Tower. I am not the best person to make this generalization since I have never been a normal little girl, and I never dreamt of France, other than a few hard feelings toward the country regarding their not-so-nice words towards my country in 2003. Deeply influenced by the words of the television and the teachings of my parents, I had resolved to never set foot in that horrid European country so-long as I lived. Well that worked out well, huh?

Due to a schedule error at my middle school, my first year of high school found me placed in French 101, where we never actually learned French. We did, however, study a lot of about the land and more importantly, the huge tourist sites. I remember having to do a report on le Centre de Pompidou in Paris. But someone else was given le Mont St. Michel, and they presented an amazing speech. They talked about the old pilgrims making religious pilgrimages across the grand bay. Some died in the crossing from quick sand and the huge tides that swept away the shores, and are often described as being quicker than a galloping horse. Those that did make it the Mont St. Michel arrived exhausted but mounted the steps to the Abby situated on top of the mountain. In the Abby, Benedictine monks lived peacefully in prayer in possibly the most beautiful place in all of France. From the walls surrounding the abbey, one could look out onto the bay, the shores of Normandy and Brittany, and all that is the Northern coastal France.
I clung to these words like a love-sick woman finally hearing the three words she has waited a lifetime for. And no matter how much resentment I felt towards France, a little piece of me yearned for that mystical Mountain and vowed to one day see it. But I did not realize how big that little piece really was until I finally stood at the foot of the Mont.

True to the Norman fashion that I have come to know over the past week and half, the sky was gray with ominous clouds that meant rain. There it was looming in the reachable distance, the tides subsided so that all we could see was the fine silt sand that has long claimed many pilgrim’s lives. The point of the and mountain, reaching towards the sky, holds a gold sculpture of Saint Michael, the archangel, as he slew the dragon, a sign of the devil. Though I am not a believer in the word-for-word bible, chills raced through my body, as I thought about the significance of the statue. Perhaps, the God of War really has protected and watched over the island, since it has survived the 100 Years War, the French Revolution, and both World War’s. A rock island in the sea, reaching to the sky and heaven , and I could not help but see how the mystical place held the best of the all these worlds we have.

We arrived at the the foot of the mountain, parked our car, and then went out separate ways. Paule and Ronnie had seen the Mont half a dozen times and are a bit too out of shape to take on the hundreds of steps that one is required to climb. Yves and I, with very little time before the abbey was bound to close, had to break into a short sprint up the hill. The narrow cobblestoned street bursting with tourist traps, was a blur in my hastiness. In a slow jog, I hurried up the stairs, often just carved into the side of the mountain and reached the admission desk long before Yves. I paid the fee and also purchased a headset to further understand the origins of the mountain.

I learned of the history, architecture, and lifestyle of the monks that inhabited the abbey. I feasted on all the historical significance, while indulging in the scenery indescribable. I often find that when I want to see something ever so badly, I make unattainable expectations, which lead to disappointment. But the Mont St. Michel never cease to amaze me and far surpass my high expectations.

As Yves and I returned to the foot of the mountain after the abbey tour, we strolled aong the ancient fortification walls with some of the smart tourists that had discovered the secret passageways to get there. My camera was plastered to my nose as I took over a hundred pictures of the mountain, but stopped to listen to an Irish or Scottish family standing just beside me. Actually, the father was from the United Kingdom, while the mother was from Germany or the Netherlands, as I could tell from the accent. Her children, little ginger’s, like their father, were tugging her along after Daddy.
“Ugh… slow it up. I do not want to climb again. Go ahead of me, “ she urged her kids, and then turned to me. “I suppose it is good that they are interested in culture, but honestly, it is just a rock with a religious place on the top. I do not see what the bloody fuss is all about.”
I smiled and replied, “Being here is a dream come true for me.”

She studied for a moment, and then replied, “You ought to set your dreams a bit higher than a rock on the French coast.”

Trust me, I have dreams much higher and harder to attain than seeing the Mont St. Michel in my lifetime. But the truth is, when a dream comes true, no matter how big or small, I remember again just how much life is worth living.

65 Years

2009-06-23T06:56:00.002+09:00

I wonder if it really is bravery to answer your country’s call and join the Army for war. So many of my fellow countrymen did in the 1940’s, in an effort to combat the Japanese and the German Axis forces. But what I wonder if bravery is really the right word for responding to Uncle Sam’s call. Because I am pretty sure Uncle Sam did not say in his criteria that these men might have to cut their lives, brilliant and shining, epically short at the hands of a machine gun on the beaches of Northern France. Or tortured to the point where death is seen as a God-sent in the far East.

I passed the 65th anniversary of Debarquement Day at the department in which my fellow Americans, among other Canadian, British, French, Belgian, and others, arrived to free occupied Europe from Nazi tyranny. My President, Barack Obama, also came to pay tribute to those that died and those that brought freedom from tyranny. And I was wholly disappointed in his speech. He spoke in tribute, of course, but also remarked of the many mistakes his fellow countrymen made on that fateful day.
Now I do not know about you, but on a day as sad and powerful as D-day, I want to hear prayers for the dead, patriotic songs, and stories from the veterans themselves. I am fully aware that our troops made some mistakes, and I am constantly reminded with every village I visit, how much havoc and destruction the allies wreaked on Normandy. Never the less, on this sacred day, we need to remember the bravery and sacrifice of the allies. Not their mistakes and failures.

One of the sites we visited was the thriving town of Arromanches, where a few days after the Debarquement Day, the British constructed an artificial port to transport goods into France to the troops. The remnants of the port still float softly off the coast, an eerie reminder of the pains the allies took to combat the Germans. But what really intrigued after a visit to the museum was the fact that the port was constructed after almost 2 weeks. Why? Prior to D-Day, the Allies could not be completely sure the landing would be a success. After all, historically speaking the 1942 Canadian Dieppe Raid was a disastrous failure, ending in either the death or capture of 6,000 Canadian troops. The lesson? The German Atlantic Wall was powerful, ready, and deadly.
But this got me thinking, something that everything I have seen in Normandy has prompted me to do. If the Allied commanders were not entirely sure of the success of Operation Overlord, did any of them ever think about the men they were sending off into battle? Did they ever stop to think that they could very well be sending of thousands of men to their premature and fiery death’s? Even though things went somewhat according to plan, so much could have gone wrong that it is baffling to me.

On another note, after I saw a nice film in the Arromanches 360 Dome about the war and today, I returned to a seaside café to find Ronnie and Paule waiting for me. When I plopped myself down in the seat and began to talk, Paule quieted me down instantly. I could tell she was eavesdropping in on the table next to her. The table was filled with three elderly German men, not old enough to have fought in the war themselves, but certainly not young enough to be history buff’s here for a good lesson. They were talking quietly, and from what I could tell, rather solemnly.

Back at the car, Paule announced what she had heard the men talk about. The middle man, a lanky blue-eyed blond fellow, was telling the other two that it was his first time in Arromanches, a place he had always wanted to visit because it was the name of the faraway seaside town in France in the letter from his father. The last letter from his father, postmarked June 3, 1944. His father, a German soldier, had been stationed in the Norman countryside of France, a place which he described as paradise and the farthest place in the world from danger. Not 4 or 5 days he later, he was shot dead by a British soldier in the struggle for Arromanches. He left behind his wife and sons, one in which had come to pay tribute to his father.

It’s a sad reminder of the horrible costs of both sides of the war.

All In The Name of Freedom

2009-06-22T07:07:00.000+09:00

Is it not sad that old pig-headed men with little or no knowledge of the world around them make decisions behind closed doors that often result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent young men and women? Why does the world work as such, that those in indifference make decisions with powerful and dreadful consequences? And why, oh why, once these consequences have been met, are the men not aware of what they have done? No one said the world is fair, but why is there such a thin line between fair and a ridiculous outrage?

Yesterday, my cousin Paule and I traveled to Caen, capital of the region to visit the World War II memorial. By the end of the war, ¾ of the grand city had been destroyed, and during the Battle for Normandy, the city was one of the last Nazi strongholds in the region. It is a fitting home for the greatest World War II memorial in Normandy, and possibly the world.
The memorial is utterly breathtaking, painfully anguishing, bursting with information for a history buff’s excitement, and filled to capacity with items that would make anyone feel compassion. I cannot tell you how many emotions I felt while walking along the corridors of the museum, and hearing the voices of the soldiers and victims.

One special exhibit opened up the secret diaries and handwritten letters of the solders- no the boys- that fought and often died here in Normandy on the day that changed the world. Many had not finished high school and were barely older than myself. This scared me a little bit, because I realize I have done so much in my life already, but that there is still so much more ahead and so much more things that I want to accomplish in this life time. While those boys sat on their convoy’s crossing the English Channel, some even being sent to their premature death, I wonder, if any of them felt regret that their lives were being cut short. Did any of them cry and feel an utmost remorse at not being able to do everything they had wanted, to not spend just 5 more minutes in their mothers arms, or throwing the baseball with their father in the yard? Did any of them close their eyes and envision a future that would not happen? Not all of them died, of course, but so many did die before their time.

All to die in the name of freedom. Not just the British chaps or the American yankee’s, but also the German boys who sat behind the Atlantic Wall on the other side. Did they really know what they were fighting for, other than to make their country a better place for their future and for their family? Yet again, it is a case of old men in dark rooms making decisions based on their own personal desires and prejudices, with little or no regard to the consequences.

People say that World War I is the hardest to study because there are no clear right and wrong sides. A series of old parchment’s signed by bloody politicians, who had no idea what it all meant, brought millions of boys into the trenches to kill or be killed. While, these same people usually say that World War II was different. There was a clear good guy and a bad guy, super hero and villain, and a disturbed peace to be dealt with. But my question is the following: was there really a right and wrong with World War II? Yet again, there were a few old evil men that made murderous orders, but how can one say that the everyday German soldier deserved to die. More than likely he joined the army to make life better for himself and his family, which is something everyone does every day of their lives. And considering all the things that the allies did, I wonder if it is just to say that they were the ‘good guys.’ It is not as though the Americans welcomed the St. Louis boat filled with refugee Jews, did not intern the Japanese-Americans out of fear, or commit heinous acts of crime above the skies of Dresden.

All I have to say is that those that die in the name of freedom, die unjustly, and sometimes without a cause. It cannot really be freedom when it is the decision of our leaders in sealed rooms, that decide one’s fate. It is slaughter instead.

Thus 65 years have come and gone since the Battle of Normandy, which beginning on the 6th of June, 1944, codenamed Operation Overlord. These 65 years have been almost as turbulent as the war itself. Even though the memorial is itself dedicated to peace, I left the museum wondering is world peace is possible, and have come to the gloomy decision that it is not. The beginning of the memorial shows the ‘failure of peace,’ when the Treaty of Versailles was signed ending, “the great war to end all wars.” In fact, the treaty gave the world 20 years of a stalemate, and a brief stall in the First World War. After the World War II exhibit, one sees the After 1945 exhibit, which outlines the Cold War. As an American, it was interesting to see another country’s perspective of the Cold War. Even though I believe my education was very fair, I never got to see the perspective of the Soviet Union. It seemed that the American and the Soviet dream differed very little, as both countries believed their political system was the key to changing the world. The tug-of-war Bipolar planet of the Cold War was the first of the failure of Peace after World War II. Terrorism has taken it’s place on the contemporary world scale.
Everyday around the world, in each passing day, someone dies innocently by the hands of another. All in the name of freedom.

Morbid Thoughts

2009-06-21T06:42:00.001+09:00

I have been thinking about death a lot lately. I could not give you an exact reason as to why I have had these oddly morbid thoughts as of recent, only that I have had them. It is odd because I am having the very time of my life, doing so much exploring and traveling of Belgium and Normandy, France, that it seems dumbfounding why I keep letting my thought astray to the notion of death. What is wrong with me, and why do I keep asking myself if my time is around the corner or many years down the line?

When you live in Europe some sort of morbid reminder of that little thing about life, is always around you. I can remember in my first month in France when L’s sister, Nati came to visit, the German lady from California. We visited the grand and intimate Notre Dame in Dijon, as Nati took the liberty to tell me some history of my new home, Dijon. There came a moment when I stepped upon a large warn-out stone, which I quickly realized was written in Latin. When Nati translated it, I found out that I had stepped upon the grave of another human, some sort of high man in the clergy. I sincerely felt apologetic and asked Nati if I had shown some sort of disrespect. She snickered at me and said, “This is Europe. You can’t walk two feet without walking on a grave of someone.”

I could not even begin to tell you how many churches I have seen during my Belgian/Norman excursion, let alone my entire year in France. Each occasion forces me to face the facts of religion. If there really a God? And, of course, is there really life after death? I see my younger sister so heartedly believe in her God, and I see so many others firmly deny his existence. I want so hard to believe in God, his love, and that when I pass away I will go to Heaven or even Hell. I want to get to see my Grandparents again, and ask my Grandma if she is proud of me for being the first of her children and grandchildren to learn her language. But I cannot feel this sense of sureness. I do not know if there is a God, and if there is, he has shown no proof to me.

I have learned though the tales of my cousin Paule that she was raised Catholic by her father, who was a diehard Catholic throughout his lifetime. Yet, on his deathbed, just before he passed away from Cancer, he said something that brought tears t Paule’s eyes. Father and daughter were talking about death, and Paule, who is self-proclaimed in non-practice, asked her father if he really believed in life after death and that they would one day see each other again. And he replied, truthfully, that he did not have any idea whether there really was life after death. Only that, we as humans always need to have to something to believe in.

In Rouen, the capital of the Normandy region, and also the place where the English captured Joan of Arc and burned her alive at the stake, Paule, Ronnie, and I visited a few of the sites. Paule then led Ronnie and I into the tiny cobblestoned streets of the Rouen that had not been destroyed by the fiery of the war. In the hidden section of the city, a wooden courtyard awaited us. Upon further inspection, we were able to see that the wood had been carved into skulls, bones, and many other figurines of death. “This place,” Paule explained, “was where you were supposed to come once you fell ill with the Black Plague.”

Before thinking it through, I rashly asked, “Why?”

“Well, it was so contagious back then. Those that had the illness needed to come here so as not to spread the disease to their families,” she explained not flinching in the slightest. As an afterthought, she added, “They came here to die.”

For a few moments, we all stood quietly absorbing the deathly relics of the courtyard before I asked if we could leave. I did not feel sick, but the mere thought of what this place saw, sent shivers flowing through my spine. As we left the courtyard, I whispered to Paule, “How many people died here?”

“We should not think those kinds of thoughts,” she replied, tugging me out of the courtyard, which she could tell had had a major impact on me.

I may be American by birth and blood, but my ancestors came from Europe. The history that occurred there has changed the world, without a doubt. 1/3 of Europe died from the Black Plague. 6 million Jews were killed in the Holocaust. 450,000 British soldiers fell at the Battle of the Sommes. Those are just a few statistics, think of all the others.

Normandy

2009-06-20T06:19:00.001+09:00

Normandy is a pretty intriguing place. It reminds me most of what I love about France. That is the simple concept that you have the power to choose exactly what you want and be able to get there in less than a day comfortably.
Feel like skiing? There are always open chalet’s dotted along the beautiful Rhone-Alpes region, just waiting to be used.
Need a little tan? Hurry on down to the South, and plop yourself on a beach on the French Riviera.
Time for some culture? Well open your wallet for a weekend in Paris.

Want to get away from the rest of the world? France offers many options for that. Normandy is one of them, as I have discovered waiting 15 minutes for the internet to load. But there is something special about Normandy that is really hard to put a solid finger upon. Perhaps it has something thing to do with the rolling halls just waiting to be uncovered, the exquisite charm of the thatched cottages in the local village, the integration of all the modern post-war architecture, the spotted occasional flags of the Allied nations hanging from Commonwealth cemeteries to tractors, or even simply of a rain-drenched war-ravaged region thriving in its own moderate way.

The setting of my Normandy tale takes place in the tiny hamlet of Pierrefitte en Auge. Although I did not think it possible, Pierrefitte en Auge is actually smaller than Fixin. But it is no less beautiful, and authentic. In fact, over the course of my exchange there is no place I have been so much like Fixin and so little like it at the same time. Both are small villages, authentic in every sense of the world, and lacking sophistication and modernity. Yet, it is amazing to think that both villages are a part of the same country. While tractors towing tons of grapes block traffic along the roads in Fixin, tractors carrying produce block herds of cattle along the dirt road in Perrefitte en Auge. Thatched cottages with dark stained wood and white clay create the cottages of the Norman setting, while thick rocks piled on top and then cemented together form the Burgundy atmosphere. While everything is spread out in Normandy, perfect for grazing cows, and the occasional horses, endless waves of vine after vine mount the rolling countryside of Burgundy.

Although this is my first time in Normandy, JF is from the region, and thus I have gotten a little bit of exposure to the culture. There is always the ever delicious Camembert cheese on the R’s counter top, and special occasions usually merit Apple Cider from Normandy. But being here in Normandy is a different story. This time I get to experience things first hand. For example, the town just next to Pierrefitte en Auge is called Pont L’Eveque, where they make a delicious cheese by the same name. Eating Pont L’Eveque in Pont L’Eveque is much better than eating it in Fixin (even if only to be able to say “I ate… in….”) I have also divulged my taste pallet in to the deeper Norman apple tradition. Rather than just drink delicious Apple Cider, I have been able to try Pommeau, a mix of Apple Brandy and Apple Juice, as well as Calvados, which is a type of Apple Brandy. Both make my esophagus burn, and my will stronger against drinking heavy liqueur, but I have at least experimented with regional specialty’s.

Normandy and Burgundy are pretty different regions, but when you throw in the French Riviera, which I have also spent considerable time in, as well as Paris for kicks, it is pretty flabbergasting how big and complex the little (by US standards) country of France is.

Among the Thick-Necked

2009-06-19T03:25:00.001+09:00

People from Antwerp are said to be ‘thick-necked’ in French and Flemish. This means that they are proud, if not arrogant, of their city, land, and special culture. Antwerp, which is the capital of Flanders region, is a magnificent city. Even there may not be quite as many things to do in Antwerp, I think I could spend month’s exploring the little café’s and the ancient architecture of the lovely city. Being there for the few days that I have, has given me an understanding of the ’thick-necked’ people.

Since Ronnie and Paule’s apartment is too small for me to stay in, I have been staying with Mickaelle, her husband Jacques, and their 25 year-old daughter Olivia. They live to the South of the city, a 15 minute tram ride away from the heart of Antwerp. Their house is a sandwiched three-story home, with a small garden in the backyard, and a big living room with two large piano’s. Mickaelle, from what I have gathered, is an incredible pianist, and now gives lessons to students. But the most important part of the house, in my experience from staying there, is the Nespresso machine. Even though I am only at the house in the early morning and later in the night, it seems the family always has a mug of coffee in their hand for themselves and one for me. Perhaps it is because I spend long days traveling throughout the country of Belgium, walking and exploring the ancient cities in the warm rare sun. But each night upon arrival, I climb the wooden steps of the Mickelle’s house and jump into my warm toasty bed. I do not think I have ever slept so well in my life. Except by morning, as soon as the sun pours into the room, due to the lack of shades, I am quickly wakened. Time for another Belgian day.
On Sunday, May 31st, Benoit, Paule and Ronnie’s son gave me a tour of Antwerp with immense history lesson on the city and my family. He is really nice guy, and an excellent person to talk to. We shared stories about Australia, Asia, and America, while soaking in the sun and the ambiance of the city. That evening, Olivia and another cousin, Maxime, came to pick me up in the city. Before they arrived Benoit told me that the group of cousins I would be sharing a drink with that night were the French-speaking part of the family, and so they have a special relationship. Chuckling he said, Maxime is a flaming gay man, to which he added, “well there is one in every family.”

That evening with Olivia, Maxime, and other cousins Jill and Stephanie, I went to a bar with a group of really nice Belgian adults. They took it upon themselves to make sure I tried all the Belgian specialty drinks, which included Krieg Cherry Beer, Mae’s Beer, and for kicks, a Corona. It was an excellent night and I seemed to fit in with the Belgian’s a lot better than I thought I would.

Later in the week, I was fortunate enough to meet little Noah, Mickaelle’s beautiful grandson, and Romy and Arnou, the delightful grandchildren of Paule’s. It is interesting to see how relatives and Belgian’s raise their kids all around the world. Adoration does not even begin to describe the sparkle in Paule’s eyes when she sees her little Romy.

Been There, Run That

2009-06-18T03:23:00.001+09:00

I have this little theory. I formulated it during my nice hour long run through the park in the South of Antwerp on Thursday. With my predictable tendency to fall in love with places and then announce that I have spent a considerable time living and learning there, I have decided to make more requirements. That is, I am not allowed to say that I have truly discovered a place, until I have run there.

Running is my sport, and it has been for almost 4 years now. It keeps me sane and grounded, and I realize each time after a good long and tiring run that I live to run, and run to live. Even though I do not get much of a runner’s high anymore, the feeling of the pumping endorphine’s pounding through my veins after I finish a long the run through the luscious green combs of Fixin, is worth every moment. I try to run as often as I can, which is not everyday, but is often enough. And anyone who knows me well enough, will tell you that when I return from a well-deserved run, I am a different people. Te weight of the world lifts off my shoulders and instead all I can do is think about my feet pushing forward and the things pressing on my mind.
I get a lot of thinking done while I run. Even though I take along my I pod, my Selective Hearing has been honed over the course of this year in France, and I usually tune it out. I think about everything and anything, when I jog along. I think about strange my life, what with Japan, France, and all the traveling. I contemplate my future, and what I really hope to gain from this year and from this life. Running has helped me to decide the thngs that are in my control, the things that fate feels I can decide upon myself, which mostly concerns the little things.
My decision to count all of my Christianed running spots as the places, in which I feel confident enough to say, “been there, done that,” mean that Essex Country, New Jersey, the Kochi prefecture of Japan, the combs and vineyards of Cote de Nuits, France, Antwerp, Bormes-les-Mimoas, French Riviera, and the Calvado’s department of Normandy, France, are places, I have made a mark on. Even though that mark may just be a foot print in the mud along a deserted old path in the forest, an exclusive Flemish park, or a site long holding the secrets of the Allied soldiers in World War II, I was there.

Or better yet, been there, run that.

There Is Something About Antwerp

2009-06-09T07:02:00.004+09:00

I am one of those people that can truly be happy anywhere and at anytime (except for my hometown in America, but there is a whole 'nother story there.) You could drop me in the middle of nowhere rice paddy on a small isolated dismal place in a strange Asian country. You could give me a spot in a tiny town of 700 people, surrounded by miles and miles of vineyards and very little to do. And I would probably love it.

But certain cities hold little keys to my heart, which places in the country side had not yet discovered. There is just some mythical charm about the city of London, my favorite place in the entire world, that has captured me and refused to let me go. My love-hate relationship with the City of Love never allows me to pass up the opportunity to go and explore Paris. It was love at first site as I crossed the boarders and entered into Munich, Germany for the very first time. And I am 99.99% certain that I am going to be spending a considerable amount of time in Kyoto, Kobe, and Osaka, Japan in the upcoming years as a Japanese language student.

But there is something about Antwerpen.

I can not put a label to it. I can not my finger on the exact draw that I have to the Flemish Belgian city of Antwerp in English, Anvers in French, and Antwerpen in Flemish. It is not a mythical wanderlust, love-hate relationship, love at first site, or yearning to explore every single little thing about the city. But the longer I am here in Flanders, residing in the house of my cousins just outside of the city, the hungrier I get to spend time in the city. Even after long days of exploring the medieval cities of Brugges and Ghent, pained knees from a morning of running, exhaustion from a night of new sleep, pressing hunger for dinner, I can not resist the lure of spending even five minutes in the city.

I first arrived in Antwerpen last Saturday at after 10PM, after a long and tiring day of exploring Brugges. The moment my eyes laid site of the brilliant Flemish architextire masterpieces of the Hotel de Ville, crowded bars and cafes, and fascades of village houses, I was utterly hooked. A stroll along the river overlooking the bustling port with the gentle breeze whipping my hair, is the best way to enjoy the awfully delightful weather. There is a wonderful shopping district and a lack of souvenir shops, somewhat of a dream come true for me. I have completely figured out the Subway/Tram service, as well as the prime locations for people-watching, long strolls, tourist sites, and so on and so forth. I have a grasp on this city as if I have lived here my whole entire life, and I almost feel as if I have. In the Grand Place, on can see the finest example of Renaissance architexture in the Hotel de Ville, all the while while grabbing a Krieg Cherry Beer in the many surrounding cafes.

Also in the middle of the Grand Place is the stature of how Antwerp received it's name. Long ago in the time of the Romans, a giant used to demand a tax from the sailors and merchants. When merchants refused to pay, he would cut off their hands and throw them in the rover. This was until a young Roman guard decided to challenge the giant, and actually won, cutting off the giant's hand and then throwing it in the river. In Flemish Ant is the word for hand, while Werp is the word for throw. Throwing Hand City. If you do not believe in the Giant's story, there are other stories that are more easy to understand.

I think that my newfound obsession with Antwerp can be compared to the beautiful Antwerpen Cathedral. The brilliantly tall and white clean structure reaching to the sky in a wonder to anyone who sees it. But the Cathedral is far from perfect. It was designed so that there would be two large towers looming over the city, however there is just one. It was customary for the builders to build the second tower as a tribute to God and the work that they had recieved. But the builders ran out of money and could not finish the second structure. Still the Cathedral is breathtaking, even if unperfect. For the same reason, this is why I am enamored with Antwerp. It is certainly not perfect, completely lively, bursting with history and beauty, but the city itself is astonishing in it's own right.

The Belgian Contingency- Day 1

2009-06-08T01:15:00.000+09:00

After I left Brussels and my best friend, I headed off into the unknown. The unknown is a scary concept for most people. It is something that one knows nothing about, or anyone along the way, or the places of the destination. Most of the time, the unknown is something people do not want to venture to or think about. But for me, the unknown is pretty much a daily concept. That is sort of how things work when you get on a plane to another country, you know very little about, and live with people, you have never met. This time around, I was traveling in the Flemish part of Belgium to stay with my second cousins, whom I had never met and knew very little about. As if a week in Walloonia, Belgium had affected me enough to think Flanders would be some sort of hellish disaster, I could not imagine what these FLEMISH cousins of mine had in store.

Turn out, the unknown is actually pretty cool.

At the Antwerpen Bercham station, a stocky middle-aged lady, Paule Nyssen, and her husband, Ronnie Aeronaut, came to pick me up. Hearing the Walloon's rip on the Flem's, I half expected their to be some sort of ghetto, shoot-out, three-headed monster, or some form of terror to be waddling around the station. But everything appeard to be human in peace. Immedaitely I got wonderful vibes from Paule and Ronnie, but that may have been the English. Unfortunately after three days with Zoe, my French had taken a nosedive. Sure we spoke French with her host family, and with each other in the presence of others, but whenever one of us got tired, English returned. And boy was I tired! A full day in Brussels really takes it out of you.

That evening with Paule and Ronnie, I got the very first taste of the Belgian Contingency. My paternal Grandma, Renee, had a sister named Mika. The pair had grown up on the Belgian consulate in Haiti, but had separted just before World War II. Mika returned to Belgium where she would meet and marry Albert Nyssen, while Renee would meet and marry an American serviceman, Mart Garner. Mika had 9 kids in 10 years, while Renee had 7 in a slightly longer span. Oh yeah, they were really good Catholics. Mika's 9 and Renee's 7 are all hypothetically first cousins. However, Facebook did not exactly exist back then, and they did not have much of a relationship. The pond is a pretty big body of water and the cultures are vastly different. One of my Dad's biggest regrets is not getting to know his cousins a little better.

I had dinner with Paule and Ronnie, and one of their three children. The have three, Laurence, Benoit, and Eve. Only Laurence has children, two babies, that Paule just absolutely adores. Since Paule and Ronnie have just a small apartment in Antwerp, I would be staying with Mickaelle and her husband Jacques on the outskirts of the city. They have four kids, three boys and a girl, and now three grandchildren all within a month of each other.

Paule informed me that Mickaelle was her best friend, and it was pretty evident that eveing when, over a glass of wine, we all talked about Paule and Mickelle's perspective voyages to America. I felt rather bad to inform that I was exhausted (or perhaps a little tipsy after so much good wine) Before I could sleep, though, Paule and Ronnie told me to ready by 10 the next morning. We would breakfast and then head on to Brugge, Belgium's Venice of the North, for some touring and seeing the city.

Mickaelle showed me to my room, and the world's most comfortable bed ever. After a quick shower, I fell into the deepest sleep imaginable.

Buddies in Brussels

2009-06-07T00:36:00.000+09:00

One part of me would love to talk about how much things have changed for Zoe and I, that suddenly we have grown up all due to our years abroad. However, very little has changed for the two of us, except maybe our outlooks about the world and how new favorite foods. Another part of me is thankful that thins have not changed very much. How could I go on without a Mocha Frappucino buddy to rant about traveling with?

The main thing that has not changed about Zoe in the slightest in her ability to have absolutely no idea about something in which she should know very well. She lives in Belgium, has been to Brussels over three times, knows practically every waffle stand in the entire country, but still has no orientation of the capital at all. And one thing that has not changed about me at all, is my temper with Zoe's ability to have absolutely no idea. While she continued to wander around Brussels like a chicken without a dead, I sat there sighing heavily and making comments like, "Jesus, Zoe, if I had any idea that you were so clueless about this city, I would have done some research!" Nonetheless, I think we both had a pretty good day in Brussels.

When we arrived in the main station, we exited and visited the Grand Place, which as I have come to understand, every city in Belgium has. It had beautiful Flemish facades and was just crawling with historical facts to uncover. When I looked to Zoe with a questions, I was soon to accept that I would be spending that night on Wikipedia.

Afterwards, we trekked over to Mannekin Pis, the world-famous pissing boy statue. Since it is one of Belgium's pride and joy pieces, I was somewhat shocked to see that the statue was a size of my hand. Well maybe a little bigger, but much smaller than I had imagined. They say that this stature perfectly sums up a Belgian's raw humor. Afterwards, we decided to get completely lost on our way to Mini Europe, a tribute to European Union. When we FINALLY got there, after hitching a ride on the trams and not paying, we paid the enormous entry park and entered.

Mini Europe is a theme-park type thing that represents all the countrys in the European Union. I thought it was sort of biased because little Belgium had a huge representation in the park, while other countries had little or nothing to show. It was nice though, but it was something that one should see once and then never again willingly. The Atomium, the 1958 World's Fair showcase, which magnifies an atom something like 250 times, sat in the background of the little park.

After our tour throughout Europe, sort of, we decided to head back to the main part of the city. We bought some ice cream, Graham Cracker flavor, oddly enough, and then toured some of the Chocolate Boutiques for a gift for my cousins. I thought it would be stupid to give a gift of Belgium chocolate from Belgium to some Belgians, but Zoe assured me that they would absolutely adore it. I suspect that it was her appetite that would adore the chocolate.

At 6ish, Zoe and I said our goodbyes again. This time I was heading to Antwerp to stay with my cousins for a week, while Zoe had to return to Liege. We planned on meeting up sometime during the next week, however, so it was not a true sad goodbye, more like a see ya later type thing. Which is really good. I hate goodbyes.

Zoe's Belgium: Liege and Maastrict

2009-06-05T06:34:00.000+09:00

Even though the reason Zoe selected Belgium as her first country choice was so that she could learn the Flemish language, she was placed in the French-speaking part. This never dampened her spirits very much, but living in the French part of the country, she has learned that it is not such a good idea to tell people about her desire to learn Flemish. After all, Belgium may be one country, reunited under one king, and one common law, but people in Flanders will identify themselves Flemish before Belgian, and the Walloons will not tolerate people who do not speak French.

Regardless, the first part of my trip was to explore and immerse myself in Zoe's exchange in Belgium, and thus, the first few days were spent in Walloonia. I arrived on Tuesday night and spent the evening catching up with Zoe and meeting her third and final host family (but first non-psycho one, apparently.) Our first supper was my two least favorite things put into one, Pasta and Meat. But in respect for the family and for Zoe, I sucked it up and ate a plate.

The next morning, Zoe and I went to school. Well, actually, her host family thinks we went to school. Actually, Zoe decided to show me around Liege, her host city that morning. We walked around Liege, which is a small gray and extremely industrial city. For an exchange student, poor and always searching for cheap alcohol, there is no better place than Liege. The Carre, a cobblestoned section of the city is overflowing with Jupiler signs, Krieg Cherry-Beer advertisements, and colorful names of hundreds if not thousands of different bars. Every Wednesday after school, one can find the Rotary students drinking at some bar or another.

But in the morning, Zoe just wanted to show me some of her favorite things. We climbed a massive stari case for a grand view of the city, not exactly the New York skyline, but the grayness was a constant reminder that we were still in Belgium. Next, we toured a variety of supermarkets, where I got a lesson on the importance of Belgian chocolate and it's affect on society and culture. Cote d'Or is apparently the best, followed by Galler. You have to be desperate to eat Milka, Nestle, or Kinder, which actually are my favorite three brands. When I asked about the status of Hershey, I felt as though I committed some sort of religious crime, which merited the label of heathen. After, Zoe pointed out all of the Waffle places that deserved merit. She also explained the different between a Bruxellois and Liegeois waffle. Bruxelle's are the waffles mounted with ice cream, wipe cream, and a variety of other interesting toppings. While Liegeois was simple, right out of the over, with big chucks of sugar in the batter. Before our afternoon activity, our waffle discussions compelled us to invest in some true Liege waffles.

That afternoon, the Belgian Rotary and almost all of the exchange students in the district participated in an activity at some World War II fort. The fort was built to be unpenatrable by anyone, except that it pretty much fell to the Germans after about 5 minutes. The soldiers say that they surrended because there was no way to escape and the sound of th tanks rolling about the underground tunnels was too intimidating. Actually, the whole elabrote tunnel fort rather freaked me out, since I get Cabin Fever really easily. After about an hour in the kilometer after kilometer fort, I was ready for some fresh air.

But the best part of the activity was definitely meeting the other students. Most were really nice and intrigued to hear about France and Japan. With them, I learned some interesting new things. In Belgium, you buy a ticket called a Go Pass that is a 5 Euro ride to anywhere in the country. You write the destinations on the ticket and then get it stamped. But these exchange students have found a way to beat the system. They have magic pens that white out the ink. Rather clever, no? I really felt involved and welcomed, and reminded Zoe just how lucky she was with her Rotary district.

That evening, we returned home and planned for the next morning. It was to be another 'school day,' that actually involved a trip to the Netherlands, Maastrict to be exact. It was really only a 15 minute journey from Liege. We were somewhat unfortunate with the weather, a slight drizzle and constant cloud covering. We bought a map and followed a specially marked trail throughout the city. I would have like to stay and explore the city more, but it was not very pleasant and we had had enough by early afternoon.

When we returned home, I decided to put my baking skills to good use and make a Fondant au Chocolat for the family for dessert. Since I only recently learned to cook in France, Zoe was rather flabberghasted at my useage of the metric system. "Americans make everything harder," I said after she attacked the 'stupid metric system.'

As usual my cake was a success, and I receieved a review from Zoe's host mom that put the cake in restaurant class quality. As if my ego needs to be boost anymore.

That evening Zoe and I, tired from a long day of walking and baking, lounged on the couch and watched Amelie, a famous French film that I have never seen. We went to bed thinking about the next day; a full day in the Belgian capital city of Brussels.

Look At Us Now

2009-06-04T04:53:00.005+09:00

You know you have a good friend, when they spend a full year of hellish high school listening to you rambling on about some strange Asian country that they have no desire to visit.

I suppose after listening to me rave about everything Japan and my experience as a Rotary Youth Exchange student, as well as my second chance to do it all again, that it was somewhat inevitable for my best friend, a certain Zoe Kroessler, to end up as an exchange student herself. In fact, I can remember the exact moment when the wheels in her head began to turn with the grease of a year abroad, she and I were walking down Sampson Drive in Verona on our way to Krauzers to get my daily Hazelnut Coffee. Our conversation, as usual, was about our escape plans from Verona. My application had been sbmitted and I was guarenteed a spot in Argentina with Rotary. While Zoe had to choose between a number of small liberal art schools, none of which she was truly into. I had been trying to convert her to the dark side of exchange studenthood since Freshamn year, but it was at that moment that Zoe was finally ready to accept her destiny. Well that's a bit dramatic, but she did take my advice and contact Barbara Miller, the YEO of our district and ask if she could still apply.

During the month, we talked endlessly about upcoming exchange. Mine was going to be to Argentina, while Zoe had to choose between brazil, France, Germany, and Belgium. I was a huge supporter of Belgium, even though I could not understand why she wanted to learn Flemish, which no one in the world could speak except the Dutch and the Flems. Sometime just before the Orientation, I learned that Argentina was a no-go for me and I was thrown into the country choice dilemma, yet again. The 25% Belgian in screamed to choose Belgium, but since it was Zoe's first exchange, the one spot in Belgium was given to her. Ironically, she was sent to the French-speaking part of the country.

A year has long passed since those hectic days of country choice and a year is a long time. I ended up in Fixin, France, as you probably have read. While my dear friend Zoe ended up in Liege, Belgium, one of the big Belgian cities and the second largest in Walloonia, the French-speakin portion. She and I had planned on meeting each other at various time throughout the year, but being poor exchange students, that did not much happen. However, we did meet up one day in Cologne, Germany for an afternoon of Chocolate, Starbucks, Cathedrals, Museums, and Starbucks. (Almost exactly in that order.)

But I felt it was time to embark on our planned excursions. I decided to book a ticket to Liege and see Zoe's year abroad in Belgium. And that is exactly what I did, meeting a few complications with the French manifestations, of course. But I did get here to Belgium.

On Tuesday, May 26th, I arrived on a bitter, cold, wet, and gray beautiful Belgian day. I arrived early and waited in the station for Zoe. When I saw my friend, we took about 2 minutes to do the whole, "wow-I- Haven't-seen-you-in-a-long-time-so-you-must-be-differnet-and-whatnot," or something to that effect. But quickly after that we were back to our usual ways.

I met Zoe's host family, nice but rather strict folks, that live on the edge of the town. I was supposed to stay a week with Zoe, but they really did not want another kid living in the house. That was before they met me, however. I am pretty sure they liked me a lot, because my French has progressed to level of sarcasm and cracking jokes. Host families love jokes, and they also love to hear a little about their student from the home country. Zoe and I recounted our exchange, high school, and town life to the family. We picked on the French, while I told them a little bit about life in France. We also picked on the Flanders a little bit, in my first experience with the Walloonia-Fladers problem that is currently plaguing Belgium. When Zoe mentioned her desire to learn Flemish, her host mom seemed scandalized.

The thing that most shcoked me about spedning time with Zoe was our new found language. While Zoe's language spoken is far greater than mine, I think my comprehension might be better. (Maybe not, I have a tendency to just play dimb and pretend I can not understand anything, though this is far from the case.) But the weird thing is those same two girls that once talked about desires to leave Verona and go to magical places far away, planning futures, gossiping, and so on and so forth, could now do it in French. I think it may be lucky that the two of us are able to speak wth French with each other, though I doubt we will much unless to say something that we do not want others to hear. But in those moments of host family discussin, when I turned to Zoe, I sometimes found myself dumbfounded. Are we speaking another language? To each other?

It just goes to show that life never stop throwing random surprises one's way.

Burguny, Flanders, New Belgium, and the Rest

2009-06-02T06:12:00.004+09:00

It all began in Burgundy. No, not my exchange, but the history of my life, my ancestors, and the face of the world. Sure, Burgundy was more or less a catalyst or extra ingredient in this bubbly chemical of the world we live in. But I am so amazed at everything I have learned.

Out story begins when the first born boy of the king of France, became king of France himself. His younger brother, receieving nothing, was actually given the title of Duke of Burgundy. Three generations later, and multiple acquisitions through arragned marriages, Charles the Bold took over the Duke position. His objective: attach Burgundy with the Netherlands to rival the king of France, whom he did not so much care for. He worked towards his goal, never sparing on his vanity and luxury for the fine life.

He was called the Bold for a few reasons. The Swiss annoyed his nephew, so he decided that the Swiss needed to be taught a lesson. He commanded his troops to battle, where he met a sour defeat. It was a bittersweat victory for the Swiss, but did very little for good old Charles the Bold. Regardless, Charles was power-hungry and acquied q multitude of posessions throughout his time as Duke.

Charles had one daughter, Mary of Burgundy. On her birth, he was sorely disappointed that his firstborn was not an heir, but he figured he would have multiple children afterwards. So the Duchy was to fall into the hands of Mary. But Charles was smart and planned to use this to his advantage. He tried very hard to marry off Mary to the Hapsburg House in Austria, in exchange for the title of Grand Emperor of the terriotires. But at the last minute his plans fell through.

His vanity eventually became his downfall and he met his death at the Battle of Nancy.

This is how the world changes.

The Burgundy region was divided by the Hapsburg House, in which Mary of Burgundy was forced into, and France. Neither side was satisfied with the results and the disintegration of the Burgundian state was a factor in most major wars in Western Europe for over two centuries.

Although Mary was killed a few short years later, she had a son, who would become Phillip the Handsome, husband of Joan of Castille of Spain. Although he died before he could make a major impact, the pair had 6 children. The oldest and heir to the thrown was Charles V, named after his great-grandfather.

Charles the V was a maniac Catholic that arrieved in Flanders and demanded that everyone convert to Catholicism or leave. A major brain drain occured when the artists, writers, and great historical figures left the port of Antwerp and arrived in Amsterdam, which was only a fishermand wharf at the time. Historical Flanders was but a protestant state, suddenly thrown into upheaval of Catholisicm. The strict rules would change Flanders for forever. Gothic churches were left but all their contents were destroyed if it conflicted with the anti-idol worshipping. Somehwere during this time, I can only guess, my own ancestors were converted from protestants to catholics.

Those that refused to change their religion, or accept this radical new religion, parted for Holland. The Netherlands were very tolerant of all religions, except those that were extremely radical and tried to impose restrictions upon others. Where did those crazy religious fanatics go, I ask? The Mayflower brought over a few, followed by the a significant amount of others. Many prisoners of petty insignifcant crimes were also sent to the American colonies. I can only assume the Garner part of the family was part of these criminals that got sent to America for punishment purposes, it is the only fitting way that could have happened. Afterall, an ancestor apparently stole a horse from a nobleman.

America, which at the time was known as New Belgium. Yes- I know we all learn the story of New Amsterdam and the Dutch finding New York, but it was actually a Belgian, a Flemish Belgian that had been persectued by Charles V.

Now on for the more personal part of the story.

Some years later, an extremely Catholic Wallonian politician was sent to Haiti as a consulate for the embassy, He had just one daughter, Mika, and another on the way. In the end there were three, Mika, Renee, and George, aristocratic Belgians. There is quite q few things that happened during their lives on the island, but we will fast forward to just before the war. Mika returened to Belgium, where she met a wealthy religious Flemish Heart Surgeon, married him, and had 9 children over the course of 10 years. Renee met a Merchant Marine soldier from America, a descendant from one of those problematic Garner's, and had 7 children. My Dad was one of them.

I truly a Burgundian, a Flem, a Walloon, an exile, an American and affected by Catholicism and Protestanism. Such a mutt.

It's Harder Than I Thought

2009-06-01T15:03:00.003+09:00

A couch in every country.
Friends in every country of the world.
Postcards from holidays.
Memories in different languages.
The endless debate over where I belong.

This life I live, the life of an exchange student with friends sprinkled throughout the world, is of course, a dream come true. How many American 18 year-old's can say that they have lived with families in Australia, Japan, France, Germany, and Belgium? How many people can say they speak three languages, maybe not fluently, but still enough to get by and to tell jokes in, which I sometimes think is the most important criteria for language learning? How many people can say that they have been all over Europe, Japan, and Australia?

But the question, I have to ask in respond is, "How many people are as lost as me?"

Yesterday in the sprawling city of Antwerpen, Belgium, I met the son of my cousin, Paule. His name, Benoit, and I found I had so much in common with him, it was incredible. Benoit had very early been stricken with the travel bug, and with his gift for languages, he has been everywhere, He told me the story of his two final attempts to escape Belgium. A tiny country with fierce long and cold winters, Benoit sought to use his flying licence in the South Pacific. His first attempt failed dramatically, when the Australia Bus pilots refused to hire him without one year of medical training. But his second attempt was a complete success. Under a German company he was able to fly tourists around the Fiji Islands. He thought he would live there for the rest of his life with a dream job such as this. But after a month he began to relalize something. "I thought my future was in a warm place far away from here. But after a while, I began to realize that my own place in life was in tiny cold Belgium with my family and my roots."

I do not feel that compelling pull back to America. I feel as though the roots that were planted for me in Belgium are easily uprooted and not so easily rerooted, if that makes any sense. The only drive that is pulling me back to New Jersey is my parents. But after one month, I will move to South Carolina, which in European terms is a whole other land, people, and culture.

I guess what I am saying is that the more I travel and see, the harder it is to separate myself from the host country. As much as the French-hating part begrudgingly hates to admit, I miss Fixin, the Roberts, France, and my hme away from home. It is weird to think of Burgundy as that, but no matter where I go in Belgium, I can not get the land out of my mind. There is truly something about Burgundy compelling and drawing. Yet, when I am there, all I want to do is leave and run away and explore the rest of France and the world.

Everyone knows how much I miss Japan, so I will not bore the world with that one. And how much I yearn for Germany. And how much I would love to return to Australia. All I am saying is that the more I travel, the harder it is to really feel like replanting the roots and calling a place home.

Dear France

2009-05-31T16:31:00.002+09:00

Dear France,

Why do you hate me so much?

I know that does not seem like a fair and just way to start a letter. However, you, my dear la belle France have nearly killed me today. In fact, now that I have put the words into writing, I wonder if you really are trying to kill me. Because if so then you are doing a really job so far. I feel like I should even say to keep up the good work, but I really want to survive this year, so please stop. Please.

This morning, May 26th, 2009, was to be the very start of my whirlwind tour of Belgium and Northern France with my best friend Zoe and later my relatives, who I have never met. The ticket to Lille, France, the northern most part of France was purchased almost two weeks ago. The plan was to purchase the train ticket from Lille to Liege Belgium in Lille, since it would be a great deal cheaper. The train from Dijon was set for 11:56 AM this morning. I would stop in Paris, take the subway train from the Gare de Lyon to the Gare de Nord and have about a half an hour of free time in the station. Then I would take the train to Lille, where I would then buy and purchase a train to Liege to be with my good friend Zoe.

I suppose your attempt to kill me began this weekend down in the South, when I left my bag filled with my wallet and camera to my host mom on the beach. Long story short, the bag wandered off, and I nearly died thinking I had lost my beloved camera, all of my credit cards, train tickets, and other important things. The first thing we did was cancel all of my credit cards, then attempt to refind my bag. Amazingly enough the bag was found, with all the contents in it. However, with my looming excursion to Belgium and exactly 15 Euros in my wallet, I realized I had another problem.

Luckily I had some Rotary money, so the trip was not to be cancelled. L and I decided also to get a new card from the French bank, which she would send to me in a few days. Things seemed to look good this morning, as we exited the bank with a sack full of money for my trip, a plan of action with the credit card, and the excitement of joining my best friend in Belgium. But, of course, my dear lovely France, you must have known things could not be this good for very long.

We arrived at Dijon station at 11:26, which gave me 32 minutes to just wander around the station. Leonie said she was going to buy me a book and wait with me until I got on the train, since I would be leaving for a few weeks and we would not be seeing each other. When we entered the station, we did a quick check on the train board with departures and arrivals times.
“Um… my train is not on the departures,” I said casually, thinking that the train was probably just a small regional train and not important enough to get it’s name on the board.
L, however, hauled me to Accuiel, where we asked about my train and the whereabout of the platform.

“National Strike, Ma’am,” responded the man at the desk. “The train was cancelled.”

Besides the fact that I did not think France could possibly strike about anything else on Earth, since we have already had about four trillion strikes already, my stomach dropped. I had seen on the board that the next train to Paris was not until 2 hours later, and by then I would surely miss my train to Lille, which would mean I would miss my train to Liege. A horrible ill feeling appeared in the pit of my stomach before I could even demand what I ought to do.

L was much better collected than I, “Well what do you propose we do? She needs to be in Paris within the next two hours!”

The man at the desk, unphased in the slightest by an American teenager on the verge of tears and French lady demanding information. “Well you can take the train at 11:25. But there is no room. You won’t have a seat.”
“But it is 11:32!” Leonie said.
“Oh well it hasn’t left yet. It is at platform J, as in Jacques, it leaves in a minute or two.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Leonie and I were sprinting through the station. I was not wearing the best shoes and I almost tripped and fell twice. L, on the otherhand, put her running legs to good use, sprinting through the station, and making sure I got on the train.
After a quick Bisous, I sqid, “Why am I always running through the station after a late train when I am with you?” She chuckled and pushed me into the train. I felt a slight ache knowing that I was all packed up at her house, and that I would not see her, JF, Cha CHA, Ant, or Co for a few weeks. Even though not every day is perfect, I have to say that I am so thankful to have them as my French host family. (Well, France, in that respect, I can NOT be too mad at you.)

The train, of course, was delayed. Since there was not a single free spot n the whole train, I had to crawl underneath a shelf filled with baggages and fold myself in the most awkward position of my life. Hours later and I still have a pained neck. Oh and I can not forget that enormous black wheely bag that fell on my head when the train made a mandatory stop. That hurt. A lot.
Amazingly enough, I aurvived that horrible train ride with the help of my Ipod and the promise of McFlurry in Paris. My arrival at the are de Lyon was very well-welcomed. I headed immediately for the subway station, and then for the RER D, which would bring me directly to Gare de Nord. I was somewhat worried that my train to Lille would meet some complications because of the strike, but I told myself that whatever you were planning to throw at me, France, I was going to catch it and make due.

Well, not surprisingly, the Subway operators were also on strike. The direct RER D to the Gare de Nord did not work this morning, and so I had no idea what to do. I was not alone, either. There were about 200 British tourists who had no idea what to do. Of course, I unlike the British, can speak French, s when I went to ask for help, the nice man at the counter, “I is vedy vedy sordy. I speck no Ingliesh.”
“Oui, mais, moi, je peux parle francais,” I said telling him that I was capable of French.
“Oh mon dieu! Can you tell these English that they need to take the RER A to Chatelet les Halles and then transfer to the other RER B, which should bring them to Gare de Nord. They can not get it wrong because none of the trains are running today except the direct to Gare de Nord.”
So here I was, somewhat lost myself, herding a flock of British tourists through Paris.

“These bloody French wankers don’t work a day in their lives.”
“God forbid the Frogs actually do something right.”
“Well, what do these mornons expect? Of course they lost the Olympics to London. We, Brits, actually work and do not go on strike every five minutes.”

I laughed so hard listening to the British folks criticize the French, and also worked very hard to bite my tongue. Even though I hate strikes and manifestations with every fiber in my body, I feel as though I owe a lot to the French for this year.

When we all finally got to the station, I got a multitude of heart felt thank you’s.

“Bloody hell I cant wait to get the hell home. Good luck on your trip. I hope Belgium is actually functioning today.”

In the Gare de Nord, I confirmed that my train was runnin and going to be on time. Then, as promised, I found a McDonalds and gorged on McFlurry, I felt I deserved it. When I returned back to the station, I wanted to make sure once again that my train was running on time. I put my ticket in the machine to confirm the time. Everything was all set. I then pressed the button to retract the ticket and a strane messae came up on the screen. The machine could not dispense the ticket due to technical difficulties and I would need to find a mechanical worker. Just wonderful.

I found a security guard and he pointed me into the direction of the mechanics. I knocked on the door of the tiny office, and no one answered. I knocked aain. And again. And again. No one was answering, and I had 30 minutes until the departure of my train.

I had no idea what to do, but cut in front of everyone in the ticket sales lines. I asked a sales woman to get a mechanic for me and she pointed me back to the same office that I had been trying to knock on from before. “But no one is there! My train leaves in 25 minutes I need help,” I said.

“I can not help you. Find a mechanic.”

Instead of trying to dramatize this entire story, I will just say that I finally found a mechanic. I was crying so hard when he opened the machine to receive my ticket because when I finally located the sole mechanic in the entire city of Paris, my train had left.

“Tough luck, “ he said, “You should have come to find a mechanic earlier.”

He then proceeded to tell me that I could not get a refund for my ticket because of the strike. I could have died. He was not rude, but he was very blunt. I am not sure of he took my silence as understanding or shock. Because I promise you it was shock. I was shocked that something like this could happen. I was not sure what to do. I realized that I had just only lost 17 Euros in the deal, but still, I could not believe it. Why does this have to happen to me? What have I done wrong? And most importantly, what am I going to do?

After I recomposed myself cool and collective, I decided to find the most direct way to Liege possible. I knew that it existed but the only reason I did not want to buy the ticket for it was because it cost three times as much as what I was paying. But at this point, I was so broken I did not care.

During a strike, most people do not actually come to work. This, as I have learned during my year in France, is the entire point of a strike. However, I think I really learned that fact when I went to wait on line to buy my ticket to Liege. For 200 customers or so, there was about 3 workers. I waited on line for 45 mnutes just to buy a ticket to Liege. And as much as I would love to complain about this one, the first lucky thing happened to me. The man I purchased the tickets from said I was the last person able to buy a seat. The train was filled to capacity and the Belgian lines do not let people lay in corridors like the French lines do (as I learned this morning.) In addition, the ticket only cost me 15 euros more than it would have if I had went to Lille, and it would get me to Belgium and hour earlier.

So here I am sitting on that very train. A Belgian-run train. I almost hugged the conductor when she welcomes me aborad, showed me my seat, and asked to see some identification.

“No strike?” I asked.

“Oh God no, we aren’t French! Don’t ask a Belgian if they are French if you want them to like you,” She said chuckling.

Just crossed the border into Belgium. Ou Revoir France, see you next week. Go back to work.

Best Wishes, Julie

Packing Up

2009-05-29T16:23:00.001+09:00

Part of what it means to be a Rotary Youth Exchange Student is receiving a multitude of different host families during the year. Other programs, such as AFS, YFU, and CIE, guarentee one host family. For me the changing og host families during the year is the probably the sole reason why I am a Rotary Youth Exchange student today. When I applied in early 2005 for my first exchange (to Austria! Well, not really, in fact, I have no idea how I ended up in Japan) my responce to the question, "Why Rotary?" was the following:

"There is light at the end of the tunnel. If you have a terrible host family, you always know that you are changing soon enough."

That being said, I have one host family here in France for the entire year. A family that I really like, despite everything, in which has shown me that having a multitude of host families is great, but having one family works well too. One day I hope to discuss all the pros and cons of the multitude hot family verses the host family question, but in the meantime, I want to say that the hardest part of having multiple families is definitely the constant packing up and moving.

This year, chez les R's, I never had to throw all of my belongings and pack up my luggage, throw it in the car, and drive to another part of the city. On paper, I had been supposed to change families in January, but everyone decided not to. A decision I have yet to regret once. In Japan, I had 4 host families, three of which I loved and still keep in touch with. Had I not moved out of my first host family, I would never have gotten to meet the lovely (and crazy) Osaki family, and the calm and collective Katou's. But, yeah, I could have stayed with my first host family, the Masaki's, all year.

The hardest part was not saying goodbye to my host families when I moved on to the next host family, as I knew I would come back for visits and parties. But the hardest part was definitely taking all of my belonging and putting them in a bag to move. Hauling all of my stuff into a bag and onto the next part of my year. It was tiring and heartbreaking, because as I zipped up the bags and walked out the door, a little piece of my life was ending. The life I had built in that host house with those people that I had come to love. I knew I would come back and see them, but it would never be the same. I was no longer living in the house, and my presence would soon fade. I would become a distant memory of a goofy rather awkward American girl that had once lived in the upstairs room, who had eaten dinner in the far chair on the left, who had given us this American flag as a present.

With one month left in France, and today leaving for my big trip, I decided the time was right to pack up a good portion of my belongings and return the room to Cha Cha. She has a job now and is actually doing something, which is more then can be said for me, apparently. Plus I have wanted to give her back the room since she returned from India all those months ago. I suppose better late than never is the best way to put it.

I have so much less stuff than I did in Japan, and I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of my stuff is not here at the moment. Mostly I have books in French and clothes from America. Unfortunatly almost none of the clothes I have actrually fit me anymore, since I have developped a bot of an inner tube around the gut. Thus I have only three pairs f clothes that actually fit. I do a lot of sink washing.

I sit here now in a virtually empty room, typing a blog and slowly understanding that I will soon become that distant memory I have become to my Japanese families. Even though I still have a month to go, and my things are not packed, just sort of thrown onto a bag in the far closet, I still feel as though the pages of this book are growing less and I will soon finish and close the book.

Doing Nothing

2009-05-27T23:16:00.003+09:00

I am an American.
It is my birth rite to always be on the move, to always be looking to the next adventure, the next plan on the agenda, the next environment to immerse myself in. Perhaps, this is why I have a roller coaster of a year in France. Because, as I have come to learn rather quickly, the French feel that if they do not have to work, then by gosh why should they?

I do not keep repeating this because I am critisizing the French. This is certainly not the case. Perhaps in the beginning one could say it was critisicm when I made the snide comments about doing nothing and how the French excel at it. Give me a brea, however, the American voice inside my head was screaming, "How the heck does doing nothing furthur your advancements toward the American Dream?!?" Well, it does not, but the French do not care. The French Dream involves vacation, sitting at the table for the entire day, and a casket of fine French wine.

Of course it is only now, after 9 months of life in France, that I have come to terms with it. My personality still clashes with the concept of doing nothing, but that is why I have two legs to run and pedal a bike. Yet my constant need for doing something has taken a little break. This weekend for the Ascension 4 day weekend break, I went down to the South of France with my host family. And did nothing. How very French.

Actually, this is my third time at Bormes-les-Mimosas, the R's summer home in the South of France. But it was definitely my favorite excursion. Perhaps because it was the shortest, but also the weather was brillant, the sea was delightful, and I remembered sun block! Everyone's favorite half-Albino actually survived a sunny weekend in the South of France with a slight tan and not a single burn.

Of course, we really did nothing special. We spent half of the time curled beside the pool, and the other half of the time laying on the beach. Well actually I can not say I actually curled beside any pool. I am not a big fan of the chlorine, so I did a lot of exploring the surrounding area. I ran in the protcted forest area, walked to the ancient chapelle on top of a mountain, hiked to the beach, and all around did the things I love to do. In addition, I finished the seventh and final Harry Potter- in French. I have now completed the entire series in French. Now all I need to read is the fourth Twilight and I will have completed that series as well.

I almost did not go to the South with my host family. The night before we left, I decided to stay home this weekend and catch up on some biking. In reality, I had no intention of spending the weekdn doing nothing with 4 young girls and 3 adults. My host mom sort of talked me into going: "What else are you going to do?"

I am glad I went. I spent hours swimming into crystal clear water of the Meditterean Sea, lounging in the sun, divelging in the wizarding world, eating huge meals of traditional southern France cuisine, and just doing nothing. I also bonded with my awesome host parents, Coline, and their cousins. It was a very French weekend, and for one of the first times in my French experience, I actually went with the flow and enjoyed it. Doing nothing, that is.